$ log - bucky barnes has a crush on you, and he's doing his best; his best is just terrifying!
$ warn --sfw --fluff --steve-and-sam-are-shit-wingmen
$ wc -w 1.4k
$ cd masterlist
$ vi don't-shoot-your-shot-v2
Somewhere between the third mission and the second month, Bucky figured out that something was different about you.
Not in a way he could name at first — just that the noise in his head got quieter when you were around, that he'd catch himself in the middle of a debrief actually listening, because you were talking. That easy, unthinking quiet he hadn't felt in years just showed up, unprompted, in whatever room you happened to be in, and he didn't know what to do with it.
So he did what he always does: he watched, he catalogued, and he thought about it at three in the morning with the same focus he'd once applied to things that actually required it.
Steve called it a crush. Sam called it painfully obvious and immediately started offering unsolicited advice, which became its own problem entirely. Bucky called it none of their business and then spent the better part of an evening thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's watching — the real one, not the polite one — and the fact that it had taken him four days to notice the difference and no time at all to memorise it.
The thing is, it's not one-sided. You're just as aware of him as he is of you. In that way you notice the shape of someone's absence before you register anything else about a room, where you find reasons to be somewhere he might be and then act surprised when it works. You've replayed certain conversations more times than you'd like to admit, and you'd like to admit zero.
The problem was never the feeling. The problem is that Bucky, with the best intentions and absolutely no remaining social calibration, is now trying to do something about it. And you, with no context and no warning, are on the receiving end.
It goes about as well as you'd expect.
The Staring Problem
Avengers Tower, various locations, two weeks running.
You've been keeping a mental list with the grim focus of someone building a legal case, and it's up to eleven incidents. The evidence is circumstantial but it is consistent.
At this point you're less interested in understanding it than in figuring out at what number you escalate to Fury.
It starts at the coffee machine. You reach for the pot and when you look up he's already looking at you. Not glancing, looking — with an expression that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. You say good morning and Bucky says nothing. You take your coffee and leave at a quicker pace that is definitely not a jog.
It happens in the elevator, the common room, and even in the hallway outside the training floor. Always the same: you look up and he's there, already watching, and he never looks away first. You've started taking the stairs.
You run through the list of possible offenses. You were loud in the kitchen once. You accidentally used his mug, but you washed it? You beat his time on the obstacle course three weeks ago, but surely that's not, surely he's not still—
You mention it to Natasha, very casually, purely as a logistical concern for your continued survival. She looks at you for a long moment, says "hm," and walks away. It’s somehow the least reassuring response she could have given.
He is, for the record, not thinking about any of your eleven incidents. He is thinking about the way you laugh when you think no one's listening, and it's been living in his head for three days, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about that.
The Rifle
Pre-mission briefing, loading bay, five minutes before wheels up
You're running through your gear check with a focus that has nothing to do with the gear and everything to do with the fact that Bucky has been watching you for two weeks and you are no closer to understanding why.
Especially when he appears at your left shoulder without sound and holds out his rifle like that's something people do.
You take it, obviously you do. You don't know what else to do. He gives a single nod and walks away to the quinjet like he hasn't just handed you something that costs more than your apartment and is probably also somehow an heirloom.
You hold it for the entire mission like it's a live grenade. You make every shot count. You are not going to be the person who scratched Bucky Barnes' rifle and lived to tell about it.
Your shots are, objectively, incredible. You don't register that at the time because you are too busy being careful.
He watches your form from across the ridge with an expression nobody else would clock as anything. Sam clocks it, filing it away.
You hand it back after debrief, two-handed, like returning something sacred. He takes it one-handed, casual, and there's something around his eyes that might be — you don't finish that thought. You go to your debrief, trying not to seem scared shitless.
"We Should Shoot Together"
Post-mission corridor, still in tactical gear, he has clearly been waiting
You're tired in the specific way that comes from twelve hours of sustained adrenaline, and you want a shower and about eight hours of not thinking about anything, which is why it's particularly unfortunate timing when Bucky falls into step beside you. He’s got that calm, unhurried energy of someone who has made a decision and is simply waiting for the moment to be right.
He stops walking. You stop walking. He looks at you with the full weight of his complete attention and says, completely evenly: "Your shots were incredible out there."
You say thank you and mean it and wait for the other shoe.
"Use my rifle next time." You think about the last time. You think about how carefully you held it. So, you wonder if your performance didn't meet the standard and this is somehow a test.
"We should shoot together." He says it like it's a normal sentence, like those words in that order constitute a fun activity and not what your nervous system has just interpreted them as — a proposal, a hunt, prey selected.
He turns and walks away. And here is the thing, the thing that keeps you up later: he's smiling. Small, private, to himself. The smile of a man who just executed a plan perfectly.
He has, in his own assessment, just asked you out. It went great. You are currently reconsidering whether your go-bag is packed.
The Smile
Common room, the morning after Sam and Steve got involved
You have faced things that scared you — real things, things with actual stakes — and come out fine, which is why it's genuinely surprising that you're standing in the kitchen at eight in the morning holding a piece of toast and feeling, for reasons you cannot immediately articulate, like something is deeply wrong.
Sam and Steve, well-meaning and catastrophic in equal measure, pulled him aside the previous evening. The conversation reportedly involved the phrase "just smile more, it makes you seem approachable." Steve demonstrated, while Sam refined it. Bucky practiced in the mirror with the focused intensity he applies to everything.
He comes in, sees you, and then — and you will think about this for a long time — he smiles. At you. Directly at you. It is the most deliberate, considered, technically-executed smile you have ever seen on a human face. There are too many teeth. The eyes are not involved. It lasts exactly three seconds too long.
You put down your toast.
He holds it for another beat, nods once like a mission objective completed, and leaves. You hear Steve in the hallway say "how'd it go" and Bucky say "good" with complete sincerity.
You are still standing there when Natasha comes in. She looks at your face and says "what happened." You don't have the words yet.
Twenty minutes later — you're still in the kitchen, the toast long forgotten — he comes back for something and doesn't see you around the corner. Someone says something from the hallway and he laughs, actually laughs, and then this smile, this real one, quiet and a little crooked and completely unguarded, just sits on his face for a moment before he schools it back.
He doesn't know you saw it. You don't know what to do with the fact that you did. You look down at your coffee. Something has shifted and you can't quite name it yet. You're not scared anymore; that's the problem.
$ tag @twentytomidnight (@froggibus here's the horror movie in play 🧍♀️)
Summary: Tony's soundproof tech protects people's ears, not their eyes.
Warnings: some smut, poorly written story, unprotected sex (wrap it up), pet names (Sweetheart, baby), proofread but i'm not good at that
Word count: 455 (flash-fic)
Fandom: Marvel
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
[A/N] Just a slight idea I wrote. I started off on a roll but it quickly fizzled. I wanted to post something though so I might extend it later when inspiration strikes again.
Bucky was good in bed. Everyone in the tower knew that by now because you weren’t exactly quiet. How could you be though? You had never been fucked this good in your life. You’ve truly been missing out. You’re making up for lost time with all those exes of yours and climbing on Bucky every chance you get. It got so bad that Tony actually soundproofed both of your rooms.
Of course, sometimes you didn’t make it to either of your rooms which caused you to be temporarily banned from that area “until further notice”
Bucky actually preferred to have you in one of your rooms, cause then he could see if he could make you scream any louder. One of these days he is actually going to split you in two. At least that’s how it felt.
Today was no different. Bucky had you faced down on the mattress, relentlessly pounding into you. His fingertips gripping your hips so hard they were surely going to leave permanent dents.
You were boneless. Sprawled over the mattress, your ass only now slightly in the air since your knees gave out. You were gone. As far as you were concerned right now, you were in space due to how many stars you were seeing. All you could do was moan and scream and let out the occasional heavy breath.
The soundproof system Tony built worked for the ears of the people on the outside. But there was a slight flaw. Some people just don’t think before entering.
You were too lost in pleasure to even process what was happening other than the feeling of Bucky’s thick, long cock buried deep between your thighs but you felt him slow down.
"OH MY GOD!" the intruder yelled.
“Can I help you?” you heard Bucky’s deep voice say with a tinge of irritation laced in it. You felt a cool piece of fabric get draped over your sweaty bare skin and a hand placed gently on your lower back to keep it from moving.
“Can you lock the door?” you heard the other person say but you still couldn’t tell who.
“The door was locked!”
“Bucky,” you whined, moving your hips against him.
“I know, sweetheart, I’m here,” he whispered, his other hand reaching to gently stroke your hair. His head snaps to the intruder, “Get out, Wilson!”
“You two need to calm down,” he said before rushing out the door and slamming it behind him.
“Now” he started as he removed the sheet. He flipped you over onto your back and hovered over you, “Where were we?”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. Bucky let out a deep chuckle at your neediness.
“Don’t worry, baby. You know I’ll take care of you,”
RAW & OLDER
(ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky barnes x female!reader [14.4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: you catch your boyfriend cheating on you with another girl at your neighbour’s halloween party. bucky barnes, his hot and thoughtful dad, is ready to take care of your broken heart.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; mentions of reader's family; reader wears a skirt and makeup; original characters; age gap (reader’s in her mid 20s; bucky's 40+); cheating; light angst; emotional hurt/comfort; lots of praises and pet names; smut; size difference; soft dom!bucky; slight jealousy; slightly possessive!bucky; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); dirty talk; nipple play; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); mention of reader being on the pill; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; riding; caught in the act (the ex boyfriend overhears them 🤪).
A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!
The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside.
You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.
By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.
When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.
The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.
The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.
The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.
The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.
Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.
You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.
Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.
“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.
Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”
“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”
“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.
“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.
“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”
“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”
“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”
“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”
The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.
“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”
You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.
“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”
A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.
It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.
In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.
During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.
Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.
Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.
You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.
It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.
“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”
That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.
“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”
Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.
You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.
When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.
Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.
He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.
The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.
Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.
That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”
Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.
Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.
It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.
At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.
You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.
And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.
You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.
During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there.
Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.
The silence that followed was mortifying.
Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.
The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.
Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.
You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.
In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.
It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.
You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.
Every relationship has its ups and downs.
This is just a rough patch.
This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.
Apparently not.
The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.
One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.
Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.
Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?
“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.
“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.
“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.
The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.
“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”
“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”
You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.
“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.
“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.
Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.
“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.
“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.
“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”
You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.
“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.
“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”
“You think it’s better if we wait?”
The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.
The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”
Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.
“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”
“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”
Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”
Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”
“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”
“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.
Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.
The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.
“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.
“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.
“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.
You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.
The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.
Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.
You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.
You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.
Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.
Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away.
The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.
“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.
“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.
With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.
In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.
“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.
“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.
The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.
“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”
Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.
“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.
“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.
“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.
Since March.
He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.
The floor crumbles under your feet.
The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.
The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.
You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke.
Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.
You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.
Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.
“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”
Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.
Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.
Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.
Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.
How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.
That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.
It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.
And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.
Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.
You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.
So he fell into another woman’s vagina.
Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.
He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.
After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?
You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.
The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.
How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?
It also means telling him about what happened.
The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.
Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.
You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.
Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.
When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.
“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.
“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”
You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.
“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.
“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”
You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.
“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.
“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”
He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”
You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.
When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”
“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”
Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.
“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”
The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.
Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.
You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.
“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.
He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.
Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.
“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.
“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.
Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.
“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”
You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.
“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.
“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”
Each word feels like biting broken glass.
From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.
Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.
His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.
Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.
Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.
“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”
“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”
Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”
Your jaw drops.
“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.
His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”
Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”
You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.
“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.
“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”
“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.
“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.
Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”
“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”
You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.
“You know I’m here for you. Always.”
He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”
“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”
“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”
Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.
“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.
“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”
You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”
He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.
Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.
A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.
The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.
Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?
Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.
When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.
Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.
“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.
“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages.
“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.
Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.
You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.
Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.
Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.
The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.
The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.
You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...
It shouldn’t happen.
“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”
“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.
“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”
Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.
“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”
“If anything, I kissed you.”
“We both leaned in!”
Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”
“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”
A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.
“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.
“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.
“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.
“I…”
“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.
“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.
“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”
He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.
“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”
“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.
Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along.
“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.
You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.
His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.
When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths.
Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection.
“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.
“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.
When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?
This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal.
“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”
“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.
“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—”
“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.
There is a brief, meaningful pause.
“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips.
“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.
“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.
Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.
“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”
You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”
“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.
It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should.
You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest.
“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up.
“Are you oka—”
“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”
“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe.
“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.
“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.
“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?”
“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm.
His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.
“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”
His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms.
“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.
“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid.
“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.”
The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.
You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.
He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it.
With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.
Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”
To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.
It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets.
Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”
Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.
“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”
And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.
You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.
“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”
Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back.
“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch.
“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”
“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot.
“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”
You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.
“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.
“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.”
“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”
You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does.
“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.
“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now.
“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.”
Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.
“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.
You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.
“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers.
It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip.
“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.
“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.
“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected.
Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.
He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.
“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.
“Want you to be the first.” You whisper.
“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.
“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.
“Feeling alright, doll?”
“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”
Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.
“Bucky.”
“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”
Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.
“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.
“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust.
Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans.
“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”
The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly.
“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”
“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.
“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.
“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.
“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.
“Holy fuck.”
Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes.
But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.
“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment.
Everything feels more sensitive like this.
You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.
You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.
Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.
You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.
“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.
“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.
“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.
“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.
“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.”
Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.
Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.
“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength.
“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up.
“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well.
“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster.
“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”
"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.
“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.
“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure.
“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.
“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”
With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.”
His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.
“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.
Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.
“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.
You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips.
“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.
“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.
“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo
word count | 12.3k words
summary | you suggest taking a break from your deeply attached boyfriend. he reacts poorly and things somehow get worse from there.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, age gap relationship, clingy!bucky barnes, loser!bucky barnes, crack fic, major co-dependency, dark humour, SATIRE, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of noncon unprotected sex, noncon kiss, they’re both very physical, bucky is very touchy and grabby, lots of toxic behaviour, suicide threats, gun violence, manipulative bucky, toxic bucky, reader lowkey likes it, reader is toxic as well, mj, darcy and yelena cameo
a/n | yall this is a completely satirical and unserious fic, pls do not take anything that happens in here seriously. anyway i want to thank @superbassbuck @iamthatonefangirl @pinksplace and @houseofhyde for all being present and encouraging when i came up and spiraled with the concept of loser bucky threatening to kill himself to keep you. yall real asf for that, and especially paul for harassing me and lowkey motivating me to finish it. finally i am free from the shackles that bind me (this fuckass fic)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.
Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.
James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.
He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.
Because you had.
You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.
Even with his corny ass mustache.
It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.
It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”
Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.
And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.
Even more so, his big dick.
If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.
And, yes, there were red flags.
The texts, for one.
In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.
He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.
It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.
It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.
And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.
You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.
Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.
You really, truly believed that.
And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.
You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.
And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.
You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.
james barnes (bucky)
Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm
You
lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm
james barnes (bucky)
Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm
Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm
Doll? | 10:39pm
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.
You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.
But it didn’t stop.
By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.
You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.
More messages had piled in.
james barnes (bucky)
Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm
Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm
Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm
“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.
You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.
“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”
“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”
You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.
“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”
Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.
MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.
Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.
“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.
You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.
You
just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm
he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm
and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm
james barnes (bucky)
Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm
I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm
You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.
“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.
You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.
“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.
She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.
“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”
“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.
Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”
MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.
You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.
james barnes (bucky)
When are you heading home? | 11:02pm
Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm
It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.
You
im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm
and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm
You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.
You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.
Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.
james barnes (bucky)
I will, sorry. | 11:06pm
Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm
Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm
You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.
The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.
Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”
They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.
“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”
You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.
Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”
You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”
Darcy laughed beside you.
“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”
“—Michelle, please.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”
You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”
“Mm-hm.”
Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.
“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”
You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.
Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”
“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.
“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”
You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.
MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.
Then your shoulders dropped a little.
You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”
“Dump him.”
“Dump his old creepy ass.”
MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.
“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”
Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.
MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”
You turned your head slowly. “A break?”
“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”
You frowned faintly, listening.
“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”
You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”
“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”
Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.
Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.
A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.
“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.
The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.
You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.
It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.
The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.
There he was.
Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.
He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.
He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.
When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.
The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.
“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.
“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”
He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”
A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.
He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.
Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.
“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”
He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.
“Another one?” he murmured.
He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”
“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.
He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”
Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.
He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.
He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.
You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.
“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”
“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”
“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.
He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.
He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.
“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.
“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.
“Bucky, please—”
“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”
As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”
An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.
As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.
Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.
He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.
“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”
“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.
Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.
“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.
Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.
“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.
You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.
Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.
Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”
With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.
“You ready for me?” he murmured.
You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.
Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.
You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.
He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.
“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”
“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.
You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.
“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.
As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.
He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”
He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”
“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.
“I got you, doll,” he whispered.
And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.
You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.
He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.
“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”
He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.
Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.
His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.
Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.
“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”
You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.
“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”
“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.
The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.
He needed more.
Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.
The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.
Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.
For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.
But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.
He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.
He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.
“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.
You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.
“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”
You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.
Then his next sentence caught your attention.
“Think you should move in with me.”
He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.
You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.
He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.
“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”
He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.
“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”
You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”
He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”
The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.
His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.
“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”
You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.
Something important.
It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.
Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.
“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”
He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.
He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.
“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”
It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.
His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.
“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”
Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”
You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.
You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.
He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.
He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”
His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”
The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.
His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.
“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.
It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.
Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.
He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.
“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”
You said nothing.
Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.
You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.
You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.
And so began the silent treatment.
Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.
He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.
You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.
He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.
“You know I love you, yeah?”
You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.
His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?
You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”
He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”
“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.
He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.
At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.
You had no idea where that came from.
His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.
You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.
Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.
But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.
Let him think that.
“A break?”
The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.
Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock.
Perfect timing, doll, I just—
Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.
He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”
You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”
“—so you’re breaking up with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.
“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”
“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.
He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”
“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”
You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.
You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four.
When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.
“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.
“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”
You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.
“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.
He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.
You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.
“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”
You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.
“Bucky, what are—hmph—”
Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.
His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.
What the fuck.
He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.
“Mmph—Bucky—”
“I love you,” he emphasised.
Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.
“And you love me.”
Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.
“I need you, doll.”
And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.
Slap. Slap. SLAP.
Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.
You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.
“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.
It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.
“Don’t.”
The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.
Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”
You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.
“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”
Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.
“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”
His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.
You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.
“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”
You scoffed.
Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.
And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.
You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.
His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”
You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.
“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”
He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”
Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.
“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”
“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”
“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids.
Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”
And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.
Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.
“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”
He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.
“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”
He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”
You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”
He turned around.
And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.
You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.
“What the fuck!”
But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”
He ignored you.
“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.
You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.
“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”
“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.
And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.
He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”
“Oh my God.”
“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”
You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.
But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”
“You counted?”
“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”
You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.
His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”
You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”
“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”
Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”
The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.
“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”
You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.
Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”
“Wait—what?”
You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”
His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.
“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”
“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”
“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”
“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.
Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.
Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.
“For fuck’s sake—”
He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.
You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.
Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.
He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.
You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”
His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—
But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.
In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.
Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.
“He pulled out a gun?”
Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.
The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.
Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”
“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”
Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”
You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”
She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension.
“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”
You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.
“Girl.”
“What?” you said defensively.
“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”
You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”
Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”
“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.
“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”
You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating?
“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”
She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”
“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”
Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.
“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”
“I probably sounds insane.”
“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”
She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”
You stared at her.
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.
Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.
“He must have a big dick, huh?”
The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.
You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”
“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”
“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”
“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.
You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.
She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”
You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.
You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.
“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”
Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”
“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.
Then your phone rang.
You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.
You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.
“Hello?”
Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.
“He what?!”
The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.
“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”
Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.
“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”
You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”
You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.
“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”
Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”
“Tell me about it.”
Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.
You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.
The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.
But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.
The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.
Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.
He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.
His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.
Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.
And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.
There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.
The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.
Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.
The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.
“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”
You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.
He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.
The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.
When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”
His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.
And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.
Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.
You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.
“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.
You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”
“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”
You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”
“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.
You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.
“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”
A beat of silence.
Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”
I locked tf in reading this. chat you have no idea how long I've been feening for this fic (I only waited a month but still.)
Even with his corny ass mustache.
girl get up I can't keep defending you 😭
You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”
IM CRYING NOT THE TIPS HAT GUY. "hey there pwincess" 😉
the multiple text messages in a day. I think I've seen this film before.
the "😭 pls stop" text oh girl you're so relatable. my sister just another me
“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”
Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.
IM CRYINGFS FSF
dany, this fic was everything and more. i dipped my toes in expecting to feel bad for bucky and the reader for being in such a toxic relationship, but your comedic timing actually had me laughing and grinning ear to ear. bruh you're so fucking funny 😭😭this fic was surprisingly endearing in a romcom type of way despite having dark and sensitive themes and i loved that so much moreuhhhh
the way she was interacting with her friends was so realistic!!! her reactions to the texts and the text message exchanges themselves were spot on!!!! dany's self inserting because this fic feels so real
and don't even get me started on the smut. don't even joke lad.
Touched starved bucky desperately and pathetically on top of reader while his eyes are closed and he's whimpering and begging but he doesn't even know what exactly he wants but he just doesn't want this to stop
Hi Anon, I don't do requests, but since I wrote that short piece the other day, and I'm still in that headspace, here we go!
He wasn’t even hard when he started.
Just shaking.
Breath hitching in quick, shallow gasps, hot and fast against her throat, one hand clenched in the sheet and the other caught somewhere in her hip, twitching like he's trying to find a grip on something that won’t break.
His weight was all over her. Not crushing, but spread desperate and helpless, the way a child collapses over a stuffed animal in sleep. He pressed his forehead against her collarbone, nuzzling against her skin like he needed to breathe her, like his lungs would stop if he couldn’t.
He whimpered.
"Please," he gasped, voice breaking, "please, please, just- I don’t- I don’t know, I don’t know what I-"
His hips ground against her thigh. Useless little thrusts, shallow and misaligned, not even searching for anything, not even trying to fuck but making him shudder. Just instinct. Like his brain was glitching, cycling through a script it didn’t understand. There was sweat down his neck as he murmured-
"I'm sorry."
She touched the back of his neck gently, sliding her fingers into the sweat-damp hair, and tugged softly. His hips stuttered. His whole body trembled.
"You're okay," she soothed. "You don't have to know. I'm right here."
He made a sound, like sobbing through gritted teeth. He tried to rut again, aimlessly and pathetically. His cock was hard now, wetting her stomach, but it felt secondary to him. Distant. Irrelevant.
It happened, sometimes, on his worst days. His mind devolved into a helpless, ruined thing that didn’t know what was happening inside its own body. Because his brain had been fried so many times, and the men who broke it trained him, but never taught him what it meant to need.
Why his skin ached, why his cock leaked when he wasn’t even fully hard. Only how to kill. Only to obey.
"What do you need, handsome?" she whispered.
"I don't know," he moaned. "I don't know, darling, but it hurts, it's- it's too much, but I want it, I want it so bad. I want something."
"I know, sweetheart. It's one of those days, huh?"
He nodded against her chest, trembling. She spread her thighs a little, guiding him with her hand without pressure. Not to fuck per se -not yet- just to help him feel, helping him slid his cock inside something soft, warmth, and human.
He whimpered again at the contact, shaking like a fevered animal, and choked a sob.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just need-”
“Everything is fine,” she murmured, “Let your body seek what it needs.”
He nodded against her neck and squeezed his eyes shut. Her hands kept soothing fevered skin, gently caressing his broad back, her thighs cradling him.
He thrusted once, uncoordinated and messy. Then again, a little firmer. Again, this time, and his soft gasps turned into broken moans.
She felt the moment it started making sense to him.
“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice low against his ear. “You are doing great.”
“Feels- feels good,” he stammered.
“I know.”
His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He dragged in and out again, and again, chasing something his body remembered but his brain didn’t understand.
And then -too soon, too fast- he came inside her with a sob against her throat. His cock twitched once, then again, helpless, and then... slick warmth. Inside her. All over her.
And then he went still.
Not in relief, but in confusion. Eyes wide open against her skin, seeing nothing. Like his body had done something without his permission.
He lifted his head finally. Eyes wild. "I didn’t know that was gonna happen. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She cupped his cheek. “Baby, look at me.”
He blinked, frantic, pupils blown, chest stuttering.
“It’s okay,” she said, slow and calm like talking down a wounded animal. “It’s okay. That wasn’t wrong. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I-” He looked down at where their bodies were still joined, the sticky dampness between them hot and spreading. “I made a mess. I didn’t even feel it coming. I didn’t - I didn't know what it was.”
“I know, baby.” Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. “I know you didn’t. But it felt good, yes?”
His mouth opened like he wanted to argue, to apologize again. But nothing came out.
She reached down, touched his side, soothing him again.
"Let’s clean you up, okay?" she murmured.
He didn’t answer. But he let her move him.
She helped him off her, guided him gently to sit with his back against the pillows. His hands fumbled at the sheet like he thought he should be doing something, fixing something. She took them in hers and set them in his lap.
"Just breathe."
He nodded. Still breathing too fast. Still confused. Still trying to understand what his body had done without him.
She brought a warm cloth from the basin. Stroked softly between his legs, down his thighs. He watched her with apprehension.
"Does it hurt anywhere?" she asked.
He shook his head after a pause.
When she finished, she climbed back into the bed and slowly lay beside him. Didn’t touch him at first. Just let him breathe.
After a minute, he turned toward her. Shuffled close. Pressed his face into her chest like he couldn’t quite look at her yet, but needed to be there, against her warmth.
“Thank you,” he murmured, barely audible. “For... dealing with me.”
Her fingers slipped into his hair, gentle as ever.
“You’re not something to be dealt with,” she said.
He made a low sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, and nuzzled closer, like he wanted to disappear inside her.
“Still. Thank you, sugar.”
And she just held him, softly, until his breathing evened out.
pairing: scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon bordering noncon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking
word count: 11.3k
main masterlist
a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight ♥️
synopsis:
You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”
If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”
If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.
Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.
From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.
No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.
“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.
He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.
There was no sound.
Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.
After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.
There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.
He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.
You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.
“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”
He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.
“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.
When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”
You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.
He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?
Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.
After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.
Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”
Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.
“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”
You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.
“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.
Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”
He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”
“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”
Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.
“You mean the books?”
You nodded.
He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”
“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.
Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”
Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.
“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.
“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”
Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.
Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.
“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”
“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”
He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”
“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?
He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.
“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”
You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.
“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”
That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”
You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.
Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.
He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.
“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”
You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.
When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.
But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.
A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.
He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.
“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.
But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.
“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”
Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?
“No,” you protested weakly.
Bucky tilted his head. “No?”
You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”
Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”
When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.
You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.
“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”
Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.
But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.
Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.
“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”
You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”
“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”
“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”
He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.
Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.
“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.
He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.
“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”
With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”
He wasn’t leaving.
He was going to fix you.
You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.
Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.
“Lay down, doll.”
The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.
You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.
“Easy, doll. Easy.”
A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.
He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.
Which… in a way, you had.
Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.
“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”
You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.
“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.
Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.
“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”
You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”
Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.
“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”
You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.
“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.
“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”
You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.
Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.
His mind was always on you.
His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.
