Inactive

Go follow my new blogs @ilovemesomebucky & @ilovemesomeloki

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

Hello everyone!

As much as I love this account, I’m saddened by the damage the hacker did. So many accounts blocked me, he unfollowed many, deleted drafts, and changed so many setting; I’m still trying to fix everything.

With that being said— I’ll be stepping away from this account and letting it rest. I won’t deactivate it, I just won’t be active on it. I don’t like the idea of not having an option to come back.

Please, come check out my new blogs @ilovemesomebucky and @ilovemesomeloki !!

I’ll be over there! Thank you for all the love and support!

Until we reblog again! 💕

-Jordan 💚

[brunchable]

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘗𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘜𝘱 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴

 ݈݇— pairings: Ex-BF!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader  ݈݇— themes: Porn with plot and feelings, Exes-to-Lovers, mild angst with happy ending. no use of y/n. soft!dom, pet names: baby, dirty girl. couch sex, make-up sex, emotional sex, gentle to rough, foreplay, dry humping, nipple play, oral (m receiving), ball play, swallowing, bodyworship, dick slaps, multiple orgasms, breeding talks, unprotected p i v, mating press, creampie, dirty talk, size difference, aftercare, accidental exhibitionsism.  ݈݇— summary: Bucky texted you and he needs you to come pick up your clothes from his house. You haven't seen or talked to him in a month, so why are you nervous? A/N: Based on the song, Folded By Kehlani. Listen to it on repeat while reading, up to you. BUT GOD I AM OBSESSED WITH THIS SONG. DO NOT READ IF YOU"RE UNDER 18.

Your knock sounded sharp, insistent, echoing in the quiet Brooklyn brownstone on this frigid New Year’s morning. Exactly one month since you walked out of this very door, telling yourself it was for good.

There’s a pause. Footsteps. The soft thud of movement inside. And then—his voice, muffled through the door.

“Yeah—hang on.”

Your stomach flips. Stupid. It’s been a month. You should be over this.

The door swings open, and there he is.

He looks… different. The scruff along his jaw is trimmed now, like he finally bothered to care for it. His hair’s a little longer, tucked behind his ears, a few strands escaping around his face. 

The black compression shirt he’s wearing stretches tight across his chest and shoulders, the kind of bulk that says he’s spent the last thirty days punishing himself in the gym instead of texting you. 

You hate how your brain immediately supplies: He’s been working out to forget me. Or getting ready for someone else. The thought stings more than the January air.

And now you have to force your eyes back to his face while his blue eyes flick over you once, quick, then linger.

“Hey,” he says, voice softer than you remember.

“Hey.” You manage a smile that feels brittle. “Happy New Year.”

“Yeah. You too.” He steps back, holding the door wider. “Come in. It’s freezing out there.”

You stay planted on the threshold.

“It’s fine,” you say with your best casual voice. “I’ll wait here.”

Bucky’s brows pull together for half a second. He wets his lips and tilts his head—and lets out a quiet, almost sheepish breath.

“Oh. Uh…” He glances over his shoulder at the box, then back at you. “I was thinking… maybe you’d wanna come in and look around? Just in case I missed something.”

His tone is careful, like he’s testing thin ice.

“Sure, whatever. I can do that.” 

You take off your scarf, and hang it on the coathanger as he closes the door behind you with a quiet click.

He clears his throat, hands shoving into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I, uh… got everything together. Put it in a box. Figured that’d be easier.”

You stand there in the living room, the familiar scent of his cologne in the air. Your fingers linger on the edge of the box as you peer inside—everything folded with that precise, military neatness he always had. Your favorite mug is wrapped carefully in newspaper. Your toothbrush in its little travel case. The books you’d left on the nightstand, spines aligned perfectly.

Behind you, his voice is low, careful. “I put the stuff I bought for you in there too. Intimates, jewelry—all of it. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it… throw it out, sell it, burn it, your choice.”

The words hit like a slap you didn’t see coming. You swallow hard, throat raw. “I thought you already did.”

A long, heavy silence. Then the scrape of his hand over his face, a sound so tired it makes your chest ache.

“You know I didn’t mean that,” he says, voice cracking on the last word.

You shrug, gripping the box flap until the cardboard bites into your fingers. “Didn’t sound like it at the time.”

Another beat of silence—thick, suffocating.

“You said you were leaving,” he says, quieter now, closer. “You said you were done with me. And then you were gone. I sat in this apartment for weeks staring at your side of the bed like a fucking idiot, waiting for a text that never came. I was angry. I was hurt. So yeah—I said shit to hurt you back. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”

Your eyes burn. You’ve pictured him moving on a thousand times—new girl, new life, your stuff in the trash without a second thought. Hearing he didn’t… hearing he’s been suffering too… it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the ache sharper.

He keeps going, voice barely above a whisper. “I saw your posts. You looked… happy. Smiling in every photo. And I kept thinking—good. Good, she’s better off. She’s free of me. Because I know what I am. I know I’m difficult. I know I shut down when the work gets bad. I know I’m not easy to love.” A ragged breath. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to walk on eggshells. I’m sorry I ever made you feel small. I just… I miss you so much it’s hard to breathe sometimes. And it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Your vision blurs. You turn to face him slowly.

He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders curled inward like he’s bracing for a blow, eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. His hand is still half-raised from scrubbing over his face, like he forgot what to do with it.

The words hang between you, ugly and honest. You want to scream at him. You want to hit him. You want to disappear.

Instead you whisper, “It doesn’t matter now.”

You bend, haul the box up—heavier than your heart—and head for the door.

“Oh come on.” His voice cracks fully this time. Footsteps quick and panicked. “I’m trying here. I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Heavy footsteps follow you to the door.

“I didn’t ask you to come get your clothes today because I wanted you gone,” he says, raw. “I asked because it was an excuse to see you again. One more time. Even if it hurt.”

You’re almost at the entryway when he steps in front of you, blocking the narrow hall. 

Gently, firmly, he lifts the box from your arms and sets it down.

His hands settle on your shoulders, trembling.

His eyes are glassy and pleading. “If you’re really done… if you don’t love me anymore… say it. Say it to my face, and I’ll let you walk out that door and I’ll never bother you again. I swear.”

You stare up at him. Those blue eyes—stormy, wrecked, more open than you’ve ever seen them. A month of distance collapses into this single moment, and it hurts so much you can barely breathe.

A broken laugh escapes you. “You’re cruel,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You know I can’t.”

Tears spill hot down your cheeks. You try to turn away, but his hand cups your face, thumb brushing the tears like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

“Look at me,” he whispers again, closer now, forehead almost touching yours. “Tell me you’re done. Tell me you don’t love me. And I’ll let you go. Even if it fucking kills me.”

You crumble.

“How can I—” The words rip out of you, raw and ragged. “I love you. God, Bucky, I love you, you’re so—”

His lips crash onto yours like he’s been starving for this—for you—in the last thirty days. His tongue sliding against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth like he’s trying to erase the distance, the fight, the silence. 

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down your cheeks, but he doesn’t gentle the kiss—if anything, he deepens it, stealing the air from your lungs until your head spins harder and black spots dance at the edges of your vision.

You melt into him, helpless. Your hands fist in the front of his compression shirt, pulling him closer even as your knees threaten to buckle. 

A soft, desperate sound escapes your throat and he swallows it, pressing you back until your shoulders meet the nearby wall.

A low sound rumbles in his throat as the contact ignites—chest to chest, hips to hips—and you feel the shudder that rolls through him.

One of his thighs slides between yours, pinning you there, and the solid weight of him is overwhelming—broad chest, corded arms, the new muscle he’s built like armor against the world without you. 

His hands leave your face, skating down your neck, over your coat, until he’s gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, the box forgotten on the floor.

He murmurs something wordless against your lips before he nips gently at your bottom one, teasing, testing. The bite is soft, then sharper, a sweet sting that he immediately soothes with a slow, languid kiss. Again and again—bite, kiss, savor—until your lips are swollen and tingling and you’re arching into him without meaning to.

You open for him without hesitation, and his tongue slips inside again, tangling with yours in a slow, sensual dance until you’re breathless.

It emboldens him; you feel it in the way his grip tightens.

He tenses, every muscle coiling as he presses forward, the kiss turning firmer, more insistent. His mouth moves over yours—angling, retreating, claiming, wringing pleasure from you in gasps you can’t hold back.

His body hardens against yours, arousal throbbing hot and demanding between your legs. Another low moan escapes him as he rocks subtly into you, the friction sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.

The need builds too fast, too fierce, until you both rip apart at the same moment—lips parting with a suction that echoes in the charged silence. You're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked in a haze of raw want.

"Can we..." you gasp, voice husky, barely recognizable, "do this somewhere more comfortable?"

A rough chuckle rumbles from his chest, vibrating against you. "God, yes."

He doesn't let go. His mouth crashes back to yours in a searing kiss, hungry and laughing all at once, as his hands start working. 

Fingers tug at your coat, shoving it off your shoulders; it hits the floor with a soft thud. You stumble backward together, lips barely separating, toward the couch, his hands peeling away layers like he's unwrapping a late christmas present. Your jeans go next—his vibranium fingers cool and precise on the button, flesh hand dragging the denim down your thighs until you kick them free.

By the time you tumble onto the couch, you're straddling him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your shirt clings to you, the only barrier left, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide the thick, rigid length of him pressing up against your core.

His tongue tangles with yours again, deep and possessive, as the fingers of his right hand trail up the side of your body—mapping every curve. He stops at the swell of your breast, palm cupping it gently, feeling the weight in his hand. A low, guttural groan vibrates against your mouth, and you feel him swell even harder beneath you, his cock straining against the fabric separating you.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked, before slipping his hand under your shirt and bra. 

Warm flesh meets bare skin as he cups you fully, squeezing with just the right pressure—caressing, kneading—until another groan tears from him, deeper this time, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

His thumb circles your nipple, slow and teasing, and the spark of pleasure shoots straight through you. You gasp into his mouth, arching hard against him, the sudden sting of it making your thighs clench around his.

With a rough tug, he pushes your shirt and bra up, exposing your breast to the cool air—your nipple tight and aching, begging. His eyes darken, devouring the sight.

“Fuck. You are so beautiful—you missed me didn’t you?” he whispers, before lowering his head. His lips brush the sensitive peak in a soft kiss, tongue flicking out to taste you, savoring like you're the sweetest thing he's ever had.

The wet heat of his mouth closes over you fully then—tongue swirling languidly around your nipple, sucking softly, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. Pleasure floods you in waves, intense and overwhelming, pooling hot and liquid between your legs. 

Every brush of his lips, every pull of his mouth, every gentle scrape of teeth—it's torture, exquisite and unrelenting, building that tight coil inside you until you're trembling, on the edge already from this alone.

His free hand—the vibranium one—slides to your ass, gripping firmly, urging you to move. You grind down on him instinctively, rolling your hips against the hard ridge of his trapped cock. The friction is maddening, and his fingers slip lower behind, stroking you through the thin, soaked fabric of your underwear—teasing your clit in firm circles that match the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.

You moan louder, head falling on the crook of his neck, as he tilts his head to take you deeper—sucking harder, tongue lashing your nipple until it's swollen and throbbing. The dual assault—his mouth devouring your breast, his fingers working you relentlessly while you grind on his thick length—has you shattering toward release, every nerve alight, body slick and desperate for more of him.

Your hips buck harder, desperate and shameless, chasing the pressure of his thigh and of his cock straining against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Every roll drags the seam over your aching clit, amplified by the circles of his vibranium fingers—cool metal warmed by your heat, slick with how drenched you are.

Bucky pulls off your breast with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes dark and feral as he watches you unravel. His breath fans hot over the sensitive, swollen peak he just abandoned.

“You gonna come?” he rasps, voice low and wrecked, thumb pressing firmer against your clit in a ruthless rhythm that matches the grind of your hips. “Come on me, baby. Let me feel you soak through everything. I want it fucking dripping down my thigh.”

The words hit like a spark to gasoline. Your body locks up—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders—as the orgasm slams into you, sharp and blinding. A broken cry tears from your throat, hips jerking helplessly against him while you pulse and clench around nothing. 

He doesn’t let up, fingers working you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping his name.

“Yeah, baby—say my name just like that,” Bucky groans, voice thick and ragged as your cries echo his name again and again through the aftershocks. His vibranium hand slides up your thigh, fingers tracing the slick mess you’ve made. He glances down, eyes darkening at the dark wet patch spreading across his gray sweatpants. “Fuck, look at my pants. Jesus Christ, you soaked right through ‘em.”

He lets out a low, wrecked laugh, forehead pressed to yours for a beat before he pulls back just enough to growl, “Let me just—”

He reaches behind his head and yanks the compression shirt off, tossing it aimlessly. His hair falls messier across his forehead, chest rising and falling hard, every new ridge of muscle on display from the last month of brutal workouts. You’re already helping him, hands greedy at the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down caught in the frenzy until they pool at his ankles. He steps out of them, kicking them aside.

You drop lower, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, across the broad plane of his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple just to hear him hiss. Then lower, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting salt and warm skin. Your tongue darts out again, tracing the between the V that disappears below, and he drags a hand over his face with a muffled, “God, you’re so fucking sexy doing it like that.”

He looks back down, blue eyes blown wide and hungry.

You chuckle low, the sound vibrating against his skin as your hand slips under the last scrap of fabric—his boxers—palming the heavy length of him. He tenses, abs flexing under your lips, a sharp inhale whistling through his teeth. You tug the waistband down slow enough to tease, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, curving up toward his stomach with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

You lean in, lips parting, and take just the head into your mouth—slow, luxuriant, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. 

He twitches hard against your tongue, a guttural “Ohh baby—” ripping out of him as his hips jerk forward involuntarily. You feel him swell even fuller in the wet heat of your mouth, hardening impossibly in seconds like his body’s been waiting a month for this exact moment.

You work lower, taking more of his shaft inch by inch until your lips meet your fingers wrapped around the base, then slide back up, hollowing your cheeks, tongue lavishing the head again with greedy circles. You pull off just long enough to look up at him through your lashes, lips shiny and swollen, a wicked little smile curving your mouth.

The look on his face—brows pinched tight, jaw clenched like he’s in pain, eyes dark and desperate—tells you everything. It’s definitely been a while.

Your free hand cups his balls, heavy and drawn up tight, rolling them gently, tugging just enough to make him throw his head back with a broken curse, vibranium fingers tangling in your hair.

“Shit—I’m so sensitive,” he rasps, voice cracking, looking down again with that wild, pleading edge. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You pull off him with a lewd, wet pop. His cock—glistening thick and slick from your mouth—bobs heavily in front of your face, flushed dark and veined, a string of saliva still connecting your bottom lip to the swollen tip.

You let out a low, throaty giggle, eyes locked on his as you tilt your head and stick your tongue out flat. Then you guide his length with your hand, slapping the heavy weight of it against your tongue once, twice, three times—hard enough to make wet, filthy smacks, precum and spit smearing across your taste buds and chin in shiny streaks.

Bucky’s breath punches out of him in a shocked laugh as he stares down at the sight, vibranium fingers tightening in your hair.

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice wrecked and incredulous, a dazed grin pulling at his mouth. “You dirty fucking girl.”

You hum, pleased and wicked, letting the head rest heavy on your outstretched tongue again, giving it a slow, lick from base to tip while you look up at him through wet lashes.

His thighs flex hard, abs clenching, and a low, desperate groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Baby,” he warns, hips shifting forward just an inch—like he’s already fighting not to thrust. “You keep playing like that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pull back just enough, lips brushing the sensitive underside as you murmur, voice husky and teasing, “Good. You can come in my mouth.”

The words hit him like a punch—his eyes flare wide, dark blue gone almost black, a ragged “Fuck—” punching out of him as his cock jerks hard against your lips. You don’t wait for more; you sink down again, taking him deep in one smooth glide until he hits the back of your throat. Your hand works the base in tight, twisting strokes while the other keeps teasing his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight and full they are.

He’s unraveling fast—head falling back, throat working on a swallow, a string of broken curses spilling out as his hips start to rock in shallow thrusts he can’t quite control.

“God, your mouth—feels so fucking good,” he pants, looking down again with that pinched, wrecked expression, like pleasure’s bordering on pain. “Not gonna… fuck, baby, I’m close—”

You hear the warning in his voice, feel it in the way his cock throbs heavier against your tongue, but it only spurs you on. 

You double down—suction tightening, cheeks hollowing as you bob faster, hand twisting in that perfect corkscrew motion guys swear by, the one that strokes him root to tip in sync with your mouth. Your tongue presses flat against the sensitive frenulum on every upstroke, flicking quick, while your other hand never stops its worship of his balls—rolling them gently, then tugging downward just enough to heighten the pull.

You pull off for a breath, dropping lower to take one ball into your mouth, sucking soft but firm, tongue swirling as your fist pumps his slick shaft in twisting pulls. 

His thighs quake harder, a strangled “Fuck—yes—” ripping out as you switch back to his cock, taking him deep again, throat relaxing to swallow around the head while your fingers keep that gentle downward tension on his balls.

His hips stutter, vibranium hand leaving your hair to grip the edge of the couch—his whole body goes rigid, abs clenching visibly as the orgasm barrels through him.

“Shit, I’m gonna come—I’m coming, I’m coming—” he chokes out, and then he’s pulsing hard against your tongue, thick ropes of cum flooding your mouth in hot, heavy spurts. You swallow greedily, milking him with your lips and hand, drawing it out until he’s shuddering violently, a low, broken groan dragging from his chest.

When it finally ebbs, he slumps against the couch, chest heaving, cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You sit back on your heels, licking the corner of your mouth, watching him come down with a satisfied little smile.

Bucky drags a shaky hand through his messy hair, letting out a breathless, incredulous laugh—the classic post-nut clarity hitting hard, loose and dazed.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?” he pants, voice hoarse, blue eyes wide and still a little glazed as he stares down at you. Another huff of laughter escapes him, fond and wrecked. “Jesus, baby. You trying to ruin me for good?”

He reaches down, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, smearing the gloss there like he can’t help himself.

You lick your lips slowly, tasting him still, and meet his glazed eyes with a soft, teasing smile.

“Just my way of saying sorry to you. . .” you murmur, voice husky from everything you just did to him.

Bucky’s breathless laugh turns darker and hungrier. He sinks fully onto the couch now, legs spread, chest still heaving as he reaches for you with both hands, pulling you up from your knees.