“Woah, easy there, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.
“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”
Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”
Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”
Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.
“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”
Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”
Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”
Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.
“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”
A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.
It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.
Christ, you were probably starving.
He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.
You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.
He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.
Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.
His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.
“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”
The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.
“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.
“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.
Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.
So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?
“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”
Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”
Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.
“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”
Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”
“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”
Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.
“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”
“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”
Steve let out a long breath.
He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.
“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”
“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.
He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.
“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”
It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.
The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?
The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.
Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.
But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.
You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.
“Bucky! You’re back, I—”
You stopped.
The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.
Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.
“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”
The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.
Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.
“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”
“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”
You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”
He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.
You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.
“Not poisoned. Trust me.”
He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.
After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.
Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.
Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.
As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.
You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.
It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.
“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”
He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.
“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.
“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”
You stayed silent.
“Have you ever been outside this room?”
Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.
“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”
With each word, he moved closer.
Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.
He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.
“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”
He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.
“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.
“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”
Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.
Ah. There it was.
That was how he could get through to you.
Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.
“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”
You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.
That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.
“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”
You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.
To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.
The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.
Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.
“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.
“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.
That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.
“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.
He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.
His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.
You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.
“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”
As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.
You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.
Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.
“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”
You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.
“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”
“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.
“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”
The air left Steve's lungs.
His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.
Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.
“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Did he rape you?”
Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.
But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“What does that mean?”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.
“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”
The door shut quickly as he left.
But the lock didn’t click.
The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.
Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.
You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.
It looked like an obstacle.
You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.
The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.
You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.
Then, a shadow fell over you.
“Going somewhere?”
You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”
The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.
His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.
“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”
He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.
He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”
“I just wanted to see—”
“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”
“No, Bucky, I—”
“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”
You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.
“No one saw me—”
“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.
When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.
“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”
He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.
“You did this to yourself, darling.”
You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”
“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”
You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.
“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”
Bucky didn’t move.
The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.
“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”
“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”
Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.
“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”
Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.
Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.
The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.
“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.
“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”
He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”
The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.
“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”
Another whack.
“Ow!”
“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”
Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.
He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.
With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”
He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”
Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”
Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.
Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.
But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.
“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”
He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.
“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”
Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.
You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.
“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”
Bucky hummed in approval.
He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.
He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.
Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.
You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”
His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.
“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”
You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.
“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”
“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”
One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.
Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.
The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.
The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.
“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”
He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.
You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.
You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.
“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”
Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.
His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.
“Oh—my!”
The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.
He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.
“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”
His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.
“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”
He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.
“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”
You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.
The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.
Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”
Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.
He loved you.
Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.
“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”
Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”
He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.
“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”
He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”
You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.
“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.
Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.
It was hot. It was too much.
He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like a clock.
Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.
“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”
The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.
Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.
You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.
Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.
“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”
Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.
“Morning,” he rasped.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”
He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”
And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.
But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.
The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.
Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.
“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”
“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.
He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”
The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.
“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”
Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.
Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.
“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.
“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”
Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.
All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.
“Bucky—”
Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.
He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.
“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”
The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.
“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.
“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”
Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.
As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.
He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.
“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”
Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.
Was this all your fault?
Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?
“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”
All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.
“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”
Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.
Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.
You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.
With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.
Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”
And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.
The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.
Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.
“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.
His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.
Bucky hated it.
The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.
“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”
Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.
“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”
Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.
“What was she to you?”
Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.
“Did you love her?”
Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.
“More than anything,” Bucky replied.
He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.
Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.
It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.
He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?
He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.
He’d find you.
It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”
The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.
“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”
For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.
Insane?
What kind of question was that?
“No.”
anyway how writing this fic found me
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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contemplated reading this when i woke up but i was like no, i deserve a little reward after my 2am shift
and lemme just say this did nawttt disappoint
am i severely mentally unwell for wanting him to find her again… sigh
bucky. mentally ill and crazy bucky. i love how you wrote him, acting high and mighty above everyone else, not seeing reason and genuinely being insane to the point of thinking he’s the only sane one around. he’s practically more fucked up in the brain than she is. he’s just so evil, but i do sense something broken in him (with my pussy powers ofc)
am i fucked up because i was totally horned up with these two lines
“lay down doll.”
“bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill”
the stockholm syndrome has gotten to meeee, oh lorddd
the smut??? yoooo, how’d you know i loved spanking??? the repetitive i love yous had me clenchingggg my thighs tightly. he’s so mean and dominant but somehow simultaneously pathetic and needy. the lines that really got me:
“designed to take every inch” “daddy loves you, baby”
and my baby steve, you can do no wrong in my eyes (excluding endgame) . he’s just always the good guy no matter what and i cannot blame him for that, i could practically feel his dawning horror and disbelief and denial when finding her. and how he really tried to stick with bucky (till the end of the line), but his good heart won through. steve rogers, if you can hear us, please, steve rogers, please save us
i loved reader and buckys dynamic, and how you conveyed it. with bucky attention basically being readers sunlight that she thrives on, whether it’s positive or negative, there’s no difference to her as long as he’s attention is on her.
and i understand with bucky there was some kind of love, but mostly it was possession because he created her and so she belonged to him, and also obsession with how he felt high and mighty with how she depended on him for everything and her life basically. but also the feeling of possessing this one thing (her) that was entirely his and his alone that no one could take from him (until they did). so a mix of love, possession, obsession and infatuation basically
anyway tldr i want him to find her again. and im so glad you went with your gut and wrote this, Paul. im genuinely astounded by your mind and creativity.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦
It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.
But he’s everywhere.
There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.
That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.
“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”
You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”
“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“
“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m not-“
“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.
“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.
“Congratulations.”
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
“I was busy.”
“Too busy for your job?”
“It’s not my job-“
“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
“Have you been carrying that around all day?”
“That doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it really does-“
Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“
“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“
“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“
“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”
“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
“Why’re you skipping.”
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.
“I have a date.”
“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.
“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”
“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.
“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“
The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
“What’s-“
“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.
“No, he’s not-“
“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.
You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.
“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.
You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But they’re back early.
And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all.
You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just… Finish early.
You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
“You need to go, Buck-“
“I’m fine-“
“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“
“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
“Hi.” You whisper.
His throat bobs. “You’re back.”
“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“
“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”
Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“
“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”
Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.
“How was your date?” He grunts.
“Bucky-“
“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”
And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”
Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.
“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.
You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.
“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehow—just barely—fight it.
“Why can’t I access these files.”
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.
“Barnes-“
“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”
You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“
“Steve should change that.”
God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.
He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.
“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
“You want hot chocolate?”
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.
Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”
You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
It’s almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘
But it is Bucky.
And he’s never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.
“Hi.” You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“
“Bucky, are you-“
“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.
“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“
“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
“Bucky-“
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”
You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.
But you do go right to Steve.
“What happened on the mission.”
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.
“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“
“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“
“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”
You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”
Steve sighs. “Is it you?”
“Yep.”
He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“
“I really don’t care.”
“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.
“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“
“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
“No, you just won’t tell me-“
“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“
“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“
“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”
“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.
“I know how it sounds-“
“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“
“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole.
“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Steve-“
“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”
Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“
You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.
And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”
You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”
Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”
You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.
But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.
“What are the symptoms?”
Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”
“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”
“But- Bucky-“
“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”
“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”
Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”
“Before or after the mating?”
Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“
“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”
“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
“What-“
“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
“Steve-“
“I didn’t say anything-“
“Yes, you did-“
“Nope.”
You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”
Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.
“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesn’t turn you down…
You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
“Fuck off, Stevie-“
“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response.
Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
“You shouldn’t be here-“
“Steve said you need me.”
You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.
“I- I made him.”
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”
“I was worried about you-“
“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“
“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“
“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”
He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.
“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“
“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“
“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.
“Who says?”
“You’re an ass to me-“
“You’re an ass to me.”
“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.
“Me neither.”
You nod. “But…”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”
And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didn’t know you could want him more.
“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
“You- You got no idea, do you?”
Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“
“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.
“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”
“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.
“Didn’t you?”
You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“Bet I imagined more.”
And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.
You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.
“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”
Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.
“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“
He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.
You can’t have that.
“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
“How?”
“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.
“You think this is funny?” He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“
“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“
Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.
“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.
“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”
You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.
You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”
And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“
“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“
His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.
He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
“Aren’t you?”
“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“
“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.
“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
He’s jerking off while he eats you out. He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.
You don’t want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.
“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
“Good girl.” He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.
“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.
“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But you’re at an advantage.
Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”
If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“
“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And he’s not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.
You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
They’re blue again.
“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
“I’m back.”
You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”
Oh.
Or that. That’s nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”
You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.
“Yeah. I’m staying.”
✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary: When you send some inspiring photos to your super soldier boyfriend while he’s away on a mission, you don’t expect such an enthusiastic response.
Tags/Warnings: established relationship, male masturbation, phone sex in a public place, sending nudes
Word Count: 840
AO3
My wife @buckysdecaflove said BET and who am I to deny her?
You’d sent them before you fell asleep last night.
It was late, but that didn’t mean a thing when you didn’t know what time zone your super soldier superhero boyfriend was currently in. You’d switched off all but the bedside lamp as you undressed for the evening. Catching sight of your body in the mirror, glowing in the soft amber light, coupled with the ache of missing him, lended you some confidence.
You posed for him. A cheeky hand placement here, a little drool dripping from your open mouth to your chest there, and texted the photos through with a simple kiss emoji.
The photos already forgotten about the next morning, you were delightfully surprised to see your boyfriend calling as you rushed down the station stairs to catch your train.
“Hey, baby,” you breathed as you slipped through the double door of the train, clutching your bag closer to your body and making your way into the carriage.
“There she is.”
His voice crackled, but the heartbeat delay of the international call did nothing to hide the roughness of his tone or the way his voice wound through you like wine, warming you and settling hot and deep within.
“Bucky, where are you?”
A pause. “Can’t say.”
There’s soft sounds in the background. Cloth rustling, the creaky ping of tired old bedsprings, and Bucky’s breath huffing in the receiver.
“Are you okay?” You ask, the seed of worry beginning to grow in your mind.
But Bucky has his own unique way of setting you at ease and sending your heart soaring in the same breath.
“Okay? I’m about to combust from those pics you sent, doll.”
Oh.
Oh.
“You liked that, did you?” You murmur, trying to keep your voice low.
His ragged groan in response had you biting your lip, your eyes darting to your feet to hide your pleasure at the sound.
“Got me hard as a nail thinkin’ about you all naked and pretty alone in our bed. You touch yourself thinkin’ o’ me, babe?”
You hadn’t, not last night, but what was a little lie to help his situation? “Yes,” you breathed, a fluttering hand rising to your chest as your heartbeat spiked.
He groaned again and you heard more popping of bedsprings, and suddenly you realised exactly what your super soldier was doing out there all alone.
“Bet you sounded so fuckin’ pretty whimpering and aching f’me,” he rasped, his voice breaking with stuttered breaths. “Wanna bite that gorgeous skin of yours, doll. Wanna feel you under me and fu—fuck those tits while you drool all over my cock.”
Biting back the whimper that threatened to spill out of you, you pressed your hand firm against your mouth, eyes darting around at the passengers crowded close.
“Bucky,” you murmured in warning, “I’m on the train to work right now.”
“Funny, ‘cause I wanna fucking rail you right now.”
Squeezing your eyes shut and your thighs together, you breathed heavily out your nose as you listened to the unmistakeable sound of skin on skin and Bucky’s ragged breath as he jerked off at the thought of you.
“Wanna… wanna fuck that sweet pussy of yours,” he grunted, and you imagined the way his hand was fisting the head of his cock, how he’d spit into his palm and fuck up into his hand pretending it was you riding him. “Wanna get so deep you feel me f’days. Get you so wet and cockdrunk you just take it all and beg for more.”
The tangy taste of metal flooded your mouth as you bit your lip so hard to not utter a sound.
Your stop was coming soon.
It sounded like Bucky was too.
“When you’re home,” you promise him, your voice thready and soft, and just the sound alone makes him groan louder, move faster. You try to rub your thighs together to soothe the ache he’s built within you.
“‘M gonna … gonna cum, doll. Need to. Need you.”
His voice stuttered, his words barely a low moan of sound, and you nodded even though he couldn’t see. “Do it,” you told him on a whisper. “Do it now.”
The ding! of the arriving station couldn’t cover up his groan as he came, the sound setting your skin on fire and making you swallow hard as you unsteadily stepped off the train.
“Baby, I miss you,” you told him, voice more confident now you were moving.
“Home tomorrow,” he grunted. “Miss you too.”
You had to leave. You said your heartfelt goodbye and dashed away a small tear as you hung up on him, walking the few blocks to your workplace.
Until a notification sound had you looking at your phone again.
A message from Bucky.
You opened your phone to the glorious sight of your boyfriend splayed out on a rickety old mattress on the floor, his shirt hiked up and cock hard, with the telltale streaks of hot cum splattered across his stomach.
And the text.
Thinking of you x
I don’t have a taglist! Follow @retoast for updates!
Summary:: a bad grade ruins you. Problem is, he's a moody,grumpy old man. Oh,wait — that's your type.Tension slowly builds between you until it snaps,and so does he.
Warnings:: I don't even know where to start lol,18+only,Student–professor dynamics,age gap (not stated),smut,angry — ANGRY sex,spanking,Bucky being a grumpy man,reader making a very QUESTIONABLE life choice lmao,Yelena being a menace,PIV then doggy,I probably lost it at the anatomy lol,table sex,he calls reader pathetic,sir kink,unprotected sex,no aftercare
Word count:: 12k
Bucky Barnes never imagined he’d find himself in the hallowed halls of academia.Once, a long time ago—in a completely different life—he had something to do with politics. Too much, in fact. Long enough that he eventually turned his back on it. There was nothing heroic about the decision, no grand realization. He just… got tired of it. Also..he sucked as a congressman,but that's beside the point.
The university, though, it felt like the next step,or at least it was the only place where people didn’t ask too many questions.Still, strange, wasn’t it? Him, a teacher? Bucky didn’t fully understand it himself.
He got a position in the history department, and if he had to choose, Modern Military History (20th–21st Century) was the only subject he could more or less speak about.Not from books or lectures, no, from somewhere else entirely.
Maybe that was the trouble all along. He didn't teach like the others, those petty and dull idiots.He didn’t care how well someone could memorize dates, and he was especially unimpressed by nicely worded but empty answers. His students quickly learned that you couldn’t “slide by” in his class.
You either knew the answer… or you were lost. And if you were lost? He knew it in a heartbeat.Most of them hated him, called him cruel, impossible, but it didn't sting. Truth was, he knew it too. He had become this bitter old soul. A grumpy old man.
At the university, Bucky Barnes’s name became a concept pretty quickly.Not in a good way.
Freshmen heard about him in their very first week. Not officially, of course. Information like that never made it into any syllabus or orientation guide. It was passed along in hallways.
“Don’t take Barnes’s class.”
And if you were foolish enough to ask why, you'd just get this hollow little laugh. The 'you poor thing, you'll understand soon enough' kind.
There were stories too.Small, half-true,half-exaggerated ones.That once he just stared at a student for minutes after an answer, without saying a word.That he sent someone out of class simply because they “weren’t mentally present.” That he never raised his voice, yet somehow it was worse than shouting.
It all began in a dreamy haze of coffee steam, where laughter intertwined with the faint glow of your phone screen, half-listening to your friends' chatter. And then someone dropped his name.
“Barnes.”
“Jesus, no.”The reaction was immediate
“Who the hell is Barnes?”Your heart fluttered, igniting curiosity.
For a moment there was silence, then your friend just shook her head.“Modern Military History. History department.And if you have a choice, don’t take him.”
For some reason, it drew you in, didn't scare you away. It was intriguing, like a mystery.Not that you needed it.Your International Relations degree already had plenty of courses,but it would look good. A slightly “harder” class. Something more than pure theory. Seemed like a good idea then.It didn’t last long.
After the first class, you knew you made a mistake, tragic mistake. It wasn't about not understanding; it was deeper. There were no easy answers,you could memorize. No safe feeling that if you studied enough, you’d be fine.
Bucky Barnes didn't teach like that; he asked questions,and when you answered, he didn’t tell you if you were right.
He just looked at you,judging you all silently.Like he was waiting for something you hadn’t even managed to put into words yet.
You're a good student. International Relations make sense—connections, analysis, all the right things to say. But this…this was different. Every answer felt incomplete. Wrong.
But it just… didn't work. And that was the real tragedy. You were lost.Your notes were filled with unanswered questions, lines underlined desperately. Things that would've been clear in another class, but here… it always felt like you were missing something.
When you got your first paper back, you already had a feeling.The red ink wasn’t excessive. It wasn’t covered in corrections, not every second line crossed out.Just a grade. And underneath a short note.“try harder”
It wasn't just one bad grade. The first felt like some warning.Something you’d fix later,find the right answers,read more.But then the second came, and the third... after that, who's counting? Your Pages were bleeding with red ink.But you knew, that your answers weren't a mess,that's what made it ache. It just wasn't enough for him.
You really tried, to see the world through his eyes. But the more you chased the answers,the deeper you fell.
Then came that paper in the hazy night, the same tired hope that maybe this time things would turn out a little brighter. But the grade, it was just the same as always. And the note at the end made you snap.
'You're still writing what you think I want, not what you really mean.This isn't high school. Effort doesn't buy you nothing here.'
Suddenly it wasn’t just that you weren’t doing well.It was that he could see it clearly,and he wasn’t helping you fix it.Just letting you run into the same wall again and again.
That night, you just sat there, lost in your notes and books like they could help you. But you weren't exactly reading,you just...well,stared.You closed the book, made up your mind. You were going to office hours.
...
The café was crowded, as it always was after classes.Somehow, you stumbled upon a table tucked away in the corner.Your cup sat half-empty in front of you, but you hadn’t even noticed how long you’d been stirring the same coffee.
“Okay,” Yelena finally spoke, watching you with narrowed eyes.“Something's off.”
“Nothing at all,” you whispered, a little too fast.
Natasha let out a quiet scoff over her mug.“That wasn’t ‘nothing’s wrong’ stirring,” she noted dryly. “That was ‘I’m about to do something stupid’ stirring.”
Wanda tilted her head, studying you carefully.“What happened?”
You hesitate, then let out a sigh. “Barnes.”
That was enough. A name like a curse.Yelena recoiled. “No.No, no, no.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you looked at her.
“Don't need to, sugarplum,”she murmured. “Anything with 'Barnes' in it is automatically a tragedy.”
Natasha set her mug down and looked at you.“What grade did you get?”
“That's beside the point—”
“How bad?”
You went quiet for a moment.“…it was more than one bad grade.”
Wanda’s expression tightened slightly.
“Okay,” she said softly. “And?”
You took a breath, like you were about to drown.“I'm going to his office hours.”
Yelena laughed. “This is a joke, right?”
“No.”
“Then it's even sadder.”
Natasha just stared. “Are you sure,you want this?”
“No,” you confessed.“But nothing is working out. No matter how hard I try. And…” you shrugged. “At least I'll find out what he wants.”
"Nothing," Yelena breathed, "That's the cruelty of it. He wants nothing, just stares until you see all your life's pretty little mistakes shimmering back at you."
Wanda spoke up softly, "Heard someone went to see him… came out more lost than before."
“Thanks, that’s very reassuring,” you muttered.
Natasha shook her head slowly "He doesn't play by the rules, sweetie."
You raised a brow, a flicker of skepticism. "This is a university. There must be rules."
Natasha’s gaze darkened for a moment.“Yeah,” she said quietly. “There should be.”
Yelena leaned in, "Don't let him pull you into that strange, wicked game of his, okay?"
“He won’t,” you said.
“Everyone says that.”
Wanda took a gentler approach.“If you go… just… don’t take what he says too personally,” she said softly. “He’s… different.”
"Yeah, I noticed."
Natasha sighed. "When are you going, love?"
"Tomorrow."
Yelena groaned, "Too late to stop you, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Shame."
For a moment, there was silence.The noise of the café buzzed dully around you, but at the table everything remained strangely tense.And you just stared into your cup.Because you had already decided.
When the time came standing in front of the door, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.
The hallway was too quiet.Occasionally someone passed in the background, but the sounds were muted, like they didn’t quite belong here.
Your hand hovered over the doorknob, not quite daring to touch.This was foolish.Just a simple consultation.Nothing more.And yet…something held you back.Maybe all those stories you’d heard about him. Or the way he looked at you in class, like he knew exactly that you weren’t where you were supposed to be.
Or maybe it was simply the unknown,you had no idea what to expect.For a moment, the thought crossed your mind to just leave.To make excuses, to postpone until the next grade.
Then you sighed and pressed the handle down.The office was surprisingly neat. Not warm, not inviting, just… neat.Papers lined up on his desk with a soldier's precision, a few books stacked in the right place.
There were no personal items. No photos, no small details that might reveal anything about him.As if he didn’t really inhabit the space.
He was sitting behind the desk.He was studying a paper, pen in hand, as if he had completely forgotten that anyone might come in. Or as if he was deliberately letting you stand there like an idiot.
Then finally, he spoke up,his voice was like velvet."Close the door."
You obeyed on reflex, a puppet dancing to his tune.The click echoed too loudly in the silence. Only then did he lift his gaze.
And he looked at you, with the same knowing look as in class. Too goddamn sharp. He held it a moment too long, then laid the pen down."You wanted to see me."
No shit,Sherlock.You swallowed the first response that came to your mind and stepped closer. “Yes. About my… grades.”
His eyes drifted to the papers, like he already knew which ones you meant."I know," he breathed.
Of course, he did. He always did."Sit," he murmured, gesturing to a chair.You sat, maybe a little more stiffly than you would have liked. He leaned back in his chair, arms resting loosely on the desk, but his gaze never left you.
“My grades,” you sighed. “They’re not really… going well.”
“I noticed,” he replied dryly.
You were about to beat this man up.
“What don’t you understand?”
You blinked.“Well… all of it. I’m trying, but—”
“Specifically.”His voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped you.“Which part?”
For a moment, you searched for the words.“I don’t know what you expect.”
Bucky tensed, but he didn't say a thing.He just leaned in, pulled a page from the stack, and placed it on the desk.He pushed it toward you.It was your paper,covered in notes.
“Here,” he whispered, showing a paragraph. “What did you mean by this?”
You looked down at your words. It was familiar once, but now it just made you more confused.“That… intervention causes instability in the long term.”
“Yes, you wrote that down,” he crooned. “But what does that really mean?”
You looked up, searching his expression.“Well… that—”
“I’m not asking for the textbook definition.”
Your jaw tightened,like a piano wire about to snap.“Then what are you asking for?”
Bucky watched you, like he was deciding if this was worth the headache.Then he stood up,walked around the desk and stopped beside you.
Not too close, but just enough that you could feel his presence.He pointed at the paper.“If you want to do this, then do it properly. What does this paragraph mean?”
You took a breath.“Tension increases. Local forces… react, and—”
“How?”
You faltered for a moment.“Well… resistance, conflict—”
“That’s very general.”
Everything went silent after that.He didn’t move, just watched you,and you sat there, staring at your failures,feeling like you had to rethink everything from the beginning.
Bucky finally spoke.“It’s not that you don’t study.It’s that you don’t go deep enough.”
It was the truth, not a cruel lie and that's why it stung so much.“Okay,” you whispered finally, your voice strung tight. “And how do I dive deeper into this?”
Bucky stepped back to the desk.“Start by not speaking in generalities.” He picked up his pen.“Specific situation. Specific consequence.This isn’t an IR essay.”
He leaned over the paper, underlined a few words, then shifted it so you could see better.“If you write ‘instability,’ then break it down. Who reacts? How? What happens next? Don’t skip steps.”
You watched him as he spoke. He didn’t overexplain, didn’t try to phrase things nicely—he just went through the mistakes as if it were the most natural thing in the world. There was no impatience in him, but not much kindness either.
“Look,sir,I tried to be specific,” you said, a bit more defensive than you intended.
He cut you off, a smile playing on his lips, so calm it was unsettling.“It's not specific enough,” “This”—he tapped the page—“is an introduction. Not analysis.”
You bit your lip, gazing back at the page. He was right,it really did seem… empty. Like you had just circled around something without actually saying it.
Bucky went on,his voice was low.“It's not about pretty words.The goal is to understand what you’re talking about. If you understood it, you wouldn’t write it like this.”
"Then how, tell me?" you asked, more honestly than before.He looked at you, piercing, as if deciding whether you were just playing a part.
Then his gaze returned to the paper.“Pick a specific example. A situation. Say, an intervention. Describe what happened step by step. Who acted, who reacted, what the consequences were. Don’t skip anything.If you can do that, it’ll be enough.”
You listened, trying to catch his words. For the first time, it felt within reach, a glimmer of hope. It wasn't easy, no, but at least there was something to hold onto.
But your eyes wandered from the script,to him.How he sat there, a statue in the twilight, as if this whole performance meant nothing. No nerves, no masks, no desperate attempts to impress. Just a soldier, standing his post.
And the strangest thing of all was,how cold he was, not in a polite way,but in that closed off way.You were left wondering if he had always been like this, a ghost haunting his own life.Or if it was just…what the war had made him.
Everyone knew the legend, the stories whispered in the dead of night. The rumors, the headlines, the half-truths painting a portrait of the Winter Soldier;that past no one talked about openly, but everyone knew was there.Perhaps, that was the answer.
“Are you paying attention?” His voice pulled you back.
You looked up at him.“Yes.”
Bucky was staring right through you, the pen still poised like a weapon.He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if checking, then looked back down at the paper
The professor continued speaking as if nothing had happened.“You don’t need to write a novel.” he drawled, eyes skimming your notes.“It just needs to be precise. If you can’t lay it out properly within two pages, then you don’t actually understand it well enough.”
He tapped the paper once more with his pen, then set it aside.“Use your sources, but don’t hide behind them. That’s the other problem.”
You nodded, though by now you were only half paying attention to what he was saying. The other half of your focus had shifted—to him. It was hard not to. Up close, he was even more striking than in class.Not in some picture-perfect kinda way. His face, a sharper cut than most and his gaze carried a constant trace of fatigue, even as it stayed alert.
And then there was that beard of hid—salt and pepper, just enough to make it obvious he wasn’t your age. Not even close.That alone should have been enough to put a firm stop to any kind of interest, and yet…The lines visible beneath his shirt didn’t exactly help your situation at all.
You flinched slightly when he spoke again.“Will this work?”
You quickly looked back down at the paper.“Yes, I think so.I’ll rewrite it.”
“Good.”
Silence settled between you at his words.You were about to stand when he spoke again.“You’re not bad, by the way.”
You froze for half a second, then looked up at him.“Sorry?”
Bucky didn't meet your gaze at first, just turned a page in your notes.“Your thinking isn’t bad,” he added. “You just don’t use it.”
Gee thanks. This man really knew how to charm a woman,not that he was trying to. Still.. how do you reply to something like this? 'thanks,professor.That's really kind of you.'
“Thank you…” you said eventually, a little uncertain.
He just gave a small nod,as he chuckled.“Bring it back next week.”
That chuckle made your day,as you moved toward the door, you caught yourself almost looking back,but you didn’t.There was this strange tension still clinging to you in the hallway.
Your steps were automatic, but your thoughts were somewhere else entirely—back to that desk, the papers, the way he looked at you, the way he said, 'You're not bad'.
You couldn't decide if it helped at all, or if it just left you more lost than before.
...
Natasha, Wanda, and Yelena were already sitting at the café at the same table as last time.It was as if they always gravitated to the same spot whenever someone arrived with drama.
Yelena spotted you first. A smile barely gracing her lips. "Well?" she breathed, leaning back. "Was it survivable, or are we diving straight into the trauma now?"
Natasha didn’t even look up from her mug.“Judging by your silence, it wasn’t fun.”
You sat down among them, and for a moment, only the smell of coffee filled the space between you."It wasn't… bad," you sighed eventually.
Yelena laughed. "That's what you say when it was real bad, huh?"
“It’s not what I expected,” you continued. “He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t humiliate you. He just… looks at you. A lot.”
Yelena just snorted, like it was some tired old joke, replayed a hundred times in her mind. “Yeah, that’s what they call it at the university. The Bucky stare.”
You blinked, all innocent. "The… what, exactly?"
Natasha's lips curved into this faint smile.
“Don’t start,” Yelena said quickly, though she was already laughing. “Seriously. It’s a thing. If he looks at you like that, people either rewrite their entire assignment or suddenly discover a new life purpose.”
Natasha shrugged.“So,” she said, grinning, “did you also get hit with the ‘Bucky stare’?”
You went all quiet at the question, then just shrugged.“Well… yeah. Because I have to rewrite my essay.”
A second of silence followed,then Yelena burst out laughing— like that was the best punchline she’d heard all day.“Of course,” she said between laughs. “That is so typical.”
Natasha just smirked, shaking her head a little, like she couldn't decide whether to cry or laugh with you.
"That's not 'getting hit'," Yelena says, still grinning, "that's a diagnosis, baby."
Wanda laughed more quietly, mostly into her cup, but there was a warm, familiar softness at the corner of her eyes.And you just sat there among them, and for the first time that day, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.
Wanda tilted her head slightly.“And what did he say?”
You went quiet for a moment. The words still felt strange on your tongue.“He said I wasn't bad.”
Yelena almost choked on her coffee.“He said that?”
Silence drifted back,Natasha slowly placed her mug down."From him... that's practically a love letter."
Your breath hitched at her words.A sudden warmth crept up your neck, painting your cheeks in a rosy hue. Did you just blush because of that grumpy old man?
"It wasn't sweet," you snapped back. "It was more like he was stating a fact."
Wanda smiled faintly.“That might actually sound worse than Yelena’s version.”
Yelena leaned back in her chair. “And what the hell do you even want from this man?”
Breath caught in your throat.Oh,you had ideas,a lot...“I just… want to understand,” you said quietly at last. “What he’s asking for. Because what I’m doing now—it’s not enough for him.”
Natasha's eyes narrowed just a touch. "And what if what he's asking for is just… impossible?"
You didn't say anything to that.You were determined to do the impossible.The noise of the café seeped back in between you—the clink of cups, the murmur of conversations, laughter somewhere in the background.
Wanda broke the silence. "What exactly did he say?"
You sighed.“He said not to write in generalities. To be specific. And that if I can’t explain it in two pages, then I don’t understand it.”
A ragged breath escaped your lips,“He said not to write in generalities. To be specific. And that if I can’t explain it in two pages, then I don’t understand it.Still… there’s some logic to it,” you said. “It’s like he actually wants me to think.”
Natasha didn’t answer right away. She just watched you for a moment. Then, with slow, theatrical grace, she set her mug down.“Hmm.”
Yelena’s head snapped up immediately.“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”
The redhead was still watching you.“Nothing,” she said, her voice dripping with dangerous innocence. “Just interesting how much you’re trying to understand him.”
You frowned, feeling your heart beat a little faster against your ribs.“That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Yelena cut in,a glamorous smirk spreading across her face. “It’s just that people usually aren’t this enthusiastic about someone tearing their essay apart.”
A faint smile appeared on Wanda’s lips too.“You do talk about him a bit more than about an average professor,” she noted gently
“I don’t,” you shot back too quickly, your voice betraying you.
Yelena laughed.“Oh, you do.”
Natasha tilted her head slightly, her red hair falling over her shoulder.“You’re saying things like ‘there’s logic in it,’ ‘he actually makes me think’…” she listed with cold, calm precision. “That’s already bordering on a secret fan club.”
“I’m not a fan of him,” you pressed your lips together, feeling the sudden rush of heat color your cheeks.
“Yet,” Yelena added immediately, her voice sweet as poison.
“Yelena,” Wanda said, though a soft laughter danced in her throat.You just looked down at the dark swirl of your coffee for a moment, as if that bitter black liquid held all the beauties of the world.
Yelena leaned forward, resting her elbows on the cold wooden table.“So it wasn’t just the ‘Bucky stare’ that caught you…”
You looked up, meeting her gaze.“Then what?”
Yelena’s smirk widened.“It was Bucky himself.”
“Nothing happened!” you shot back instantly.
“Yet,” Yelena repeated.And though you tried to hold your breath, to keep your composure, you felt the sudden, burning rush of fever color your cheeks.The worst part of it all…was that maybe, just a little, they were right.
The weekend slipped through your fingers almost without you noticing.On Friday night, your plans had been so sweet, so simple. You only wanted to "take a quick look" at the essay. Just open the screen, read the words, maybe rewrite a line or two.
But then, you got stuck.Suddenly, your notes were scattered across the wooden desk, heavy books left wide open everywhere, and the laptop screen cast a glow into the darkness. Beside you, the coffee had turned ice-cold hours ago, but you didn't even notice how many times you had refilled the porcelain cup.
With every single sentence you typed, his voice was there, echoing softly in the back of your mind.
“Don’t speak in generalities.”
“What exactly does this mean?”
“This is nothing but an introduction.”
God,you wanted to impress him.You rewrote the first paragraph.Then, you tore it apart and did it again.And then, one more time.Every word you chose felt too empty, too hollow.
You weren't just searching for what you were supposed to say; you were chasing after what it actually meant. Who reacts. How they fall. What happens when the damage is done. You built the thoughts step by step.And it began to take shape.It wasn't perfect but it wasn’t entirely foggy anymore.
On Sunday night, you leaned back in your chair, your eyes fixed on the glowing screen. The essay sat there waiting for you. It was shorter than the last draft.
Finally, with a soft click, you closed the laptop. A quiet sigh escaped your lips into the empty room.
The weekend died too quickly.By Monday morning, that familiar, heavy ache was already blooming in your chest. The essay lay hidden in the depths of your bag, feeling heavier than it ever should have. It was only a few pieces of paper.And yet... it meant everything. It meant him.
Time dragged its feet, moving in slow motion as the hour of your meeting crawled closer. The afternoon classes stretched out into an endless blur, the professors' words losing all meaning. You found yourself staring at the exact same line of text over and over again, your mind too haunted to understand a single word.
Then, suddenly, the world narrowed down. You were standing right in front of him.The same heavy wooden door. Only this time, you knew the danger that waited on the other side.You closed your eyes for a bittersweet second, letting a shaky breath escape your lips.
Your hand moved on its own, operating on pure instinct, but it froze for one fragile moment right on the brass doorknob.You’ve been in this room before.You survived it once.This is just another hour of your life. Get it together.
Finally, you turned the handle and stepped inside.The office was exactly as you had left it. It was orderly. Too orderly.And there he was,sitting behind the heavy desk, hunched over his papers like the rest of the universe didn't even exist.
Then, his voice broke the heavy silence.“Close the door.”
You shut the door behind you, and this time, the click of the lock sounded less like a trap or maybe you were just getting used to the cage.
His gaze found yours in a fraction of a second.“Did you rewrite it?”
Right, straight to the point.You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reached into your bag for the paper.
“Yes.” You held it out to him. For less than a heartbeat, the tips of your fingers brushed against his skin. It was barely a touch, nothing more, but the sudden heat of it rushed through your veins like a drug.He took it from your hand immediately.
You sat down in the leather chair before he could even tell you to. You knew the rhythm of his game by now.He scanned the first page. His eyes movedp across your lines, pausing only once or twice at certain words.He didn't say a word.Without even realizing it, your hands tightly clasped together in your lap.
After what felt like an eternity, he turned the page.Finally, he rested the paper onto the dark wood of the desk.
“This is actually something,” he said at last.There was no praise in his voice. It was just a cold, hard fact.
A tiny, hidden breath escaped your lips—you hadn't even realized you'd been holding it inside, suffocating in his presence.
"At least I can see you're trying to think now," he murmured.It was almost a compliment.
He tapped the paper with a slow, deliberate finger."This part right here," he said, pointing to a paragraph where the ink seemed to bleed into the margins. "It actually… means something."
He looked up, his eyes catching the fading light. A smile touched the corner of his lips."A dangerous development."
You blinked, caught in the sudden warmth of the room."Excuse me?"
He leaned back, untethered, looking for the first time like a man off the clock, a soldier putting down his armor in the dark."If you keep this up, I might actually be forced to give you a passing grade."
a second, the world stood perfectly still.Then, a laugh slipped from your chest. Did he just make a joke?
It caught him off guard.His brow arched, and a short, dry chuckle escaped him."Don't misunderstand," he added quickly, his voice dropping back into that familiar gravity. "It's still far from perfect."
"I figured," you said, the smile still lingering on your lips.The corner of his mouth twitched again. "But at least it doesn’t hurt to read anymore."
Huh."That’s progress," you shot back.
He looked up at you then, truly looked at you. For a fleeting second, it wasn't that sharp gaze he always wore. It was something else—something blue,nocturnal and soft.Oh,you were fucked.
"So… does this mean I'm not a completely hopeless case?" The question was half-joke, half-dark truth.
Bucky’s brow arched."I didn’t say that."
"Shame," you sighed. "I was just starting to believe it."
"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes drifting back down to the ink on the page. "You're growing.Talking back already."
"Just adapting," you shrugged, your voice dripping with sweet indifference. "Survival instinct."
He looked up again at that."Good," he said, his voice dropping an octave."That’s a useful skill."
Bucky leaned back over the desk and pulled the paper in front of him again.“This here,” he said, his pen cutting a definitive line underneath a sentence. “It’s still too general. If you write ‘escalation,’ then you have to show how it happens. Who moves first, who reacts, what the consequence is.”
He pushed the page slightly closer, a small gesture meant to invite you into his space. But you… you didn’t really see it.
Instinctively, you leaned forward, squinting at the black ink on the page.Bucky paused,the steady rhythm of his lecture just stopped. He looked at you, his gaze curious in the quiet, before he slowly tilted his head to the side.“What are you doing?” he murmured.
You looked up, caught off guard by the sudden stillness. “What?”
His eyes stayed locked on yours, but that strict, academic expression was completely gone.“You’re squinting.”
A second of pure silence hung between you. Then you exhaled, letting your shoulders drop as you gave up the act.“Yeah…” you shrugged, a tiny, helpless smile playing on your lips. “I can’t really see from here.”
Bucky laughed,It wasn't that restrained, quiet chuckle from before.It was a short, genuine laugh that completely broke through his usual seriousness. Hearing it made something untamed spark in your chest, and you laughed too.
“Are you serious?” he asked, the warmth of his smile still lingering.
“Completely,” you nodded. “I just need it… a bit closer.”
“Let’s start with you actually seeing what you’re doing wrong,” he murmured, his voice dropping low.
“That would help,” you muttered, the words disappearing into the space between you.
Paper in hand, he rose from his chair and walked around the desk.You instinctively straightened your posture as he drew near. He didn't rush, nor did he hesitate—he simply stepped into your space with an easy grace.
He placed the paper on the desk right in front of you, then leaned over you slightly, resting one hand on the edge of the page.“Can you see it now?” he murmured.
He was too close.He wasn't touching you, he hadn't even fully bent down over you—but his presence suddenly became overwhelmingly real. His scent, his voice, the calm.
“Yes,” you finally said, a second too late. “Yes, I can see it now.” you added.
“Great.”His voice drifted back to its usual quiet cool, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His finger slowly traced the lines of text.“Right here,” he pointed to a sentence. “This is almost good. But you’re still skipping a step.”
You nodded, though for a fleeting second, your mind was anywhere but on the words.“I understand,” you said softly.
He didn't speak for a moment, the silence stretching tight between you. Then, he leaned a fraction closer to point out another line.“And here, this is better,” he added. “Do you see the difference?”
This time, you actually looked at the paper, desperate for a distraction.“Yes…” you said slowly. “Here it’s actually broken down.”
“Exactly.”
You leaned in a little as well, just to take another look at the corrections. And somehow… it stayed that way.Your hands remained on the desk, not fully pulled back, because you were still pretending to read the fading ink on the paper. His hands were there too, anchoring the other side of the page.Too close.
His metal arm caught the pale light differently than anything else in the room. It looked colder. Foreign. A heavy relic from a different life. And yet… it felt completely natural on him.For a moment, neither of you moved.Then Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands.
He had only just noticed the dangerously small distance between your skin and his cold steel. A small tension crossed his face, a sudden fracture in his composure.“Sorry,”
Then he pulled his metal hand back slightly on the dark wood of the desk.“Sometimes… I forget,” he murmured.His voice was more rigid now, but it wasn't cold.
You glanced up at him.“It’s fine,” you said quickly, your voice barely a breath.For a heartbeat, he still didn’t look at you. He stared down at the desk, lost in some distant thought.
Then he finally raised his eyes.He looked...vulnerable in a way that made your heart skip.“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added.
You instinctively shook your head.“You didn’t.”
Silence settled over the room again. The paper stayed between you, but his hands no longer hovered quite as close.
“That’ll be enough for now,” Bucky said.
You nodded, fingers lingering on the edge of the mahogany desk.“Thank you,” you whispered.
“Don’t thank me,” he replied, not even looking up. “Work with it.”
You finally turned toward the door.“Bye,” you said, looking back over your shoulder.
“Bye,” he answered simply.
The heavy wood door clicked shut behind you. You started walking. One high heel clicking against the floor. Then another.
Panic crept into your mind.Your bag still held your notebook, your essay, your notes. Everything was fine.
Except one thing.You hadn’t agreed on the next time.He hadn’t given you a time. Hadn’t said whether you could come again. Hadn’t said “bring it back next week,” like before.
You stood there in the hallway, staring back at the door.Then you let out a slow breath.“Okay… what was that?” you whispered.
...
The music hit you first, even before the door.Inside, the place was dim, washed in flickering lights and a bass so loud it seemed designed to erase thought entirely. People blurred into each other in the space, glasses clinked, someone laughed too loudly somewhere behind you.
You just stood there in the doorway.“Okay,” Yelena’s voice dripped beside you, sharp as a switchblade. “Something is very wrong.”
Wanda observed you more carefully, sipping something dark, but she nodded too. “It shows on your face, darling.”
“What shows on my face?” you asked automatically, too quickly.
Yelena grinned. “That you either failed or fell in love.”
“Yelena! I'm not in love with him.”
Natasha glanced at you sideways. “So you failed?”
“I didn’t fail,” you said eventually, staring at your chipped fingernails.
“So what is it then?” Yelena commented, leaning against the seat.
You didn’t answer for a moment, watching the ice melt in someone else's abandoned drink.“The consultation… was weird.”
Wanda leaned forward slightly, her silver rings catching the blue light. “Weird how?”
You ran a hand through your hair, completely undone. “He was explaining something, pointing at the paper, and I couldn’t really see because I was squinting.”
“That already sounds bad,” Yelena muttered.
“And then he asked what I was doing, and I said I couldn’t see that far.”
Yelena burst out laughing, loud enough to wake the dead.“You what?”
“I couldn’t see!” you defended yourself, burying your face in your hands. “What was I supposed to say?”
“‘Excuse me, professor, I have a romantic proximity issue.Come closer.” Yelena joked.
“It wasn't even romantic!”
Natasha set her cup down with a soft click. “For now.”
“Natasha!”
Wanda tried to stay serious, but her eyes were glittering with amusement. “And… him?” she asked .
“He… laughed.”
That shifted the air at the table for a second. The teasing faded.Yelena slowed down, her glass stopping halfway to her lips. “Wait. He laughed?”
Natasha looked at you, her gaze turning serious. “That’s new.”
“He’s not as cold as everyone says.” you explained.
Yelena snorted. “Oh, he’s cold. Just in the ‘legend slowly warming up’ phase.”
Wanda tilted her head slightly. “So what now?”
You shrugged, the weight of the hallway returning to crush your chest. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if there will be a next time. He didn't say.”
Then Yelena leaned back, crossing her legs.“This man functions like a badly documented DLC.”
Natasha nodded slowly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You’re going back.”
It was the day of the essay submission in class.Nothing special had happened before it. Same room, same chairs, the same low rustling sound students always made when they tried to figure out how much they were supposed to fear this course.
You placed your paper on the desk with the others.Bucky walked down the row, collecting them one by one. He didn’t say much—just the occasional nod, a brief glance at each submission.
When he reached yours,h took it, skimmed it, then placed it in front of him like all the rest.After a few minutes of silence, he continued the lecture.
At the end, he told you that this is better.The class slowly ended, students started packing up, chairs scraped, conversations began to form.
You gathered your things too.And, completely irrationally, it suddenly hit you. You expected more.All that effort, all that overthinking—just this?
Sure it was a better grade and he gave you half a sentance.You should have moved on.As you stood up, the room gradually emptied around you.
Bucky was already turning his attention to the next stack of papers.And you walked out with that strange, hard-to-name feeling that something you had treated as important had suddenly become… ordinary.
The hallway was already half full by the time you stepped out of the classroom—familiar voices, laughter, hurried footsteps blending into a kind of restless background noise as everyone rushed to their next class or made their escape home.
“So?” Yelena was on you immediately, like she’d been waiting there the whole time. “Did you survive?”
You stopped in front of them for a moment before answering.“It was better,” you said finally.“I got a better grade.”
Yelena let out a short, satisfied huff.“Finally. That means we’re celebrating.”
“That’s good,” Natasha nodded. “Told you he wouldn’t destroy you.”
But Wanda didn’t look away.“And?”
You hesitated, then shrugged lightly.“That’s it.”
A brief silence settled between you.Yelena narrowed her eyes.“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”
You exhaled.“He took it, looked it over, said it was better… and that was it.”
Natasha tilted her head, watching you more closely now.“You don’t seem very happy about that.”
“But that was the goal, wasn’t it?” you said, trying for something casual. “A better grade.”
“Sure,” Yelena replied dryly. “And yet you look like you just got fired.”
“I didn’t get fired!”
“Then what?”
You didn’t answer right away.The hallway felt louder than before.“I don’t know,” you admitted after a moment. “It’s just…”
You glanced down, then back up, your voice softer this time.“It’s just… weird. There was always something before. Now it’s just… over.”
Natasha’s lips curved into a faint smile.“Then go back to office hours.”
You looked at her.“I don't know how...”
“Ask something.”
You sighed, shaking your head.“That’s not how it works.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow.“Oh, it absolutely is.”
After a brief pause, Natasha pushed herself off the wall.“Come on,” she said. “Before you change your mind.” And without really thinking about it, you fell into step beside them.
Yelena watched you intently, her eyes lit up with absolute mischief.“Okay. Then we fix it,” she declared with unwavering confidence.
“Fix what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at her with instant suspicion, fully aware that her version of 'fixing' usually involved property damage or psychological warfare.
“You,” she shot back without a single second of hesitation.“Obviously. Because right now, you are a complete mess.”
Natasha was already rubbing her temples as if physically bracing herself for the incoming disaster.“This is going to be bad. I can already feel the headache this is going to cause all of us.”
“No, this is going to be brilliant—actually, scratch that, it's going to be a masterpiece of modern strategy,” she corrected.
“Listen to me. If you’re this tragically affected by your professor—”
“I’m not affected!” you interjected, your face flushed with a violent crimson as you tried, and failed, to defend your dignity.
“—then it’s time to completely abandon whatever useless defense mechanism you're running and radically change strategy,” Yelena continued.
Wanda let out a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling as she watched the chaotic dynamic unfold.“I have to admit, I’m genuinely curious to hear what you've come up with.”
“Option one,” Yelena announced proudly, raising a single finger into the air. “You write a catastrophically bad essay.”
You made a sharp noise of protest immediately, your jaw dropping in sheer academic horror.“No! Absolutely not!”
“Yes!” she shot back, as if ruining your academic standing was a perfectly reasonable sacrifice. “Just bad enough that he has no choice but to call you back for another one-on-one consultation.”
Natasha slowly shook her head, looking at Yelena with a mixture of disbelief and mild impression.“That might genuinely be the single worst piece of advice I have ever heard in my entire life.”
“Thank you,” Yelena nodded graciously, accepting the criticism as a high compliment. “But don't clap yet, because there’s more.”
“I’m deeply, deeply scared of whatever else is in your head,” you muttered.
“Option two: you march right up to his desk, look him dead in the eye, and say, ‘I strongly disagree with your evaluation of my work.’”
“But I agree with it! He was completely right!” you stared at her in total disbelief, wondering if she had lost her mind.
“A minor detail, completely irrelevant to the grand scheme,” she waved it off with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “The actual grade doesn't matter. The point is the tension. The point is starting the conversation.”
Wanda was smiling, resting her chin on her hand as she leaned forward.“Okay, I’ll give you that one. That’s definitely more of an excuse to get him alone than the first option.”
“Exactly!” Yelena nodded rapidly, pointing at Wanda with an air of immense satisfaction. “Finally! Someone in this room actually gets the vision.”
Natasha turned her attention away from Yelena and looked down at you.“Or...you could just do what a normal student does and ask him a genuine question about the next lecture topic.”
“That’s too normal, Natasha,” Yelena complained, frowning deeply and crossing her arms. “Where is the flavor? Where is the drama in just being a regular student?”
“None of these options are normal. You people have a distorted view of reality.”
“You’re not normal either right now,” Yelena shot back. “Look at what you’re stressing over.”
Wanda stepped a bit closer to you.“You don’t have to go in there and ‘seduce’ him,” she said gently. “Just… find a simple, human reason to talk to him.”
Natasha nodded encouragingly.“And you can do that. You’re smart, you're capable, and you don't need a crazy scheme.”
Yelena crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a stubborn pout forming on her lips.“But if you do choose option one, you have to tell me first. Because I want to see the look on his face when he reads it.”
“I’m not doing that!” you laughed, finally breaking under the weight of their absurdity.
Yelena grinned at you, her mischievous energy returning in full force as she leaned in closer.“So… now that we've established your lack of options, when exactly are you going back to his office?”
You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt.“I’m not going back. The case is closed. I am a ghost to him.”
“Of course you’re not,” Yelena said, her voice dripping with an overwhelming amount of sarcasm.
...
You absolutely didn't mean it seriously.You truly didn’t think you were capable of such reckless stupidity.When Yelena had first loudly blurted out that insane proposition, you had just rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt, dismissing it as classic Belova chaos.
And yet…here you were, hours later in the suffocating silence of your own room, sitting frozen at your wooden desk, staring blankly at your half-finished essay under the harsh glow of your desk lamp, deliberately crossing out a structured sentence just to painstakingly replace it with something weaker and agonizingly generic.
Your hand hovered, trembling slightly, as the ink tip of your pen paused just a millimeter above the ruined page.
“This is absolutely ridiculous, you have officially lost your mind,” you muttered under your breath, you kept going, dragging the pen across the paper.You didn't ruin the piece completely; you couldn't bring yourself to do something that devastating to your academic pride. It wasn't an aggressively bad essay, or filled with obvious errors. It was just… disappointing.
When you finally leaned back in your chair to review the finished product, a deeply unsettling sensation crept over you.
Once class began, you went through the familiar routine of handing in the assignments along with everyone else. However, you held onto your specific papers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before placing them onto the growing stack, almost as if you were desperately hoping you could still reclaim them.
Of course, you couldn’t turn back now.Bucky moved methodically down the rows of desks, collecting the pages one by one with an practiced efficiency. When he finally reached your seat, he took your essay in the exact same casual manner as he had taken all the others, offering absolutely no outward reaction.
It was entirely expected, after all, because there was no logical reason for him to behave any differently.He returned to his desk, sat down, and immediately began reading through the submissions.
The entire room fell into a heavy silence, which was punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic rustling of turning paper. During this time, you found yourself paying far too much attention to his every movement, analyzing his posture with an intense focus.
The exact moment he reached your essay, you caught the subtle shift in his demeanor. It was visible in the sudden stillness of his posture as he paused mid-action—not in an obvious way that anyone else in the room would ever detect, but you knew his habits well enough to notice.
He remained focused on your page for a moment significantly longer than necessary, then deliberately flipped back to the previous section to read it once more.Your stomach instantly dropped with anxiety because you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had noticed the change.
Even so, he didn’t cast a single glance in your direction or utter a word of disapproval; he simply placed your paper down with the rest of the completed stack and moved on to the next task. Somehow, that complete lack of an immediate confrontation felt infinitely worse than an angry outburst.
He finally stood up to address the room again.“Most of the essays you submitted today… were perfectly fine,” he stated calmly. “A few of them were actually particularly good.And one or two represented a distinct step backward.”
Your heart skipped a beat in your chest, and though he still didn’t look directly at you, you knew with absolute certainty that he was referring to your work.For the very first time since the critique began, he lifted his gaze from the desk, and this time he looked straight at you.
The contact didn’t last long, but it lingered just long enough to deliver an unmistakable message.“We will be talking about this after class,” he said simply.His voice remained incredibly calm and suddenly, you weren’t nearly as confident as you had been before that this entire scheme had been a good idea.
The class went on as if nothing had happened.Bucky explained with the same calm, precise rhythm as always—concepts, examples, questions—everything in its place, everything logical, everything easy to follow.And you… tried to pay attention.You really did.
But your thoughts kept slipping back to the exact same two statements: “A step back” and “We’ll talk about it.” Great, this was a disaster.
Every now and then, you glanced up at him, almost without realizing it.He, on the other hand, didn’t look at you once.As if he had already forgotten the whole thing.
The class slowly drifted toward its inevitable end. Pens slowed down, note-taking completely faded away, and students started shifting impatiently in their seats while bags quietly zipped shut around you. It was that familiar, restless atmosphere when everyone knows the lesson is almost over.
But you didn’t move from your spot. You didn’t pack your things. You just sat there in silence—and waited. You knew exactly that you weren’t going to just walk out of the room with the others.
Bucky closed his notebook and let his gaze sweep across the room for a brief moment.“That’s all for today,” he said clearly.
Chairs moved immediately, casual conversations sparked up, and life seemed to rush back into the room all at once. You stayed exactly where you were. You watched as people slowly filtered out, noticing how the room grew emptier with every passing second.
You didn't rush to move, because you didn’t want it to look like you were staying on purpose—even though it was entirely obvious.Within minutes, only a few of you remained in the classroom. Then there were fewer. Until finally, the last door closed, and it was just you and him.Bucky calmly sorted through the papers on his desk, acting as if your presence didn’t matter to him at all. But he didn’t send you away, and he didn’t look up immediately either. You stood up, then walked over to his desk, taking it step by step, and finally stopped right in front of him.