“Come here,” he says, low and rough, patting his thigh. “Sit on me. I’m not done with you yet.”

His cock rests heavy against his stomach, semi-soft and glistening from your mouth, twitching faintly like it’s already eager for round two. You don’t hesitate—clothes half-shed, you strip off what’s left.

You know exactly what he loves, what gets him hard again. 

Lowering yourself slowly, you drag your bare, soaked pussy along his length—just slick skin on skin. The head of his cock nudges your clit on the first pass, and you both groan at the contact. You rock forward again, grinding slow and languid, coating him in your wetness, feeling him thicken and harden beneath you with every slide.

Bucky’s head falls back against the couch for a second, eyes hooded, before he snaps his gaze down to watch—transfixed by the sight of your folds parting around his shaft, gliding up and down, your arousal making everything shiny and messy.

“Oh my God,” he hisses through clenched teeth, hips lifting just slightly to chase the friction. “That’s it… just like that.”

You guide his hands up to your breasts, pressing them into his palms, and he doesn’t need more invitation. His flesh hand cups one, thumb circling the nipple before pinching while the vibranium one mirrors the motion on the other, cool metal warming fast against your skin. He tugs and rolls your nipples between his fingers, twisting just hard enough to make you gasp and grind down firmer, your clit dragging along his now fully hard length.

Every rock of your hips pulls a low rumble from his chest, his cock throbbing hot and rigid between your folds, precum mixing with your slickness until you’re both dripping.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, voice gravel-rough, eyes dark as he watches himself disappear and reappear between your lips with every roll. “Using that pretty pussy to get me hard again…”

You nod slowly, breath hitching as you grind down one last time, feeling him throb fully hard and ready between your slick folds.

“How do you want me?” you ask, voice soft and needy, eyes locked on his.

Bucky’s lips curve into a wolfish smile.

“How do I want you?” he echoes, voice low and rough, vibranium hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively. “I want you under me, baby. Ankles right beside your ears.” His eyes darken further, thumb stroking your skin. “How do you want to take it? Rough? Slow?”

You lean in, pecking his lips quick and teasing, a breathless laugh escaping you. “That’s up to you.”

His brows lift, surprise flickering before that hungry edge sharpens again. “You really trusting me to leave it up to me?” He swallows hard, throat working, gaze searching yours for a beat—like he’s making sure. Then he exhales, soft and resolute. “Alright. We can take it slow.”

He shifts, strong arms lifting you effortlessly as he moves you both to the chaise end of the sectional, laying you back against the soft leather. The cool surface contrasts with the heat of your skin, and he settles between your thighs, nudging them wider with his knees.

“Get in position for me,” he murmurs, voice deep and commanding, sending a shiver straight through you. “Ankles up by your ears. And spread that pretty pussy—use your fingers on both sides of your lips. Show it to me.”

You obey without hesitation, legs folding back until your ankles frame your face, knees splayed wide. Your hands slide down, fingers parting your slick, swollen folds, baring yourself completely—glistening, aching, dripping for him.

Bucky groans low and guttural, eyes locked on you like he’s starving. “Fuck, look at that… I just wanna eat that pussy, but next time—right now, I need to fuck you.”

He leans over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding his thick cock. He slaps it against you once, twice—wet, heavy thuds that make you gasp and clench around nothing. Then the broad head teases you—rubbing slow circles over your clit, then dragging down to nudge your entrance. 

He presses in just barely, stretching you open an inch before pulling back. Again—deeper, teasing—until he surges forward in one controlled thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch is overwhelming, his thick length splitting you wide as your walls flutter and grip him. A muffled moan tears from your throat; his rumbles deep in his chest, ragged and desperate.

“Oh fuck—” he murmurs, forehead dropping to yours. 

He stills, hips flush, letting you feel every pulsing inch—impossibly deep in this folded position, the head kissing your cervix until your toes curl beside your ears.

Then he pulls back slow, dragging every ridge along your walls, before slamming home again. Each thrust jolts through you, wet slaps echoing, your slick coating him, dripping where you’re joined. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you pinned open, helpless to his rhythm.

“Look at you,” he rasps between thrusts, voice wrecked, eyes flicking from your face to where he disappears into you. “Taking me so deep… feel how full you are, baby?”

His control frays—breaths rougher, hips snapping harder as you gasp, “Fuck me like that.” Sweat beads on his skin, vibranium hand tightening on your thigh.

He locks eyes with you. “Look down,” he orders, gravel-rough. “Watch me fuck this pretty pussy. Watch how you take every inch.”

You obey, gaze dropping to where your folds stretch tight around his glistening shaft, swallowing him whole on every sink.

“That’s it,” he growls, pace turning heavier, more possessive. He slams deep, grinds slow circles against that spot that sparks stars behind your eyes. “You feel me? Feel how deep I am? I’m not letting you go this time—never again.”

He rasps against your ear, thrusting faster—balls-deep slams marking you inside out. “Gonna fuck a hole inside you only I can fill.”

“Oh God—yes,” you choke out, voice breaking on every word as tears prick your eyes from the intensity.

“Yeah?” His eyes lock on yours, wild and undone, but soft at the edges with everything he hasn’t said in a month. “You want me to give you everything? Want me to knock you up so you never forget who you belong to—who you love?”

You nod frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes—God, yes—don’t stop—”

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, vibranium hand sliding to your lower belly, pressing just enough for you to feel him moving inside you. “Gonna give you all of me. Gonna love you so fucking deep you’ll feel me for days—every time you move, you’ll know you’re mine.”

His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick skin sliding, thrusts frantic now—hips snapping, chaise rocking.

“Look at me,” he rasps, cupping your jaw. His blue eyes lock wild and intense. “I love you too—fuck, I love you.”

“I love—”

His mouth crashes onto yours, devouring, tongue thrusting in time with his cock as he ruts like he’s possessed—pouring a month of longing into every slam. His vibranium arm hooks your knee tighter, folding you impossibly deeper.

“Bucky—I’m gonna come—”

He grunts into the kiss, nipping your lip. “Then come. I want that pretty pussy squeezing me first.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling hard in sync with his relentless thrusts—and you shatter.

“Yes—yes—” you cry, walls clenching vise-tight, pulsing around him as pleasure whites out everything. Your nails dig bloody trails down his back; he hisses, thrusts erratic, chasing your climax.

His hips stutter, losing all rhythm as the pressure coils unbearably tight at the base of his spine.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” The words fracture against your neck, muffled and raw. His cock jerks again and again, thick ropes of semen flooding deep in hot, endless surges while he grinds slow circles. Each spasm drags helpless whine from him, hips grinding instinctively, dragging every last shuddering drop as far into you as he can get.

Finally spent, his body sags heavily on top of you—warm, sweat-slick weight pressing you into the chaise cushions, chest heaving with ragged pants against your throat. 

You unfold slowly, legs trembling as you lower them, ankles sliding down his sides until your thighs bracket his hips. The shift draws a soft groan from him—cock still buried deep, softening but reluctant to leave, letting gravity ease him out with a warm trickle of your mixed release leaking onto the leather.

Bucky lifts his head just enough to find your mouth, kissing you sweetly—slow, tender presses of his lips, gentle brushes of tongue, no hunger now, only devotion. He trails soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

He stays close, forehead resting against yours, the faint sheen of sweat cooling between you in the dim glow of the lamps. Those blue eyes, heavy-lidded and unguarded, trace your face like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with leftover want, thumb stroking slow along your cheekbone. “So fucking much.”

You lean up just enough to brush a soft peck against his lips, lingering there a second before pulling back. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt threading through the words. “I’ll be more mindful when you’re stressed. I didn’t mean to push.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the sound warm and forgiving as he nuzzles closer, lips grazing yours again. “It’s okay, baby. Honestly? Best kind of stress relief I’ve had in weeks.” The corner of his mouth quirks—that familiar teasing glint flickering back into his eyes. “Might start picking fights on purpose if this is how we make up.”

He steals one more slow, sweet kiss before easing his weight off you. The cool air of the room rushes between your thighs, sticky and sensitive, and he notices the way you shift. “C’mon, let me clean you up.”

Before you can protest, he’s sliding his arms beneath you and lifting you effortlessly against his chest in a bridal carry. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, legs dangling, still boneless and floating as he pads barefoot across the living room toward the bathroom.

That’s when you glance over his shoulder—and freeze.

The tall brownstone windows are thrown wide open, sheer curtains pushed aside, and directly across the narrow street, in the window of the opposite brownstone, Mrs. Kowalski—the sweet little old lady who always bakes too many cookies and leaves them on Bucky’s stoop—is standing there in her robe, sipping coffee.

She’s holding up both hands, fingers splayed: a perfect 10.

Then she gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up, mouths “Happy New Year!” and adds a cheeky little golf clap.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, mortified heat flooding your face as you duck your head into Bucky’s neck.

Bucky slows, brow furrowing at the sudden tension in your body. “What?”

“Don’t—don’t turn around,” you hiss, burying your face deeper into his neck. “You’ll flash the entire block.”

Bucky freezes mid-step, confusion flickering before realization hits him like a truck. He’s stark naked, dick out in the breeze, carrying you the same way. His eyes widen, a rare flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears—the Winter Soldier actually blushing.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, shifting his hold on you instinctively to angle his hips away from the window, using your body like a very strategic human shield. He risks one quick, awkward sideways glance—just enough to spot Mrs. K’s scorecard performance—then snaps his gaze forward again, jaw tight and cringing from motification.

Mrs. Kowalski winks, points at you both like a proud matchmaker, and shuffles off—probably to speed dial her bridge club with the gossip of the century.

Bucky exhales a choked laugh, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as his whole body vibrates with it. “Well… at least we got a perfect score?” he manages, voice strained between amusement and genuine mortification. “Fuck, I’m never living this down. She’s gonna tell the whole block I’ve still got it.”

TAGS:

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[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

Filth. Pure beautiful filth. Give me 100 more.

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

so sorry you got hacked my friend. I’ll help spread this. 🫂🫶🏼

Thank you so much for helping me during all this!!

You’re an angel! 💕

[ilovemesomebucky]

I was able to access my old account again!

But, this hacker really fucked shit up on there. He deleted drafts, got so many people to block me, and changed settings.

I’ll still keep it, for now, and may go back to it. I’m still going to use this one for the time being. So, no more scammy ass message being sent to anyone else via my @lovemesomebucky account!

If you blocked it, I get it!

Thank you! 💕

[planetbucky-deactivated20260321]

NO SPRING CHICKEN

18+ | MDNI

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x female!reader

summary: bucky undergoes an experimental wakandan treatment designed to counter the serum’s effects. the physical changes leave him more insecure than he expects, but you are always there to remind him how much you love him and his new dad bod.

warnings: non-canon; age gap (I mean he's 100+ years old; I imagined reader to be in her late 20s/early 30s); established relationship; old man!bucky; whipped!bucky; bucky has a dad bod; bucky is a little insecure about his age & his body and weight changing; light angst; utterly shameless smut; kinda sub!bucky (use of 'congressman' and 'old man' as pet names); oral (f & m receiving); fingering; humping (his belly... sorry); nipple play; unprotected sex; creampie; cum play; multiple orgasms; overstimulation.

word count: 4.5k

a/n: ehhh, happy sinday I guess 🥰 this initially started as a lee bodecker one-shot but my fingers just switched to our super soldier's name at some point, so I edited it and brought congressman barnes back! let me know if you'd like some lee content as well, I really want to write for that man but I fear anything that'll come out is going to be very filthy (maybe even a little dark) so...

I'm not entirely satisfied with the smut but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

Should he think about that time Steve threw up after riding the Cyclone in Coney Island? Or maybe replay the moment Redwing ended up crushed against a wall and Sam mourned that stupid machine for a week? 

Oh God, shit– 

“Fuck.” He hisses, his hips buckling up on their own. “Doll– slow down, please– I can’t—”

Bucky’s spread thighs shake, the fire inside him now unbearable as you pull back once more with hollowed cheeks. On the floor between his legs, you glance up at him and wink; your mouth is momentarily stuffed full with his cock to give him one of your smart answers. His fingers fidget with the white shirt you were wearing just a couple of minutes ago, and the plates of his vibranium arm whirr, betraying just how hard he is trying to hold back from coming. 

He doesn’t think he can last, and he knows it'll be okay with you, but Bucky refuses to come now. Even if he has a mouth and two hands to make you feel good, he refuses to let the fun end now, as if he's never been touched in his whole life. He takes a deep breath, a groan falling from his lips as your mouth is replaced by your hand, squeezing tightly at the base of his cock.

“Fucking hell.” His dick twitches helplessly in your grip as you keep his orgasm at bay; only the weakest dribble of cum drips down his length and soils your hand.

It’s fucking embarrassing how you have been sucking him off for ten minutes– give or take– and here he is, shaking and whining and ready to blow. Honestly, he’s been turned on since the moment you came back from work and tossed your clothes away, walking around your shared apartment in only a matching set of sheer panties and bra. 

The first thing you saw as you got home was Bucky sitting on the couch with his eyes closed, his head tipped back and his legs spread open as if begging you to sit on them. Shirtless. 

He has been on his feet most of the day, and at some point the weather got so warm he sweated through his shirt and suit jacket. He discarded his congressman outfit as soon as he got in, opting to lounge in the living room in sweatpants only.

You joined him immediately, your eyes appreciatively roaming around his naked form as the blush on his cheeks spread across his chest. Beaming slyly when Bucky patted the cushion right beside him, you happily plopped down and leaned into his open arms for snuggles. You curled your legs onto the couch, and rested your head onto his chest, allowing your eyes to rest. Bucky glanced down at you, pressing a kiss on your head as he absentmindedly rubbed your arm. 

Then, it clicked in his mind at once that this was probably the first time you have seen him casually naked outside of sex. He felt the once warm air suddenly turn cool, tension gradually taking over his muscles. However, you used that brief distraction to your advantage, and dropped to your knees between his legs. His jaw fell on the ground as his brain struggled to understand what was happening, yet his body helped you remove his pants, leaving him completely bare and vulnerable under your wicked mouth. And fuck– the way you kissed and licked down his tummy before taking the flushed tip of his big cock between your lips and sucking it like a fucking lollipop– 

He completely forgot about all the worries surrounding his new body.

When Shuri told him the serum could be rendered into something quieter and more manageable, Bucky didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t request time to think, didn’t look at you or the neat rows of data projected in the lab. He nodded once and asked "When can we begin?", his voice steady in a way that surprised even him.

He’d spent most of his life being frozen, thawed, rewired, sent out again. This time, the choice was his.

The public explanation was simple: the super soldier serum, even in its altered form, had long-term risks. It placed strain on his cardiovascular system, his nervous system, his bones. The doctors framed the anti-serum as preventative care, a way to help his body age more naturally instead of being suspended in an endless, punishing half-life.

But that wasn’t the real reason.

Bucky Barnes was, to put it simply, tired. Tired of being introduced as a weapon, of missions, of briefings that smelled like gunpowder and burnt coffee. Tired of the way his body was still treated as a resource to be managed rather than a person to be listened to. Tired of waking up sore and bruised and pretending it didn’t matter because he could still fight, still bleed, still heal faster than anyone else in the room. And most of all, tired of knowing that as long as the serum remained in his system, no matter how much he insisted he was done, someone would always expect him to come back.

Taking the anti-serum was more than a medical decision. It was a declaration. He wasn’t an Avenger anymore, not really. And he didn’t want to be. 

The idea of running for Congress had started as a joke— half-hearted and thrown out during a late-night conversation with Sam, both of them nursing drinks and quietly admiring the city lights. But it had lingered, stubborn and insistent. Bucky had lived through nearly a century, he had seen what unchecked power did. He understood, in his bones, the cost of silence and the danger of letting institutions forget the people they were meant to serve.

He refused to run for Congress as a super soldier. He could already see it: every debate turned into a referendum on whether or not he was still the Asset; people wondering if his strength alone had put him there.

So he said yes to the anti-serum.

At first, nothing changed. Or at least, nothing obvious. Bucky had already pulled back from missions, training became optional instead of mandatory, then sporadic, then something he did out of habit more than necessity. He still woke early, still ran when his joints allowed it, still lifted weights out of muscle memory and stubbornness. For a while, his body held on, the serum clinging to him like it always had.

Then it began to loosen its grip.

The changes were subtle at first— easy to ignore if he wanted to. His muscles didn’t disappear overnight; they softened, the sharp definition blurring at the edges. The rigid solidity he’d carried for decades gave way to something more human, more fragile. His skin, once pulled tight over unyielding strength, seemed looser somehow, warmer.

He still has the arm, of course. The vibranium didn’t care what was happening to the rest of him, but even that felt different now. The power was still there, humming beneath the surface, but his body couldn’t always keep up. If he pushed too hard, the strain would ripple through him in a way it never had before. Deep aches that settled into his bones, reminders that the serum had been doing more than just making him strong. It had been holding him together.

Some days, it feels like his body is rebelling against itself.

Old injuries resurface with a vengeance. His knees ache when the weather changes, his back stiffens if he sleeps wrong. There are mornings he has to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the world to stop spinning before he can stand. It feels like delayed payment for decades of abuse— every fight, every fall, every moment he pushed past pain because he could.

Now, the pain pushes back.

He told himself it was fine. Normal, even. This was what aging looked like when you weren’t artificially preserved by a miracle drug. But knowing something doesn’t make it easier to live with. The serum has been with him for so long that he wasn’t sure where it ended and he began.

As the years passed, the changes became impossible to ignore.

Bucky Barnes grew softer.

Which doesn't necessarily mean being weaker— not entirely, at least— but less sharp. The hard lines of his body rounded out, his shoulders sloped instead of squaring off. The brutal efficiency that had once defined his movements gave way to something slower: he moved like a man who had learned to listen to his body instead of commanding it.

Adjusting his diet was harder than he expected. For decades, he’d eaten like a machine, fueling himself for endless exertion. Calories burned as fast as he could consume them. Without the serum’s accelerated metabolism, his body no longer burned through everything he gave it.

At first, it was just his pants feeling tighter around the waist. Then one morning, he couldn’t button them at all. He stood there, staring down at himself, baffled, before reluctantly reaching for the next size up. And then another. Shirts that had once stretched across broad shoulders now cling differently, fabric pulling over the pudge on his belly instead of his chest.