His steady gaze landed on you immediately, heavy with expectation.“What happened?” he asked.
There was no preamble. He didn't bother with any polite small talk. You held his sharp gaze for half a second before looking away.
You shrugged your shoulders.“I don’t know…” you said, speaking a little too quickly to sound natural. “I just had a lot of other things to do.”
Bucky’s calm expression didn’t change at all.“Did you,” he replied flatly.
“Well… yeah, actually. I’m not even a history major. I just took this class as an elective...”
Even as you said it, you could tell it didn’t sound right, and the words seemed to hang heavily between you.
Bucky’s expression tightened slightly.“I see,” he said, and his voice had gone noticeably colder.“Then was it a conscious decision?” he asked.
“What?” you breathed, the word slipping out before you could stop it.Now he was looking directly at you, his piercing gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.
“To put less effort into your work.” There was no accusation in his voice, no anger behind his words. And somehow, that complete lack of emotion made it feel infinitely worse than if he had yelled.
“No…” you said, shaking your head slightly as you tried to find your footing. “I just—”
“Because if it was a conscious choice,” he cut in calmly, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered, “then we can stop this right here. You can simply drop the course.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said finally, your voice dropping much quieter than it had been before.
Bucky didn’t move an inch, his posture remaining perfectly still and composed.Somehow, that calm, expectant silence was far worse than any angry outburst or harsh reprimand he could have given you.
You let out a long, shaky breath and shook your head slightly.“That… sounded incredibly stupid,” you added, looking down for a brief second. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t soften his features or offer an easy smile of forgiveness.But that earlier sharp, biting coldness in his demeanor seemed to dull—just a tiny fraction.
“I know this history class isn’t my major,” you continued.“I just… completely failed to manage my time properly this time around.”
Lie,lie,lie.You just wanted drama and mostly his attention.Did you regret it? Well...yeah. Will you probably get more office hours? Yeah!
Bucky remained completely silent for a long moment, letting the heavy quiet stretch out between you.After a tense silence, he finally offered a slow, barely perceptible nod of his head.“Alright,” he said
“Then you’ll fix this,” he stated, his voice flat. It wasn’t a question, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. “Same topic,” he added, his voice cutting through the silence. “But this time—be specific.And you bring it back.”
You swallowed hard, feeling the sudden dryness in your throat. “I will,”
Then, after what felt like an eternity, his rigid shoulders relaxed and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval.“Good,don’t be late.”
You nodded in understanding, the movement simple and deliberate.“I won’t,” you replied softly.
“Alright,” he murmured.That was all there was to it.He didn't say another single word to you.
You were the one who made the first move to break the stillness.You gathered your scattered notes from the table, moving perhaps a little too quickly, just to give your trembling hands something to focus on.
You didn't stop moving or hesitate until you finally reached the safety of the door.Your hand was already resting on the cold metal handle.You could have turned around and said something more to him.But you chose not to.Instead, you pressed the handle down and stepped out into the brightly lit hallway.
The background noise of the building returned to you instantly — distant conversations, heavy footsteps, and someone laughing somewhere down the hall.
...
The weeks that followed, darling, they just kinda dissolved like a memory. One revision turned into endless nights.Just one more question, one more glance… always a reason to drift back.
A reference, a forgotten word, something never fully clear. All accidental, of course. Your talks turned less formal, less… armored.Bucky, he didn't soften, no,but… the rhythm changed.
Fewer explanations, more of that sweet silence. And those silences, strangely, they didn't sting. They just lingered. And in the glow of it all,you started to notice things about him.
Things you shouldn't have noticed. The first was how he remembered small details. Not grand gestures, not prying questions. “You're squinting again,” he'd say.
You'd fire back, "I'm not squinting," before even looking up.
“You are.” And he'd be there, standing over the pages, pointing with his pen. “You can't see,”
Coffee.
You realized it after the third or fourth time you stayed longer than you were supposed to. He always had one on the desk, usually already half gone by the time you sat down. Black,no sugar,no milk. And always cold by the end of the consultation, because he never drank it while talking.He’d take a sip only after you left, if at all.
You also started picking up on his timing.He always arrived before everyone else.The first time you got there ahead of schedule, you expected an empty room. Instead, he was already there, papers laid out, everything in place, like he’d been there for a while.He didn’t look surprised to see you.Just nodded once and continued like it made no difference.
Another thing was that he didn’t repeat himself.If he explained something once, that was it. If you didn’t get it, he wouldn’t rephrase it right away — he’d wait. Give you space to figure it out, like he expected you to.
There were other things too.Like how he never checked his phone.Or how he always remembered exactly where you left off last time, without asking.Or how his voice dropped slightly when he was explaining something more complicated, like he expected you to follow even. if he made it harder.
Or that you loved his hands.There was one time when you both reached for the same page.It wasn’t dramatic,your fingers just barely touched, nothing more than a second, maybe less.But neither of you pulled back immediately.And the thing you loved most? That his hands felt warm.
After that, you started noticing the way he said your name.He didn’t use it often,most of the time it was impersonal, efficient. But occasionally, when he wanted your attention immediately, he’d say your name first.
When you looked up, sometimes you’d find that he wasn’t looking at the paper anymore, but at you, just for a brief moment before his attention shifted back as if nothing had happened, returning to that same controlled, neutral focus like it hadn’t meant anything at all — like none of it had, even if you couldn’t quite convince yourself of that anymore.
As the weeks went on, one thing became increasingly obvious to him,you were there too often.Sometimes it was a question about the assignment. Sometimes it was something you “just wanted to quickly check.” Sometimes there wasn’t really a reason at all, not one you could clearly explain even to yourself.
Bucky never commented on it,he never said it was too much. Never told you to stop coming,never treated it like something that needed to be corrected.Truth was — he enjoyed you,so he simply allowed it to happen.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, something else stayed with him.That one essay.The bad one.As if someone had pulled back on purpose.Just enough to be incorrect, but not enough to fail.Just enough to create a reason to come back.
Bucky didn’t ask about it,didn’t bring it up.But now, with you appearing in his office again and again over the following weeks, something about it settled differently in his mind.
It hadn’t been a mistake.And it hadn’t been about the essay.It had been about him,but he didn't comment on it. Because he had no idea what to say, but also there was no reason for him to make you leave.
Bucky didn’t check the clock,he didn’t need to. He already knew when you were supposed to be there.
The papers lay neatly arranged in front of him on the desk, the pen in its usual place. Everything exactly where it belonged.He was waiting for you.
His eyes shifted to the door just before the knock came.“Come in,” he said.
The door opened and you stepped inside.He looked at you briefly.“You’re late.”
You set your bag down.“Not really,” you said, calmer than you should.No further explanation followed,you didn’t offer one.
He gave a small nod.“Show me.” he reached for your papers, but didn’t look down at them yet.
Barnes read through the essay, this time moving much slower than usual. It was not because he was actively looking for mistakes in the text; it felt more like he was carefully weighing every single sentence individually in his mind. He liked what you had to say.
You did not speak in the meantime—in fact, you did not even dare to breathe too loudly. You just sat there, completely still.
When he finally set the paper down, he did not speak right away. Instead, he placed the pen on the desk with calculated precision. Only then did he look up to meet your eyes.“This is good.Very good.”
Huh. That was new.
You could instantly feel your face betraying your relief, the corner of your mouth lifting. It was not a full smile. In that moment, you felt exactly like a dog that had been trying its hardest to behave all day and finally received a well-deserved pat on the head.
The corner of his mouth moved, just barely, creating a faint, almost imperceptible curve. Of course, you noticed it immediately.
“Was that… a smile?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.
“No,” he said. The reply was simple, completely automatic, and devoid of any emotion.
Your smile only grew wider at his stubbornness. “Yes it was.”
“It wasn’t,” he repeated, maintaining the exact same even tone, refusing to give you an inch.
Sensing his defensive walls going up, you leaned forward slightly over the desk, invading his space just enough to tease him. “I think it was.”
“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice flat.
“Do you always say that with this much confidence?” you asked, though your eyes never wavered from his face.
“When I’m right, yes,” he replied, his tone steady, matching the unwavering intensity of his stare.
The corner of your mouth twitched, fighting back an amused grin.“And when you’re not?”
“Then I don’t usually say it out loud,” he admitted quietly.
You smiled a little, the tension in your shoulders relaxing just a fraction.“That’s pretty honest.”
“I don’t play games,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost like a warning.
Was he...flirting with you? Or are just delusional?
You tilted your head slightly to the side, studying the rigid line of his jaw. “No?”
“No,but you do,” he said calmly, though the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his composure.
You didn’t move for a long moment, freezing in place as the weight of his words sank in.Then, deliberately breaking the distance, you leaned forward slightly across the wooden desk. “I’m not playing,” you said, looking straight into his eyes. “I’m just noticing things and acting on them”
His eyes blinked a fraction slower, getting darker, and entirely focused on your lips before snapping back to your eyes. “Like what?”
This time, you didn’t blink, holding his gaze with absolute certainty.“That sometimes you look at me for too long when you think I don’t notice.”
Bucky didn’t move a single muscle after that, barely even breathing.“That’s not a correct conclusion,” he said at last, the words dragging out of him.
You smiled, a slow, knowing expression spreading across your face.“I didn’t say it was correct.I just said I noticed.”
“You should go,” he said.His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of any anger or panic.
“I should,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, yet steady enough to fill the quiet space between you. “But I’m not going to.”
Bucky didn’t just move; he snapped. The carefully constructed wall of military discipline he spent decades building vanished in a single, breathless second.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up, pushing his chair back so hard it screeched against the floorboards. He leaned over the desk, invading your space entirely, forcing you to look up at him.
Before you could even register what was happening. His fingers wrapped firmly around your waist.“You think this is a joke? I told you to leave.”
You didn't pull away. Instead, your hands found their way up to his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart beneath.
You looked up, your eyes wide, meeting his dark gaze. You didn't say a word,you didn't need to. The defiance in your eyes was the only invitation he needed.
Bucky let out a ragged growl.Then, he closed the remaining distance.His lips crashed against yours with a desperate intensity that took your breath away. His hand at your waist tightened, lifting you slightly, pulling your body flush against his hard chest until there was absolutely no air left between you. His other hand flew up, his metal fingers surprisingly warm and unbelievably careful as they tangled into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.
The kiss wasn't gentle at all.It was a hungry release of weeks of unspoken tension, stolen glances, and agonizing restraint.
He tasted like mint and unfiltered hunger. Every swipe of his tongue, every desperate press of his lips felt like a man dying of thirst. He was consuming you, pouring all his unspoken words, his dark past, and his fierce devotion into the kiss.
Bucky didn't give you even a single second to catch your breath.Before the daze of the first kiss could clear from your mind, his metal hand slid from your hair down to your hip, while his flesh hand gripped your thigh. With a single, effortless surge of super-soldier strength, he lifted you up.A sharp gasp left your throat as he swiped his arm across the desk, carelessly sending the neatly stacked essays and pens flying onto the floor. The papers scattered like confetti in the quiet room, but neither of you cared. He set you down on the edge of the cleared wooden surface, stepping deeply between your thighs to lock you in place.
He crashed his lips back onto yours with double the intensity. It was a wild, bruising kiss that made your toes curl. Your hands scrambled up his shoulders, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair, pulling him closer, matching his frantic energy with your own.Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sound deep and vibrations rattling through his chest.
His hands grew bolder, sliding up under your shirt, his warm skin sending a shockwave of electricity through your spine. He pinned you against his body so tightly you could feel every muscle in his chest tightening, his breathing ragged and completely out of control.
He tore his mouth away from yours for a split second, only to bury his face into the crook of your neck. His hot breath brushed against your skin right before his teeth nipped playfully, then dangerously, at your pulse point. You threw your head back, a breathless sound escaping your lips, which only made him press himself even harder against you.
“You’re driving me insane,” he growled against your skin, his voice raw, completely undone by the smell and taste of you. “You know that?”
“Well,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire. “I think you’re finally losing it.”
Bucky didn't deny it. Instead, a low groan escaped his throat. “I lost it the moment you smiled at me,” he confessed against your throat, before his lips traveled down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
His metal hand shot up to the collar of his shirt, and with a single, impatient tug, the top buttons flew off, bouncing quietly onto the wooden floor. He ripped the fabric open, exposing the hard, scarred planes of his chest and the sharp line of his collarbone.Before you could even take in the sight of him, his flesh hand grabbed the hem of your shirt. His eyes locked onto yours, asking a silent, burning question. You answered by raising your arms, and in one swift motion, he lifted the shirt over your head and tossed it carelessly somewhere into the dark corner of the room.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his voice vibrating directly against your chest.
God,you loved it, when he bossed you around.He slid his hands down to the button of your jeans, his metal fingers surprisingly warm and precise as they made quick work of the denim. At the same time, his mouth slammed back onto yours, completely swallowing your gasp as he began to slide the fabric down your legs, lifting you slightly off the desk to completely strip away the final barrier between you.He looked at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your body with a raw, reverent intensity that made you flush from head to toe.“You're beautiful,” he breathed out, his voice so deep and raspy it sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine.
You leaned back slightly on your hands, arching your back and looking down at him with a hooded, playful gaze, trying to keep your composure despite your racing pulse.He reached down, his movements fast and impatient now, unbuckling his belt and shedding his own trousers in one smooth motion. The moment he stepped back between your thighs, completely unburdened by clothes, the heat radiating from him was intoxicating. He was all hard muscle, sharp angles, and beautiful, battle-worn skin.
He leaned forward, pressing his chest back against yours, his hands sliding under your thighs to lift them around his waist. You locked your legs securely behind his back, pulling him as close as physically possible.“Bucky,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, feeling the contrast between the warm, smooth skin of his right side and the cold, intricate seams of his metal shoulder.
He rocked his hips against yours in a soft, torturous preview of what was to come, making a desperate whimper escape your throat.“Say my name again,” he commanded against your mouth, his breathing completely ragged.
His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, holding you still so he could look directly into your eyes. “I want to hear it again.”You looked straight into those fierce blue eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire, tightening your grip on him. “Please.”
That was the final breaking point. His gaze darkened with pure, unfiltered possession. He shifted his grip on your hips, aligning himself, and with a deep, breathless groan, he pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, masterful stroke.
You let out a long, trembling exhale, your legs tightening around his waist as your body slowly adjusted to the overwhelming fullness of him.— “Bucky...” you whimpered, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, silently begging for movement.He lifted his head, looking down at you with a gaze so fiercely possessive it made your heart skip a beat.
“I’ve wanted this,” he confessed, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly whisper that vibrated straight through your bones. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
Even now, with your legs wrapped tightly around his waist and your breath hitching with every micro-movement of his hips, you couldn't resist having the last word. “Why do you think I wrote that essay so horribly wrong?” you spat out, your voice laced with a bitter, provocative edge. “I wanted to see how long you’d play your stupid, perfect soldier routine before you finally snapped.”
“You think I didn’t notice that?” he murmured, his voice laced with a smug confidence.“You think this is a game?” he growled, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register. “You think you can just mess with my head for weeks, pull my strings, and then mock me for it?”
You gasped as he suddenly drove forward again, deeper and harder than before, as if punishing you for the confession.“You're so cockdrunk,it's pathetic.”
Before you could even answer, he suddenly stopped. With a sharp, ragged exhale, he pulled completely out of you.The sudden cold and loss of his warmth made you gasp, but you didn't even have a second to breathe. His metal hand grabbed your waist, and his flesh hand gripped your shoulder. With a single, brutal surge of super-soldier strength, he gripped your body and flipped you over on the desk.
Your stomach slammed down onto the cold wood, sending the remaining papers flying. He pinned your upper body down, lifting your hips high and leaving you completely exposed and helpless, facing away from him.
“You wanted the Winter Soldier?” Bucky whispered viciously against the back of your neck, his hot breath making your skin crawl. “Fine. You got him.”
The sharp, heavy crack of his flesh hand slamming against your bare skin echoed loudly through the quiet office. A shocked, high-pitched gasp tore from your throat, the stinging heat of the impact instantly blooming across your skin
“That’s for the weeks of playing games,” he muttered.SLAP.Another hard, punishing strike hit you, making your hips twitch reflexively. The pain was sharp, but the rush of adrenaline and the sheer humiliation of being completely his made your core ache with desire.
He didn't give you a single second to recover. He grabbed your hips with both hands, his grip tight enough to leave bruises, aligned himself, and drove himself back inside you from behind in one deep, brutal, uncompromising stroke.
A choked sob escaped your lips as he began to move with a relentless, punishing speed. It was raw, angry, and fast. The desk groaned violently under the impact of his heavy hits. There was absolutely no gentleness left—this was him taking what was his, breaking through your defiance and forcing you to submit to his strength.
You dug your fingernails into the wood of the desk, your head spinning from the sheer intensity of the friction and the stinging heat on your skin. You hated his control, but you were completely consumed by it, crying out as he pushed you harder and deeper than ever before.
“Look at the mess you made,” Bucky commanded, his voice tight and breathless as he slammed into you, his chest crashing heavily against your back.He reached forward, his metal fingers tangling into your hair and pulling your head back just enough to force you to see the ruined desk, the scattered papers, and the utter chaos you had triggered.
“This is what happens when you push me,” he gasped out, his breathing completely wild, his body running on pure, unfiltered adrenaline.The tension inside you snapped like a tight wire. Your body went rigid, your muscles clenching around him in a tight, desperate spasm as a violent, overwhelming release tore through you, leaving you completely breathless and sobbing into the wood.
seeing you break finally pushed Bucky over the edge. With a deep, guttural roar of pure frustration and surrender, he drove into you one last, devastating time. His whole body shook violently as his own explosive climax ripped through him, pinning you flat against the desk under his heavy, sweaty weight until neither of you could move.
For a long moment, he didn't move a single muscle. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breath scalding your damp skin. The anger in the air hadn't fully evaporated; it had just transformed into something thick, heavy, and intensely possessive.Slowly, deliberately, Bucky lifted his head.
His metal fingers, still tangled in your hair, tightened just enough to force your head back up, making you look at the mess of papers on the desk again. His blue eyes, dark and entirely unreadable, caught your reflection in the darkened window pane across the room.
“Say it,” Bucky growled softly against your skin, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle over your hip. “Say: Thank you, Sir.”
Bucky let out a long exhale—a sound of absolute satisfaction. The rigid tension in his shoulders finally relaxed just a fraction. He leaned down, pressing a hard, lingering, and surprisingly warm kiss to the back of your neck, right over your pulse point.“Good,” he muttered,
Warnings. Stockholm syndrome esque, noncon, rough sex, degradation, innocence kink, loss of virginity, age gap, blood, size kink, slapping, bruises, sexism, concussion, throat fucking, housewife in the (forceful) making, etc
♱
It had to have been a few days since this man had captured you. He wasted no time in picking you up off the street, offering you a ride home. In your drunken stupor—blackout stupor, actually—you giggled while agreeing. You hopped in his passenger seat with a smile as big as Texas. One that was quickly wiped away when he grabbed the back of your head and slammed you into the dashboard.
Your mind went hazy. Blood spilled from your nose in great bouts while you sobbed, clutching your nose. You tried shaking the door open, but it was locked & he was already speeding away from the house you stood outside of. No doubt a frat house filled with an incessant amount of hormonal college boys & girls drunk off of whatever substance they could get their hands on.
Now... however many days later you were sat across from him at a small dining table. The only sound was your leg bouncing up and down against the wood floor. You refused to eat the soup he made. It smelled and looked delicious. Your stomach growled for you to eat some, but you refused.
You could tell he was growing annoyed with your one man food strike. He stared you down from across the table, not bothering to look away as he spooned food into his awaiting mouth. "Ешь."
Your eyes darted up for a moment, brows drawing inward at the foreign language.
He mumbled something else in Russian, incoherent. "Eat."
You shook your head. "My... stomach hurts." It's half true. Your stomach does hurt. But it hurts because you haven't eaten & you know that giving into him would make it go away.
"You need to eat."
"Why are you," you look into his eyes, feeling burned from his icy blue irises. "Why are you keeping me here? I have homework, classes, so many things to do. I'm—I'm gonna fail." Your mind reels. This is the most you have said in days. "My family will be worried."
"You're going to help me." He ignores your other complaints easily, but makes sure to at least answer your question
You rack your mind, thinking of how exactly you will be able to help him. "With what?" You raise your voice slightly. "You—you broke my nose and you want my help?"
"Your nose is fine."
"It doesn't feel fine."
He slams his fist down on the table and you flinch, recoiling into your seat. You want to apologize, but you're too afraid to speak. "Eat, now."
You obey, recalling the throbbing of your nose that has just recently begun to fade. You spoon some of the soup into your mouth hesitantly. Your mouth doesn't salivate, though. Perhaps your body is in too much shock—a constant state of fight or flight. "Хорошая девочка." He mutters, watching to make sure you swallow it.
You're able to bear a few more spoonfuls before your stomach is hurting for real. Screaming that it's too much. You silently pray that it's enough for him to be satisfied.
You bring your knees to your chest to signify that you're done and he glares at you in response. Though, you can't tell if this is his natural disposition or if he's truly mad.
"You're done?"
You don't answer verbally, just nod meekly.
He takes the bowl and begins eating the rest of it, seeing as his was gone. You watch as he scarfs down the rest, lip slightly curled in disgust.
How could he eat as if this was normal? How many other girls has he done this to for him to grow so indifferent?
"How..." you begin, taking a deep breath in fear of his reaction. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to be your grandfather." He thinks on it for a moment, doing mental math.
"I—that's... you don't look it."
"I am."
You don't speak further, just accept his answer meekly. You don't feel like sparking any issues with him.
"What year of college are," he stops momentarily, smirking to himself as he takes another spoonful of soup. "What year of college were you in?"
Your eyes are cast downward and you don't catch on to his insinuation. "My first year."
Pretty girls don't need college, he thinks. I saved her.
"Clean this up. I'll be back later." He shoves the bowls toward you and stands up. He looks down at you, taking note of just how small you were. You look dwarfed like this—knees curled to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins as you stare up at him.
He wants to ravish you; he has a meeting, though.
He steps forward and takes your jaw in his hand. He squeezes your cheeks together, slightly smiling when you whimper and try to wiggle out of his hold. He fully smiles when you stop, though. When he sees the moment your eyes register that you can't fight back. That he's much too strong.
He holds you there until you reach up and grab his wrist with both of your hands, eyes bleary as they gaze into his. He imagines it's his cock between both of your hands instead and he mentally sighs.
You tug lightly at his arm, eyes silently begging for him to ease up. He squeezes you extra hard for a moment before letting go, snatching his arm away and heading for the front door. He grabs his keys and jacket from the coat rack and leaves.
You massage your jaw and cheeks for a moment, allowing one tear to fall before you stood up. You glared at the dishes, the leftover soup, the utensils, and the cutting board strewn about the kitchen. You'd cleaned up after him for the past however many days you've been locked in here. You cross your arms and storm upstairs to the room you've been sleeping in.
You laid down in the all-too-big bed and tried to find sleep. It wasn't hard to sleep when it's all you did. It has become second nature for you to just close your eyes and drift away, so that's you did.
♱
It wasn't until... hours? Minutes? Seconds? Later that he returned home. He who had not bothered telling you his name—given, you never really asked him. Still.
You heard the door slam closed and you could practically feel the vibrations that were sent through the house from his heavy boots slamming down with each step.
All of a sudden, that headstrong confidence you had was fading away. And quick. You almost rushed downstairs in hopes he hadn't been in the kitchen yet, but fear paralyzed you. When you heard those boots slamming up the stairs, you wished you could disappear.
You pretend to be asleep instead of trying magic.
He swings open the door, letting it slam against the wall. You try not to flinch or let your breath hitch, but both inevitably happen. You hope he can't see your face in the dim light because you don't look like sleeping beauty. No, your eyes are screwed shut and your bottom lip is being gnawed on.
"You're not asleep."
You stay still and stiff, hoping that he's bluffing. He is not. "I asked you to do one thing."
You simper when he steps closer, knowing that the gig is up.
He yanks you toward him by your ankle, rolling his eyes when you try to grab at the pillows. He slaps your panty-clad ass, making you cry out in pain. You try kicking at him with your other leg, but he catches it. "If you try that again, I'll fuckin' knock you out." And he meant it. Though, he really didn't want to do that—he wanted you fully alert as he fucked you for the first time.
"M'sorry," you whine, still squirming.
"Yeah?" He asks. You nod fervently, looking over your shoulder to meet his eyes & show you're earnest. He cracks his hand down again and watches as your face morphs into pain and a broken sob escapes your parted lips. "I've been doing so much for you. All I asked was for you to clean up. Haven't even fucked you, yet. Was gonna wait... make it special for you." He's lying about waiting, but he wanted your mistake to resonate with you.
Your mind snaps back to reality and your heart drops at that. "No—no, please. Please, no." You are a sobbing mess at this point as you try to crawl away from him. He lets go of you, smirking as you crawl toward the headboard. You sit at the topmost corner of the bed, knees brought to your chest. "M'sorry. Please. Please don't. I'll—I'll clean now." You sniffle, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.
He mockingly frowns and nods, just subtle enough for you to believe his sympathy. "You will. After I'm done."
He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his rippling abdomen & huge arms. When your eyes adjust a bit further you realize one of his arms is some sort of metal?
No... it couldn't be. Your eyes had to have been playing tricks on you because The Winter Soldier was a myth.
You hug your knees closer to your chest in hopes that you might shrink.
He wastes no time in kicking off his shoes, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, and tugging down with his boxers. You watch in utter fear as he does so. Your mouth lolls open like a fish out of water when you see his dick.
You had yet to see one in person, but from what your friends had shown you, this was surely a surprise. The unsolicited pictures that guys sent your friends did not compare to what was now in front of you.
His tip angrily leaked precum & it slapped against his abdomen when it sprung free. As if he had been anticipating this.
"Come here," he beckoned for you to come sit in front of him. He still stood in the same spot—the foot of the bed. You didn't move. "Come here and I'll go easy on you." Another lie.
Your mind wills your body to lurch forward. You crawl towards him and end up sitting on your ankles, looking up at him wearily. You refused to look down. "Хорошая девочка," he brings his hand to your face, caressing it softly. You careen into his touch, feeling hopeful that he truly will go easy. It happens so fast. His hand left your face & you barley register its absence before his hand is cracking down on your face.
Your face whips to the side and you gasp, scared to move. He grabs your jaw like he did earlier, but twice as hard. You try to shake from his grasp and he lets you try. He's craving that look of defeat in your eyes & when you finally deliver it, he's yanking you to the floor by your biceps.
You simper when he manhandles to your feet. When you're stood before him, looking up at him through waterlogged lashes, he shoves you down to your knees. You grab at his thighs on your way down, but you still fall ungraciously to your knees and whimper at the feeling.
You could already tell where this was going and it made your stomach hurl.