He tried to laugh it off, tried to tell himself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

One evening, after a long day of meetings and paperwork and rehearsed speeches that left his throat dry, Bucky caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He studied himself like a stranger, cataloging the differences.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment, Bucky wondered if Shuri could undo it. If the anti-serum could be reversed, if he could go back to the body that felt like home, the one that obeyed him without question. He knew, rationally, that even with the serum, maintaining that physique had taken relentless effort. Hours of training, discipline bordering on obsession… But the serum had made it possible.

Then he leaned closer to the mirror and saw it.

A small patch of gray hair, stark against the dark brown of his beard, glinting under the light, right under his chin. He laughed, a short, humorless sound, and turned away.

Thankfully, Bucky was lucky to have you by his side throughout these difficult changes. You, his girlfriend, are vibrant and full of an energy that still surprises him sometimes. No serum has ever rewired you, no government program has interfered with your biology. You eat what you like, sleep when you can, laugh often.

And you love him.

That part has always felt surreal.

You knew who he was, who he had been, and you hadn’t flinched. You treated him like a man, not a relic or a redemption project, teased him about his old-fashioned habits, listened when he talked about his life in the 40s, and hugged him when he retreated too far into himself.

But as his body changed, and when the years began to show in ways he couldn’t ignore, doubt crept in.

You are younger, not just by numbers, but by possibility. You have decades ahead of you that he has already lived. Sometimes, he catches sight of them in reflective surfaces— store windows, elevator mirrors— and feels a jolt of dissonance. You are all brightness and forward motion, and he is… What? A former, brainwashed war criminal. A would-be politician. A man with more history than future.

For the first time in a long while, he wondered if you two together made sense at all.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, unspoken and unwelcome. He didn’t want to burden you with it, didn’t want to turn his insecurities into your responsibility. So he carried it quietly, letting it gnaw at him during sleepless nights and long walks through the city.

It was you who broke the silence.

One evening, Bucky was sitting on the couch with you tucked comfortably against him, an old movie he was barely paying attention to playing in the background.

Your chin lifted and your hand reached out to trace the faint lines at the corner of his eyes. “You’ve been distant.” You mumbled, not accusing. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, Sergeant?”

He almost deflected, almost joked his way out of it... But the weight on his heart had become unbearable, and words spilled out without his consent.

He told you the truth about how he was feeling about the anti-serum, the changes. About how he sometimes didn’t recognize himself anymore. About the fear— quiet but persistent— that one day you would look at him and see someone too old, too worn down, too far from the man you’d fallen for.

And you listened without interrupting.

When he finished, you cradled his face in your hands, thumbs warm against his cheeks. “Bucky,” you began, steady and sure. “I didn’t fall in love with your body.”

He swallowed.

“Well– you are handsome. A hot, gorgeous man. And mark my words: are, not were.” You raised both your eyebrows, to which he responded with a sheepish smile. “But I fell in love with the man who chose to stop fighting wars and start fixing things.” You continued. “The man who wants to help people without hurting them. The man who comes home tired and still listens to me rambling about my horrible boss.”

You rested your forehead against his. “My point is… I loved you before and I love you now. All of you, Bucky. With or without the serum.”

Something in his chest loosened then, like a tight grip finally letting go of his lungs.

The truth was, he didn’t take the anti-serum just to change his body. He took it to change his life, to step out of the shadows of what he’d been. To become someone who could stand in a room and be chosen not for his strength, but for his integrity.

And being there with you, feeling your love wrap around him like something solid and unbreakable, he realized something else.

He didn’t need the serum to be worthy of you. He didn’t need the body of a soldier to be loved.

Because of you, because of the way you see him, wholly and without reservation, he no longer measures himself by what he lost. The aches, the softness, the gray hairs in his beard… They are just proof that he is alive, aging. Moving forward.

For the first time in nearly a century, Bucky Barnes wasn’t afraid of what came next. And that was more powerful than any super soldier serum.

Bucky’s left arm whirrs as his fingers tighten their hold around the fabric of your top. His cock jerks again, and he exhales slowly, closing his eyes and trying to focus on his breathing.

“Bucky?” You start softly. He squints one eye open, keeping it focused on your forehead. Not on your chest, and God, definitely not on your turgid nipples saying hi underneath that delicate lace. Fuck. 

Your mouth is still too close to his cock, your warm breath tickling the sensitive flesh. “Do you want to come?” 

“I–I don’t…” He shivers, goosebumps on his skin.

“It’s your choice.” Your lips drag along one side of his length. “If you want to come, you can.”

Deep breaths. In and out. “I don’t want it to be over.” Bucky gulps. 

“Well… I can still ride your face after. Or…” He can feel the shape of your smirk. “I can keep going even after you come.”

“Don’t– say that.” He chokes back a whine, his hips jerking up reflexively. 

You let go of his cock and nonchalantly sit back on your haunches, waving your hand. “I know, I know, you’re no spring chicken anymore, but I know you love when I—”

“Jesus, woman.”

You giggle at his exasperated tone, and with a hand on his bare chest, you guide Bucky to lie on the couch as you climb up to straddle him. You settle down on top of him, your lips already on his as his large hands squeeze and grab anywhere he pleases. That goddamn lace hugs your curves so deliciously, yet he despises it for separating your breasts from him.

“I love you.” He mumbles against your mouth. 

With a hum, you pull away. “Love you too.” Your expression softens, both hands cradling his cheeks. The smile you give him is so sweet it makes his heart ache, but before he can start singing praises about how well you take care of him, it turns into a mischievous grin.

Confident and stunning and better than he ever dared to dream, you pull away, straightening up. Bucky can't help but reach for your chest with both hands, giving in and greedily pawing at your breasts. 

“Can you take care of these, Sergeant?” Your fingers play with the hem of your panties, before letting it snap back against your skin. With a grunt, Bucky puts all his strength into his metal arm, reducing your panties to a sad piece of ruined fabric. It would be easier for him to just rip the bra off as well— that way he’d be able to get your nipples in his mouth. But you beat him to it, slowly unhooking the offending piece of lingerie and letting it fall on the floor with a smirk.

Then, you look down at his flustered face, leaning in for another kiss. His hand sneak down from your waist to your hips, pushing you forward once. You gasp at the sudden stimulation against your core as your hands make their way up his chest, grasping his soft pecs. 

Bucky lets out a heavy, shaky breath at that, prompting a giggle out of you. He pulls you impossibly closer. “Wanna make you feel good, sweetheart. Please.”

If you weren't about to ride him, Bucky would have grumbled about how mad he is at himself for being so turned on and desperate, but those thoughts soon disappear into the void. Right now, instead of his brain leading, there are his heart and his cock in command.

You press a kiss to his neck, making him gasp as his cock twitches in interest. 

“Yeah?” A whimper falls onto your hungry lips. His fingers dig into your hips, and he tentatively thrusts up, whining in protest when your hand firmly grasps his jaw.

“Control yourself, Congressman.”

“Please, angel. Use me.” He begs so prettily you can’t hide your amused grin. Bucky’s breath hitches when your palms end firmly on his pecs, your hips adjusting until your wet core lands directly on his belly. “Gonna be so good for you, please my love.”

Bucky tips his head back, his breath matching the fast pace of yours as you smile blissfully at him, your eyelids shutting close as your hips rock back and forth on his tummy. 

His cock aches at the sight, jaw clenching at the cute sounds you make while he idly pinches and flicks your nipples between his fingers. You are a vision to behold with your mouth open and your tits slowly bouncing above his face.

“Fuck, Bucky–” You gasp, your clit throbbing as your hips speed up. Bucky moans when your nails inevitably end up sinking into his skin, loving the way you can now leave your mark on him. There's no serum that will make it disappear after a night of sleep. 

His eyes never stray away from your face contorting in ecstasy at each graze of your clit against the curve of his belly, your hole clenching around nothing as you feel your orgasm approach, fast. 

“That’s it, doll. C’mon, jus' a little more.” Your hips cutely twitch at his sweet encouragement, and with it and the umpteenth graze of his thumbs on your abused nipples, you whimper, making a mess on his belly. 

“Shit.” Bucky whimpers when his eyes fall on the wet trail you left, proof of your pleasure. His face is red, a bit sweaty and his flushed chest heaves as if he is the one who just came.

“You are a dream, doll.” Bucky stares at you with something akin to reverence, heart beating so fast at how aroused he is. “I love you.” He blurts out, unable to hold himself back.

You burst out laughing, forehead glistening with sweat as you tiredly crawl toward the other end of the couch, lying on your back and spreading your legs for him. “I love you too, old man. Now, how about you use me?” 

He whimpers, eagerly nodding as his eyes light up in excitement, following your beckoning finger. You smile up at him as Bucky positions himself between your thighs, and a shiver runs down his spine as you take his cock in your hand, clearly hard and aching, the crown glistening with precum. You stroke it languidly, and he has to grit his teeth and tense the muscles of his abdomen to not come all over your hand. Finally, you guide it to your hole, letting him take over. 

From this angle he has a spectacular view of how he disappeared inside you. “Oh, God.” He groans, rubbing his face with one hand. 

He is not going to last, he can’t, it's impossible!

You giggle when his breath stutters, clenching around him before he roughly grabs your hips with both hands. 

“Fuck, you’re so big.” You sigh with a devious grin. 

“Biggest you’ve ever taken, hm?” He asks with a little sheepish smile, already knowing the answer. 

“Hm-hm.” You nod with no hesitation. 

You are so tight, and you look so blissed out, so wrecked for him. 

He doesn’t waste anymore time after all the suffering you put him through and he starts properly thrusting, immediately finding the rhythm that works for the both of you. 

“Oh Bucky, you’re doing so good, baby.” You moan, tossing your head back. “You’re so deep.”

He whimpers at the praise. You know how much he loves being told how good he is, so you continue. “It's so much baby, feels so fucking good.” You grip his shoulder with one hand, his hair with the other, pulling him down to share a filthy kiss.

“Shit– so fucking tight.”

That is his last coherent sentence; what comes out of his mouth is now a mix of whines and muffled curses against your breasts. 

“C’mon, baby.” You encourage softly into his ear. “Let go, fill me up.” 

“But–”

“Bucky please! Use me, baby.”

He groans as you clench. “Fuck!” He growls. “Fine.”

After holding back for so long, the pace he sets is brutal. Between his sharp thrusts and the way he yanks your hips to meet his, he chases his high with complete abandon. Suddenly it feels like electricity is running through his veins, and with a loud grunt, he spills inside you, still fucking hard into your pussy. The way his body melts against yours makes you sigh in delight.  

His face falls onto your neck as he rides out the rest of his orgasm, and you rub your hands up and down his back, humming. Bucky doesn’t know exactly how much time passes, but when his mind clears, he is still catching his breath and subtly grinding into you with a slow circle of his hips, even if oversensitivity makes his breath hitch pathetically.

“Sorry– I’m sorry, I'm sorry.” He mumbles between heavy pants. “I don’t know what came over me.” It upsets you every time he apologizes for coming before you, as if it’s not something you take huge flattery for. You're always encouraging him to take what he needs, you genuinely get off to him using you to make himself feel good, but your boyfriend is such a caring, loving gentleman that he refuses to accept that, even when his body takes over for him and lets him finish first.

“You know I love when you do that, Jamie. Though I still need you, you know?” You smile, interrupting him as his lips part to probably apologize once again. “Any part of you.”  He weakly twitches inside of you at that. Pressing your foreheads together, Bucky kisses the tip of your nose and then your lips, grinning at your sweet giggle. He is reluctant to leave you, leave the warmth of your pussy that perfectly envelopes his dick, but he isn’t sure it can give you more at the moment.

“Okay, okay, yeah…” Once he leaves your heat, his hands keep your legs open so he can take good care of your aching core. “So needy for me, my doll. You're so pretty when you clench for me.”

He kisses the glistening insides of your thighs, and you sigh when you feel him suck on the skin he kissed. Finally, he laps at your opening, tentative and careful. The combined taste of your pussy and his cum makes him moan against your core. You taste so good, like a superb delicacy, and knowing he gets to eat you out while his essence drips out of your hole has something possessive stirring into his chest. He takes your clit between his lips, and sucks passionately, flicking it with his tongue until he hears you whimper loudly.

Your hand flies into his long hair, pulling at the locks. 

“Am I doing good, sweetheart?” He looks at you expectantly with his head resting against your thighs, waiting like a puppy for your praise. 

“Yes, baby. So, so good.” You exhale, and Bucky goes back to lick your folds with newfound energy. 

“Ah!” A sharp gasp shamelessly echoes in your shared apartment as his tongue thrusts inside, his face grinding against your pussy just to get more of your taste in his mouth.

At some point, you’re too lost in your own pleasure that you don't notice how two of his fingers replace his tongue inside you. Bucky knows very well how much your body can take by now, how easily you open up to his larger size. 

There’s no use fighting the wanton sounds threatening to come out as Bucky fucks his fingers into you at an even pace, taking care to curl them just right to hit your sweet spot. All you can do is squirm and grip the pillow under your head, your eyes squeezing close and your head tipped back when he starts to nurse on your clit again. 

“Fuck fuck fuck, yes baby!” Bucky increases the pace with each thrust, his gaze intensely locked on your blissed out expression. You look so beautiful when you indulge in your own pleasure.

“Oh my God– another! A–add another!” You whimper and he immediately obeys, eager to feel you clench around his fingers. 

“Love watching your pretty pussy stretch around me.” He mumbles, panting and enjoying the show.

You are a babbling mess, no longer capable of words other than random curses and his name.

“C’mon, come for me doll. Make your old man proud.” Your pussy squeezes so hard around his fingers that it borders on painful, and with your back arching up, your body starts shaking with blinding pleasure. Bucky tries to fuck you through your orgasm but your grip on his digits is too tight. 

As much as you both wished for it to last longer, you are soon turning into jelly against the cushions. Your hole still weakly pulsates around his fingers as Bucky plays with it for a couple more seconds, just observing with parted lips the mix of your slick and his cum soiling your core. 

Your eyes inevitably close once he retreats, and expecting to soon feel a warm weight snuggle into your chest, you let your body go limp.

Then, you suddenly jolt up.

“James!” Your chin ducks down and there, still on his belly between your shaking thighs, lies Bucky with his tongue out, gently licking your folds. What makes your stomach stir in arousal though, is the way his blue eyes stare up at you, hazy and unfocused.

“Need to clean up after myself.”

general bucky taglist: @jimmywoosimp @iambuckyswifey @metal-armed-muse @shotinthedcrk @picuappled @dugiioh @hiraethmae @siemprx @its-in-the-woods @bunnybuckys @squishyfruitloop @buckybarneswife08 @sambuckystony @obiwansito @espressopatronum454 @my-drvidess @alialialisstuff @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @herejustforbuckybarnes @applesauce-pouch-queen @lillianacristina

if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

New work is in order.

I can’t say when I’ll have this posted, but know that I’m so unbelievably excited and motivated.

It’s an honor of mine to be working with other talented artists on @artficlly Moodboard Event! I’ve been kicking my feet and giggling into my pillow.

This is going to be magical! Enjoy my little teaser💕

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

I’ve been working on this in my free time and let me say…I’ve never felt more creative than I do now.

I have one more chapter for CYSMITD and then BBTC is going to be my main priority. It’s gonna be a long one folks

[vunblr]

Crumb by Crumb (#3)

Pairing: Chubby!Baker! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.

Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.

Word Count: 5.3k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The box arrived on a Thursday afternoon; it was heavy enough that the delivery guy looked relieved when she took it from him at the door.

She put it down in the living room and grabbed a box cutter, slicing through the packing tape with excitement.

Books.

A dozen of them, maybe more, all different genres. Fantasy, sci-fi, mystery. But nothing about trauma or recovery or healing your inner wounds with the power of meditation.

Just escapism.

She'd requested them specifically from the publishing house after visiting the veterans' center a few days back. The building itself was easy to find, a low brick structure with a small parking lot and a faded sign out front that looked like it had been there since the seventies. Inside, it was clean but bare-bones: a few rooms for meetings, a small kitchen, and a library that consisted of two shelves packed with outdated magazines and self-help books that had seen better days.

The publishing house had a donation program for schools, nursing homes, and underfunded community libraries in low-income areas. She'd pitched it to her supervisor, explaining that the center fit the criteria: small town, limited funding, minimal donations coming in. It took less than a week to get approved, and now here they were.

She figured they could use something different. Something that lets people disappear for a while, the way those kinds of stories had done for her when she needed it.

She'd been staring at her computer screen for too many hours today anyway. Her eyes were starting to blur, and going out would do her good. She packed the books back into the box, grabbed her keys, and headed out.

----

Bucky sat in a squeaky folding chair that was just slightly too small for him, nursing the last of his coffee and wishing he'd grabbed the mysterious tea.

The meeting was over. Had been for ten minutes. But Jerry and Tom were still here, lingering by the snack table he'd brought pastries for, talking about nothing in particular: Jerry's grandson's baseball game, Tom's ongoing war with a raccoon in his garage.

Bucky half-listened, offering the occasional nod or grunt of agreement when it seemed appropriate.

He didn't mind these two. They were older -Vietnam vets, both of them- and they didn't ask questions. Didn't push. Just talked to him without pretense.

"Thanks for the pastries, James," Tom said, brushing crumbs off his shirt. "You didn't have to."

Bucky shrugged. "Had extras. Wasn't gonna let 'em go to waste."

Jerry snorted. "You always have extras. I'm starting to think you make too much on purpose just so you have an excuse to show up here."

"Maybe I do," Bucky said, deadpan.

Tom laughed.

The double doors to the hallway were propped open, letting in a faint breeze and the muffled sounds of someone moving around in the lobby.

Bucky glanced that way absently, still half-focused on Jerry's story about the raccoon, when a figure passed by.

He recognized her immediately.

She was carrying a big box, tilting her head to see where she was going.

His coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth.

What was she doing here?

----

He set his coffee cup down and stood before he could think better of it.

Jerry looked up mid-sentence. "Where are you going?"

"Be right back," Bucky muttered, already moving toward the doors.

He didn't have a plan. Didn't know what he was going to say when he got out there. Just knew that she was carrying something heavy and he could help, and that was-

Simple. Straightforward. The kind of thing anyone would do.

He stepped into the hallway just in time to see someone else beat him to it.

Jack.

Early forties, former Marine, always too goddamn cheerful for his own good. He'd already taken the box from her, holding it with one arm like it weighed nothing, and was saying something that made her laugh.

Bucky stopped.

She looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like she wasn't struggling anymore, because someone else had already stepped in.

He should go back.

Just turn around, sit back down, and finish his coffee. Pretend he hadn't seen her.

He was halfway through the mental commitment to retreat when-

"Hey, Bucky! Look what she brought!"

He was standing next to her now, still holding the box, grinning at Bucky as if he'd just won the lottery.

Bucky froze.

Every instinct told him to make an excuse. Any excuse. But Jack was already waving him over, and she was looking at him now, and turning around would make him look like an ass.

Or worse, like he was avoiding her.

Which he was.

He forced himself to move, crossing the short distance to where they stood.

"Books," Jack said, shifting the box slightly so Bucky could see inside. "For the library. Fantasy stuff, sci-fi, actual good shit, not more of that self-healing crap."

Bucky glanced into the box. Colorful spines, a few he recognized from the window displays at the bookstore two towns over.

He looked at her.

She was watching him.

Probably expecting him to say something. Comment on the books, maybe. Thank her.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"How's your finger?" she asked, filling the silence.

He blinked, glancing down at his left hand. The bandage was still there, smaller now, but visible.

He'd almost forgotten about it.

"Peachy," he said.

He winced internally the second it left his mouth.

Peachy?

Who the hell says peachy nowadays?

Jack looked between them, raising his eyebrows. "You two know each other?"

"We're almost neighbors," she said easily. "I live on River Street."

"Oh, lucky you," Jack said, grinning. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "She must be a regular at the bakery, then."

Bucky nodded once, not looking at her.

Jack shifted the box in his arms. "We're heading to the library to add these to inventory. Wanna come help? Place is a disaster, we haven't had a librarian since old Ed passed last year, and nobody's really kept up with it."

"I actually offered to come in a few times a week," she added. "Help organize things, update the catalog cards. Figure it might be useful."

Jack's face lit up. "That'd be amazing. Seriously. The system we've got now is... well, there isn't one."

Bucky opened his mouth to say no.

He had things to do. The bakery. Cleaning. Literally anything else.

But instead, he heard himself say, "Yeah. Sure."

Jack's grin widened. "Great. Let's go."

And just like that, Bucky found himself following them down the hallway, wondering what the hell he was doing.

----

She was thrilled to see him here.

Embarrassingly thrilled, if she was being honest with herself.

Not that she'd let it show. She was a grown-ass woman; she could keep her inner monologue of oh my God he's here, and he looks good, and why is that flannel doing things to me firmly locked away where it belonged.

But still.

She could feel him walking behind them, and her mind was racing with questions now.

He'd served.

That explained some things about his character.

But how did he end up in the bakery?

And… Bucky? Wasn't his name James?

They reached the library, a small room at the end of the hallway with two shelves crammed against one wall and a couple of boxes shoved haphazardly in the corner over an old wooden desk. It looked exactly like it had when she'd visited a few days ago: barely organized, half-storage room, half-forgotten space.

She set her hands on her hips, surveying the mess.

"Okay," she said, gesturing to the box Jack was still holding. "You guys can look through what I brought if you want, see if anything catches your eye. Since you're helping, you get first dibs. I'll start pulling everything off the shelves, clean the wood, and see what we're actually working with here."

Jack set the box down on the nearest table and immediately crouched beside it, peering inside like a kid at Christmas. "Hell yeah. I haven't read anything good in months."

Bucky looked at the box.

Then at her.

He shook his head.

"I'll do what you're doing," he said.

She blinked. "You sure? You can look through the books if you want. Might find something you like."

"I'm sure."

Jack glanced up from the box, raising his eyebrows, but didn't comment.

"Okay," she said, trying not to read too much into it. "Let's get started, then."

----

Bucky didn't even consider looking through the box.

His grandfather had raised him better than that.

She was here doing something for them -for the center- unpaid, on her own time, and she was about to start pulling books off dusty shelves and scrubbing down wood that probably hadn't been cleaned in years.

He wasn't going to stand around flipping through novels while she did all the work.

He moved toward the boxes that were stacked on top of an old desk against the far wall, taking up space they'd need if they were going to lay out the books from the shelves without a word.

They were heavier than they looked, packed tight with what felt like old manuals or binders, the cardboard sagging slightly under the weight. He adjusted his grip, bracing the bottom with both hands, and lifted.

His shoulders protested, but he didn't say anything. Just carried the first box across the room and set it down in the corner, then went back for the second.

"Do you need help with those?" she asked, pausing mid-reach for one of the books on the shelf.

"No, I'm good," he said, grabbing the second box. "You can start wiping down the desk, though. Once it's clear, we'll have somewhere to put the books."

She nodded, already reaching for the rag she'd pulled from her bag.

Bucky moved the second box, then the third, his arms burning slightly by the time he set the last one down.

Jack was still engrossed in the donation box, muttering something about how he'd been looking for this series forever.

Bucky turned back to the desk.

She was wiping it down in smooth strokes, her focus entirely on the task.

He found himself watching her for a second longer than necessary before he turned toward the shelves and started pulling books down.

----

After a while, she started sneezing.

Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

Her eyes began to itch, and she rubbed at them with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of dust across her cheek.

Fuck.

She'd forgotten to take her allergy pill this morning.

The dust and whatever else had been living on these shelves was absolutely destroying her right now.

"You okay?" Bucky's voice cut through her misery.

She blinked at him, eyes watering. "Yeah, just allergies. Forgot to take my pill this morning. Dust and... mites, they kill me."

Jack looked up from the box. "You got the meds with you?"

She nodded, reaching into her bag and pulling out the small pill bottle.

"I'll get you some water," he said, already heading for the door.

And just like that, she was alone with Bucky.

The silence stretched.

She held the pill bottle in her hand, waiting, trying not to sneeze again. Her eyes were still burning, but she kept them open, blinking through the discomfort.

Bucky was still holding a book he'd pulled from the shelf, but he shifted his attention to the box she'd brought.

"Where'd you get these?" he asked, his voice low.

"I'm a translator. For a publishing house," she said, her voice a little scratchy from the sneezing. "They have a donation program for schools, nursing homes, places like that. I asked if they could send some books here. Figured it'd be good for the center."

He looked at her then, his expression unreadable.

"That's thoughtful of you," he said quietly.

Something about the way he said it -sincere, but almost careful- made her chest feel warm.

"I just thought people might want something to read that isn't about healing through journaling," she said with a small smile.

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

"Yeah," he said. "They would."

Another beat of silence.

Then, almost struggling with himself, he asked, "What kind of stuff do you translate?"

"Fantasy," she said, brushing some dust off her hands. "Mostly."

She saw him about to ask something and added, "When I started, I took whatever they gave me. But after a few years, you can specialize. The publishing house has people for sci-fi, crime novels, and technical manuals, all with different skill sets."

He tilted his head slightly. "Aren't fantasy and sci-fi pretty similar, though?"

"You'd think," she said with a small smile. "But they're different beasts. Fantasy is all magic systems and made-up languages. I spend half my time making sure elf hierarchies and dragon species sound consistent. Sci-fi is more... technical jargon that has to sound believable. Propulsion systems, quantum-whatever. With hard sci-fi, you actually need to know real science so you don't accidentally screw things up."

He was listening. She could see it in the way he'd stopped pretending to look at the books, his full attention on her.

His jaw worked slightly, like he was forcing himself to speak again.

"Why fantasy?" he asked finally.

She opened her mouth to answer-

"Here you go," Jack said, coming back through the door with a paper cup filled with water.

Bucky's shoulders went rigid immediately. He turned back to the shelf, reaching for another book, his expression closing off like a door slamming shut.

Damn.

"Thanks," she said, taking the water and washing down the pill, watching Bucky out of the corner of her eye.

But he didn't look back again.

----

They worked in silence for a while after that, the only sounds the thud of books being stacked and the occasional rustle of paper.

Jack had gone back to sorting through the donation box, pulling out titles and setting aside a small pile for himself.

"Hey, Buck," Jack called, holding up a paperback. "I think you'll like this one."

Bucky glanced over. "Uh- put it aside, and I'll look at it later."

She paused mid-wipe, looking between them.

This was her chance.

"Your name's not James?"

Jack laughed. "It is. But that's what the older folks call him." He grinned at Bucky. "Everyone else calls him Bucky."

She set the rag down, genuinely curious now. "And... why Bucky?"

"Buchanan," Bucky said without looking at her. "My middle name."

"Oh. I see…" She nodded slowly, processing. "So should I… call you Bucky, or do you prefer James? I don't want to assume-"

"Bucky," he said, cutting her off. He met hers with his eyes briefly, something unreadable passing through his expression. "Call me Bucky."

"Okay, Bucky" she said softly.

----

The sound of his name in her voice almost made him smile.

Jack glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. "Shit. My wife's gonna kill me. I was supposed to pick up my son's birthday cake twenty minutes ago. And Sonia’s closes in twenty."

Bucky's stomach twisted in knots.

They were going to be left alone.

The two of them.

In a small room.

With no buffer.

Jack was already moving toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.

"You guys good here?" he asked, pausing in the doorway.

"Yeah, we’ll be fine," she said.

"We'll manage. Go before Greta asks you for a divorce," Bucky added.

Jack laughed. "Yeah, yeah. See you guys later."

And then he was gone.

The silence that followed felt enormous.

Bucky stood there, holding a book, acutely aware of every sound, the soft scrape of her rag against the wood, the faint rustle of her movements, the way she shifted her weight.

He should say something.

Finish the conversation Jack had interrupted.

But his throat felt tight, and every possible sentence he tried to form in his head sounded wrong.

So he just kept sorting books, his hands moving on autopilot while his brain spun uselessly like a hamster wheel.

Then she saw her, out of the corner of his eye, stretching up on her toes, trying to reach the books on one of the upper shelves.

He moved before he thought about it.

Crossed the space between them in three steps and stopped just behind her, close enough that he could reach over her shoulder.

"Here," he said, his voice low.

She startled slightly, glancing back at him, and for a second -just a second- her eyes dropped to his mouth.

Or maybe they didn't.

Maybe his brain was just broken enough to make him see what he wanted to see.

He reached up and grabbed the first book, handing it down to her.

Their fingers brushed.

She took it without a word, wiping it down with the rag before setting it on the desk.

He grabbed another. Then another.

They fell into a pattern, him pulling books down one at a time, and her cleaning them off and stacking them neatly.

He was standing close. Closer than he needed to be.

Close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Close enough to hear the soft exhale she made when she stretched to set a book down.

His heart was beating harder than it should've been for something this mundane.

"So," he said finally, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. "Why fantasy?"

She paused, rag in hand, and looked up at him.

----

She almost gave him the standard answer.

I like it. Always have.

Easy. Simple. True enough.

But something about the way he'd asked -quiet, careful, like he actually wanted to know- made her pause.

She bit her lip, the rag still in her hands.

"Escapism," she said finally. "For many years, I didn't have... an ideal home life. Or environment, really. Fantasy books helped me go somewhere else. Be somewhere else."

The silence that followed felt heavy.

She glanced at him.

He was looking at her, but she couldn't read that look.

Oh God.

She'd made it weird.

"Sorry," she said quickly, letting out a self-conscious laugh. "That was... kind of a downer answer."

She focused on the book in her hands, wiping it down with more attention than needed, avoiding his eyes entirely.

"I was a sniper," Bucky said suddenly. "Three long tours."

Her hands stilled.

He was quiet for a moment, then added, almost distant, like his mind was far away. "I get it. Wanting to be somewhere else."

She looked up at him.

His expression hadn't changed -still unreadable, still guarded- but there was something in his eyes now. Something raw.

She didn't know what to say.

Thank you felt wrong. I'm sorry felt worse.

So she just nodded, her throat tight.

"Yeah," she said softly.

They stood there for a moment, the weight of what they'd both just said settling between them.

Then Bucky reached up and grabbed another book from the shelf.

Handed it to her.

And they kept working.

----

The light coming through the small window had shifted, angling lower.

Bucky glanced at his watch and felt his stomach drop.

He needed to leave. Now, actually. He'd cut his bakery hours short to make the meeting, but he still had to open for the evening crowd, people stopping by after work, picking up bread for dinner.

He didn't want to go.

The thought of walking out, of going back to the bakery and spending the rest of the evening alone behind the counter, felt wrong somehow.

He wanted to stay here. Keep working. Keep talking.

Keep standing close enough to catch the smell of her shampoo and the sound of her voice when she said his name.

He set down the book he'd been holding and cleared his throat.

"I need to head out," he eventually managed. "Have to open the bakery."

"Oh." She looked up, brushing dust off her hands. "Of course. Thanks for staying as long as you did."

He hesitated.

His brain was scrambling for a reason to stay. Or at least a reason to come back.

"I don't like leaving you here alone," he admitted finally.

She gave him a small smile. "It's a veterans' center. What's gonna happen?"

"I mean alone with all this." He gestured at the shelves, the stacks of books, the mess they'd barely made a dent in. "It's a lot."

She opened her mouth -probably to insist she was fine, that she could handle it-but he cut her off before he could lose his nerve.

"Leave it," he said. "Just... leave it how it is. I'll come back tomorrow. We can finish it then."

She blinked at him, surprised.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know."

"Bucky-"

"I'm coming back tomorrow," he said, his tone firm. Final.

She stared at him for a moment, something soft crossing her expression.

----

"Okay," she said quietly. "Tomorrow."

Her inner self was squealing.

Not just smiling. Not just pleased.

Full-on, teenage-girl, jump-up-and-down squealing.

Because he had offered. He didn't have to, and she hadn't asked. But he'd looked at the mess, looked at her, and decided -on his own- that he was coming back.

To help her.

To spend more time here.

With her.

"What time works for you?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

"After three," he said. "Bakery slows down by then."

"Perfect. See you here then."

She watched him move toward the door, her heart doing something stupid and fluttery in her chest.

He paused in the doorway, glancing back at her.

"See you tomorrow," he said.

"See you tomorrow, Bucky."

And then he was gone.

She stood there for a moment, alone in the dusty library, staring at the empty doorway.

Then she let herself smile.

A real one. Big and stupidly happy.

----

The next day, she arrived at the center a little before three, loading her arms with a few supplies she'd grabbed from home: more rags, a bottle of wood polish, and a small speaker because working in silence felt oppressive.

The library door was already propped open when she got there.

She stopped in the doorway.

Bucky was inside, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, moving one of the heavier boxes they'd left stacked in the corner yesterday. Two older men were with him. One she recognized as Tom from the time she went to the center to see the place, the other she didn't know.

"Afternoon," Tom said, spotting her first. He was holding a stack of books, squinting at the spines like he was trying to decide if any were worth keeping.

"Hi," she said, stepping inside and setting her things down on the desk.

Bucky glanced up briefly, gave her a short nod, and went back to what he was doing.

The other man, older than Tom, with a thick white mustache and still bright green eyes, looked her up and down.

"So you're the one organizing all this?" he asked.

"That's me."

He grunted. "About time someone did. I’m George. This place has been a mess since Ed kicked the bucket."

"George," Tom said, his tone mildly reproachful.

"What? It's true."

She bit back a smile. "Well, hopefully it'll be in better shape soon."

George muttered something under his breath and went back to sorting through a pile of outdated magazines.

Bucky straightened, brushing dust off his hands, and finally looked at her properly.

"You bring the whole hardware store?" he asked, nodding toward her bag.

"Just the essentials," she said lightly. "Figured we'd need them."

His lips twitched.

Tom clapped his hands together. "All right. What's the plan, boss?"

She blinked. "Boss?"

"You're running this operation," Tom said with a grin. "We're just the muscle."

----

They worked for the next hour.

Tom and George took the bottom shelves, pulling books and deciding what could stay and what needed to go. Bucky handled anything that required lifting or reaching. And she moved between them all, wiping down surfaces and organizing the books they'd already cleaned into neat stacks.

George, it turned out, had opinions. Many opinions.

"This one's garbage," he said, holding up a self-help book. "Threw it across the room halfway through."

"Then why'd you keep reading it?" Tom asked.

"Had to see if it got better. It didn't."

Bucky snorted quietly.

She glanced at him, surprised by the sound, and caught the faint curve of his mouth before it disappeared.

"You read much now, James?" Tom asked, not looking up from the shelf he was sorting.

Bucky hesitated. "Not really. Used to, before-" He stopped himself. "Not much time now."

"Bullshit," George said bluntly. "You've got time. You just don't make it."

Tom shot him a look, but Bucky didn't seem bothered.

"Maybe," he said.

George waved a hand dismissively. "You should read more. Keeps your brain from turning to mush. Especially at your age."

"I'm thirty-six."

"Exactly. Prime mush years."

She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.

Bucky's mouth twitched again.

She watched him, the way he seemed more relaxed here with these two than she'd ever seen him before. He wasn't precisely chatty, but he wasn't shutting down, either.

It was nice.

----

At some point, she and Bucky both moved toward the same narrow gap between the desk and the shelves, carrying things in opposite directions.

They nearly collided.

She stepped left.

He stepped left.

She stepped right.

He stepped right.

Her heart did something stupid in her chest, and she felt her face heat.

Bucky's ears were already red.

For a second, neither of them moved, caught in the awkward limbo of too close and not sure how to fix it.

Then he stopped, stepped deliberately to one side, and gestured with his hand.

"Go ahead," he said, his voice low.

"Thanks," she managed, slipping past him.

Her shoulder brushed his arm.

Just barely.

But enough that she felt it for the next ten minutes.

----

"So," Tom said casually, not looking up from the book he was flipping through. "You settling in okay? House treating you all right?"

"Getting there," she said. "Still a lot to fix, but it's coming together."

"James helped you with a window, didn't he?"

Bucky snapped his head up. "How do you know that?"

Tom grinned. "Small town, son. Dotty told everyone at bingo."

Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.

George snorted. "She also told everyone you're single," he said, looking directly at her.

She blinked, caught off guard. "Oh. I-"

"George," Bucky said, his tone sharp.

George waved him off. "What? It's true, isn't it?"

She felt her face heat slightly, but she managed a small smile. "Yeah. I am."

George leaned back against the shelf, crossing his arms. "That won't do. You're young, easy on the eyes. None of the idiots your age have asked you out yet?"