Although you've heard of many sexual endeavors that your friends have experienced, you've never had the heart to partake in them yourself. You've always envisioned yourself waiting for marriage—or at least a guy you could see yourself marrying. Sex wasn't just some thing to you.
But here you were, face to face with a man's dick. A man's dick who seemed abnormally... large. All of your friends stories all ended in dissatisfaction & complaints of the size of their partners, but this surely couldn't have been what they were disappointed with... right?
You choose to continue looking into his eyes instead of his heavy cock.
"Open up," he grabs ahold of his dick and lines it up your sealed lips. You shake your head, crying while trying your best to breathe through your nose to not give him an opening. He chuckles darkly and uses his metal hand to slap you instead of his flesh.
You cry out as your body swings to the side, ribs slamming into the bedpost. You try and grab at the mattress to pull yourself up, but your vision gets spotty when you try and stand, leaving you to fall directly on your ass.
"Aww, Малышка," he coos mockingly. He leans down and grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging it at the roots until you're situated on your knees again. You're full on open-mouth sobbing at this point, blabbering out how much your side hurts and how your ears are ringing.
He shoves your head down and you blubber around his dick. It isn't until he's shoved you a bit less than halfway down that your garbled complaints turn into visceral gags. He watches as your eyes roll back and your cheeks blow out into a bubble around his dick before contracting again.
Your teeth scraping against his sensitive cock makes him wince and he pulls you off of him. You take deep breaths, chest heaving. "Please, I—I'll clean the," you take a moment for some more air. "I'll clean the whole house." You look up at him, eyes hopeful and bleary.
"Watch your fuckin' teeth, Сука." He spits the words out before bringing your face to his dick again. "Say 'ahh.'"
You glare at him, feeling resentment burn in your gut at his jokes. You furrow your brows as you barley open your mouth. He shoves your head down anyway, groaning at the warm comfort.
"If I feel your teeth again, I'll knock them out of your mouth." Although it's an empty threat—he loves your teeth, he has loved them since he saw you drunkenly giggling and blabbering in his passenger seat—you're dumb enough to believe him. He can feel you sob around his cock and his hips thrust forward unintentionally, making you gag.
You make futile attempts to escape by pushing at his thighs.
It only spurs him on more & he begins to rock his hips back and forth. Even if he were to slowly adjust you to his dick, it wouldn't matter. It would hurt all the same. It would make you gag all the same. It would make tears stream down in fat globs all the same. It would make you hate him all the same. It would make you wish you'd just cleaned up all the same.
So, instead of being a gentleman, he fucks your face brutally.
"M'sorry," you splutter around his dick.
"Bet you are," he barley acknowledges your apology. His hips are too busy chasing after his much needed high.
He'd had you for exactly five days and he had yet to defile you in any way, yet. That was kind of him. This was his reward. This was also what you deserved after blatantly ignoring him.
He can feel that feeling creeping up on him and he stills in your throat, holding your head down as you gag and punch at his thighs. He keeps you there, nose taking shallow, quick breaths against his pelvis. He waits until those breaths slow down, until he's sure that you'll pass out.
He watches your eyes meet his, dazed and confused & silently begging him to let up. Right before they roll back & you go limp, he yanks you back.
You whimper. "Are you going," you hiccup, wiping your snot and tears messily on to your hand. "Are you gonna kill... me?"
Your eyes dart to his metal arm and he notices it. His smile doesn't falter. In fact, it increases.
You sniffle and he chuckles shortly. "What good are you dead?"
"You won't kill me?"
He doesn't answer. He doesn't feel like giving you that comfort any further. His answer should suffice for now. He only shrugs and grabs your clothed waist. He hoists you to your feet and lets go, hoping you'll lose your balance. You do.
You grab at his forearms and fall into his naked abdomen. You'd never felt so disoriented, scared, dizzy, and small in your entire life. It was scary. It was fucking mortifying, actually.
He pushes you against the bed and you scramble to sit on it, trying to get far away from him. You don't get very far before he's tugging down your white panties. You sob, moving your hands to hide your pussy. He tears your arms away from yourself & yanks your tank top over your head.
He doesn't entertain your hysterics. He doesn't even spend long ogling at your perfect body. He throws you on to the bed and quickly clambers on top of you. He violently shoves apart your legs and situates his hips between your thighs, making you sob tenfold. "No, no," your head is spinning and you feel faint. "I'm so... dizzy."
Fuck. Did he give you a concussion?
"You're fuckin' fine." He hopes you are at least. Then again, a concussion would make you more docile.
"Please," you beg, looking in his eyes. He's rubbing the tip of his soaked dick along your otherwise dry pussy. You were too scared to even think about pleasure. He stops momentarily, eyes narrowing at you. "I—I've never done this."
His eyes relaxed as his eyebrows furrowed, utterly confused. He wouldn't have guessed in a million years that you were a virgin. "I'll see about that." With that, he aligned himself and thrust forward.
If it weren't for the blood curdling scream followed by a deep breath & then nothing, he might've not believed you. With only a little more than his tip lodged inside of you, you had passed out. He laughed to himself & debated on using your pliant body or making an effort to wake you up.
Ultimately, he went for the latter. He grabbed your jaw, squeezing tightly and shaking your head side to side. It was limp & your eyes didn't even flutter at his ministrations. He was cautious to slap you around anymore, but there was nothing else he could do to wake you.
When he slapped you, you didn't stir, though. It was until he hit you for the third time that you jolted awake, gasping and groaning. "F—fuck, stop!" You kicked at his back & hips, trying to push him off, but nothing was working. Your shrill cries meant nothing to him.
"Hurts. It hu—rts so bad," you are hiccuping and sobbing. Practically after each word that is spoken. You whine and he groans, basking in the warmth of your tight pussy. Your tight pussy that was barley letting him move forward.
He pulls out completely before slamming back in, successfully making it halfway in. You cry more, as expected. Your breaths are choppy and often interrupted by sobs and cries as he begins rocking in and out. "Why—why me?" Your eyes find his, scared and bleary.
His eyes are cold and stern, piercing your soul.
"Замолчи, Замолчи." He demands, tired of your complaining. He wants to hear one thing & one thing alone. You thanking him, moaning his name, and/or just moaning in general. The bitching wasn't something he needed.
As if you had read his mind, you dared to ask one more thing. "What is," you whimper when he pulls out again, knowing what's about to happen. You squeeze your eyes shut until he's slammed in again. You cry out, reaching up to grab his big shoulders. Squeezing him made you feel slightly better—slightly comforted. "Fuck... what is your—your name?"
He chuckles darkly. He isn't sure which one he should tell you though. He could technically tell you whatever he wanted, but he wants you screaming his name. The same name that everyone else calls him. "Bucky."
"Bucky," you repeat, looking into his eyes with a sliver of hope. Maybe if he'd tell you his name, he'd go easier. When he snaps his hips harder and faster, that hope simmers away from your eyeline. "Bucky!" You whine, trying to push at his chest.
"Fuck," his eyes roll back at your voice. Your voice whining his name in the perfect pitch. Your little hands trying their hardest to push him away. Fuck, it was all too much. He grabbed at your wrists and pushed them above your head, pinning them both there with his metal hand. It was assuredly way too hard because he watched your face morph into pain and you tried tugging away immediately.
It hurt so bad & you were sure it would bruise by tomorrow. "Bucky, it hurts."
"Yeah? Бери это, сука," he laughs at your attempts to wiggle from his grasp. "Продолжай, только зря силы тратишь."
You sob more at the foreign language. What was he saying? Why was he even talking? This had to have been the most he's said and you can't comprehend it & your mind is mushy. Why was your mind so muddled anyway?
You warble out cries of his name & pleas for him to let go of you, but each word sounds punched out of you as he quite literally pounds his hips into your pelvis. It feels like you might pass out each time he snaps his hips back until they meet yours again.
He watches as your eyes go cross and roll back, bleary and lost. It turns him on more than it should... way more. "You never been fucked before, hm?"
Drool slowly gathers at the corner of your mouth before slowly dripping as you shake your head.
"Let's see if it's true—fuck," he groans as you pulse around him. "What they say about virgins." He laughs at your confused face & furrowed brows before almost full on cackling when that face dissipates into pleasure & emptiness. Your eyes go cross & you moan—cursing your body for liking it.
He looks down and lo and behold: his dick, pelvis, and the white sheets below you are painted scarlet red with your blood. No wonder you were so wet.
God, he felt like he was going to explode if he held off for another minute. He'd already been waiting almost a week.
If you thought his pace was quick before, this new one he set made you rethink everything. Your mouth lolled open, soft moans escaping with the occasional whimper. Your eyes were permanently blurry, either rolled back or crossed from pain and the slightest hint of pleasure from when his tip would hit that spongey spot. Your legs were beginning to shake. Still, your body wouldn't allow itself to cum.
Bucky didn't know where to look. Your fucked out face or your bleeding, newly deflowered pussy. He settled on your face and didn't regret it one bit. "Gonna cum in your fucking pussy. Gonna fucking—боже—cum."
Your mind couldn't register his words. All you knew was his pace was brutal. It wasn't until his hips stalled & he fully plunged into you that your eyes slightly refocused.
His trimmed pubic hair rubbed delicately against your clean shaven pussy, making you subconsciously rut your hips against him as he spurted ropes of cum into your womb. He chuckles when you do so before groaning when you clench around him. "Squeezin' me dry, baby," he said breathlessly, sighing in delight when you continued shamelessly.
Bucky released your bruised wrists and held your hips down. He didn't want you cumming. He wanted you to remain in this fucked out, desperate state for as long as you could. You whimpered, hips unable to fight against his unrelenting grip. At least your wrists had a break now.
"Хорошая пизда, но тупая." He spat, laughing.
Your eyes met his icy blue ones, silently begging for something. Something that you weren't sure of, but something that would end this newfound ache.
"M'sorry," you repeat, voice broken.
"Я понимаю, I know." He shrugs off your apology, but he can tell that you truly mean it now. The look in your eyes isn't one of fear & pleading, it's one of genuine sorrow. Clearly not giving into his desire to have you creaming on his cock was good for something.
He pulled out abruptly, making you wince and snap your legs closed. "Ow," you whimpered, reaching your hand down to feel what was seeping from your cunt. It was thick and there was a lot of it. Your dainty fingers couldn't stop it from flowing. "Bucky," you whined. He was too busy watching to do anything about it.
"Clean up, сука."
With that, he left the room. He didn't bother grabbing his clothes. Nothing. He just left the room, not even bothering to close the door—you had no dignity left anyway.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: frat boy!bucky barnes x cheerleader!reader (college au)
ᴡᴄ: 4035
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: situationship!!!, underage drinking, underage smoking, bucky being a flirt, suggestive, making out, jealous!bucky, (small) age difference (reader is 20, bucky just turned 21), possessive!bucky, house party!!!
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: bucky barnes is the last person a cheerleader should fall for. unfortunately for you, he seems to disagree.
ᴀ/ɴ— is this a build up so i can post smut without feeling icky? yes, yes it is !! (also this is not proofread.. its also 1am currently as i write..)
The bass of the music was vibrating through the floorboards of the Sigma house so hard you could feel it in your teeth. It was Rush Week, which meant the house was packed with way too many freshmen trying to look cool and way too many seniors trying to hold onto their youth.
You smoothed down your cheer skirt, the pleated fabric feeling a bit too short as you leaned against the sticky kitchen counter. You were twenty—still technically a year away from legal freedom—but with your uniform and a borrowed ID, nobody was checking.
"You look like you're thinking about leaving," a low, raspy voice rumbled right into your ear.
You didn't even have to turn around to know it was him. Bucky Barnes. The man was a walking red flag wrapped in a blue fraternity sweatshirt, with a backward baseball cap casting a shadow over eyes that were currently tracking a drop of condensation sliding down your neck. He had turned twenty-one two weeks ago, and he’d been making sure everyone knew it by buying rounds he didn't need.
"I was thinking about how much I hate the smell of this house, Barnes," you lied, finally turning to face him.
Bucky didn't buy it. He never did. He stepped into your space, one hand coming up to rest on the counter right next to your hip, effectively pinning you against the wood. He smelled like clove cigarettes and something dangerously clean.
"Funny," he murmured, leaning down so his lips were brushing the shell of your ear. "Because you've been here for three hours, and you haven't taken your eyes off me once."
"You have a big ego."
"I have a big everything, sweetheart. Don't start a fight you don't want to finish."
He reached out, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it down just enough to expose the glimmer of your teeth. The possessive tilt of his head changed the vibe instantly. He wasn't just flirting anymore; he was marking territory.
Earlier in the night, he’d seen you talking to a linebacker from the rival school, and the look on his face had been pure, unadulterated ice. Bucky didn't do "labels," or so he claimed in the daylight, but the second another man breathed your air, he became the most territorial person on campus.
"I saw you with that guy by the kegs," Bucky said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding dangerous and low. "What was his name? Actually, don't tell me. I don't care."
"He was just asking for directions, Bucky. Relax."
"He was looking at you like you were a snack, and you were smiling back." He leaned in closer, his chest brushing against yours. "I don’t like people touching what’s mine. Even if 'mine' likes to pretend she’s independent."
"I'm not yours," you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
Bucky leaned down, his nose grazing yours as he took the red cup from your hand and set it behind him, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Keep telling yourself that," he rasped, his hand sliding from the counter to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. "But we both know where you're sleeping tonight. And it sure as hell isn't the sorority house."
The air in the kitchen was getting too thin, too hot, and way too loud. Bucky didn’t wait for an answer—he just kept his hand firmly on the small of your back, guiding you through the sea of bodies. People bumped into him, but he didn't even flinch; he just kept his eyes on the hallway, his jaw set in that stubborn line that meant he was done sharing you with the room.
"Bucky, people are looking," you breathed, tripping slightly over a stray shoe in the hall.
He caught you effortlessly, his fingers digging into your waist for a split second before he smoothed them out. "Let 'em look. They already know."
He led you up the creaky wooden stairs where the music became a dull thud beneath your feet. The second floor was a different world—darker, smelling more of laundry detergent and old wood. He didn't stop until he reached the door at the very end of the hall. He kicked it open, pulled you inside, and shut it with a definitive click of the lock.
The silence of the room was jarring. It was just the low hum of a desk fan and the moonlight filtering through the window, hitting the messy stacks of textbooks on his desk.
Bucky didn't turn on the light. He just leaned back against the door, watching you in the shadows. He reached up, slowly pulling his cap off and tossing it onto the bed, his dark hair messy and falling over his forehead.
"You're being quiet now," he challenged, his voice echoing in the small space.
"I'm waiting to see what your problem is," you said, crossing your arms, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way the silence between you felt heavy and electric.
"My problem?" He took a slow step toward you, then another, until the tips of his sneakers were touching yours. He was so much taller without the chaos of the crowd around you. "My problem is that I spent two hours downstairs watching you laugh at things that weren't my jokes."
He reached out, his hand hovering near your neck before his fingers finally brushed against the stray hairs that had fallen out of your ponytail.
"I don't like being sidelined," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Especially not by you."
"We aren't a 'we', Bucky. You're the one who said that back in September."
Bucky flinched, just a tiny bit, before his expression hardened. He moved faster than you could track, his hands grabbing your waist and lifting you up until you were sitting on the edge of his high dresser. You gasped, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
He stepped between your knees, leaning in until your foreheads pressed together. "I say a lot of stupid things when I'm trying to be the guy everyone expects me to be."
His breath was warm against your lips, and for the first time all night, the cocky frat-boy mask slipped. He looked frustrated, desperate, and completely focused on you.
"But I’m pretty sure the guy who spent all week checking his phone to see if you texted isn't 'independent,'" he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Are you going to keep punishing me for September, or are you going to kiss me?"
The silence in the room stretched thin, the only sound the distant, muffled throb of a bassline through the floorboards. You stared at him, your hands still curled into the fabric of his shirt. The bravado he’d carried downstairs—the "king of the party" energy—had evaporated, replaced by something much more raw and grounding.
"I’m not punishing you," you whispered, your heart doing a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "I’m just trying to keep my head above water."
Bucky didn't move away. If anything, he pressed closer, his weight shifting until you felt the solid heat of him between your knees. His hands moved from your waist to the wood of the dresser, flanking your legs, trapping you in his orbit.
"You're doing a hell of a job," he muttered, his eyes dropping to your mouth and staying there. "Because I'm the one who feels like he's drowning."
He didn't wait for your permission this time. He leaned in, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that tasted like a long-overdue confession. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry and frantic, full of the frustration of the last few hours of watching you from across a crowded room. His hands slid up from the dresser to your thighs, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you right to the edge of the wood until there wasn't a single inch of air left between you.
You let out a soft, broken sound into his mouth, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. The messy strands were soft, contrasting with the tension in his shoulders.
Bucky pulled back just a fraction, his lips grazing yours as he spoke, his voice wrecked. "Tell me to stop. Right now. If you don't want this... if you want to go back down there and talk to that guy... tell me."
"I don't want to go back down there," you admitted, your voice trembling.
A dark, satisfied smirk flickered across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "Good. Because I'm not letting you leave this room looking like that."
"Looking like what?"
"Like someone else has a chance," he rasped.
He moved his kisses to the sensitive skin just below your ear, his teeth grazing your pulse point in a way that made your toes curl. One of his hands moved to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you steady as he mapped out every inch of your skin. It was more than a hookup, more than a situationship moment; it felt like he was trying to memorize you.
He shifted, lifting you slightly so he could hike himself up onto the dresser with you, his legs tangling with yours as he pushed aside a stack of mail and a stray textbook without a second thought. The wood creaked under the weight, but neither of you cared.
"September was a mistake," he whispered against your collarbone, his voice vibrating through you. "I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot, but I’m your idiot. Okay?"
The friction of his sweatshirt against your palms felt like the only thing keeping you grounded as the room blurred into a haze of moonlight and adrenaline. Bucky’s confession hung in the air, thick and heavy, but the restless energy of the house below seemed to claw at the floorboards, reminding you that the night was still in full swing.
"You’re an idiot," you agreed, your voice breathy as you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. "But you’re an idiot who’s currently hiding in a dark room while your roommates are probably wondering where their best recruiter went."
Bucky groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a long second as if trying to bottle the quiet before the chaos. "They can wonder. I’ve done enough 'recruiting' for one night."
"We need a drink," you said, gently pushing against his shoulders. "A real one. Not whatever mystery juice they’re serving in the kitchen."
He let out a sharp huff of laughter, his hands finally loosening their iron grip on your waist, though he didn't let go entirely. "You’re right. I’ve got better stuff hidden in the pantry downstairs behind the industrial-sized boxes of cereal. But if we go back down there, you’re staying within arm's reach. I mean it."
"Possessive much?" you teased, sliding off the dresser. Your skirt swished around your thighs, and you felt the sudden chill of the room the moment his heat left you.
"Always," he muttered, reaching for his cap on the bed and tugging it back on, low over his eyes. He looked like the version of Bucky Barnes the rest of the campus knew again—guarded, effortlessly cool, and a little bit dangerous—but the way he reached out to lace his fingers through yours told a different story.
The walk back down the stairs was a sensory assault. The temperature rose ten degrees with every step, the air thick with the scent of sweat and expensive perfume. As you hit the landing, the music shifted into a heavy, rhythmic beat that seemed to pulse in time with the flickering LED strips taped along the ceiling.
Bucky didn't let go of your hand. He carved a path through the crowd like a prowling wolf, his shoulders squared as he navigated the sea of swaying bodies. You saw a few of his fraternity brothers shout his name, raising their cups in a silent toast, but Bucky only gave them a curt nod, his focus entirely on the kitchen doorway.
Once inside the kitchen, the chaos was even more concentrated. A group of guys were cheering over a game of cards at the table, and someone had spilled a drink near the fridge, making the floor dangerously slick. Bucky navigated you toward the narrow pantry door, shielding you from a pair of stumbling freshmen with his body.
"Stay here," he commanded, though it was softened by the way he squeezed your hand before letting go.
He ducked into the cramped pantry, his tall frame disappearing behind shelves of bulk-buy snacks. You leaned against the doorframe, watching the party from a slight distance. For a moment, you felt the weight of someone’s gaze on you. Across the room, the same guy from earlier—the one who had sparked Bucky’s silent fury—was leaning against the counter, watching you with a curious, lopsided grin.
Before he could even think about walking over, Bucky emerged from the pantry, clutching a glass bottle of expensive bourbon that definitely hadn't been bought with house funds. He didn't even have to look over his shoulder to feel the shift in the room. He stepped back into your space, his arm immediately hooking around your waist, drawing you flush against his side.
He didn't say a word to the guy across the room. He didn't have to. He just uncapped the bottle with his thumb, took a slow pull, and then offered it to you, his eyes dark and daring.
"Change of plans," he murmured, his voice cutting through the roar of the music as he leaned down to whisper against your temple. "We’re grabbing this, we’re grabbing a bag of those salt and vinegar chips you like, and we’re going to the roof. I’m done sharing the air in this kitchen."
You took a sip of the bourbon—it was smooth, burning a trail of liquid fire down your throat—and looked up at him. "The roof? Isn't that technically off-limits during Rush?"
Bucky’s smirk returned, the one that made him look like he owned every square inch of the block. "Sweetheart, I'm the one with the key."
The air on the roof was a shock to the system—crisp, cold, and smelling like the faint hint of rain instead of the humid, beer-soaked chaos below. Bucky kicked the heavy metal door shut behind you, and suddenly the thumping bass of the party felt like it was miles away, reduced to a dull vibration beneath your sneakers.
"Way better," he exhaled, the sound getting lost in the wind.
He didn't head for the ledge. Instead, he led you toward a shadowed corner where a few mismatched lawn chairs and a tattered outdoor sofa had been shoved against a brick chimney. It was the house's worst-kept secret, the place where the brothers went when the "frat persona" got too heavy to carry.
Bucky sat back on the low sofa, his long legs stretching out in front of him. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small, glass jar and a pre-rolled joint.
"Thought you might need to take the edge off," he said, his voice finally losing that sharp, defensive edge it had in the kitchen.
He flicked a silver lighter, the flame illuminating the rugged lines of his face for a split second before he took a slow, practiced pull. He held it for a beat, his eyes fluttering shut, before exhaling a thick cloud of sweet, skunky smoke into the night air.
He offered it to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it. "Careful. It’s the good stuff. Sam brought it back from his trip last weekend."
You took a hit, the familiar, herbal heat blooming in your chest and instantly softening the jagged edges of the night's tension. You leaned back against him, your head resting on his shoulder. Up here, under the pale glow of the moon, the whole "cheerleader and frat star" thing felt like a costume you’d both finally taken off.
"You were a real jerk tonight, you know," you murmured, watching the smoke swirl and disappear into the dark.
Bucky let out a low, dry chuckle, his arm winding around your shoulders to pull you closer into his side. "I know. I saw him talking to you and I just... I saw red. I hate the way guys look at you like you're something they can just have."
"And you don't look at me like that?"
He took the joint back from you, taking another hit before looking down at you. His eyes were already starting to glaze over with a heavy, relaxed haze, but the intensity in them hadn't faded.
"No," he said softly, blowing the smoke away from your face. "I look at you like you’re the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this place. There’s a difference."
He leaned down, his lips grazing your temple. He smelled like woodsmoke and that specific, earthy scent of the weed, a combination that felt more like 'him' than the cologne he wore for the parties.
"I don't want to be the guy who just shows up at your door at 2:00 AM anymore," he admitted, his voice rough and honest. He reached into the bag of chips he’d managed to snag, offering you one with a faint, lopsided grin. "Even if I am currently the guy hiding on a roof with a bottle of bourbon and a joint."
You laughed, the sound light and airy as the high started to settle in, making the stars look a little brighter and Bucky's shoulder feel a little softer. "Well, you're a work in progress, Barnes."
"Yeah," he whispered, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles on your arm. "But I'm your work in progress. Right?"
The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore; it was soft, cushioned by the slow-moving smoke and the way the bourbon was starting to hum in your veins. Bucky watched you, his eyes searching yours for an answer, his thumb still tracing those slow, grounding circles on your skin.
"Yeah," you finally whispered, reaching up to tug at the collar of his hoodie. "You’re my work in progress."
The tension in his jaw finally snapped. He leaned down, crushing his lips to yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and tasted of sweet herbs and expensive whiskey. It wasn't the frantic, territorial kiss from the kitchen; this was a slow burn, a claim made in the quiet of the night where no one was watching.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a long, shaky breath. "Good. Because I was about two minutes away from losing it downstairs. I don't think I could've handled seeing you walk out that door tonight."
He took another pull from the joint, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dark, before handing it back to you. "Stay up here a while? The party’s not going anywhere, and I’m pretty sure the guys think I went on a 'mission' anyway."
"A mission?" you asked, leaning your head back against the brick of the chimney, feeling the cool air hit your face as you exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the moon.
"Yeah," Bucky chuckled, his arm tightening around you, pulling you so close you could feel the steady, heavy thrum of his heart through his chest. "Usually means I’m out getting more supplies. But tonight... my mission is just making sure you don't decide you're too good for a guy who lives in a house that smells like old gym socks."
"The socks are a lot," you teased, turning your head to nip at his jawline. "But the rooftop access is a decent perk."
Bucky let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your entire body. He reached for the bottle of bourbon, taking a small swig before setting it carefully between his boots. Then, he shifted, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your skirt bunched up around your hips.
The change in position made the world tilt for a second, the high making everything feel fluid and warm. Bucky’s hands settled firmly on your waist, his fingers splayed wide against your skin.
"You're dangerously high, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive register that made your stomach flip.
"I'm exactly where I want to be," you countered, sliding your hands up to cup his face.
Bucky’s eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening just enough to let you know he wasn't going anywhere. "Stay right there then. I’ve got you."
The wind picked up, whistling around the chimney, but you barely felt the chill. The heat radiating off Bucky was enough to keep the entire rooftop warm. He reached out to take the last of the joint from your fingers, stubbing it out against the brick before tossing the remains into the darkness.
"You’re staring," he whispered, his voice thick and honey-slow.
"You’re easy to look at," you murmured back, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of stubble. The high had settled into a heavy, sweet languor in your limbs, making every touch feel like it was amplified, echoing through your skin.
Bucky’s hands slid from your waist, moving down to the tops of your thighs. His touch was firm, grounding you as the world hummed around you. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes hooded and dark with a look that wasn't about the party or the frat or the drama downstairs. It was just about you.
"I’m done with the rooftop," he rasped against your lips. "I’m done with the noise."
He stood up, keeping his hands locked underneath you so you didn't have to put your feet back on the cold gravel. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he carried you back toward the heavy metal door.
The walk back down the stairs was a blur of shadows and muffled music. He didn't stop in the hallway this time. He didn't look at anyone. He shouldered through his bedroom door, kicking it shut and turning the lock with a finality that made your breath hitch.
The room was still dark, but the air felt charged, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering heat of the bourbon. Bucky set you down on the edge of the mattress, but he didn't pull away. He stayed between your knees, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a surprising tenderness.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, giving you that one last out he knew you didn't want.