"I-" She let out a surprised laugh. "I've only been here a few weeks. Haven't really gone out much. Haven't found, you know, an activity to socialize at yet."

"So?" George said, clearly unimpressed. "Even the post office dog knows you're new by now. In my day, someone would've walked right up, introduced themselves, and asked you out or at least offered to show you around."

Tom snorted. "Yeah, well, in our day, people also got married six months into dating."

"And?" George shot back. "Fewer divorces than now."

She bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

Bucky, meanwhile, looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were red, his jaw clenched, and he was staring very hard at the shelf in front of him like it held the secrets of the universe.

Tom grinned at her, clearly enjoying Bucky's discomfort. "Don't mind George, he thinks everyone under seventy is doing life wrong."

"Not wrong," George corrected. "Just slow."

----

They worked in comfortable silence for a while after Tom and George's teasing died down.

She wiped down another shelf, sneaking glances at Bucky when she thought he wasn't looking.

She noted again how he was more relaxed now than she'd seen him at the bakery. Still quiet, still reserved, but there was something different about him here. The way he didn't shut down completely when Tom ribbed him. The way he spoke to them, even making dry comments that could border on rude.

She liked this version of him.

Wanted to see more of it.

By the time they finished, the library looked almost unrecognizable.

The shelves were clean, the books organized by genre, and the donation box had been fully integrated into the collection. There was still work to do -updating the catalog cards, labeling the sections properly- but it was functional now. Usable.

Tom and George had left half an hour ago, citing dinner plans and aching backs, leaving just the two of them to finish up.

She wiped down the last of the shelves, stepping back to admire their work.

"This looks good," she said.

Bucky nodded, leaning against the desk. "Yeah. It does."

She glanced at him.

George's words kept circling back in her head. In my day, someone would've walked right up and asked you out.

Well, why was she waiting for someone else to make the first move?

She was new here, sure, and didn't know many people yet. But that wasn't going to change if she just kept going to buy groceries and working from home. If she wanted to actually live here, not just exist, she had to put herself out there.

She could do this.

She should do this.

What was the worst that could happen? He'd say no, and they'd go back to being friendly neighbors who occasionally ran into each other.

She hesitated. Took a deep breath.

Now or never.

"Hey," she said, turning to face him properly. "I... wanted to ask you something."

He straightened slightly, his shoulders tensing. "Yeah?"

"The other day, you mentioned that bar. Will's?"

His brow furrowed. "Yeah."

"I was thinking..." She bit her lip, suddenly nervous. "I kind of want to check it out. But I don't really want to go alone. You know, being new, walking into a local spot by myself feels... awkward."

He was quiet for a moment.

"You asking me to go with you?" he said finally, watching her like he was trying to figure out if this was real.

"I mean- yeah. If you want." She shrugged, trying to keep it casual. "Just to hang out. Grab a drink. Nothing big."

Bucky's throat worked as he swallowed.

She could see him thinking, could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"When?" he asked.

"Friday? After you close?"

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

Her heart did a little flip.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She smiled, couldn't help it. "Great. I meet you there? Or-"

"I'll pick you up," he said quickly. Then, as if realizing how that sounded- "It's on the way. Doesn't make sense for you to walk there alone."

"Okay," she said softly. "That works."

They stood there for a moment, the air between them feeling heavier somehow.

"So, Friday," she said.

"Friday," he echoed.

----

Bucky walked home in a daze.

He'd said yes.

He'd actually said yes.

What the hell was he thinking?

He wasn't thinking. That was the problem. She'd asked, and he'd just... agreed. Easily. Like, he went out with people all the time.

He hadn't been on anything resembling a date in years.

And okay, technically it wasn't a date. Just hanging out, getting a drink.

But it felt like a date.

Or at least, it felt like something.

He rubbed a hand over his face, his pulse still thrumming uncomfortably in his ears.

Friday.

He had two days to either talk himself out of this or figure out what the hell he was supposed to talk about for more than five minutes. Figure out what he was supposed to wear. Figure out how to not make a complete ass of himself in front of her.

He was fucked.

Next Chapter

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

It’s a date!!! Idc what anyone says! They have a DATE!!!

[imtaashu]

the quiet after!

✦ pairing: bucky barnes x reader ✦ genre: angst, heartbreak, emotional aftermath ✦ summary: sometimes love doesn’t end with a goodbye sometimes it just goes quiet. ✦ warnings: arguments, emotional hurt, silence, vulnerability

✦✦✦✦✦✦

The argument didn’t start loud. That was the worst part it started small. A half-sigh, a clipped tone, something that could have been brushed off if either of them had just breathed instead of breaking.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Bucky’s voice was tight, sharp enough to cut through the quiet of the apartment. He stood near the door, jaw clenched, hands still shaking from the mission that hadn’t gone right. “You think you can just fix everything with a smile and a few soft words?”

You blinked, standing by the counter. “Bucky, I’m not trying to fix anything. I’m just trying to help you.”

“Help me?” he scoffed, laughing bitterly. “You call this helping? Hovering over me, watching every move like I’m some broken thing that’s gonna fall apart?”

Your chest ached at the edge in his tone. “That’s not what I’m doing—”

“Yes, it is!” His voice rose, cracking with the weight of every bottled emotion. “You’re always there, always trying to make me talk, make me feel, make me— hell, I don’t even know anymore!”

You took a small step forward. “Because I care, Bucky. Because I can see you shutting down and I don’t want you to.”

He shook his head, eyes hard and tired. “You care. You care so much you make it about you. You think you’re the only one who’s tired? You think you’re the only one trying?”

That one hit like a slap. You swallowed, blinking through the sting. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snapped, voice rising again. “What’s not fair is you acting like you understand what’s going on in my head. You don’t. You never could.”

Your breath hitched. He’d never said anything that cruel before.

Bucky kept going couldn’t stop. His words were wild, desperate, a man cornered by his own fear. “You think you know me? You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day fighting yourself! You don’t know how exhausting it is being treated like I’m some project that needs saving.”

You stood there, heart cracking one quiet fracture at a time. “I never thought you needed saving.”

“Then why won’t you just leave me alone?”

The silence that followed was deafening. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at him, wide-eyed and trembling, as his words hung heavy between you both.

Your lips parted, like you might speak but nothing came. Just a quiet, broken breath. And then, you smiled. Small. Fragile. The kind of smile that wasn’t forgiveness, just surrender “Okay Bucky” you whispered. Your voice didn’t shake that almost hurt him more.

He frowned, guilt flickering for a second. “Doll, I didn’t—”

But you were already walking away, moving past him without a single glance back. The air around you felt colder with every step you took. You picked up your bag the same one that used to hang on the back of his chair and slung it over your shoulder.

He reached out, half a step forward. “Wait—”

You didn’t stop. You didn’t slam the door. You just closed it softly, like you were afraid of waking a memory.

And then you were gone.

Hours later, the apartment was silent. The kind of silence that buzzed in Bucky’s ears and made the world tilt sideways.

He’d told himself you’d be back that you just needed to cool off. That maybe you’d send a text, or come through the door with that tired look and mutter something about “talking like adults.”

But when he finally pushed open your door, the air felt different. Still. Empty.

The closet was half-open your clothes gone. The bedside table where your favorite book sat was bare. Even the coffee mug you always used the one with the chipped handle he’d teased you about was missing from the sink.

The only thing left was a faint trace of your perfume on the pillow.

Bucky sank down at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and left to echo.

“She’s gone,” he whispered, like maybe saying it out loud would make it less real.

Sam called three times that night. He didn’t answer. Steve knocked once. He didn’t move.

He just sat there, staring at the space where you used to sleep your side of the bed smooth, untouched.

There wasn’t a note. No message. No trace. You’d left the country, maybe he didn’t know. The phone line was dead, your things erased, like you’d vanished from his world completely.

And maybe that’s what broke him most. Not the yelling. Not the silence. But the fact that you hadn’t even bothered to look back.

For once, he had no one to blame but himself.

He pressed a hand over his face, his voice cracking in the dark. “I didn’t mean it, doll,” he whispered, as if the walls might carry it to wherever you were. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

But the walls didn’t answer. And the bed stayed cold.

The last thing he remembered before sleep finally took him was the sound of your voice soft, steady, and final.

“Okay, Bucky.”

And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes wished he hadn’t pushed the one person who made him feel like he was worth staying for.

✦✦✦✦✦✦

💌 tagged babies under the cut 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @boomyoulookingforthis @nvr-land @sebastians-love @lilulicious @themareverine

✨ wanna be spoiled with updates, theories, soft heartbreaks, & forehead-kiss fluff?

➝ just reply here or drop me an ask and I’ll tuck you safely

[imtaashu]

rest of my taglisttt 🫶🏻

@sleepysongbirdsings @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @iyskgd @yanokokuboo @duckyyyx @hzdhrtss @thisissomehowweird @pigeonmama @carolinianmermaid @lovinqbella @kisskittenn @skzieee @ivy-afterglow @eridanidreams @cinnamon-girl-writes @lizzieravenxo @thegirlwhowaited5everok @blaineandergel @hallecarey1 @eridanidreams @scarletkanami @sassandscribbles @phantom-wolf-girl @yourmomoclockit @sapphirewaves @sundanceblog @mathcat345

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

Why you do this?! 😭

[superbassbuck]

super-soldier problems. — [bucky barnes x f!reader]

⚠︎ warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn and absolutely no plot, hyperspermia, creampies, bucky doesn't believe in condoms, blow jobs, facials, bucky trying to be gentle and failing miserably, sensitivity and overstimulation, slightly dom!reader, aftercare, soft!bucky, dirty talk, praising, pet names: "doll" "sweetheart "baby"

a/n: very inaccurate depictions of what the super soldier serum would have an effect on when it comes to sex, but good thing this is all fiction! kind of an addition to my hyperspermia drabble. this is nothing but pure filth. i had to sit in the corner and think abt this one for a bit

word count: 4.6k masterlist

synopsis: After having a girlfriend, Bucky’s finally learning that there is much more that cums with the super-soldier serum than just muscle and strength.

Bucky never saw this coming.

After years of being a super-soldier, he thought he finally had it all figured out; the unlimited stamina, the lack of fatigue, and the sheer strength and muscle that the average person couldn’t obtain in two lifetimes of effort.

But Hydra’s serum never came with a handbook on side effects. Bucky never imagined he’d encounter anything like this—until he met you.

You were the first woman Bucky had dated since coming out of cryofreeze, and he was damn well going to make sure you were the last. Being with you made him open up both emotionally and physically. He let you into his heart and, well... you made the mistake of letting him between your legs.

The first few times you had sex, you assumed his uncontrollable trembling and heavy breathing were just nerves. After all, it had been decades for him. But even buried deep inside you, he always made no effort to move. His muscles strained and his face twisted into a grimace, as if it were taking every ounce of his will just to hold back.

Hold back on what, exactly?

At the time, you didn’t know yet.

“Bucky,” you whispered, resting both hands on his shoulders.

He hovered above you, eyes half-lidded, his bare chest heaving as his strong arms caged you against the mattress. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. We can take our time. It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not that I’m not ready,” Bucky let out a low, agitated groan. “I’m more than ready, doll. I just—fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You frowned slightly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. “You’re doing great, honey. Just… move your hips. Create a little friction, like this—”

You began to rock your hips up against him. Bucky’s head dipped, his arms nearly giving out as he threatened to collapse on top of you. The feel of your tight, silky walls rubbing against him was clearly more than he could handle.

“Fuck—Jesus, baby!” he barked out, his hips twitching involuntarily as he rutted even deeper into you. “Careful—shit, I’m gonna cum if you keep moving like that—”

“I know, baby,” you encouraged. “I want you to cum.”

When your boyfriend—who’s a literal super-soldier—is a panting, trembling mess on top of you, eyes rolled back and babbling filthy words, how could you possibly stop?

Especially since, despite being together for a while, you had yet to actually see him cum.

Determined, you wrapped your legs tight around Bucky’s waist. The sudden movement caused him to lose his balance and topple fully onto you, his weight pressing you into the bed as his cock pushed even deeper. A broken moan tore from your throat as you felt him sink more inside, rocking your hips rhythmically against his.

“Shit, baby—this isn’t good—” Bucky babbled, his hips slowing their movement as he rocked lazily against you. “Fuck… I’m—”

You felt your heart leap into your throat. Every time Bucky was close to cumming, he pulled out at the last second and never let himself finish the job. He’d always excuse himself and run to the bathroom, never saying what for—but he’d always come back with his shoulders a little less tense.

It didn’t take more than one brain cell to piece together that he was finishing on his own in there.

But now, with your legs clamped tight around his waist, you weren’t going to give him the opportunity.

You squeezed your legs tighter, your cunt clenching around his shaft as you felt him pulse. Bucky groaned, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder as his whole body began to shudder and shake against yours.

“Baby, I—I can’t—” Bucky moaned. “I’m gonna cum inside you. I can’t… need to pull out!”

“It’s okay, Buck,” you reassured him against his ear, your hands rubbing up and down his broad back. “I’m on the pill. You can cum inside, baby.”

“Fuck—no, that’s not it…” Bucky grunted, his voice breaking as his breathing grew even heavier. “Fuck… baby. I can’t cum inside you—you can’t take it.”

“Bucky, just do it,” you groaned, ignoring his warning as you ground your hips up one more time.

You didn’t care about his excuses.

All you wanted was to finally feel him come undone inside you.

“Cum inside me, Bucky. I want to feel you. It feels too good to stop now.”

He let out a panicked, strangled sound, his metal hand clenching the bedsheets so hard the fabric began to tear. He tried to lock his arms to push himself up, desperate to pull out before it was too late, but you weren’t having it. You shifted your hips, tilting your pelvis just right to catch the head of his cock, locking your legs tighter around his waist and pulling him back in.

He moaned loudly as he sheathed back into you, the sensation of your tight cunt deliciously squeezing his shaft making his mind go dizzy.

“Wait—baby, no!”

Bucky arched his back as his cock pulsed and throbbed, his head snapping back as his eyes rolled into his head. The wet heat hit your cervix, making you gasp, but it didn’t stop there. He just kept coming, and coming, and your legs felt like jello around him as he kept pumping you full.

Bucky’s body spasmed, his muscles bunching and twitching as the super-soldier serum’s side effect made itself known. He was absolutely flooding you, filling you deep. You felt like you were drowning inside, the hot, thick weight of him filling every spare inch of you. It was too much for your body to hold—the excess began to spill out, slicking your thighs and the bedsheets beneath you as he continued to pulse and pour into you.

He let out a long, broken moan, finally collapsing against your chest as a trembling, sweaty mess.

He looked completely mortified, refusing to look at you as if he expected you to shun him or push him off in disgust.

“I told you,” he rasped, his voice shaky. “I… I’m sorry. Fuck. Let me grab a towel to clean you up—”

“Bucky, wait—”

Before you could even tell him to stay, he quickly scrambled off the bed. He fumbled for his boxers, pulling them up as he ran for the bathroom in a hurry.

While you waited for Bucky to return, you flopped back onto the bed and let out a disbelieving breath. You propped your legs up, tilting your head down to see the “damage” he was so painfully ashamed of—and your heart skipped a beat.

You were a total mess.

His cum was dripping down to your navel from when he had desperately tried to pull away, trailing down to your mound and between your folds. When you lifted your leg a little higher, your cunt made an embarrassing squelch as more of his seed trickled out of you, staining the sheets.

“Oh my god,” you gasped quietly, eyes going wide at just how much he filled you.

Your face went bright red over the fact that he could produce such a… massive load. It was a testament to just how much the serum had changed him, turning him into something more than human, yet vulnerable in the best possible way. Knowing that his body was capable of filling you so completely—of literally overflowing—was the hottest thing you had ever experienced.

Bucky returned, but he wouldn’t even look in the direction of the bed. He moved shamefully, his head hung low and his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to make himself smaller. He had a clean, damp towel in his hand, and he moved to the edge of the mattress without saying a word.

“Bucky…” you spoke softly, reaching out for him.

“Don’t. Just—don’t,” he muttered, his voice cracking. He gently spread your legs to get to the mess, but his eyes stayed fixed on the towel, never once meeting yours.

As he began to wipe you down, he just kept repeating the same words under his breath, like a mantra of shame. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, doll. God, I'm sorry.”

The towel was already becoming saturated, and he had to fold it over twice just to try and catch what was still sluggishly leaking out of you. Every time he moved the cloth, more spilled out, coating his fingers and the sheets. The more he cleaned, the more he seemed to sink into himself.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his face twisting with guilt. “You’re a mess. I... I literally drowned you in it. I told you that you couldn’t take it, and I still let it happen. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, his movements frantic as he tried to clean you up. He was so caught up in his own head, so convinced that he had done something disgusting, that he didn’t even notice you weren’t looking at him with disgust at all.

You reached out, your fingers gently catching his wrist to stop his frantic movements. “Bucky, look at me,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “It’s okay. I promise, I’m okay—”

“No, it’s not okay.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he finally met your eyes. He swallowed hard, his gaze searching yours as if he were expecting you to judge him for what he was about to say.

“It’s the serum,” he confessed. “It doesn’t just make me stronger or faster. My metabolism, my recovery, even this. It’s like my body is constantly over-performing, and working overtime to produce more of everything. It doesn’t matter how much I try to hold back or how many times I go to the bathroom before we start… it’s always like this.”

He looked away, his jaw clenched with embarrassment.

“And it’s not just the physical part. The serum enhances every feeling that’s already inside you. Everything is louder. Every feeling is dialed up to fucking eleven. When I’m with you, and I’m… I’m horny,” he blushed, sheepish. “It’s not just a feeling. It’s feels like a goddamn command. My body just takes over.”

When he finally looked back at you, his blue eyes were watery with guilt, and it made your heart hurt.

“Especially because it’s you. I love you so much, and that love just feeds the serum. It makes me want you so bad I can’t breathe, and then my body reacts by… by doing this to you. I’m a super soldier, doll. I’m supposed to have discipline. But when I’m inside you, I’ve got none.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to keep eye contact. You didn’t care about the mess all over your body and the sheets; you just wanted him to see that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Bucky, listen to me,” you pressed, thumb swiping over his cheek gently. “I don’t want your discipline. I want you—all of you.”

You leaned in closer, your voice turning into a comforting whisper.

“And if you want my honest opinion, I think it’s incredibly hot. Knowing that you want me so much that your body literally overflows. It makes me feel wanted in a way I can’t even describe—”

Bucky flinched slightly, his face getting even redder. He broke contact by looking down at the sheets in denial. “You’re just saying that to be kind. You’re covered in me, doll. I ruined the bed. I practically drowned you. There’s nothing ‘hot’ about losing control like a—” he grimaced, “—pervert.”

“Okay…” you took a careful breath, trying for a different angle. “What if we found a way to make you feel more in control? Something to try to contain it?"

He glanced at you, wary. “Like what?”

“We could start using condoms,” you suggested softly. “The heavy-duty kind. It would catch everything, Bucky. It stays inside the latex, so there’s no mess, and no reason for you to feel like you have to run to the bathroom the second you’re done. Then after we have sex, we could just lay together instead of having to worry about staining the sheets. Would that make you feel more comfortable?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“We could at least try it?”

Bucky stayed quiet, his eyes drifting down to the towel in his hand. You could see the gears turning as he considered the idea of a physical barrier—something to keep his “situation” under wraps so he could focus on you instead of his own anxiety.

But the truth was—he hated that he even had to consider this.

Internally, every heightened cell in his body recoiled at the idea of a barrier—even if it was something as flimsy as a condom.

The serum didn’t just make him produce more; it made him feel more.

Every nerve ending made him sensitive, making the sensation of being inside you an all-consuming experience. His mind couldn’t fathom putting a layer of latex between himself and your warmth. He lived for the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him, the friction of skin-on-skin, and the way he could feel every internal pulse of your climax against his own. To him, a condom felt like a cage, a dulling of the one thing that made him feel truly alive and connected to his humanity.

But when he looked down at the towel—stained with the evidence of his own lack of control—the shame came roaring back harder.

He couldn’t keep doing this to you— drowning you, staining everything, making the room reek of sex, and then hiding in the bathroom like a pathetic, wounded animal.

“Yeah,” he lied, forcing a smile. “Yeah, doll. If that makes you feel better… if it keeps things cleaner… then we’ll use ‘em.”

He reached out and squeezed your hand, his metal fingers careful and gentle, hiding the fact that his body was already mourning the loss of the direct contact he craved. He’d trade his own pleasure for a bit of his dignity back if it meant he didn’t have to see you covered in his ‘freakish’ excess ever again.

“We’ll try it your way,” he whispered, leaning in to press a lingering, bittersweet kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it takes to keep me from making a mess out of you.”

A few days had passed, and the heavy-duty box of condoms sat on the nightstand like a silent mediator between his shame and your desire.

Now, with the lights dimmed, Bucky was over you again. But everything felt wrong. To his enhanced senses, the thin layer of latex felt like a suit of armor. He was moving into you, but the friction wasn’t the same. He couldn’t directly feel the small flutters of your muscles or the exact texture of your silkiness that usually drove him mad.

It was driving him towards a different kind of frustration—a sensory deprivation that made him groan in irritation.

“You okay?” you asked softly through a moan as he rutted into you.

“Fine,” he grunted, his thrusts diving deeper into you, desperate for that satisfaction.

Bucky grabbed your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder as he repositioned himself. One strong, flesh arm tensed next to your head while the other whirred in its vibranium casing. He angled your hip so he could fuck even deeper into you, your back arching as the tip of his cock hit your sweet spot.

“Oh, fuck! Bucky—!”

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, his hips moving at an uneven, frantic pace. “If you keep crying out like that, I’m gonna cum.”

The condom suddenly felt excruciatingly tight, stretching to its limit as he felt himself begin to pulse. His body shuddered as his cum started to balloon the latex; the sensation of that extreme stretch made him panic.

He couldn’t stay inside. The pressure was simply too much.

The rubber wasn’t going to hold.

“Shit—I can’t—”

You felt his hips pull away, and you wrapped your arms tighter around his back, whimpering as you tried to hold him, but it was no use. “Buck—stay inside, please—”

And with a groan, Bucky pulled out at the last possible second.

He collapsed onto his knees between your legs, his breath ragged and hitching desperately. The condom was dangerously full, the reservoir tip engorged and already starting to seep at the base from just pumping it full.

He couldn’t stop. His hands flew down, his fingers—both vibranium and flesh—wrapping around himself over the slipping latex. He began to stroke himself with quick, heavy pumps, the sensation of cumming so much making him painfully sensitive—his body couldn’t help but crave more. His back arched, and he gasped as he watched his own seed continue to flood the condom, spilling over the rim and coating his knuckles as it dripped down on the bed.

You could only pant, watching him finish himself off right in front of you.

He looked like a wreck, his eyes rolled back and his chest heaving. Even with the latex in the way, the release was still so intense, it was dripping out of the condom and making the room smell like the musky scent of sweat and sex.

Bucky let out a long, jagged exhale that sounded more like a snarl than a breath.

“Fuck,” he rasped, irritated. He didn’t look at you—he just stared at his hands, watching the excess drip onto the sheets he had tried so hard to keep clean. “I knew it. I knew the goddamn condom wouldn’t hold.”

You swallowed hard, sitting up and reaching for him, but he pulled away. He didn’t seem sad this time. Instead, his shoulders were shaking with the frustration of himself and the entire situation.

“Honey, please—”

“I knew it wasn’t going to work,” he snapped. His blue eyes were dark, blown out with frustration. “I told you. I told you it was too much for a piece of rubber, and I just fucking embarrassed myself in front of you again.”

He gestured wildly at the mess—the leaking latex and the white streaks dirtying his vibranium fingers.

“I couldn’t even feel you, doll. I was suffocating in that thing, and I still ended up making a mess of everything anyway.” He let out an agitated sigh. “It’s a joke. The whole thing is a joke. I’m trying to make love to you like a normal partner should—trying to be a goddamn gentleman—and I just end up looking like a fucking animal jerking himself off on the bed because I can’t even stay inside my own girlfriend.”

You were starting to get tired of him apologizing for something that made your blood sing, tired of him treating his own body like a broken weapon instead of a source of pleasure. He was so busy being angry at the mess that he was completely missing the fact that you were practically fawning over him because of this.

Instead of arguing or trying to soothe his ego with words you already knew he wouldn’t listen to, you decided to show him exactly what you thought about his ‘problem’.

You sat up and crawled towards him, your legs finding his waist as you toppled yourself over him. Bucky was so caught off guard, so deep in his self-loathing, that he didn’t even resist as you forced him down against the pillows.

“Sweetheart—what are you—!”

“It’s always about what you think, Bucky,” you said.

Your hand reached down, your fingers sliding down his stomach and fingers grazing gently against his half-hard, half-soft, cock. “You’re so busy deciding for me that this is ‘disgusting’ or ‘wrong,’ but you never once stopped to even consider what I think.”

Bucky’s breathing grew heavier at the sight of you on top of him, his flesh hand coming up to hover over your waist, unsure if he should pull you closer or push you away. “Doll, look at me. I’m a mess.”

“Yeah,” you sighed wistfully, taunting. “But not nearly as messy as I want you to be.”

Your hands found the base of the condom, pulling it off in one quick swipe. It popped off the head of his cock, and his dick sprang free, sending the cum pooling out of the rubber and onto his shaft, his pelvis, his thighs, and the sheets.

“Jesus—baby! No! It’s getting everywhere!”

Without another word, you leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth, your tongue immediately swirling through the thick, salty cream of his seed.

Bucky’s entire body jolted at the feel of your warm tongue caressing his tip. A broken, high-pitched moan escaped his throat as his back arched off the bed. His fingers tangled into your hair—not to pull you away, but to hold you there in sheer disbelief.

You sucked him deep, your throat working to swallow the heavy pulsing of his cock, making it clear with every wet, hungry sound that you didn’t just want him—you wanted all of him.

Even the parts he was afraid of.

He was trembling underneath you, the frustration and shame finally melting away into helpless surrender.

“Fuuuck,” he whined, tossing his head back against the pillow.

The sound was a complete contrast to the angry, frustrated man he had been just seconds ago. Encouraged by his moans, you swirled your tongue around the sensitive veins of his shaft, lapping at the leftover seed from before.

Because he had just finished, his nerve endings were painfully sensitive and overstimulated. Every wet slide of your lips felt like an electric shock to his system. His metal hand clamped onto the headboard, the wood creaking under his vibranium grip, while his flesh hand stayed buried in your hair.

“Doll, it’s—too much,” he gasped, though his hips stuttered upward in a helpless, jerky motion. “I’m too sensitive... I just... god, I can’t breathe.”

He was hyper-responsive, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Despite his own pleas, he didn’t pull you away—and he didn’t want to.

The sensation of you worshiping the very thing he’d been ready to hide, and the feeling of your mouth swallowing every last remaining drop, was overwhelming his brain. Every time your lips hit the base of his cock, or your cheeks hollowed out to take it all in, it elicited a sharp, broken sob from his throat.

And when you looked up at him— your lips glistening and chin smeared with his seed—and gave him a slow, hooded stare, he felt like he was going to collapse right then and there.

“Shit, baby. Take it out… out of your mouth. Fuck.”

Bucky’s hands shook as they tightened in your hair, trying to tug you away, desperate to spare you from what was about to come. But you were determined, your hands locking onto his thighs to keep him in place.

You had made a silent promise to yourself to take every bit of him, and once the first thick pulse hit the back of your throat, Bucky’s protests instantly dissolved into a moaning mess.

He felt as if his entire body were on fire; his mind and vision spun in circles. The feeling of your wet lips suctioning around the base of his shaft and your warm tongue pressed against the heaviness of his cock was all too much.

He lifted his head off the pillow, watching your throat work rhythmically as you tried to keep up with his pace. Seeing you so dedicated to him—seeing your cheeks stretch and your eyes water as you refused to let a single drop go to waste—did something to his heart.

“Fuck… baby,” Bucky rasped. “Look at you… you’re taking everything.”

As he watched you through hazy eyes, he realized just then how good it felt to be taken like this.

To have his flaws not only accepted, but also devoured.

Eventually, the volume of his cum became too much. You gasped, pulling back as you began to choke on the thick, salty heat, and as soon as his cock was free of your mouth with a wet pop, the pressure sent his seed nearly spraying across your face. It painted your cheeks, your chin, and even caught your eyelashes as he continued to pulse.

Bucky was spent, his muscles twitching as his chest heaved. “Fuck.”

He should have felt ashamed for cumming too much again. He should have ran to the bathroom like he always did, grab a towel, and clean you up.

But as he watched his seed slowly trail down your cheek—a thick white contrast against your flushed skin—he couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to. You were panting, your lips parted and glistening, looking like a beautiful, sultry masterpiece he had personally painted himself.

“My god,” he breathed, his voice gravelly.

Bucky reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your jaw. His thumb moved slowly as he smeared a streak of his mark across your cheekbone.

For the first time, he didn’t want to clean you; he wanted to look at you like this for hours—covered in his love.

“I thought I was making a mess of you.” he whispered, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. “But you look... god, you look perfect like this.”

Bucky’s heart leaped in his chest as he watched you lick your lips, tasting him. Then you gave him a soft yet sultry smile that finally shattered what little defense he had left.

“I love it, Bucky,” you whispered. "I love every bit of you—especially the mess.”

You leaned back slightly, tilting your head as the light from the table lamp caught the white streaks on your skin. “Besides,” you teased, your a little playful and teasing. “Don’t I look so pretty, marked by you?”

Bucky’s breath hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest at your words. He had never thought of seeing it this way, but witnessing the way you batted your lashes, your face dirtied with his release—it was as if the question had uncovered something dirty deep inside him.

The shy, apologetic man was gone, replaced by a man who wanted nothing more than to paint his partner with his love.

His vibranium hand came up to slide behind your neck, his cool fingers tangling in your hair to hold you steady as his eyes took in your debauched face. Meanwhile, his flesh hand cupped your jaw, giving it a firm squeeze as he watched your pearly lips pucker.

“Pretty doesn’t even cover it,” he rasped, his eyes dark and possessive. “You look like you belong to me. And if you’re tellin’ me you like it... if you’re tellin’ me you want this...”

He parted your mouth with his thumb, his own seed already slicking his digit as he pushed past your lips. Bucky let out a deep, shuddering exhale as he watched you instinctively twirl your tongue around his thumb, the way your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked on him.

“If this is what you really want, then I’ll give it to you, baby. Every time—I’ll give it all to you. And from now on, I expect you to take it all.” He pulled his thumb back slowly, watching the strand of saliva and seed stretch between his hand and your lips.

“And you will take it all, right?”

You nodded, eyes hazy with lust and love. “I will.”

no words. thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!

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[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

Bucky pleaseeeee paint me like the whore I am!

[semper-nox]

Summary: Bucky, shaped by a respectful upbringing and war's harsh lessons, has recovered from HYDRA's control and fallen deeply in love with you, a cute, innocent SHIELD agent. Your relationship blends tender and reverent intimacy, but something in you yearns for more.

Wordcount: 5.8k

Warnings: MDNI, romance, pwp, oral sex (m receiving), cum swallowing, facial, dom/sub, BDSM elements, degradation kink, emotional vulnerability, alleyway sex, public risk, semi-public, alcohol influence, loving relationship, mentions of prostitution, some mentions of religious comparisons.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (no use of y/n, but there are some minor physical details)

A/N: my good friend @metal-armed-muse needed something for her morale, and I happened to have a little something around...

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James Buchanan Barnes grew up in the shadow of a father who held unyielding beliefs in the virtues of good manners and profound respect for women. 

It was evident in every tender gesture toward Mrs. Barnes, Bucky's mother - a woman whose soft smiles and quiet strength commanded the household like a gentle queen. George Barnes opened doors for her without fail, pulled out chairs at the dinner table with a polite flourish, and spoke to her in a voice laced with admiration, as if she were the most precious artifact in their modest Brooklyn home. 

He never raised his hand in anger, never uttered a harsh word; instead, he treated her with a reverence that made young Bucky watch and learn, absorbing these lessons like the ink on the pages of his schoolbooks.

So it was that Bucky, the kind-hearted Bucky of the pre-war 1940s, carried this legacy into his own budding romances. 

With his girlfriends, he was the epitome of chivalry, a young man whose blue eyes sparkled with genuine warmth and whose calloused hands - earned from odd jobs around the neighborhood - handled them with the care of fragile porcelain. 

He walked them home under the dim glow of streetlamps, arm linked lightly with theirs, listening intently to their laughter and dreams without interruption. On dates at the local soda fountain, he'd slide a milkshake across the Formica counter with a shy grin, insisting she take the first sip, his fingers brushing hers just enough to send a subtle thrill through the air. 

Kisses were stolen only with permission, soft and lingering on doorsteps, his lips pressing against theirs with a restraint that spoke of deep-seated honor rather than unchecked desire. Bucky Barnes didn't paw or grope; he adored, he cherished, treating each girl as if she were a vision straight from the silver screen, worthy of poetry and protection in a world teetering on the edge of uncertainty.

And yet, when those rare moments arose where his girlfriends allowed him to venture beyond the innocence of a single kiss, Bucky remained the perfect gentleman, his touch guided by an innate sense of boundaries and consent. 

In the dim seclusion of a parked car under a canopy of stars or the hushed privacy of a bedroom with curtains drawn against the prying eyes of Brooklyn's bustling streets, he moved with deliberate slowness, his hands exploring only as far as whispered permissions permitted. 

Fingers traced collarbones with feather-light precision, lips trailed along necks in patterns of reverence rather than conquest, and any undressing was a mutual unveiling, clothes slipping away like secrets shared in trust. 

He never pushed, never demanded; instead, he savored the warmth of skin against skin, the soft sighs that escaped her lips, ensuring her pleasure preceded his own, his body a vessel of protection even in vulnerability. Bucky Barnes made love like he lived - honorably, with eyes locked in silent affirmation, leaving his partners feeling cherished, not claimed.

But the war shattered those illusions of a world built on such civility. 

Thrust into the chaos of battlefields across Europe, Bucky learned firsthand that not all men were cut from the same cloth as his father. He saw soldiers - good men turned feral by fear and fatigue - treat women in liberated towns with a roughness that curdled his stomach, grabbing and groping as if entitlement came with their uniforms. 

It hardened something in him, a quiet disillusionment that simmered beneath his sniper's steady aim. 

And then there were the brothels, those shadowy havens tucked into the underbelly of war-torn cities, where women of pleasure offered fleeting escapes from the roar of artillery and the stench of mud-soaked trenches. Painted lips and silk stockings in smoke-filled rooms, laughter laced with desperation - these were the sirens calling to weary soldiers seeking solace in flesh. 

Bucky, on leave with Steve or alone in the haze of exhaustion, sometimes crossed those thresholds, his dog tags clinking softly as he paid for an hour of anonymity. 

Even there, though, his respect held firm; he spoke kindly, met their eyes without judgment, his hands gentle on curves bought and sold, drawing out moans not through force but through attentive caresses that blurred the line between transaction and tenderness. He left tips folded discreetly, a nod to the humanity they all shared amid the carnage, never lingering to boast or belittle.

Then came the fall - the train plummeting through the Alps, snow whipping like vengeful ghosts as Bucky tumbled into oblivion, his last thought a desperate grip on Steve's outstretched hand. 

HYDRA claimed him after that, twisting his mind and body into the Winter Soldier, a weapon forged in ice and electroshock, cryogenically frozen between missions like a relic in a tomb. Decades blurred into nightmares: assassinations in the cold, wipes that erased Bucky Barnes layer by layer, leaving only the ghost of obedience. 

Until Steve found him again, post-Accords, pulling him from the wreckage of his fractured life with that unyielding loyalty that had survived wars and winters alike. 

Wakanda became salvation - vibranium arms reforged, the Panther's healers unraveling the red tendrils of control from his brain, session after grueling session until the triggers dissolved like mist in the sun. 

Forgiveness followed, tentative at first: from Steve's steadfast gaze, from the world's wary acceptance, and slowly from within, as Bucky pieced together the man he'd been before the fall. The compound in Wakanda, with its lush hidden vibrancy, gave him space to breathe, to remember the boy from Brooklyn who opened doors and whispered affections.

And then, there was you - the SHIELD agent, cute in your unassuming way, with freckles dusting your cheeks like stars on a clear night and eyes that sparkled with an innocence the world hadn't yet fully tarnished. Funny, too, your quips cutting through briefings like sunlight piercing clouds, drawing reluctant smiles from even the most stoic operatives. 