You didn't answer with words. You reached for the hem of his hoodie, tugging it upward until he got the message, helping him pull it over his head and tossing it somewhere into the dark. In the pale moonlight, the muscles of his shoulders looked like they were carved from stone, tense and waiting.
"Bucky," you breathed, reaching out to pull him back down to you.
He let out a low, guttural sound, his weight following you down as you reclined into the pillows. "I've been thinking about this since the moment you walked into the house tonight," he confessed, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your throat, his hands already moving with a practiced, impatient hunger.
As the bed creaked beneath you and the last remnants of the party faded into the background, the "work in progress" felt a lot more like a masterpiece. Outside, the world was still loud and chaotic, but inside the four walls of his room, the only thing that mattered was the rhythm of his heart against yours and the way he whispered your name like it was the only word he knew.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: husband!bucky barnes x fem!reader
ᴡᴄ: 2553
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: girldad!bucky, fluff, pregnant!reader, literally its all just cuteness
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: bucky has his 2 favorite girls with him, he doesnt need anything else
ᴀ/ɴ— bucky is such a girldad. alsooo first post!! i decided to start with fluff before going into smut ! 𑣲⋆
The sunlight in the Brooklyn brownstone was thick and honey-colored, catching on the stray dust motes dancing over the living room rug. Bucky was sitting on the floor, his back against the velvet sofa, looking every bit the man who had traded a century of war for the quiet chaos of fatherhood. He was still the same Bucky Barnes—the broad shoulders, the heavy, watchful gaze, and the deliberate way he moved—but the jagged edges had been sanded down by years of peace and the steady rhythm of a life he never thought he’d get to keep.
Clara, barely three years old and a whirlwind of mismatched socks and messy curls, was currently treating his prosthetic arm like a high-end salon station. She had a pile of colorful, plastic butterfly clips scattered between her knees, and she was concentrating with a ferocity that mirrored her father’s own focus.
"Steady, doll," Bucky murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that lacked any of its old bite. He kept his metal arm perfectly still, resting his palm flat on the rug so she could reach the plates of his forearm.
"Don't move, Daddy. I'm making you pretty," Clara insisted, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth. She snapped a neon pink clip onto the edge of the vibranium, the tiny plastic click echoing in the quiet room.
Bucky caught your eye from across the room where you were tucked into the armchair. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the look of a man who knew he was being absolutely played by a toddler and didn't mind one bit. His gaze dropped momentarily to the curve of your stomach, visible beneath your soft shirt, and his expression softened into something so profoundly tender it was almost ache-inducing.
"I think I’m plenty pretty already, Clara," Bucky teased, though he didn't pull away when she reached for a glittery purple clip.
"No," she sighed, exasperated in the way only a toddler can be. "You need more. For the baby."
Bucky’s hand—the warm, human one—reached out to steady Clara as she leaned a bit too far forward. His touch was light, seasoned by a lifetime of knowing exactly how much pressure to apply to keep something from breaking. He wasn't the kind of dad who did "baby talk"; he spoke to her with a grounded, calm respect, treating her like the most important person in the room.
"The baby can't see the clips yet, Peanut," he reminded her gently.
"But she knows!" Clara insisted, patting his metal shoulder before turning her attention back to her handiwork.
Bucky let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning his head back against the cushions. He looked content, his frame relaxed in a way that had taken years to achieve. In this light, with his daughter decorating his arm and his wife resting nearby, the Winter Soldier felt like a ghost from a different lifetime. Here, he was just Bucky—the man who made sure the house was warm, the man who read bedtime stories with a tired but devoted patience, and the man who was currently becoming a very shiny, very decorated canvas for his favorite girl.
Bucky shifted his weight, being careful not to jostle Clara's "workstation" as she started trying to weave a stray ribbon through his thumb joint. His gaze drifted back to you, settling on the way you were resting your hand over the baby. There was a quiet, heavy groundedness to him—the kind of presence that made the whole room feel sturdier just because he was in it.
"You're awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice dropping into that private, intimate register meant only for you. "You okay? Need another pillow?"
Before you could answer, Clara stood up, admiring the metallic arm now covered in a chaotic array of neon plastic and silk bows. "All done! Daddy is a princess."
Bucky looked down at his arm, then back at his daughter with a perfectly deadpan expression. "A princess, huh? Do I get a crown, or is the butterfly clip on my wrist enough for the royal title?"
"You need a wand," Clara decided, already scouting the room for a suitable substitute.
Bucky caught your hand as you moved to get up, his fingers lacing through yours with a gentle but firm pressure. "Stay put," he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles. "I've got the wand-finding under control."
He stood up with a slow, fluid grace, the clips on his arm jingling slightly. He didn't look ridiculous to himself; he looked like a man who finally had something worth protecting. He scooped Clara up into the crook of his human arm, settled her against his hip, and leaned over to press a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead.
"Go back to your book," he said softly, his eyes reflecting the late afternoon sun. "The princess and his advisor are going to go find a wand in the kitchen. Probably one that looks suspiciously like a wooden spoon."
Clara giggled, burying her face in his neck, and Bucky's smile was small, private, and entirely whole as he carried her out of the room.
The kitchen was filled with the rhythmic clatter of Bucky opening drawers, his movements steady and purposeful even as Clara directed him with the authority of a tiny commander. You followed the sound, leaning against the doorframe while folding your arms over the top of your stomach.
"I don’t know, Clara," you teased, watching Bucky hold up a silicone spatula with a look of extreme skepticism. "A princess usually has something with a bit more... sparkle. That looks like it's for pancakes."
Bucky turned his head, a glimmer of amusement lighting up his eyes as he took in your expression. "Listen to your mother, Clara. The Queen has spoken. This is a culinary tool, not a magical one."
Clara huffed, squirming down from his hip to begin her own frantic search through the lower cabinets. Bucky took the opportunity to close the distance between you. He didn't say much—he never needed many words to get his point across—but he stepped into your space, his presence warm and grounding. He reached out with his human hand, his palm coming to rest gently over the curve of your belly. He waited, his breath hitching just a fraction, until he felt that familiar, sharp little kick against his skin.
"She’s active today," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly rasp that always felt like a secret shared between just the two of you. "Must have heard us talking about her."
"She’s probably just protesting the 'princess' title," you joked, though you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a long breath. "She’s been doing gymnastics in there since breakfast."
Bucky’s thumb traced a slow, soothing circle against the fabric of your shirt. His focus was entirely on you, his brow furrowed in that characteristic way that showed he was checking in, cataloging your comfort the same way he used to catalog threats. He wasn't hovering, but he was there, a constant and unwavering anchor.
"Are you tired?" he asked, his gaze searching yours. "I can take Clara to the park for an hour. Give you some actual quiet."
"And leave you alone with a toddler who thinks your arm is a jewelry box?" You laughed, reaching up to adjust one of the butterfly clips that was hanging precariously from his wrist. "I think I'd rather stay and watch the chaos. Besides, you're doing a great job, Your Highness."
Bucky caught your hand, holding it against his chest for a second. The metal of his other arm was still adorned with pink and purple plastic, a stark contrast to the man who had survived more wars than he cared to count.
"I found it!" Clara shrieked, emerging from the pantry with a long, wooden pasta spoon. She brandished it toward Bucky's knees. "Daddy, kneel! I have to make you magic."
Bucky looked from the spoon to you, a resigned but soft smile playing on his lips. "Duty calls," he sighed, though he didn't move to let go of your hand just yet. He leaned in, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your lips—one that tasted like home and the promise of a future he was finally allowed to keep. "Don't get up. I'll handle the knighting ceremony."
He moved away, dropping to one knee on the linoleum floor with a heavy thud, bowing his head as Clara tapped the wooden spoon against his shoulders with all the solemnity of a true coronation.
Bucky took the "blow" of the wooden spoon to his shoulder with more grace than he’d ever taken a hit in the field. He kept his head bowed as Clara moved the "wand" to his other side with a look of extreme concentration.
"I dub thee... Princess Daddy," Clara announced, tapping him firmly on the head.
Bucky let out a small, huffing sound that was definitely a suppressed laugh. He looked up at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I think that’s a promotion," he said, shifting his weight to sit back on his heels. "Though I’m not sure the guys at the gym would agree."
"I think it suits you," you said, leaning against the counter and rubbing a hand over the small of your back. "The pink butterfly clips really bring out your eyes."
He stood up, the metal plates of his arm shifting with a faint, familiar whirr. He reached out to scoop Clara up before she could find another household object to turn into a weapon. "Alright, Princess Daddy is retiring for the afternoon. I think it’s time for someone to have a snack and then maybe a nap."
"No nap!" Clara protested, though she was already leaning her head against his shoulder, her energy finally starting to flag.
"We’ll see about that," Bucky murmured. He turned back to you, his expression shifting from playful to that quiet, observant intensity he saved just for you. He noticed the way you were shifting your weight. "Go sit on the couch. I’ll bring her back in once she’s settled with some apple slices."
"I can help, Bucky, I'm just pregnant, not incapacitated," you reminded him with a small smile.
"I know what you are," he replied, his voice softening as he stepped closer, the toddler a solid weight in his arms. He used his free hand to gently tuck a stray hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. "But I've got this. Let me take care of my girls, okay?"
There was no arguing with that look—the one that said he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he was meant to do. You nodded, giving his arm a quick squeeze—avoiding the neon clips—and headed back toward the living room, leaving him to navigate the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and his favorite little girl in the other.
A few minutes later, the quiet of the living room was broken only by the soft, rhythmic sound of Bucky’s boots on the hardwood. He emerged from the kitchen, having successfully navigated the snack transition. Clara was trailing behind him, clutching a small bowl of apple slices like it was a prize, her focus now diverted to a picture book she’d left on the coffee table.
Bucky sank onto the sofa beside you, his presence like a warm weighted blanket. He let out a long, grounded exhale, his metal arm—still sporting a few stubborn butterfly clips—resting behind your shoulders on the cushions.
"She’s finally slowing down," he noted, watching Clara flip through pages with a look of intense concentration. "I think the knighting ceremony took a lot out of her."
"It's a lot of responsibility being the Royal Advisor," you joked, shifting your position to rest your head on his shoulder. "You handled it well, though. I think your form was excellent."
Bucky’s hand dropped to your arm, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against your skin. "I’ve had a lot of practice taking orders. At least these ones come with snacks."
You let out a soft laugh, feeling the baby give a gentle nudge against your side. "I was talking to Natasha earlier," you mentioned, your voice trailing off into a comfortable hum. "She called while you were in the middle of the 'hair salon' session. She said she’s dropping by tomorrow with some more baby clothes she found. Apparently, she’s convinced this one is going to be just as much of a handful as Clara."
Bucky’s lips quirked into a real, albeit tired, smile at the mention of his friend. "Natasha just likes having an excuse to teach Clara how to pick locks with hairpins. I’m still finding bobby pins in the floorboards from her last visit."
"She calls it 'essential life skills,'" you reminded him, tilting your head up to look at him. "And you know she’s probably right. Between the two of you, these girls are going to be the most over-protected, highly-skilled toddlers in Brooklyn."
Bucky didn't argue. He just pulled you a little closer, his gaze softening as it moved from Clara back to you. The weight of the world felt very far away from this living room. "As long as they're safe," he murmured, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw. "They can learn whatever skills Nat wants to teach them. But for now, I think I'd settle for them just staying this small for a little bit longer."
You smiled, leaning into the solid warmth of his chest. "I don't know, Bucky. I think Nat is just excited to have more 'recruits.' She already told me she’s bringing over a tiny leather jacket that matches hers."
Bucky groaned, though the sound was fond. "A leather jacket. Great. She’ll be wanting a motorcycle next." He looked over at Clara, who had finally abandoned her book in favor of leaning her head against his knee, her eyelashes fluttering as sleep started to win the battle.
"She’s almost out," you whispered, watching the way he instinctively adjusted his posture so she’d be more comfortable.
"Yeah," he breathed, his voice barely a thread of sound. He looked down at his metal arm—the one still decorated with Clara’s clips—and then at your stomach, where the baby was finally settling down for a nap of her own. "I used to think the quiet was the hardest part of being back. The silence felt... heavy."
He shifted his human hand to cover yours, his skin warm and slightly calloused. "But this? This isn't that kind of quiet. This is the first time in a hundred years I feel like I can actually hear myself think."
You squeezed his hand. "And what are you thinking, Sergeant Barnes?"
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, grounding second. "That I'm a very lucky man," he murmured. "Even with the pink hair clips."
He stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in the scent of the house—old books, apple slices, and the soft, clean smell of a home that was finally, truly his. The war was over, the Winter Soldier was a memory, and Bucky Barnes was exactly where he was supposed to be: right here with his girls.
Title: It’s What I’m Here For
Pairing: Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Female Reader
Summary: Deep in the throes of your heat, your body finally gives out- boneless and pliant in your Alpha’s arms. But even in sleep, you still crave him.
A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo. In same ‘verse as Mine. Always (Set earlier in their relationship before the bond)
Square: C1 – Somnophilia
Card Number: KB003
You had finally gone quiet.
After days wrapped in heat, soaked in scent and pleasure, your body had given out-limp and warm against his chest, thighs still slick, your cunt fluttering weakly in your sleep. You were wrapped around him like you couldn’t bear to let go. The nest was a mess-blankets tangled, pillows kicked down near the floor, everything steeped in your shared scent. The air was thick with it now, heavy and cloying and perfect. It smelled like the two of you: slick and sweat, Alpha and Omega, satisfaction and hunger all at once.
He should have rested. Should have closed his eyes and followed you down into that deep, hazy oblivion. Maybe even gotten up. The snacks you’d hoarded-protein bars and fruit, energy chews and juice pouches-were all the way across the room, tucked in that little basket by the dresser. He’d meant to grab one earlier, maybe coax something into you between rounds. But right now? Sleep mattered more. You were safe and warm.
Later, he told himself. He’d make you eat something later.
But then your hips twitched.
You’d started to squirm a little, even in your sleep-your skin growing hotter again, that flush creeping back into your cheeks and chest. He could feel the heat beginning to rise again, your cycle not quite done with you. And your body knew where the relief was. The way your hips rocked against him, slick already gathering again, it told him everything. Bucky’s nostrils flared, the scent of your arousal dominating once more. It made his head spin-rich and dizzying-and his cock throbbed, swelling hard again with the need to fill you.
Bucky exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the curve of your spine, the shine between your thighs. You made a soft sound-a whimper, barely audible, then murmured something the pathetic little mumbled word falling from lips.
“...’lpha...”
He tilted his head, trying to see if you were awake. Your eyes were still shut. A lazy smirk spread across his lips-you were just too damn cute like this.
“Even in your dreams, huh?” he whispered, the edge of a growl in his voice. “Still need me. Even now.”
Carefully, reverently, he wrapped his arms around you, shifting just enough to ease you from your position on top of him. You whined softly in protest, a sleepy little fuss as he moved you. But you didn’t wake, not fully-just squirmed and sighed, clinging loosely as he guided you onto your side. He curled around you from behind, his larger frame fitting perfectly against your back, His flesh arm tucked under your neck, while his metal one wrapped tightly across your waist, the cooler surface brushing over your skin.
Once settled, he let his hand drift down, gently spreading your thighs just enough to slot himself between them. Your scent hit him full-force, cloying and sweet and so fucking good. Slick coated your skin, helping him slide between the plush heat until he was nestled right up against you, the sponge tip of him nudging against your clit.. little moans coming out with your breath.
“Shhh,” he breathed into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just me, sweetheart. Just your Alpha.”
Bucky pulled his hips back and adjusted his angle before he slid into you slowly, carefully. There was no resistance-your body welcomed him like it always did, clenching down even in sleep. If Bucky had thought your skin had felt warm, your cunt was a fire-wet, molten heat that wrapped around him and dragged him deeper. It was heaven. It was home. You gasped in your dreams, hips rolling in response, like your body was guiding him exactly where it needed him most.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl. You always take me so good. Can’t even stop, can you?”
You let out another soft sound-his name again, maybe, or just a broken sigh. His heart pounded. His grip tightened.
“Just still so fuckin’ sweet for me. So damn needy like this."
He kept his pace unhurried, languid, like the motion alone was worship. Instead of resting his forehead to your shoulder, he turned slightly, letting his lips trace the curve of your neck-warm, damp breaths skating over your skin as he breathed you in. Each stroke was measured, careful, meant to soothe more than stir.
But you stirred anyway.
A faint gasp. A shift in your breathing. Your hand twitched over the one he had now pressed to your lower belly. He could feel himself inside you; deep and full, every slow drag pressing your walls apart until you were fluttering again around him.
He groaned, soft and low.
“You’re dreaming of me, huh, baby?” He pressed his mouth to the shell of your ear. “Can feel me in your sleep. So wet, so open. You know who you belong to, don’t you? Fuck, m'always so hard for you, omega-can't help it when you're like this.”
You whimpered. The barest whisper of sound-but it shot straight through him.
“...alph-ah...”
Bucky pressed deeper. Stayed buried. Held you like you were something breakable and sacred all at once.
“Mine. Mine. Mine.”
You gave a soft, whining little noise-barely there but unmistakably needy. Your body bent ever so slightly, hips canting, and Bucky felt the faintest cramp ripple through your muscles, that telltale little clutch of need. Even in your sleep, you were still aching for more. His hand shifted up, palm flat over your heart now, feeling its soft thud under your skin as your breathing quickened again.
“Shhh, let me take care of it,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ve got you. Just feel it, baby.”
He kept fucking you slowly, steady and deep. One hand slid up to pull you tighter against him while the other tilted your chin just enough for his nose to brush over the space where your mating mark would go-right where it should be. He nuzzled there, breathing you in, his lips ghosting across the sensitive spot as he dragged his tongue across it, tasting the salt and warmth of your skin. You whimpered again, hips instinctively pressing back into his, like you were begging for that claim even in sleep.
“Not yet,” he murmured, voice rough and full of restraint. “But soon. Soon, baby.”
You let out the sweetest sound-half moan, half breathy sigh-as his pushed deeper inside you. He groaned, gripping tighter as your body pulsed around him, clenching like you had been waiting for this even in your dreams.
But then… your lashes fluttered. Your breath stuttered. A little frown twitched between your brows.
“Shhh,” he murmured instantly, lips brushing your temple. “It’s okay, ‘mega… I got you.”
Your fingers twitched gripping one of the blankets under you. Your hips tried to shift, confused. Too tired to fight the sensation, too fucked out to process it-but your body still knew, wanted to be on all fours..
“Shh, no, no. You don’t gotta wake up, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice so soft it was almost reverent. “You’re tired, I know. Let me do it for you.”
His hand stroked over your belly, warm and heavy. The other cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your lips as he nuzzled in closer.
“I’ll fix the ache. I’ll take care of you. Just let go…”
You whimpered softly, head turning toward his voice-but your eyes stayed closed. Your body eased again, instinctively trusting him. Submitting in sleep, in breath, in bond.
Bucky exhaled, sinking fully into the moment as he held you close. He slowed his hips, adjusting the angle until he was fully buried in you, the tip of his cock pressing right up against your cervix with each lazy rock of his hips. Every movement was deep, indulgent, meant to soothe and satisfy rather than provoke.
“God, Doll,” he murmured, “so warm inside... feels like you’re trying to pull me in even deeper.”
One arm held you tighter while the other grazed up your side again. He leaned in, dragging his lips in a slow, heated trail from your shoulder up to your ear before nuzzling behind it. His nose brushed lower, breathing you in greedily before his tongue followed, lapping at your scent-marked skin like he was trying to taste the bond into existence. He moaned at your taste, at the way your body fluttered around him from just that small stimulation.
“Such a good girl, good ‘mega” he whispered against your neck. “That’s it. Just rest. You’re mine. I got you.”
And as your breathing slowed once more, heart steady under his palm, Bucky kept slowly fucking you, hips rocking in deep, steady motions. He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Not when you were so soft and pliant in his arms, not when you leant bonelessly back into him with every push. Your body clenched around him suddenly, tight and fluttering, and his breath hitched-he felt his knot begin to swell, responding instinctively to your need.
“Oh that’s right, ‘mega,” he groaned, mouth brushing over your jaw. “Let’s get you there... feel that ache, huh? Let me help you. Let me make it better.”
“Gonna cum for me?” he whispered, voice thick with heat. “Even like this, boneless and sweet in my arms… you still want it, don’t you?”
You were his world, the other part of him-and when he got like this, when your scent was thick and your heat was high, you were his obsession. There were times Bucky swore he got drunk on your heat, on the way your body begged for him even when you were barely conscious of it. It made him ravenous. Mindless. Utterly devoted.
“T'take my knot even in your sleep? Gonna squeeze me while I breed you? Make a mess on my cock like you always do, yeah?”
The words seemed to stir something deeper in you. More little sighing moans slipped from your lips, hips moving with his in lazy, desperate rhythm. His needy mate-even too tired to do anything but let him do exactly what you needed.
“‘S what I’m here for, omega,” he murmured, kissing along your neck. “I’ll always take care of you.”
And then you tightened around him again-more insistent, more urgent. Bucky gritted his teeth as your body clenched down hard, and he pushed his hips forward, grinding in deep until the thick swell of his knot forced its way inside.
He buried himself to the hilt, tip kissing your cervix, and his mouth latched onto your shoulder as his knot locked in place. The sharp, possessive growl that rumbled out of him was muffled against your skin as he came-hot, endless spurts of seed flooding into you, spilling deep and thick.
You twitched in your sleep, your body reacting instinctively, a faint cry escaping your lips as your cunt fluttered and pulled around him, milking him even as you slept.
He held you tight, one hand flat over your belly, the other curled around your chest as he breathed through it, both of you pulsing, twitching, bound.
“There we go,” he whispered, voice softening as he began to soothe you. “All better now...”
His hands stroked gently over your sides, slow and comforting, as your body settled around him. The aftershocks faded into a quiet hum, your breath evening out. He felt the tension ease from your limbs, the twitching subsiding as you melted back into the safety of his arms.
This time, he let himself go with you. Wrapped up in the warmth of your nest, knotted deep, your scent still clinging to his skin-he finally closed his eyes.
𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑹𝑼𝑻 A touch-starved alpha Bucky Barnes finally snaps when his freshly-moved-in omega neighbor’s heat spikes through the thin Brooklyn apartment walls. He hasn’t fucked a pussy since the 1940s, and her desperate, dripping scent drives him feral.
alpha!neighbour!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader
word count : 5,2k
warnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, penetrative sex, knotting, fingering, a/b/o dynamics, heats, ruts, scenting, breeding kink, claiming/bonding bites, sex while pregnant, dubious consent (omega begs repeatedly while alpha hesitates out of fear of harm), size difference, possessiveness and mild dominance, brief mentions of historical trauma (hydra, forced celibacy, painful solo ruts)
author’s note : this is my first time ever writing anything a/b/o so pls be kind to her world 💀 hope you enjoy!!
The air in the old Brooklyn apartment building had been humming with quiet tension for three weeks now. Thin walls, creaky floors and James Buchanan Barnes across the hall, the gentlest alpha you’d ever met, who somehow made your body ache with a need so fierce it embarrassed you.
From the very first day, he’d offered to help with your boxes, voice soft as he asked, “Mind if I carry the heavy ones doll?” His metal arm gleamed under the hallway light as he lifted them effortlessly but he was careful, always careful, setting each one down like it was fragile, smiling that small, shy smile when you thanked him.
His scent drifted over you in the stairwell: warm pine, clean steel, something comforting and strong that settled deep in your lungs.
Your reaction was immediate and mortifying. Heat flared low in your belly, slick rushing hot and sudden between your thighs until you had to press your legs together to hide the way your panties were already soaked through. You ducked your head, cheeks burning, praying he hadn’t noticed.
But Bucky had.
His breath caught for the briefest second, blue eyes softening as they met yours. He didn’t say a word about it just murmured, “Anytime you need help I’m right here,” voice tender enough to make your heart stutter. Then he stepped back, giving you space, hands loose at his sides like he was proving he’d never take more than you offered.
Since then, you’d turned into someone you barely recognized, shy on the outside, filthy-minded on the inside, desperate for any scrap of closeness he’d allow.
In the laundry room you started timing your visits to his, wearing soft little shorts that rode up when you bent over, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’d brush past him too close on purpose, letting your vanilla-honey scent bloom thick and sweet in the humid air. He’d go still every time, folding a towel with careful movements but you could see the way his throat worked when he breathed you in.
You weren’t bold, you blushed just thinking about it but the ache between your legs made you reckless. You’d linger by the dryer, bending slow, thighs slick and trembling because you knew he could smell how wet you were. Once, a helpless little moan slipped out when another pulse of slick soaked through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you couldn’t hide.
Bucky’s soft inhale was the only warning before his quiet voice reached you. “Sweetheart… you okay?” So gentle, so concerned, like he thought you might be hurting. His eyes were dark but his expression was all worried kindness, metal hand curled loosely at his side so he wouldn’t scare you. You wanted to drop to your knees and beg him to do something about the mess you’d made of yourself.
The elevator rides were torture you inflicted on both of you. You’d stand just close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest, breathing him in until you were dizzy. Your body didn’t care that you were shy, it reacted anyway, nipples tight against your shirt, fresh slick coating your thighs every time the car jerked. You’d bite your lip to keep quiet but sometimes a tiny, needy sound escaped anyway.
He never crowded you. Always stood with his hands behind his back or gripping the rail, giving you every inch of space. But once, after a particularly desperate whimper left your throat, he leaned in just enough to murmur against your hair, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” The words were so soft, so patient, they made you throb harder, made you want to turn around and rub yourself against him like a cat in heat.
Nights were when your restraint cracked completely. Through the thin wall you could hear him, quiet at first then the soft rustle of sheets, the low, helpless groan he tried to muffle in his pillow. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, careful even when he was alone, like he was afraid of waking you. You’d press your ear to the wall, legs spread wide, fingers plunging deep into your dripping cunt because you couldn’t stop yourself.
You’d fuck yourself hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of his strokes, imagining his gentle hands instead, how careful he’d be, how he’d whisper sweet things while he split you open. Sometimes you heard him say your name, so soft and reverent it sounded like a prayer.
“God baby… wanna take care of you… wanna be good for you…” It sent you over every time, thighs shaking as you came messily around your fingers, biting the pillow to stay quiet while slick soaked the sheets beneath you.
You were the one burning up with filthy, desperate need.
He was the one holding back with endless patience and sweetness, waiting for you to ask.
And every night you came listening to him fall apart so gently on the other side of the wall, you wondered how much longer you could stand not begging him to finally give you what you both wanted.
Until tonight.
Your heat had crested into something unbearable, a vicious, clawing thing that left you stripped bare on the living-room floor, legs splayed wide, thighs glazed with hours of slick. Fingers weren’t enough anymore, three buried to the knuckles, thrusting frantically, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come.
The vibrator buzzed uselessly beside you; even the pillow you’d humped raw couldn’t soothe the hollow, aching throb deep in your cunt. You were sobbing openly now, broken pleas spilling into the empty apartment.