You crossed paths during a joint op, your quick wit disarming tensions in the field, your presence a reminder of softer things amid the tactical chatter and gleaming tech. 

Bucky noticed you first in the SHIELD hub, post-mission debriefs where you'd fidget with your tablet, stealing glances that lingered just a beat too long. There was something disarming about your laugh, light and unforced, pulling at the threads of his guarded heart. 

In quiet moments between assignments - shared coffee in the mess hall, your stories of botched training exercises making him chuckle for the first time in months - he found himself drawn in, the gentlemanly instincts of old resurfacing like muscle memory.

It didn't take long for Bucky to fall in love with you, his heart - a battered fortress rebuilt brick by brick in Wakanda's quiet healing - surrendering almost without a fight. From those initial stolen glances across the SHIELD briefing room, where your laughter echoed like a melody he'd long forgotten, to the late-night walks through the compound's shadowed corridors, sharing stories of resilience and loss, he found himself captivated. 

Your innocence wasn't naivety but a resilient spark, unquenched by the agency's harsh realities, and your humor wove through his defenses like sunlight through storm clouds. 

He watched you move with an effortless grace, your fingers tapping rhythms on mission reports, your eyes lighting up during tactical discussions, and each moment etched itself into him deeper than any scar from his past.

By some miracle he couldn't quite fathom - perhaps the same twist of fate that had spared him from the train's fatal plunge, or the divine intervention of Steve's unyielding friendship - you returned his feelings. 

It unfolded gradually, in the subtle ways of two souls recognizing their match: a brush of hands during a shared briefing that lingered, your gaze holding his across a crowded mess hall, the way you'd seek him out after simulations, your voice softening as you asked about his day. 

When you finally confessed, under the stars that blanketed the horizon like a velvet shroud, your words tumbled out with that same funny lilt, cheeks flushing as you admitted you'd been waiting for him to catch up. Bucky's response was a quiet vow, his vibranium hand cupping your face with infinite care, pulling you into an embrace that promised eternity.

He thanked the Lord every day for placing you in his path, a silent prayer whispered in the hush of dawn as he watched you sleep beside him, your chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. You were his redemption, his anchor in the storm of memories, and he revered every inch of ground you tread upon, as if your footsteps sanctified the earth. In your presence, the ghosts of brothels and battlefields faded, replaced by a profound gratitude that swelled in his chest like a hymn.

When Bucky made love to you, it was akin to a pious man offering prayer - slow, deliberate, infused with unwavering devotion. 

In the dim glow of your shared quarters, curtains drawn against the world's intrusions, he would approach you with the reverence of entering a sacred space. His lips would meet yours first, not in haste but in a gentle press that deepened gradually, tongues brushing with respectful exploration, savoring the taste of you like holy wine. He’d kiss along your jawline, down the column of your throat, each contact soft and lingering, his breath warm against your skin as he would murmur words of adoration - You're everything, My light - his voice a low rumble of sincerity.

His hands, one flesh and one unyielding metal tempered by Wakandan ingenuity, would touch you as one might handle a priceless masterpiece, with profound admiration and exquisite delicacy. Fingers would trace the curve of your shoulders, slipping the straps of your shirt down with patient ease, exposing skin to the cool air before warming it with his palms. 

He would peel away layers methodically, worshipping the reveal of your breasts, his thumbs circling nipples that hardened under his gaze, drawing forth soft gasps that he would answer with kisses to each peak, sucking lightly, tongue flicking in tender rhythm. 

Lower still, he’d map the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, unhooking fastenings and easing fabric aside until you lay bare before him, his eyes drinking in every detail - the freckles across your abdomen, the soft thatch between your thighs - with eyes that held no possession, only awe.

Bucky would position himself above you, his body a shield of muscle honed by wars and workouts, yet he’d enter you with the slowness of a ritual, his cock - thick and pulsing with restrained need - pressing against your entrance, waiting for your nod, your whispered “yes.” 

Inch by inch, he would slide inside your pussy, walls clenching around him in welcoming heat, his groans muffled against your neck as he would fill you completely, pausing to let you adjust, to let the connection settle like roots in fertile soil. He’d move then, thrusts measured and deep, hips rolling in a devotional cadence that built pleasure layer by layer - grinding against your clit with each forward motion, his hand slipping between you to rub circles that matched your rising breaths. 

Sweat would bead on his brow, his metal fingers interlacing with yours, grounding you both as ecstasy crested, your body arching into his, cries spilling free while he would chase your release first, only spilling his own cum inside you when your shudders peaked, holding you through the afterwaves with kisses that sealed the prayer.

In those moments, Bucky was utterly yours - devoted, respectful, a lover who cherished every sigh, every tremble, ensuring you felt adored beyond measure.

But there was one thing Bucky absolutely hadn't anticipated: you loved his gentle, respectful side, the way he handled you like a fragile treasure, every touch laced with devotion. 

Yet, deep down, you craved more - you yearned to see him let go, to watch those buried instincts, raw and primal from decades of suppressed violence, surge to the surface and claim you without restraint. 

It happened on a night that seemed no different from the others at first, the Avengers and a handful of SHIELD agents deciding to unwind with drinks at a dimly lit bar tucked away from the city's glare. Laughter spilled out from the open door, glasses clinking amid stories of narrow escapes and inside jokes, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and camaraderie.

You'd only sipped one drink - a crisp lager that fizzed lightly on your tongue - nowhere near enough to blur your edges or loosen your inhibitions into drunken haze. Just a subtle warmth blooming in your chest, enough to steel your nerves for what you'd been fantasizing about in quiet moments. 

As the group settled into their booth, you caught Bucky's eye across the table, his blue gaze steady and affectionate, a small smile tugging at his lips when you brushed your knee against his under the wood. Without a word, you slipped your hand into his, fingers interlacing with that familiar mix of warm flesh and cool vibranium, and tugged him toward the exit. 

He followed without question, his brow furrowing slightly in curiosity, the noise of the bar fading as you led him into the alley beside it.

The space was narrow and shadowed, illuminated only by the faint spill of neon from the bar's sign and a distant streetlamp that cast long, jagged silhouettes across the cracked pavement. 

Stacks of wooden beer barrels loomed like silent sentinels, providing a makeshift barrier from any prying eyes, though the muffled hum of voices from inside reminded you how close the others were - just a wall away. The air hung cooler here, carrying the tang of damp brick and faint garbage, but it only heightened the thrill pulsing through you. 

You turned to Bucky, your heart racing not from fear but from the electric anticipation of pushing him toward that edge.

With a gentle but firm push, you pressed him back against the rough wall, the bricks scraping lightly against his jacket. He didn't resist, his body yielding to yours, eyes widening in surprise as you sank to your knees before him, the gravel biting into your skin through your jeans. 

The position felt vulnerable yet empowering, your face level with the bulge already straining against his pants, a testament to how attuned he was to your every mood. You looked up at him, your expression the picture of innocence - wide eyes sparkling under the low light, freckles dusting your cheeks like stars, lips parted in that soft, angelic way - but a mischievous glint danced in your gaze, a silent promise of the storm you intended to unleash.

"Will you do something for me?" you asked, your voice light and sweet, carrying that familiar lilt of humor even now, as if this were just another playful request amid your shared life.

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the column of his throat, the sound audible in the quiet alley. Distrust flickered in his eyes - not of you, never of you - but of the raw hunger stirring in his gut, the one he'd kept leashed forever. 

He nodded once, a jerky motion, his flesh hand clenching at his side while the metal one flexed against the wall.

"Will you ruin my mouth?" The words slipped from you like a dare wrapped in velvet, innocent tone clashing with the filthy plea, your hands already reaching for his belt, fingers deftly unbuckling the leather with a soft clink that echoed off the bricks.

Bucky's mind short-circuited in an instant, a surge of conflicting impulses crashing through him like a live wire. 

What you were asking for - it was the kind of thing he'd been drilled from boyhood not to crave, not to impose on a woman, especially not one he held as sacred as you. 

Ladies deserved elevation, protection, not this raw descent into base urges that clawed at the edges of his control. 

Yet, as your fingers danced over the button of his jeans, popping it free with a soft click that reverberated in the shadowed alley, his resolve began to fracture. The zipper followed, rasping downward inch by inch under your touch, and suddenly his thoughts spiraled into forbidden territory.

He pictured it vividly; your soft lips parting to envelop his cock, the wet heat of your mouth sliding over the swollen head, surrounding him in a tight, velvet grip that would pull groans from his depths he hadn't voiced since the war's forgotten nights. The image seared into his brain, making his shaft twitch against the fabric barrier, thickening with a rush of blood that left him aching. 

Panic flickered in his chest; he slammed both hands flat against the cold brick wall behind him, palms pressing hard into the rough texture, vibranium fingers digging grooves into the mortar. He couldn't risk touching you - not yet - afraid that if he did, he'd seize your hair in a vise-like hold, yank you forward, and thrust without mercy, unleashing the soldier's brutality he'd buried under layers of redemption.

You didn't rush, though. Kneeling there in the dim glow, your breath ghosted over the thin cotton of his boxer briefs, and then your lips brushed against it in feather-light kisses, tracing the outline of his erection through the material. Each press was teasing, deliberate, sending jolts of pleasure straight to his core, the anticipation coiling tighter in his gut. 

A low, involuntary moan escaped him, ragged and deep, echoing faintly off the stacked barrels nearby, his hips shifting forward on instinct before he caught himself.

"Will you?" you asked again, your voice a sultry whisper laced with that innocent mischief, eyes locked on his from below, wide and expectant.

He couldn't form words - his throat tightened, breath hitching - but a guttural sound tore from him anyway, half-growl, half-plea, raw and animalistic in the quiet night. It wasn't coherent, not by any stretch, yet you understood it perfectly, that fractured affirmation hanging between you like a promise sealed in the dark.

With Bucky trembling in the grip of his own unraveling restraint, you approached him with deliberate tenderness, determined not to overwhelm the man whose world was already tilting on its axis. 

Your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, easing the fabric aside just enough to free his cock from its confines. It sprang forth rigid and throbbing, the thick shaft veined and pulsing with urgent need, the swollen head already glistening with a bead of precum that caught the faint alley light like a forbidden pearl, shimmering even in the enveloping shadows.

You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his heated skin, and parted your lips to take the tip into your mouth with the softest suction, your tongue swirling gently around the sensitive crown to lap at the salty essence leaking from the slit. 

The flavor burst on your taste buds - musky and primal - drawing a deep, shuddering moan from Bucky's chest, the sound fracturing into a desperate prayer muttered under his breath, invoking saints long forgotten from his Brooklyn days, though he couldn't name which one now.

He had never experienced this before, not once, not even in the dim, transactional haze of those wartime brothels where women offered their mouths for a fleeting escape from the carnage. Those encounters had been mechanical, detached, but this - your willing devotion, the velvet slide of your lips sealing around him - was something transcendent, a divine unraveling that clawed at his sanity. 

His hips jerked involuntarily, a low whine escaping as stars exploded behind his clenched eyelids, his mind fracturing under the onslaught of sensation that he'd denied himself for so long.

In that suspended moment, clarity pierced the fog of his ecstasy: he knew, with a certainty that rooted deep in his bones, that he could never refuse you this again. The man who had always held firm, who insisted on your pleasure first - fingers and tongue lavishing attention on your folds until you shattered around him, his own release a distant afterthought - found his resolve crumbling irreparably. 

From now on, your whispered request for his cock in your mouth would be his undoing, a surrender he would crave as much as he would fear.

As you eased him deeper into the wet heat of your mouth, inch by inch along the rigid length of his cock, Bucky shattered. The velvet suction enveloped more of his throbbing shaft, your tongue pressing flat against the underside to trace the prominent vein that pulsed with every frantic beat of his heart. A guttural groan tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained, as the last threads of his composure snapped like brittle wire under too much strain.

His flesh hand - warm, callused from years of both gentle caresses and brutal fights - descended to your head, fingers threading into your hair with a tentative grip. He didn't yank or guide; it was a desperate anchor, a way to tether himself to reality as the world spun into a haze of overwhelming pleasure, his metal arm braced against the alley wall to keep his body from buckling entirely.

You withdrew slowly, lips dragging along his slick skin until only the tip remained, then released him with a soft pop. A sly smile curved your mouth as you pressed feather-light kisses along the full length of his cock, from the glistening head down to the base where it met his heavy balls, each peck leaving a trail of saliva that cooled in the night air. 

“Yeah, just like that, Buck,” you murmured against his heated flesh, voice husky with encouragement. “Hold me. Tell me what you want.”

Bucky choked on a ragged breath, the words lodging in his throat like shrapnel. 

Tell you what he wanted? 

The question alone ignited a firestorm in his mind - he barely knew where to begin, the desires he'd buried under layers of restraint now surging to the surface in a chaotic flood. His cock twitched against your lips, leaking another drop of precum that you licked away with a teasing flick of your tongue, drawing another stifled whimper from him.

Undeterred, you enveloped him once more, taking his cock back into the welcoming cavern of your mouth until the head nudged the back of your throat. 

But this time, you held still, lips sealed tight around his girth, tongue lax and unmoving, your eyes locking onto his with a challenging glint in the dim light. 

The ball was in his court now - if he craved release, if he burned to chase that edge toward oblivion, he'd have to act on your command. He'd have to thrust into you, fuck your mouth with abandon, let his cock batter your throat until tears pricked your eyes and his hips stuttered with the force of it. 

The alley's shadows seemed to close in, amplifying the tension, his ragged pants the only sound breaking the hush as he teetered on the brink of surrender.

“God... Doll, I-I can't…” Bucky rasped, his voice fracturing into a hoarse plea that echoed off the alley's damp brick walls. The words barely escaped before your mouth vibrated around his cock, a low hum emanating from your throat as you held him deep, the subtle tremor sending shockwaves through his rigid length. 

He couldn't tell if it was that insistent buzz, your unyielding stillness, or the relentless barrage of images flooding his mind - visions of your lips stretched wide, throat working to accommodate him, eyes watering from the depth - that finally broke him. Whatever the trigger, his hips jerked forward in a tentative thrust, the head of his cock nudging against the soft barrier of your throat.

At first, the motion was agonizingly slow, a gentle slide in and out that spoke of his ingrained restraint, each withdrawal pulling him almost free before easing back in with the care one might handle fragile glass. His flesh hand remained tangled in your hair, fingers clenching but not commanding, as if even now, on the precipice of unraveling, he feared crossing some invisible line. 

But that languid rhythm - too measured, too polite - built a pressure that bordered on torment rather than the sweet release he craved. It teased the edge of ecstasy without granting it, his balls tightening with unmet need, precum leaking steadily onto your tongue.

Then, his instincts surged like a dam bursting after decades of suppression. 

The vibranium hand, cool and unyielding, joined its counterpart, metal fingers weaving into your hair alongside the warm ones. He tugged sharper than intended, drawing you forward onto his cock with a sudden pull that buried him deeper, the girth stretching your jaw as it breached your throat. 

Panic flickered in his eyes - he started to murmur an apology, lips parting to beg forgiveness for the roughness - but the sound died as a muffled moan vibrated from you, the pleasure in it humming straight through his shaft and into his core. Your body responded eagerly, throat relaxing to take him, the sound a clear signal of encouragement that silenced his doubt.

His gaze locked onto yours, darkened to near black with a storm of desire, long-buried fantasies clawing their way free - images of claiming you without apology, of driving into your mouth until you gagged and gasped, of unleashing the primal urges he'd chained since the war. Impulses he'd never believed himself capable of, born from the shadows of his past, now burned bright in that stare. 

Yet your eyes met his with unwavering love, a liberating warmth that absolved him, indulgent and inviting, urging him to let go.

“Fuck…” The curse slipped out, low and guttural, a word he'd never uttered in the heat of intimacy before - not with the women from his pre-war days, not in the fleeting encounters after, not even in the quiet nights of recovery. 

It hung in the air between you, raw and unfiltered, as his hips snapped forward again, harder this time, the alley's shadows swallowing the wet sounds of his cock fucking your mouth with growing abandon.

And then, it was as if a dam had shattered within him, unleashing a torrent he'd held back for lifetimes. Words tumbled from Bucky's lips in a rush of raw, filthy praise, his voice a gravelly growl that filled the narrow alley. 

“Jesus, doll, your mouth... it's fuckin' heaven wrapped around my cock,” he groaned, the obscenity shocking even him as it spilled out. 

“That hot tongue of yours slidin' over me, suckin' me down like you were built for this, for takin' every inch, for milkin' me dry until I pump my load straight into your throat.” 

Each crude description poured forth unfiltered, painting the slick heat of your mouth, the way your lips sealed tight around his throbbing shaft, drawing him in with a vacuum pull that made his knees buckle.

He never broke eye contact, his stormy blue gaze boring into yours, watching the way his words hit you like punches of desire. 

Your pupils dilated wider, a flush creeping up your neck, and he saw the devastation they wrought - the way your body shivered, thighs pressing together as arousal pooled between them, your own need mirroring his unraveling. It fueled him, that shared fire, confirming you craved the dirtiness as much as he now did, your encouraging moans vibrating along his length like silent pleas for more.

Now he was truly rutting into your mouth, hips pistoning with unrestrained force, the swollen head of his cock battering the back of your throat on every thrust. It choked you slightly, the girth stretching your jaw to its limit, saliva dripping from the corners of your lips as you gagged softly around him. 

But those sounds - wet, needy whimpers that hummed through his veins - told him everything. You arched into it, hands braced on his thighs, urging him deeper, and he knew he could slam harder, rougher, and you'd only beg for the brutality, thanking him with those lust-glazed eyes.

He was utterly lost in the haze of his building climax, the world narrowing to the obscene symphony of slurps and gasps echoing off the walls. His fingers - flesh and vibranium alike - clenched tighter in your hair, yanking with desperate urgency, anchoring himself to that last fraying thread of sanity as the pressure coiled low in his gut, threatening to erupt.

Bucky's restraint cracked further, the floodgates of his suppressed darkness swinging wide as he began to degrade you with a venomous edge that twisted his usual tenderness into something feral and commanding. 

“You filthy little bitch,” he snarled, his voice a low, guttural rasp that echoed off the alley's damp bricks, “daring to drop to your knees like this, sucking my cock in some dirty backstreet like the desperate slut you are.” 

The words lashed out, crude and unyielding - whore, cock-hungry tramp - each one branding you as his plaything, a vessel for his raging need, all because you'd provoked this side of him, tempting him to claim you without mercy.