“Bucky… please… need you inside me… need your knot… need your pups…”
The words tore out of you without shame, loud enough to carry through the thin wall.
On the other side, Bucky broke.
He’d been fighting it for weeks, every gentle, devoted inch of himself locked down tight. Every time your scent thickened in the hallway, every time you bent over in the laundry room and he caught the shine of slick on your thighs, every muffled whimper he heard at night, he’d gone back to his apartment and stroked himself slow, almost reverent, whispering your name while he imagined sliding into you gentle and deep, imagined filling you so carefully you’d feel safe and cherished while he put his pups in you.
He was obsessed with it. Couldn’t think of anything else. The thought of your belly rounding soft with his child, of your body changing because of him, because he’d taken care of you so perfectly, it lived behind his eyes every second of every day. He wanted to be gentle. Wanted to be good. Wanted to earn the right to breed you by proving he’d never hurt you.
But tonight your scent flooded the hallway like a wave of pure, desperate heat and your broken cries punched straight through his chest.
Three soft, urgent knocks sounded at your door, too controlled to be anything but him.
“Doll?” His voice came through the wood, low and trembling, thick with worry and rut. “Sweetheart, I- I heard you cryin’. You okay? Can I… can I come in? Just to check on you, I swear I’ll be good-”
You scrambled up on shaky legs, slick pouring down your thighs in fresh rivulets, and flung the door open.
He looked wrecked in the most heartbreaking way: hair falling into dark, pleading eyes, chest heaving under a damp T-shirt, sweats tented obscenely with the thick line of his cock, a wet patch spreading at the tip. His scent rolled over you, warm pine, clean steel, and the heavy, drugging musk of an alpha deep in rut, but his hands were open at his sides, fingers flexing like he was terrified to reach for you.
“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice cracking as he took in the sight of you, naked, trembling, drenched. “You’re hurtin’ so bad… I’m sorry I waited so long. I didn’t wanna scare you…”
You lunged at him with a desperate whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding your soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock through the fabric. “Bucky please- need you now. Need you to fuck me, need you to breed me, please-”
He caught you easily, lifting you against his chest like you weighed nothing, metal arm cradling your back, flesh hand cupping your ass with reverent care but the rut roaring through him finally snapped the last thread of patience.
He couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t make it the few extra steps to the couch.
With a low, trembling growl he sank to his knees right there in the entryway and lowered you gently to the floor, laying you down like you were still the most precious thing in the world, even as his hands shook with the need to claim you now.
“I’ve got you omega,” he murmured, voice shaking as he peeled off his shirt, revealing miles of scarred muscle. “Gonna take such good care of you, I promise. Wanna make you feel safe while I… while I give you everything.”
He settled between your thighs, eyes locked on yours and slid into you slow, so achingly slow, inch by thick inch, groaning soft and reverent as your slick walls fluttered around him.
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling gentle and deep. “So warm… so tight… been dreamin’ about this pussy every night doll. Dreamin’ about putting my pups right here-” His flesh hand slid to your lower belly, pressing lightly, possessively. “Wanna fill you up so gentle you feel every drop… wanna watch you grow round with me…”
The sweetness of it, the devotion in his voice, only made you wilder. You clawed at his back, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him deeper, faster.
“Harder,” you begged, voice raw. “Bucky please- need it rough, need you to ruin me, need you to breed me like you mean it-”
He froze, hips stuttering, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No baby- no, I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“I… I haven’t been with anyone since the forties doll. Back then I was just a man- had a few sweet omegas, even knotted and bred a couple before the war took me. But after I fell, after Hydra… nothing. Not a single person in seventy years. They stole every chance, turned me into a weapon instead of a mate. I’ve never knotted anyone since, never bred anyone since and now my rut’s hittin’ harder than it ever has. You’re so small, so perfect, and I’m terrified I’ll lose control and hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you sweetheart.”
The confession spilled out of him like it had been locked behind his teeth for weeks, his blue eyes glassy with fear and longing. He rested his forehead against yours, trembling. “I want to give you pups more than I want to breathe, sweetheart. But I need to be gentle. Need to keep you safe.”
You sobbed, clenching hard around his cock, grinding up against him in filthy desperation. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need it alpha- need you to lose control, need you to fuck me full of your pups, please-”
His breath hitched, a low, helpless sound tearing out of him. You felt his restraint crack, felt the tremor in his thighs as he fought it.
“Please,” you whispered again, nipping his jaw, licking the sweat from his throat. “Be rough with me. I’m begging you.”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
With a broken groan he pulled back and slammed home, hard, deep, perfect. Your back arched off the floor as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, metal arm braced beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, flesh hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
“That what you need, sweet girl?” he rasped, voice ragged with filth. “Need your alpha to fuck you raw after all these years? Need me to breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping with me?”
“Yes- yes- harder!”
He gave it to you. Pounded into you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, cock dragging over every sensitive spot, balls slapping wet against your ass. Every thrust shoved a filthy squelch from your soaked cunt, slick splashing onto his thighs.
“Gonna knot you so deep,” he panted, eyes fixed on where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “First knot in almost a century baby, all for you. Gonna lock you to me and pump you so full of cum you’ll be carrying my pups by morning- fuck, I can’t wait to see you swollen doll, can’t wait to take care of you while you grow ‘em-”
You shattered around him with a scream, pussy clamping viciously, milking him as you came in messy, squirting waves.
He followed with a hoarse cry, hips grinding deep as his knot swelled huge and sudden, popping past your pussy and locking tight. The stretch burned white-hot, perfect, and then he was coming, endless thick ropes flooding your womb, spilling hot and heavy, overflowing around the knot in creamy rivulets that soaked you both.
He collapsed carefully, rolling so you were draped over his chest, still impaled, knot throbbing with every aftershock. His arms wrapped around you gentle again, metal fingers stroking your spine, flesh hand cradling the back of your head.
“Good girl,” he whispered, voice soft and wrecked, kissing your temple, your cheeks, the tears on your lashes. “Took me so perfect… my first knot in seventy years and you made it feel like heaven. Gonna keep you knotted all night, baby. Gonna breed you again as soon as it goes down. Wanna put so many pups in you… wanna love you through every single heat.”
You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in, your body finally, blissfully full.
And somewhere in the haze, you felt his knot pulse once more, another gentle, possessive spurt deep inside as he murmured against your skin, reverent and obsessed:
“Mine now, sweetheart. After all this time waiting… gonna spend the rest of my life keeping this belly round.”
You wake slow, aching in every possible way, sweet, filthy, perfect.
The hardwood is cool against your cheek, but Bucky’s body is a furnace curled around you from behind, heavy and protective. His flesh arm is draped over your waist like an anchor, metal hand resting low on your belly, fingers splayed wide and gentle, as if he’s already cradling something precious that isn’t there yet. The air is thick with the two of you: warm pine, steel, vanilla-honey, and the unmistakable proof of last night, hours of knotting, breeding, claiming, coating your skin, the floor, everything.
His cock is still inside you, half-hard and nestled deep, plugging the slow trickle of his own spend so nothing escapes. Every tiny shift of his hips makes a soft, wet sound and sends a lazy throb through your overworked walls. You’re sore, swollen, utterly wrecked… and your heat purrs at the feel of him anyway, slick already gathering fresh and helpless.
He stirs with a low, sleepy hum, nose burying in your hair to breathe you in like you’re oxygen.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and shamelessly adoring. His metal thumb strokes slow circles over your lower belly, reverent. “Sleep okay with my cock keepin’ you full all night?”
You whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate and rock back against him on instinct. The motion drags his thickening length through your messy heat and he groans like it hurts, so good it hurts.
“God, doll,” he whispers against your bond mark, lips brushing the tender, crusted bite with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re still drippin’ me. Kept every drop right where it belongs, didn’t you? Good omega… best omega.”
His flesh hand slides up to cup one heavy, aching breast, thumb brushing your nipple so tenderly you shiver. “These are gonna get so full for me,” he says, quiet and certain, like he’s picturing it already.
“Gonna swell up sweet and heavy, leak milk down your pretty belly while I keep you knotted and happy. Can’t wait to taste you, gonna suck you soft and slow every night, keep you feelin’ safe and spoiled while our pups grow.”
The words are pure filth but his tone is pure devotion, soft, shameless, utterly obsessed. He rocks into you lazy and deep, stirring last night’s loads with slow, churning thrusts that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet morning.
“Feel that little swell already?” he asks, metal palm pressing gently, possessively over your abdomen.
“That’s me, baby. All that cum I gave you, sittin’ deep, takin’ root. Been dreamin’ about this since the day you moved in, puttin’ my pups in you, watchin’ you bloom. Never thought I’d get the chance again… not after everything. But you-”
His voice cracks just a little, raw with wonder. “You let me in. Let me love you like this.”
You clench around him involuntarily, fresh slick coating his cock and he moans your name like a prayer.
“Still so greedy for me,” he chuckles, warm and fond, hips rolling a little faster now.
“My sweet, perfect girl, heat all burned out yet still beggin’ for more. Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna give you everything. Gonna knot you soft and slow this morning, pump you full again till you’re overflowin’. Then I’ll carry you to bed, clean you up gentle, feed you breakfast with you in my lap… and knot you again after.”
He nips your ear, voice dropping to that shameless, loving growl. “Gonna keep this belly round for years, sweetheart. One litter after another, till you’re sick of bein’ spoiled and pregnant and mine. But I don’t think you ever will be.”
You come with a broken little cry, fluttering weakly around him and he follows right after, knot swelling slow and careful, locking you together as he spills deep with soft, reverent groans. His arms tighten around you, metal hand still cradling your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“There we go,” he whispers, lips dragging slow and hot over the fresh bond mark, then your shoulder, your damp temple. His voice is a low, filthy-sweet rasp right against your ear.
“One more thick, hot load pumped straight into your perfect little womb for our pups, pretty baby. Fuck… feel how full you are? This gorgeous, greedy pussy still milkin’ every drop outta me, drippin’ my cum down your thighs like the beautiful mess you are. Best thing I’ve ever felt- this tight, silky heaven wrapped around my knot, takin’ everything I give you, lettin’ me love you deep and dirty and so fuckin’ proper.”
He stays buried deep, knot pulsing gently, and holds you like he’ll never let go.
You’re both still filthy, crusted, sticky, gloriously wrecked, sprawled together on the living-room floor where you passed out knotted and spent. The hardwood is cool beneath you, scattered blankets and discarded clothes forming a makeshift nest, the air thick with the heavy scent of rut, slick and alpha cum.
Every time you shift in his arms, trying to get comfortable against his chest, flakes of his dried spend drift off your inner thighs like snow and the sight makes him growl low and possessive against your neck, metal hand tightening gently over your lower belly while his flesh hand slides down to cup your swollen pussy, thumb tracing the sticky mess still leaking slow from you.
“Can’t have my seed wastin’ on the floor, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough with leftover rut and pure hunger. “Every drop belongs right back inside this perfect little cunt.”
The shower’s already steaming when he steps in. His cock swings heavy between his thighs, thick, flushed, half-hard again like it never learned the meaning of enough. He steps in behind you, metal arm locking gentle around your waist to keep you steady while hot water pours over you both, rinsing away the crusted mess but doing nothing to ease the raw, throbbing ache deep in your pussy.
“Spread those pretty legs for me doll,” he rasps against your neck, voice rough with leftover rut and pure adoration.
You obey instantly, always instantly for him, thighs falling open under the spray. His flesh hand slides down your belly, cups your swollen, puffy pussy like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Two fingers part your folds slow and reverent, letting the water flush out the thick, creamy ropes of his spend still plugged inside you. They drip slow and obscene, swirling down the drain in filthy strands, and he watches like a man possessed.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, voice shaking with awe. “Bred you so deep it’s still pourin’ out hours later. My good girl, kept me locked in all night, didn’t let a single drop escape till now.” His metal thumb spreads you wider, cool plates against your fever-hot skin, letting more cum leak free. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna stuff you full again soon as we’re clean. Can’t stand seein’ this perfect pussy empty.”
He soaps his big hands until they’re foamy, then washes you slow, almost worshipful, palms gliding over your heavy tits, down the curve of your belly, between your trembling thighs. But the gentleness only lasts so long. Two thick, soapy fingers push inside you without warning, scissoring deep to clean every inch of your used walls, thumb circling your swollen clit until your knees buckle and you sob his name.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers, metal arm banding tight across your chest to hold you up. “Just cleanin’ my mess outta you… so I can make a brand-new one. Gonna keep this greedy cunt drippin’ me forever.”
You come hard and sudden, pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers, squirting slick and water down his wrist in messy pulses. The sound you make is broken, desperate and it rips a filthy-sweet groan from his throat. His cock is rock-hard now, grinding slow against the curve of your ass like it’s begging.
He rinses you thoroughly, really thoroughly, then wraps you in the fluffiest towel he found, carries you back to the kitchen still dripping. Sets you on the counter, spreads your thighs wide just to look, eyes blown black with that same breeding obsession.
“Stay right there, pretty girl. Don’t move an inch.”
He disappears for a second, rummaging through the scattered clothes on the floor, then comes back with his shirt, the same one he’d worn last night, still carrying the warm scent of pine, steel and him.
He stands in front of you, eyes dark and hungry as he slides it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves with careful hands. The fabric falls soft and loose, brushing your thighs as he tugs it down until it barely skims the curve of your ass.
No panties, of course not. He smooths the hem with possessive palms, fingers lingering on your bare skin underneath, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Never again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t want anything between me and this perfect little pussy. Wanna be able to touch you, taste you, slide inside you whenever I need. And I’m gonna need you a lot.”
Then he makes breakfast, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm flexing every time he flips bacon or pours coffee. You sit on the stool, legs swinging, feeling the slow, steady seep of leftover cum still leaking out of you onto the wood beneath your bare pussy. Every shift makes you clench, makes more drip out and the knowledge that he can smell it, that he knows, has you squirming, thighs rubbing together, heat already simmering again.
He plates pancakes drowning in syrup, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs and sits right beside you, metal arm draped possessive over the back of your chair. You’re halfway through a bite when the question slips out soft and curious.
“So… you really hadn’t fucked anyone since the 40’s?” you ask, fork hovering. “Like… not once? What about your ruts? How did you survive them alone?”
He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slow, turns to you with raw, unguarded eyes.
“Dead serious, doll,” he says, voice low and rough with memory. “Not a single pussy since 1943. Hydra kept me frozen most of the time, when they woke me, I was nothin’ but a weapon. No relief, no omega, no softness. Just blood and missions and ice.”
His metal hand slides up your bare thigh under the counter, cool fingers tracing the fresh trail of slick already coating your skin.
“After I got free… ruts hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt. Worst pain I’ve ever known, worse than fallin’ off that train, worse than losin’ the arm. I’d lock myself away, chain my ankles if I had to. Jerked off till my cock bled, till I passed out in a puddle of my own spend. Bit through my own lip, dented concrete with this hand tryin’ not to break out and hurt someone.”
His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip with heartbreaking tenderness.
“Then you moved in across the hall,” he rasps, eyes darkening with devotion. “First whiff of your heat and I nearly tore the building down to get to you. Spent weeks strokin’ myself raw every time you walked past, smellin’ like warm vanilla and needy, dripping cunt. Thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t bury myself in you soon.”
He leans closer, metal fingers slipping between your legs again, finding you soaked and open and aching. Two slide in easy, slow, possessive pumps that make you gasp and drop your fork.
“Last night was the first time in seventy goddamn years I got to sink into a real omega pussy,” he growls against your mouth, voice thick with love and filth. “First knot. First breeding. First time comin’ inside somethin’ so warm and wet and beggin’ for my pups. You took every drop baby-milked me dry, let me flood this perfect little womb till it overflowed.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and relentless while his fingers fuck you lazy and deep right there at the breakfast table.
“Now I got this sloppy, greedy cunt leakin’ for me again before the plates are even empty,” he whispers, reverent and shameless. “Gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every lonely rut- gonna knot you every heat, every day, every time you look at me like that. Gonna keep you stuffed full, belly swollen, tits heavy and leakin’ milk down this pretty body while I pump another litter into you.”
You moan, loud, broken, desperate, clenching hard around his fingers, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. Breakfast is forgotten. You’re already dripping down his wrist again, thighs trembling, heat flaring hot and hungry because it’s him because it’s Bucky looking at you like you’re his whole world and talking like he’s going to spend forever proving it.
He kisses you deep and dirty, tasting like coffee and bacon and pure alpha love.
“You gave me everything, omega,” he whispers against your swollen lips, voice rough with awe and possession. “Ended a hundred-year drought with the wettest, neediest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever dreamed of. And I’m gonna keep it soaked, bred, and happy for the rest of my life.”
It’s a few weeks later, New Year’s Eve. The little drugstore test is still on the bathroom counter, two pink lines glowing like a promise. You’re barely four weeks along but your body already knows. Your breasts are heavier, tender and swollen, nipples darker and so sensitive that even the brush of Bucky’s dog tags against them makes you shiver. A soft, constant warmth hums low in your belly, a permanent simmer of need that has you wet almost all the time now.
Bucky hasn’t let you more than ten feet away from him since you showed him the test. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm catching the low light. You stand between his thighs wearing nothing but his old dog tags and a pair of his boxers rolled at the waist. Your belly is still flat but the way he looks at it, like he can already see the curve, already feel his pups moving, makes heat pool between your legs.
“God, doll,” he whispers, voice thick with wonder and something deeper, softer. Both hands, warm flesh and cool metal, slide up your thighs, over your hips, until they settle gently over your lower abdomen. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles right where everything is changing. “You’re really carryin’ my baby. My seed took… first night I ever knotted anyone in seventy years, and it took.”
He leans forward, presses his lips to your belly in a kiss so tender it makes your eyes burn. Inhales deep, nose brushing your skin. “Smell so sweet already,” he murmurs against you. “Like warm vanilla and milk and mine. Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”
His flesh hand slips lower, under the waistband of the boxers, finding you soaked, slick coating your thighs in a constant, helpless trickle. He groans softly when his fingers glide through it, metal arm tightening gently around your waist to steady you as two thick fingers sink inside slow and careful.
“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, pumping gentle, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. “This pretty pussy’s already flutterin’ around my fingers… and you’re only a month along. Gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart.”
He eases his fingers free, brings them to his lips and licks them clean with a quiet, reverent hum, eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, towering over you for a moment before guiding you gently down onto the bed, onto your back, pillows propped behind you so you’re comfortable.
“Gonna love you slow tonight,” he promises, voice low and rough with adoration. He peels the boxers off your legs, settles between your thighs with infinite care, like you’re made of glass and gold. His cock is heavy, flushed, leaking at the tip, but he doesn’t rush. Just drags the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, before pressing in, slow, steady, watching your face the entire time.
You both sigh when he bottoms out. He stills, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
“Feel okay, pretty girl?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your lips, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much. You’re carryin’ my pups now- I’ll be so gentle, I swear.”
You nod, threading fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Feels perfect, alpha.”
The word makes him shudder. He starts moving, long, deep, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, slow enough that every ridge and vein of his cock feels like a caress. His metal hand cradles the back of your head; his flesh hand slides up your side to cup one swollen breast, thumb stroking over the dark, aching nipple with heartbreaking tenderness.
“These are gettin’ so full already,” he murmurs, voice raw with awe. He lowers his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, tongue flicking gentle over the peak. Then he closes his mouth around it, soft, warm suction that makes you arch and whimper. He suckles slow and careful, like he’s already coaxing milk that isn’t there yet, like he’s memorizing the weight and feel of you changing for him.
You moan his name, hips rocking up to meet his gentle thrusts, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same reverent attention, sucking softly, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp but never enough to hurt.
“Gonna do this every day,” he whispers against your skin, lips shiny, eyes dark and devoted. “Suck these pretty tits till they’re leakin’ for me. Then I’ll lick every drop off your belly before I kiss my way lower and taste how wet you get because of me.”
His rhythm stays slow, deep, loving, every thrust a promise, every pull of his mouth on your nipple a vow. Outside, fireworks start popping as midnight nears but inside it’s just the soft, wet sounds of him loving you, your quiet moans, his whispered praise.
“Come for me when the new year starts baby,” he breathes, thumb finding your clit to circle gentle and steady. “Come on your alpha’s cock while I’m suckin’ these gorgeous tits and buried deep in the pussy that’s growin’ my baby.”
The first big fireworks boom over Brooklyn just as you fall apart, pussy fluttering soft and sweet around him, a gentle, rolling orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He groans your name like a prayer, hips grinding deep as his knot swells slow and careful, locking you together without a hint of pain. Warm pulses of cum spill into you, gentle and endless, his body curled protectively over yours.
He stays on his elbows so his weight never presses your belly, lips returning to your breasts, suckling softly through the aftershocks, kissing every inch of tender skin like he’s worshipping the changes already happening.
“Happy New Year pretty mama,” he whispers, voice thick with love, metal hand splayed gentle over your abdomen, flesh hand stroking your hair. “Best year of my life starts tonight, with you pregnant, tits heavy in my mouth, pussy soft and full of me. Gonna love you like this every single day. Gentle and slow and mine.”
Pairing | Ghostface!Stucky x Reader
Summary | After watching "Scream" with Bucky and Steve, ideas begin to flow. With Ghostface masks and a hunger for you, they tap into their inner masked killer. You can run, you can even try to hide, but when they find you, they fuck you.
Warnings/Tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, smut, dubcon (just to be sure), literally porn without plot (sue me! Actually don't, I'm broke), roleplaying, chase kink, knife play, marking/blood kink (Bucky's gotta mark what's his, I don't make the rules) (I actually do, I wrote this shit), dom!Steve, soft dom!Bucky, oral (f + m receiving), hand job, praise kink, dacryphilia, overstimulation, kissing, rough sex, unprotcted sex, p in v sex, save a horse; ride a Bucky, breast play, anal, double penetration, use of slut, pet names (darlin', sweet girl, pretty girl, pretty baby, baby, sweetheart), no use of y/n
Word Count | 6.7k
A/N | Holy fucking shit, lovlies! Happy day 4 of Bucktober!! I wrote this in two days, so if it's shit, talk with my lawyer. I've never written for Steve, so idk what this is exactly. Guess who I love more in this fic, bet you can't (sorry I favored Bucky). Literally went insane writing this, ask the Stan-tastic Association. Updates every hour, it was crazy. I think I went into psychosis at one point...Anyways, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 700 FOLLOWERS! Forehead kisses for everyone, I love y'all fr fr. Hope you enjoy:))
A late Saturday night. The wind whistled just outside with an eerie tonality. It was quiet, relaxing, despite the spine-chilling sounds that the television produced. A bright, flashing light illuminated the space, the TV giving your skin a soft glow in the dim living room.
No one vacated the Avengers' compound besides you, Bucky, and Steve. Being newer to the team meant training relentlessly—a couple of uninterrupted weeks of working your ass off to prove yourself. And, of course, the two Avengers were assigned to instruct you, along with a few others, but they were long gone on the weekends.
The weekends meant everything to you; it was a cause for rest that your body craved. It was also an excuse to get close to the two whom you'd considered your friends. Though you knew them long before your introduction into the team, it was still nice to get alone time with them once in a while. They were happy to indulge you during your break because of how hard you worked early in the week.
You were sprawled on the couch across the two like a lap dog. Your head was a gentle weight on Bucky's thigh as your legs draped over Steve's knees—your favorite position.
It was your idea to watch a movie together. You suggested Scream, one, because Halloween was right around the corner, and two, because you hadn't watched it in some time.
Bucky and Steve knew better than to argue with you about your pick, so they shut their mouths. They grabbed a bucket of buttery popcorn and plopped down on the sofa like a pair of loyal companions. Snuggling up to you with a navy blanket, they cloaked you with their warmth.
Calloused fingers danced in your hair as you watched the movie. Bucky was keen on playing with your hair; it gave him solace. He was nervous about touching you before, when he was still shedding the Winter Soldier from his fragmented form. But now, he couldn't keep his hands off you, even if he tried.
Some days, it was his arm just lightly grazing yours or his head resting on your shoulder. But others—the harder days—his touch was firmer.
Like when he would come up from behind you and wrap his strong arms around your middle or his metal hand gripping your upper thigh—that would inevitably lead to a heat pooling in your lower stomach. You didn't dare comment on that, though.
You also found comfort in his touch, as well as Steve's. His warm hands had found your feet under the blanket, gently massaging them. His thumbs dug into the heel of your foot, clearing the tension from your muscles.
It was the part of the film where Billy and Stu revealed themselves as the killer, one of your favorite scenes. The intense buildup all leading to this satisfying betrayal.
Billy was licking off the fake blood from his fingers, causing your thighs to squeeze together. It was such a simple action, but the way he was looking at Sidney as he did it was a surprising turn on.
You bit your lip to hide the smile spreading across your face. This was supposed to perturb you with how sick the two men were, but it had the complete opposite effect.
"Whatcha doin', darlin'?" Bucky's voice came, raspy and laced with a teasing lilt. Almost as if he had uncovered a secret, and he wasn't hesitant to spill it to anyone who might listen.
Your head jerked upward, locking eyes with him. He had a Cheshire smile plastered on his face. That damn smirk, you thought.
"What's that lip doin' between your teeth?" he added, flesh hand drifting down to free it with his pointer finger. His touch lingered, dragging it slowly over your bite-swollen bottom lip before pulling away.
Steve turned, glancing down at you with a just as wide grin. "Huh, I think she's turned on, Buck?" He pinched your thigh, eliciting a squeak from your lips.
You swallowed hard, heart racing. They caught you red-handed, and there was no way out of this one. "I-I-" you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.
"Oh, definitely. She can't even defend herself," Bucky agreed.
Your embarrassment faded, turning to a sharp anger clawing at your rib cage. You balled your hand into a fist, lightly punching Bucky in the gut.
He feigned a pained grunt. "Hey, he's the one who said it," He exclaimed, pointing at the blonde beside him.
You wiggled your foot from Steve's grasp, hitting him weakly in the stomach. "You're both assholes," you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest like a spoiled child.
Steve snorted, squeezing your knee. "Sorry, pretty girl. Didn't mean to make you mad. It's just-" he cut himself off, tilting his head thoughtfully.
You leaned forward slightly. "It's what?"
He shrugged, "I didn't realize you were into that. The, y'know," he gestured to the television, "dark thing."
You rolled your eyes, embarrassment creeping back in. "Can we just watch the damn movie?" you grumbled, gaze focusing back on the screen.
You saw Steve shake his head out of the corner of your eye. "It's not a jab, just an observation."
You ignored him, nuzzling your head back into Bucky's thigh and watching the way Billy and Stu crowded themselves around Sidney. That feeling in your stomach resurfaced as you imagined yourself in the woman's place.
Steve sighed, but dropped the subject altogether. Bucky's hand was back in your hair, but this time it felt less like it was for himself and more to soothe you. The rest of the night was uneventful as you finished out the movie in the super soldier's laps.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
The next morning came and went in a flash; the dark of the night seeping into your walls once more. You hadn't seen either of your other temporary housemates. It was strange. You contemplated whether you had scared them off with the revelation of your darker side.
It wasn't like you were on your knees begging for it; it was just some fantasy that lay dormant in your skull. It was never about the men on screen, but the idea—a man chasing you in light of his hunger for you. However, the film expanded on that idea, turning one man into two. And having two bodies under you as they touched your figure made your head spin with too many ideas. So, really, it was their fault.
But now you were waiting in the kitchen, a fork pushing around food gone cold. The prongs poked at the mashed potatoes on your porcelain plate.
You were independent. You didn't need someone around all the time, but at the same time, you hated the feeling of being alone. It crept into your very bones and settled into you like a form of deterioration. So, the empty compound felt like an echoing chasm, so still, you could hear a pin drop.
As if on cue, you heard a noise from downstairs—a loud crash, like two symbols coming together. You stood from your seat, the legs of the chair screeching against the floor tiles, and wobbling before correcting itself. "Hello?" You shouted. "Steve? Bucky? Is that you?"
No answer, just a tapping followed by a long scrape. You shivered; you really shouldn't have suggested that movie if you're this on edge. You stalked forward, your bare feet padding through the kitchen like you're playing a game of "the floor is lava".
You peeked around the corner, checking the downward flight of stairs. You took each step one at a time. The metal whined with every motion of your tiptoes, like it was greeting whomever was the other occupant in the facility. Almost as if the stairs themselves were saying, she's trying to be quiet, but she's doing a shitty job.
Once you reached the bottom, your head swiveled this way and that, but there was no one in sight. You shrugged to yourself, turning. Maybe you were crazy after all, hearing things that weren't actually there. You made your way back upstairs, head lowered, so you wouldn't miss a step and fall on your ass.
Then, you glanced up only for a split second. Your heart dropped into your stomach. A dark, cloaked form was hovering over the stairs. And the fucking cherry on top of the sundae, they were wearing the same mask you saw last night on the flickering screen—the Ghostface mask.
Your eyes widened in horror, your hand gripping the railing so tightly that you thought the metal might snap. Before you could even fully process, your feet were moving again. You skipped several steps, descending them like a cheetah. You honestly couldn't believe your speed. You instantly heard the sound of heavy boots hitting each step with a force. As if you thought you couldn't get any quicker, you picked up your pace.
You whipped around the corner, heading straight for the door, when you stopped dead in your tracks—a second form, veiled in midnight, and the same white, contrasting mask. You glanced down, rapidly spotting the silver gleam in this one's hand. A knife, black handled and pointed steel, shining from the outside bulb. Was this a sick joke, or were you getting murdered tonight? It was as if all your training flew out the window, and you stood there in shock.
A scream escaped you, sharp and loud. It split through the calm of the night like a bullet. Booming footsteps came from behind you. You glanced over your shoulder, spotting the first Ghostface now standing with a wide stance and tilted head. You were surrounded. Your chest heaved, but not just from the exertion of your short race, but from this utterly fucked situation you found yourself in.
You darted to the side, changing your strategy and running towards the only other exit. You heard rather than saw the two of them follow after you. You kept your eyes forward, not wanting to lose all the distance you gained.
You could hear their breathing from behind you, but it wasn't as heavy as yours. It was steady and measured, as if the chase didn't faze them. You made it to the door, jiggling the handle. Your first couple of attempts were unsuccessful as the door wouldn't open. Your shaking hands were your own personal hell as your sweat-slick palms slipped from the knob repeatedly. You eventually found purchase, swinging it open. You couldn't help but spare a single glance back. The two dark figures were slow in their approach, as if they were taunting you, making it seem like they were going easy on you.
Your stomach churned, but it almost felt like a blaze in the pit of your stomach. Were you really aroused at a time like this? Holy shit, you're pathetic.
You pushed the sensation down, venturing past the precipice of the doorway and into the chill of the air. The wind whoshed past your ears as your legs pushed off the ground, bare feet getting muddied along the way.
You felt like you had been running for ages, with the way your lungs burned. You couldn't keep doing this; you needed to come up with a new plan. The gears in your mind turned, finally settling on hiding as your best course of action. You just had to find a safe place to lie low for now until you could retrieve your phone from your back pocket and call for help.
You didn't bother peeking over your shoulder to see if they followed you; you ran into the dense forest for a quick hiding place. Low-hanging branches and greenery brushed your uncovered legs as you ran. A few dug into your clear skin like jagged claws. You, no doubt, had scrapes and scars wrapped around your calves like a miniature dog had mauled you.
You eventually spotted a bush and rushed towards it. You crouched low, crawling on your knees and elbows into the underbrush. It enveloped you like a hug, twigs getting twisted in your hair as the bigger branches poked your flesh.
You took a few steadying breaths before pulling out your phone. The brightness of the screen highlighted your face, eyes squinting as they adjusted to the white light. You debated calling the police, but only for a second, as the pair of super soldiers popped into the forefront of your mind like a flashing sign.
You scrolled through your contacts, pressing the first person on your list and hitting that green phone as if it were your lifeline. The call rang quietly on your end. Then, louder in the woods. What?
You heard a rustling before it blared louder. "Oh, Stevie," a too-familiar voice came, but it sounded darker in this context. "Look who's calling me."
A deep chuckle came from your left. "Cute, she needs help," the blonde answered. His voice rose, trying to get your attention. "I'm a little offended you didn't call me, sweet girl."
Your breathing slowed, not just because of the well-needed break from extending your legs, but from the realization. "Steve? Bucky? What the fuck. You scared the shit out of me," you admitted. You slithered out of your temporary hiding spot, brushing the dirt from your flesh and pulling some loose twigs from your hair.
You scoffed, "You're both assholes, you know that?" You glanced around the wooded area, trying to seek them out now that the ruse was up.
Bucky snorted, leaves crinkling under a set of boots that sounded closer and closer with every step. "You said as much last night," he mumbled. "Or did you forget about yesterday? Turned on by the mere thought of someone chasing you. Dirty, dirty girl."
You swallowed, the embarrassment heating your cheeks. "What?" you asked, but it came out smaller than you intended. "I thought we dropped that?"
You heard two roaring laughs fill the space. It echoed around you, their voices doubling and tripling like waves rippling on the sand. "You think we'd drop that delicious information?" Steve clicked his tongue, "You are sadly mistaken."
Your eyebrows knitted together in frustration. You wrapped your arms around your middle to bring back some warmth into your shivering body. Your skin dotted with goosebumps from the icy air like a brand. "Well, I'm cold, so I'm heading back inside. You two can freeze your asses off for all I care," you murmured angrily, cautiously trudging through the forest once more.
In a blink, one of the cloaked figures was in front of you. You ceased your movements as the other stepped out from behind him, like a reflection. You couldn't tell which one was which; it was irrelevant at this point.
"Run," Bucky's voice dipped into something terrifying. It set you on edge, but strangely made that fire in your core ignite.
"I'm not playing your fucked up game anymore," you glared into the pitted eye sockets of their masks like four tiny black holes sucking you in.
"I don't think Buck stuttered," Steve growled, low and insistent. "Run. And when we catch you…" He trailed off, looking to his match.
"We fuck you," Bucky finished, and you could hear the grin even under his covering.
Your breath caught in your throat, a quick sound escaping as a tightness filled your chest. The fire in your gut felt like a raging inferno, consuming your insides like a forest fire. You had never seen this side of them before; your usually calm friends were penetrating your very being with their voices alone, like a large drill boring into you.
You don't know why, but you immediately obeyed, knowing their tones left no room for argument. Your feet carried you swiftly back into the woods, feet slipping from the muddy ground. They chased right after you, the sound of boots bouncing clear across the wooded section.
Your heart thumped against your chest, but not from fear, but…excitement. You were living a fantasy that was only ever constructed in your mind, like a spinning film reel. You sprinted with a newfound purpose, the adrenaline propelling you. They gained on you rapidly. Of course, they were super soldiers and clearly weren't using all of their abilities to catch you.
You ducked under a particularly large branch, jerking your head left and right for a place to conceal yourself, but to no avail. Their boots trudged behind you like a thumping bass to a creepy song.
"Tired yet, sweet girl?" Steve called, voice barely worn. "Better save some energy for us. We're gonna be a handful."
Your stomach flipped as you surged forward. You almost stopped, the desire making your blood run hot in your veins. Instead, you took a sharp turn toward a towering, wide tree and came to a halt in front of it. You knew it was a bad idea, but you decided to go along with it anyway.
You planted your bare foot onto the rough bark while you swung your arm up to grasp a thicker branch. You hauled yourself up with all the strength you could muster without the leverage of shoes. Your other arm came up to wrap around it, pulling yourself further up.
Leaves crunching announced the pair's arrival, boots slowing to a stop. "Oh, darlin'. You gotta be smarter than that," Bucky mused.
His words went in one ear and out the other as you continued your pursuit. One foot slipped from its position, causing you to slide down slightly, pieces of bark chipping off like old paint. "Careful, wouldn't want to hurt yourself. We'll be doing plenty of that ourselves. Leave you absolutely wrecked, sweetheart," Steve warned you cheekily.
You dug the ball of your foot into a branch, lifting yourself like you couldn't even hear either of them. You didn't even glance down to acknowledge their presence, just ascended higher.
"Enough of this," Bucky muttered, footsteps marching onward. You felt cool metal fingers wrap around your ankle and gave a hard yank. You gasped, palms getting cut up from your descent. You scrambled, trying to regain your balance, but his touch remained firm.
"Bucky," you screeched, "Quit. You're hurting me." Your pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued to tug, fingers digging into your ankle as if to show you he could do much worse. He jerked on your leg, causing your opposite foot to slip from its spot and plummet.
You fell into his arms, bridal style, with short, intakes of breath. You pushed and shoved at his shoulders, but he didn't budge. Instead, he threw you to the ground with a forceful thud, sticks splintering beneath you. "'M done waitin'," Bucky snapped, hovering over you. Steve came into view next to him, and you knew the game was officially over.
Still, you fought. You rolled over onto your stomach, elbows pressing into the dirt as you crept away. This time, a warm hand found your calf, pulling you back and turning you over. "You don't listen, do you?" Steve inquired, but it didn't seem like he was waiting for an answer. "Game over. You lost. Now, we claim our prize."
He kneeled, his strong hand pinning your arms above your head while the other removed the mask. He leaned forward, and now you saw the hunger sparkling in his wild eyes. You squirmed, but it was useless. You didn't want to leave anyway; the way he was gazing down at you was too tempting to resist him anymore.
"Squirm all you like. 'S not gonna change what's gonna happen to you." His fingers traced along your jaw until he cupped it firmly. "Open wide."
You hesitated, which wasn't the correct response because he squeezed, forcing it slightly agape. You parted your lips, opening your mouth for him. "Good girl," he cooed before promptly spitting into your mouth. You were briefly stunned, but he pulled you right back to reality as he spoke, "Swallow f' me."
You did as he asked, letting his saliva slide down your throat, and he hummed in approval. "Givin' you a sample before all you can taste is me, huh? You won't be able to wash me from your mouth once 'm done with you."
You felt a set of hands—metal and flesh—gliding up your legs to part them, settling between your thighs. Fingers danced on your flesh, inching closer to your throbbing pussy. Two digits skimmed across the seam of your shorts, making your hips jerk upward at the sensation it sent to your clit through the thin fabric.
"So wet," Bucky commented darkly. "Someone is either really turned on by gettin' chased or by the thought of us destroyin' you."
Letting impatience cloud his judgement, he hooked his fingers into your shorts and tugged them down the length of your legs. He tossed them somewhere in the grass without remorse. He lowered himself, removing the mask, along with the cloak, to gawk at the panties you were sporting—pink and lacy. They could almost be perceived as innocent if not for the wet spot dampening the material. "Picked such a pretty pair f' me, huh, darlin'?" He stated cockily, his eyes darkening.
Bucky breathed deeply, inhaling your scent as his nose appeared to be inches away from your cunt. His tongue darted out, licking his lips with a hum. Steve gripped your chin, forcing your gaze back to the blonde. "You gonna let him taste you, pretty baby?"
You nodded, though you knew you didn't truly have a choice; he was just giving you an illusion of having one. "Such an obedient little slut. My little slut," Steve murmured against your lips before capturing them in a heated kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed, softly moaning at the brush of his lips.
His mouth was persistent, demanding access to yours. He nipped at your bottom lip, dragging a gasp from your throat. He took the opportunity to shove his tongue through the gap between your lips. Tongue prodding into all the crevices of the cave of your mouth.
You heard a shing, then something with a cold bite gliding across your inner thigh. Your initial thought was Bucky's metal finger, trailing down your flesh, but it had a serrated edge. Your eyes shot open, but Steve was holding you in place.
Steve's hand drifted to the back of your neck, craning it back to deepen the kiss. You melted back into the kiss, letting your worries dissolve. However, that didn't last long.
Piercing pain to your soft, supple skin. Roger's lips muffled your screams, and you squirmed once more. "Shh," Bucky soothed, dragging the blade down as his other hand gently massaged your thigh in a strangely comforting manner. "Just wanna make sure you know who you belong to."
The knife clattered to the ground, your blood seeping over the slit he created with the blade. His mouth was on you in an instant, lathering you in his saliva as he cleaned your wound. His mouth left you, but not before placing a tender kiss on the injured area.
Icy fingers pulled your blush panties to the side, hot breath fanning across your slick folds. Bucky flattened his tongue, licking a broad stripe through your wetness. You whined into Steve's mouth, but he swallowed your sounds with another sweep of his tongue.
Bucky lifted your leg, hooking it over his shoulder. He pressed your other thigh to the ground, keeping you spread for him. "Tastes so sweet. Could get addicted to this sweet pussy," he rasped, diving in for another taste. The tip of his tongue swirled around your sensitive bud before sucking it into his mouth. You arched your back, hips wiggling from the pleasure he was giving you.
Steve pulled away, his teeth biting your bottom lip and tugging gently before freeing it. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as you glanced down at the man feasting upon you like a wild animal—a lion devouring a pure, feeble fawn. His feral eyes locked on you, looking up through his lashes as his tongue dipped, teasing your tight hole.
You let out a strained whimper, the pleasure coiling in your gut like a spring ready to release with a pop. Steve sat back on his haunches, releasing you from his grasp in the process. He shed the black cloak, leaving it to float to the ground like a deflated ghost. His nimble fingers fiddled with his belt, metal clanking as he extracted the leather from its buckle. You jerked your head, watching the action intently.
His hardened cock sprang forth as he yanked the denim and boxers down his hips. Your jaw dropped; what the fuck were you supposed to do with that monster? Your pussy clenched at the sight, squeezing Bucky's tongue that was jabbing into you.
"Gimme your hand, sweet thing. Be a good girl and stroke it, alright?" Steve coaxed, taking your outstretched hand. He brought it to his dick, wrapping your delicate digits around his girth. He moved your hand for you at first, giving himself the perfect grip with your fingers. Precum leaked from the aching tip, glistening slightly even in the dark of the night.
Steve's knuckles grazed over the apple of your cheek, grinning down at you. "There you go. Doin' so good," he praised, dropping his hand to his side to sit back and enjoy the show. You pumped him at a leisurely pace at first, admiring the way he felt in your palm.
Bucky groaned against your cunt, vibrations rippling through your body. You moaned, his tongue working you closer to the edge with every sensual suck, swirl, and lick. You stroked Steve quicker in response, forcing a low grunt from his lips.
Bucky's tongue lashed between your folds like a weapon, flicking it over your clit before diving back down to lap at your juices. You writhed beneath him, his unabating tongue sending sparks across your flesh.
"Buck," you whined desperately. Still, your fist continued to move along Steve's shaft in harsh strokes.
"I know, darlin'. Let me get you there," he mumbled around his working tongue. He pushed the tip back into your weeping pussy, practically fucking you with it.
Steve inclined forward, reaching down. His fingers advanced to your swollen clit, rubbing slow, precise circles into it. You keened, hips canting upward as the pleasure became overwhelming.
Without much more effort, the damn broke, pleasure washing over you in waves as you came on Bucky's unyielding tongue. Hips bucked, and your free hand dug into the grass below, ripping out the green threads.
Still, neither of them ceased their pleasing actions. You were wailing, hand falling away from Steve's cock, flicking back towards his lower stomach with a gentle slap. You tried and failed to push at Bucky's shoulder and Steve's forearm, but they didn't give in.
"Please," you begged, "too much."
"Oh, Pretty girl. 'M afraid you don't know what that's like yet," Steve growled with a saccharine smirk. His hand shifted off your overstimulated clit to grab your throat. Not to restrain, but to hold you there against the forest floor.
"Now, open. I'll show you what too much is," he demanded. You obeyed, your mouth wide as erotic noises were ripped from your throat.
Steve patted your cheek in acclamation before he gripped the base of his dick and brought the tip to your parted lips. He eased into your mouth and down your throat. His tip bumped the back of your throat, making you wrap your lips around him as you choked on the length of him.
Spit sputtered around your lips, and still he kept going until your nose pressed against his skin. You gagged around him, tears pricking your eyes like a reminder of what they were doing to you.
"Such a perfect throat," he groaned, squeezing your neck for a moment before going back to the same pressure as before. "Ooh, I can feel myself in there."
His hips pulled back and then thrust forward again. "Gonna fuck this pretty throat until you've memorized the feel of it, baby," Steve added while his hips jerked onward.
You were still high on your orgasm, another one building as Bucky mouthed at your cunt. Now, your head was reeling from both sensations the super soldiers were giving you.
Your nails dug into the flesh of Steve's thigh while he fucked your mouth senseless. Your other hand searched for something to grab to ground yourself. Bucky's metal hand found yours, and he squeezed it before gingerly resting your interlocked hands on your torso.
"I've got you, darlin'," Bucky's rough voice came, planting a kiss on your bundle of nerves, and then going back to work.
It wasn't long before you were moaning around Steve's cock, another orgasm threatening to wrack through you. A muffled animalistic noise escaped you as you fell over the edge for a second time. Two back-to-back climaxes brought your body to a shuddering mess.
Steve withdrew his dick so that you could breathe through your release. After drawing your orgasm a little longer, Barnes' mouth finally relented.
Your eyelids closed automatically, utterly exhausted just from two intense releases. Steve leaned down, pressing a few kisses to your cheeks, forehead, and the tip of your nose. Bucky trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your limp form until they both were hovering above you.
"You doin' alright, sweetheart?" Steve asked, tone laced with concern. You nodded weakly, not quite ready to open your eyes.
"Poor thing," Bucky remarked, knuckles brushing over your heated cheeks. Without further deliberation, he picked you up from the ground, standing up with your head resting against his shoulder.
"Wrap your legs around me, baby." He nudged your thigh lightly, coaxing. You did as you were told, loosely enveloping his waist while you folded your arms over his neck. "There ya go. Gonna get you inside."
He pressed a kiss to your hairline, arm firmly covering your back as his other palm cupped your ass. He carried you into the compound, Steve hot on his heels.
In a blink, you were in Bucky's bedroom, hiking your legs up, so he didn't crush them as he lay down. You gazed up at him, a small smile spreading across your lips.
"There she is," he whispered, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Ready for more, or do you need a longer break? We'll wait as long as you need."
He glanced at the end of the bed where Steve had undressed himself. The bed dipped under his weight as he waited for your answer, analyzing you for any sign of wanting to back out.
"I'm ready," you confirmed, pushing up on Bucky's chest, adjusting to straddle his hips.
Your dripping cunt lingered over the strain in his jeans. You dragged your slick folds over the seam along the denim, and you shivered while he grunted, fingers grabbing at your hips. You fidgeted with the button, pushing it through the slit of his pants.
Steve scooted in behind you, palms greedily gripping your waist as his mouth attacked your neck. You shifted, tugging at Bucky's denim-clad thighs, but they wouldn't budge. Steve chuckled against your skin, "Let me help with that."
He took over, grasping at the material and pulling it down his legs until his friend's cock was freed. An angry, red-tipped dick taunted you—the length, the girth. If you thought you wouldn't be able to handle Steve's before, you certainly weren't able to take this one.
"Fuck," you mumbled lowly.
"Look how hard you got him, just from getting you off," Steve observed, seizing Bucky's cock with a rough pump of his fist. Bucky moaned, head falling back against the sheets. Steve's other palm came back to your torso, holding you steady as he lined up Barnes' tip with your entrance.
The pair forced you unhurriedly down his length. You whined as he stretched you out with every delicious inch. Bucky spoke through his clenched teeth, "So fuckin' tight, shit-"
You sank further onto his dick, reaching behind you to cup the side of Steve's face as your other hand stayed as a support on Bucky's toned chest. You tilted your head, and the blonde's mouth was on yours in an instant, devouring any of your sounds. The kiss was all tongues lashing and teeth nipping.
The super soldier below you bottomed out, leaving you whimpering against Steve's lips. You broke the kiss to focus on Bucky again. Your hips rose, then you slammed down on him. He let out a sharp curse, gaze focused on you as you began to ride him. You bounced up and down on his cock as Steve's hands wandered up your figure, taking the shirt with him.
"That's a good girl. Ride him nice and slow, just like that," Steve encouraged, slipping you out of your top.
You were entirely bare for both of them, tits on full display. Bucky's eyes went hooded, looking lost—lost in you and in his desire. "Fuckin' gorgeous." He promptly released your hip to cup your breast, squeezing delicately as his thumb and forefinger pinched your nipple.
"Prettiest girl I've ever seen," Steve muttered into the crook of your neck, massaging your other breast with extra care.
"Come 'ere," Bucky lured you in with his voice alone. You lowered yourself while he craned his neck to suck one of your peaked nipples into his mouth. You gasped, his tongue swirling and teeth lightly biting.
Steve's dick pressed against the swell of your ass. He squeezed and gripped your cheeks, most likely leaving an indent. When you glanced over your shoulder, he was lining himself up with your ass, tip nudging your second hole.
Your breath hitched, "Steve, I can't-"
The blonde swiftly cut you off, "S'alright, sweet thing. I'll be gentle, promise." He planted a kiss on the line of your spine to comfort you. His hips twitched forward, pushing into you with a deep groan. Your nails dug into Bucky's chest, creating little crescent moon shapes as you cried out.
Barnes' arm wrapped around you, hauling you into his chest. You laid down flat, cheek squished against his peck as Steve's cock penetrated you. Bucky rubbed soothing circles into your back as you adjusted to both of them. "Shh, I said I got you, baby," he reassured once more.
"So full," you whined.
"Oh, but you're takin' us so well," Steve commented with a snap of his hips. You screeched, your body trembling from the new sensation.
Bucky's heels dug into the mattress, rocking his hips up into you. You bit your lip so hard that blood dribbled down your chin. Your face contorted in pleasure as Steve thrusted from behind, an iron grip on your hips as he lost control.
They worked in tandem; one driving deep into your pussy as the other pulled out slightly, then vice versa. If you were overwhelmed by their actions before, you didn't know what you were now. Utterly cock drunk, full, and slipping into a cloud of ecstasy.
The next second, they picked up their pace, thrusting into you without any real rhythm. You were a moaning, whimpering mess as you felt the actual weight of the double penetration.
"Please," you pleaded again, but you weren't exactly sure what for. You didn't want them to stop, but the way they were filling you, it felt like the thin wall between them might break you.
Steve's hands were dragging down your sides, coaxing and gentle. "You're doin' so good, just stay like that."
"Feels so fucking good," you wailed, burying your face in Bucky's chest.
"There you go, give in to it, darlin'. Bein' such a good girl, letting us destroy you like this," Bucky praised, hips stuttering slightly. "You're ruined for everyone else, aren't you?"
You nodded against his firm muscles, trying not to fall over the edge too soon. You were getting used to the feeling, loving how they felt sliding against one another, with only a thin barrier between them. There was absolutely no other way you wanted to be fucked.
"Breathe, sweetheart. Almost there," Steve said, squeezing the globes of your ass and spreading you further.
You tried to calm yourself; inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. It was too damn difficult with the way their cocks prodded into your tightening holes.
Bucky shifted you slightly, and with the new position, he bumped your sweet spot repeatedly. You crooned, cunt clenching around him like a vice.
"Ooh, I felt that. You close, pretty girl?" Steve asked, but he really didn't need the answer, given how your body quivered.
Steve's hand wedged between you and Bucky's body, searching for your sensitive bud, hoping to make you fall apart onto both of their cocks. His fingers rubbed at your clit with a violent force. Your form jerked, back arching into Steve.
"Fuck, darlin'. That's it. Come all over our cocks. Make it messy. Wanna see you come apart on my cock," Bucky rambled, hands framing your face as he brushed the hairs from your eyes. He stared at you with every inch of his attention, intent on watching your climax unfold.
It didn't take long before your pussy fluttered around Bucky, asshole clenching right along with it. You came with a broken sob, tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks.
Your vision went white; you swore you saw stars in the height of your orgasm. Your eyes fluttered closed, your head feeling heavier in Bucky's palms. "Fuck," he grunted, voice strained from the tight hold you had on him. "So beautiful when you come."
Your body nearly convulsed as they continued to fuck you through it. Their cocks almost twitched in unison as they moaned loudly; nothing but sounds of pleasure and skin slapping together filled the room.
Bucky lifted his hips, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. Then it was Steve's turn to jam his dick as far as it could go, it pulsing inside you as hot ropes of cum filled you from both angles.
You fell onto Bucky's chest, your whole body sighing from exhaustion. You felt impossibly full, your combined releases dripping down your inner thigh and creating one giant mess.
You felt sticky and worn, your head spinning from the experience. But at the same time, you felt utterly content.
Steve pulled out of you with a hiss, steadying himself against the edge of the mattress. The other super soldier didn't make any move to rid himself of you. Instead, his arms draped across you like a blanket.
"Did so good f' us, darlin'," Bucky mumbled, tucking your head under his chin.
The bed creeked as Steve's form left the two of you before returning with a wet rag. You shivered as he wiped down the places that were slick with mess.
You hummed, nuzzling your cheek into Bucky like a cat, cuddling into her owner. "Thanks, Stevie," you acknowledged weakly.
He chuckled in return, "My pleasure, sweetheart." After he threw the cloth in its designated hamper, he crawled back into the bed beside the two of you.
"Gonna move you, okay?" Bucky mentioned before lifting you effortlessly off his length with a sharp intake of breath. He drew you into his side, placing you between the blonde and himself. Your face squashed into Bucky's peck like your own personal pillow as Steve curled behind you, resting his arm over your waist.
"Super soldier sandwich," you murmured softly, already drifting off to sleep.
They laughed at your tired-out state. "That's right, baby," Steve whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. The space was filled with a quiet as the three of you settled against each other.
After a few silent minutes, Bucky spoke up, "That's not the last time that's happening, just so y'know, darlin'."
You groaned lowly, squeezing your eyes shut. Bucky let out a satisfied sigh, planting a lingering kiss on your forehead before letting you rest.
You couldn't even think right now, let alone think about another round in any capacity. But it felt nice to revel in the company of the men on either side of you. You snorted to yourself; fuck, Scream just became your new favorite movie.
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