Your eyes didn't flinch or fill with hurt at his barbs; instead, they burned brighter, locking onto his with a fierce, unapologetic hunger that screamed your approval. You loved it - this raw, unfiltered Bucky, the one who'd shed his gentlemanly shell to dominate you completely. 

A subtle nod, the way your lips tightened around his pulsing shaft in eager response, the soft hum of encouragement vibrating through him - it all conveyed your thrill, urging him to push harder, to revel in the power he wielded over you. Your gaze held his captive, a silent vow that this degradation only deepened your desire for him, for the beast he'd become in your hands.

The connection between your stares intensified, unbreakable, as you felt the telltale signs of his impending release: the erratic twitch of his cock against your tongue, the way his thighs trembled under your palms, his breaths coming in sharp, ragged bursts. 

He was teetering on the edge, so close you could taste the salt of his pre-cum mingling with your saliva. Part of you ached for him to bury himself deep and flood your throat, forcing you to swallow every hot spurt as he marked you from the inside. 

But another wicked urge flickered - to have him pull back at the last second, to paint your face with his thick ropes of cum, completing the visible ruination, letting it drip down your chin as proof of your submission.

His metal fingers dug deeper into your hair, the vibranium cool and unyielding against your scalp, while his flesh hand mirrored the grip, pulling taut as if to anchor himself against the storm. 

Then, abruptly, he froze - hips bucking one final, brutal time - before he halted everything, his body seizing as he unleashed into your mouth. 

A raw, throaty groan tore from his chest, animalistic and unrestrained, as jet after jet of his warm seed erupted across your tongue, filling you with its bitter, musky essence.

With greedy abandon, you swallowed it all down, your throat working in rhythmic pulls to claim every drop, savoring the way it coated your mouth like a forbidden elixir. As he finally withdrew, his softening cock glistening with your shared wetness, you leaned forward instinctively, your tongue darting out to lap at the sensitive tip, tracing the slit to capture any lingering traces, ensuring nothing was wasted in the dim glow of the alley.

Bucky's chest heaved as the haze of his climax slowly lifted, his mind piecing itself back together amid the lingering echoes of his guttural release. He blinked down at you, still kneeling before him in the shadowed alley, your lips swollen and glistening from the intensity of what you'd just shared. 

With a shaky exhale, he reached down, his vibranium hand gentle now despite its earlier ferocity, cupping your elbow to guide you up onto your feet. You rose steadily, your body humming with satisfaction, and he pulled you close, his flesh arm wrapping around your waist as if to steady himself more than you.

His blue eyes searched yours, wide with a sudden wave of concern that creased his brow and tightened his jaw. The alley's faint streetlight caught the worry in his gaze, turning it raw and vulnerable. 

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, his voice roughened from the strain, the words tumbling out before he could fully form them. 

He wasn't even sure what he was apologizing for - the harsh names he'd spat in the heat of the moment, calling you his bitch and whore, or for unleashing that buried part of himself, the Winter Soldier's edge that clawed its way to the surface under your provocation. Guilt flickered across his features, mingling with the afterglow, as he brushed a thumb along your cheek, afraid he'd crossed a line you'd never asked for.

But you silenced him before he could spiral further, pressing your index finger softly against his lips, feeling the warmth of his breath hitch against your skin. His words died there, unspoken, as you leaned in, rising on your toes to capture his mouth in a kiss that poured tenderness and unwavering love into every brush of your lips. 

It was slow, deep, a contrast to the frenzy moments before - your tongue tracing his with devotion, tasting the faint salt of your shared intimacy, reassuring him without a single word that you cherished every fractured piece of him.

Pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again, you whispered against his mouth, your voice a sultry promise laced with affection. 'Next time, love... Just paint my face and my hair with your cum.'

A low, involuntary groan rumbled from Bucky's throat at your words, the image slamming into his mind with vivid, unrelenting force. 

He saw it all too clearly: your beautiful face streaked with thick, white strands of his seed, dripping from your cheeks and chin, marking you as utterly his. And your hair - those soft locks he'd once stroked with such reverence - tangled and crowned with pearly ropes of his release, glistening like a profane halo in the dim light. The vision twisted something deep inside him, a potent mix of possession and adoration that made his cock twitch faintly against his thigh, even as spent as he was.

You would be his ruin, his sweet damnation, dragging him into depths he'd long feared. But as he held you there, the cool night air wrapping around your entwined forms, Bucky knew with bone-deep certainty that he was ready to surrender it all - his soul, his control, every shadowed corner - for you.

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse , @greate@greatenthusiasttidalwave

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

[phoenix-in-writing]

The Champion

Main Masterlist | January Jumble Masterlist

Part of @societynsoelsscribbles January Jumble Event Prompt | Jan 4 | “Here’s another curse. May all your bacon burn.”

𐙚 Pairing: College Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Reader 𐙚 Warnings: Strong language, Bucky's a bit of a cocky ass 𐙚 Words: 381 (I'm really trying, I promise...) 𐙚 Chirps: Idk what it is. But for all of these scribbles I've had to really pull back. Because I could have easily made all of these into full length fics but...

"Yeah? Well, fuck you!" The expletive left your lips before you could catch it. A long time coming as your frustrations with your roommate, all star football player Bucky Barnes, had been escalating since he'd moved in. Whether that frustration was built upon him being insufferably attractive or just plain insufferable remained to be seen.

"Fuck me?" Bucky whirled around, pointing at his chest, now with more intent to finish this argument. "In your dreams, sweetheart."

Rolling your eyes, you blew out a frustrated breath. "You only show up in my nightmares."

"So you do dream of me?" As if he hadn't been continually pressing all of the buttons to make your temper boil over, he just had to make matters worse and get cocky.

"How did I get cursed with such a fucking asshole of a roommate?" you mutter, turning to wash your hands. Opting for more anger instead of leaning into the way your heart fluttered at that ridiculously charming smirk on his face.

"Oh is that so? Well here's another curse. May all your bacon burn." He gestured to the pan of strips that were just about to go into the oven.

"I'm only making bacon for you, asshole. I'm a vegetarian. I don't even eat it."

That stops whatever the next jab was going to be. "Why would you do that?" Even if his voice still sounded angry, his expression had morphed more into confusion.

You clenched your jaw, bracing your hands on the kitchen island that separated the two of you. "Because you have that championship game later tonight."

Bucky gave you the most dumbfounded look, mouth down turned into a small frown. "Okay?"

Heaving a deep sigh. "You said at the beginning of the year you play better if you have bacon for breakfast. And I would enjoy going to the Championship game so…"

"Yeah, in Miami?" Bucky's eyes tracked down what little of your body he could see behind the counter, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. "You gonna wear a bikini on the beach?"

You felt your cheeks heat in trepidation at being checked out so shamelessly, and the previous argument all but forgotten. "I mean, yeah maybe."

Bucky nodded, a smirk still present. "Consider the bacon curse lifted then."

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @houseofhyde @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0

Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20 @mathcat345 @highhopes1008 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @scarletkanami

Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357

Want to be added to the taglist? Comment here .ᐟ

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

“Consider the bacon curse lifted then.”

Ima going to combust!

[kqtholins]

want is only the beginning

chapter 1 of Saints of Motel Blue

pairing: actor!bucky x actress!reader

word count: 7.1k

thea’s note: hii! first chapter is here! i’m so excited!! let me know your thoughts in the comments!! also, in my mind, bucky is in his late 30s and the reader is in her mid to late 20s!! i’m working on a playlist for this series so also let me know in the comments if you’re interested in that!! MWAAAHHH <33

You arrive glittering.

Not because you feel glittering — God, no — but because there are cameras and lights and screaming voices and every flashbulb insists that you must be a thing that shines. You step out of the car and the world goes up like a match being struck: bright, abrupt, blinding.

You’ve survived auditions, call sheets, sleepless nights memorizing sides, being told you are too green, too soft, too unformed. You survived your own doubts. But none of that prepared you for this — for the sound of your name ricocheting off hundreds of strangers’ mouths, like they’ve always known it, like it’s theirs to call.

The carpet feels endless, too red, too loud. You feel yourself becoming something — a symbol, a performance, something glossy and unreachable — and yet inside you are still the girl who used to rehearse monologues in a bathroom mirror until her voice cracked.

And then the air shifts.

You feel him before you see him.

Like a change in weather.

James Buchanan Barnes — Bucky to everyone who pretends they know him — steps out of his own car down the line, and the crowd tilts toward him like a field of flowers leaning into the sun. The noise sharpens, goes higher, becomes hunger.

He walks like someone who has done this for decades. Not tired of it, just… unsurprised by its desire. Like the world wanting him is just gravity now.

He wears the age difference like a tailored suit — not something to hide but something that fits. Lines at the corners of his eyes that aren’t exhaustion but laughter, whiskey, late-night memories he doesn’t share. His jaw is rougher now, scruff just this side of lazy but intentional. His tie is slightly loosened. He looks like he didn’t need to try.

And you?

You feel twenty-two in a way that is louder than anything else.

You stand straight anyway. You step forward into the light because that is what you are here to do.

The photographers shout for you. Your name. Your name again. They call it like encouragement, like demand. You turn your head, you give them angles, the pose you rehearsed, chin just slightly down, soft eyes, don’t squint, breathe through your mouth so your lips part just enough.

You are doing fine. Perfect, even.

Until someone shouts his name.

Just his.

And the carpet erupts.

You can’t help it — your eyes look for him.

And his are already on you.

Not lingering. Not dramatic. Just there. As if he’d been waiting for you to turn. As if of course you would look to him first.

The stories about him were campfire tales on set — whispered in makeup trailers and rehearsal rooms:

He used to break hearts like habits.

Back when he was younger, before he grew quieter.

Before he learned to dance with his own reputation instead of letting it eat him.

You didn’t believe them.

Or maybe you did.

It didn’t matter — because meeting him the first time was not rumor. It was impact.

You drag your gaze away. You breathe. You keep smiling.

But the knowledge sits low in your ribs:

He’s dangerous for you.

A handler taps your elbow and murmurs, “Move to your mark,” and you nod, stepping forward down the line. Your heels click, your dress whispers against your legs, your pulse is performing acrobatics in your throat.

There’s a pause. A shift again.

Then his voice, close enough to feel at your spine:

“Big night.”

You hadn’t realized he’d moved toward you.

He stands beside you now for the joint photos they want — the leads together — the pairing they will market to death. His cologne is warm, something cedar and smoke, something that feels like a memory you haven’t had yet.

You don’t look directly at him. You look at the cameras.

You say, without moving your mouth much, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His tone is easy. Light. But not careless.

“Call me kid.”

His laugh is soft. Private. Only for you.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The photographers direct you: closer, shoulder to shoulder, bodies angled. He steps in. His hand moves to the small of your back — just a guiding gesture for the cameras. Innocent. Expected.

Your body reacts like he set you on fire.

You keep smiling. You’re good at that. You’ve practiced that. But your breath catches because he is warm and present and steady and real in a way none of this glittering chaos is.

He feels it, the little jolt that runs through you.

You know he does.

But he doesn’t move away.

He just holds the pose.

Confident. Unbothered.

Like standing next to you is the most natural thing in the world.

A photographer shouts something about how good you look together.

He glances sideways, barely a tilt of his head. Just enough for you to hear the quiet murmur:

“Told you you’d handle this.”

“This?” Your voice comes out too soft. Too honest.

“All of it.” His eyes stay forward, but his words aim straight at your skin. “You belong here.”

The carpet, the lights, the noise — it all blurs.

For one suspended second, there is only him.

And the terrifying thing isn’t that he says it.

It’s that you believe him.

The cameras explode again. The crowd roars his name. Someone calls for you to look their way — and you both turn, in sync, like choreography you never rehearsed.

Your heart is a wild, beating animal inside your chest.

He doesn’t look at you again.

He doesn’t need to.

He already knows he’s in your bloodstream now.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The interview line is a hallway of spotlights and smiles sharpened into weapons.

One reporter after another, each with the same questions dressed in different phrasing. The same compliments wrapped in shiny bows. The same jokes rehearsed long before you ever arrived.

It’s a performance of being you.

Or, at least, the version of you they want: bright-eyed, grateful, star just beginning to rise.

Your cheeks are beginning to ache from smiling. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the carpet. You’re good at keeping your breathing even, answering clearly, seeming like you belong here — but your nerves buzz in your bones like electricity looking for ground.

You know he’s somewhere behind you in the line — but you do not turn to look.

You cannot afford that.

You know what happens when you do.

A handler touches your waist lightly and guides you to the next interviewer. You settle into position on the taped mark. Your dress sways just a little around your ankles, the shimmery fabric catching the glare of the overhead lights.

“Congratulations on the big premiere!” the interviewer says, gleeful.

You smile. “Thank you. It’s surreal.”

They ask the usual questions. You answer like you’ve practiced. Like you’ve learned the difference between truth and presentation.

And then the interviewer glances past you — just over your shoulder. Their eyes light up. Their tone shifts.

“Speaking of the cast — James Barnes is joining us. Perfect timing.”

Your breath pauses.

You don’t turn.

But you feel him arrive.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud.

It’s simply presence. A gravity shift. A subtle warm pressure in the air.

He steps beside you, just close enough that the sleeve of his suit could brush your bare arm if either of you moved even half a breath closer.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, voice smooth, warm, threaded with the faintest amused curve. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”

You look at him then — because you have to — and the small, knowing flicker in his eyes tells you he’s been watching you longer than the camera has.

The interviewer beams. “We were just talking about the film! How was it working together?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He looks at you.

Not the way one looks at a colleague.

Not like someone reciting a PR-approved compliment.

He looks at you like there is something worth seeing.

“It was easy,” he says finally, voice deliberate, steady. “From day one.”

Your stomach folds in on itself.

You try to keep your stance calm, composed. But there is a question under your tongue, pressing: Why does it feel like we’re speaking in code?

The interviewer laughs. “Easy? That’s high praise. What made it easy?”

His jaw flexes just slightly — like he’s choosing words.

He keeps his gaze forward now, but his voice is lower, like the words are meant to be heard first by you.

“She listens,” he says. “And she cares. More than most people understand you need to, in order to do this.”

Your breath catches.

He speaks like this is not about acting.

The interviewer doesn’t catch the undercurrent; of course they don’t. They’re already pivoting, asking about the emotional scenes you filmed together. You answer as best you can, keeping your voice steady, your eyes on the interviewer even as you feel him there — warm, steady, unflinching.

Then, the inevitable:

“Some people are calling this your breakout role,” the interviewer says, turning back to you. “Do you feel like you’re ready for all of this attention?”

You hesitate — not because you don’t know the answer, but because honesty rises like a tide, threatening to break surface.

Before you speak, he does.

“You don’t need to ask if she’s ready,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice — not cocky, not teasing, but sure. “Just watch her.”

The interviewer laughs, delighted by the soundbite. “Is that your official endorsement?”

He finally turns his head — just enough to meet your eyes — and the look there is different now. Not the playful glint from before. Something softer. Older. Warmer. Something that knows what it costs to stand where you are standing.

“Yeah,” he says, gentle, sure. “Keep an eye on her. She’s going to be the one everyone’s talking about in a year.”

Your throat goes tight so quickly you almost forget to breathe.

The interviewer reacts in excitement, already thinking of article headlines and pull quotes. You keep your expression steady — polite, grateful, professional — but your heart…

Your heart is a storm.

Because praise from critics is one thing.

But this?

A man who has survived the blaze of fame and come out the other side — telling the world you belong here?

It hits somewhere deep. Somewhere soft. Somewhere raw.

When the interview wraps, the lights shift and the handler moves to usher you to the next spot — but he touches your arm, light, checking:

“You okay?”

Barely a whisper.

Not for the cameras.

Just for you.

You nod.

But the truth is no — you are not okay at all — because something unnamed has begun to settle in your chest.

Something warm.

Something dangerous.

Something you do not yet have language for.

He smiles — but not the public smile, not the charming grin the world knows. This one is smaller, nearly hidden, like a secret shared.

“Good,” he says. “Just keep breathing. The rest will come.”

Then he lets go.

And the moment dissolves back into the noise, the lights, the endless line of interviews — but your pulse doesn’t slow.

Because something has shifted.

Not on the carpet.

Inside you.

And there is no turning back from that.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

It comes back to you in pieces.

Not a memory so much as a temperature.

A particular way the air felt.

Thick.

Expectant.

Like something was about to begin that you did not yet understand.

The lot was bigger than you imagined — all white trailers and cables and yellow tape on concrete. People moving with purpose. Voices calling scene numbers and equipment needs and coffee orders like some vocabulary you hadn’t learned yet.

You walked through it all clutching your little binder of annotated script pages like a lifeline. Trying not to look as young as you felt.

The director found you first — warm, excited, already thinking six shots ahead. Praise pouring out like confetti, the kind that feels good but doesn’t land anywhere.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” they said, hand on your shoulder. “He’s going to bring out the best in you.”

He.

You’d heard his name whispered the night before — in the makeup trailer, in the wardrobe room.

Rumor spoken like prayer.

Bucky Barnes is intense.

Soft-spoken until he’s not.

Used to be reckless with his heart. Used to be reckless with others’.

Got older and quieter, but some men don’t lose the gravity. They just learn how to wear it differently.

You’d nodded. You’d acted unbothered.

But even then, something restless had stirred in you. Something like anticipation disguised as nerves.

The director led you across the lot to the rehearsal space — a warehouse nearly empty except for taped marks on the floor and two chairs near a script supervisor. Bright afternoon light spilled through tall windows, catching dust particles that drifted like slow snowfall.

And he was already there.

Sitting in one of the chairs.

Elbow propped on the armrest.

Hand resting against his jaw.

Reading sides he probably didn’t need to read.

A man who had long since memorized how to hide his own storms.

He looked up when the door opened.

Not dramatically.

Not like in a movie.

Just… simply.

Eyes lifting.

Landing on you.

And that was the moment you knew.

Not because of anything he did.

But because your whole body recognized him.

Like you were stepping into a scene already written somewhere under your ribs.

The director said your name like an announcement: “This is her.”

Something gentler happened then — the smallest shift in his expression. Not surprise. Not interest exactly. More like confirmation.

As though he’d been expecting you.

He rose from the chair — unhurried, like the world always had time for him.

“James,” he said, offering his hand.

You took it.

His palm was warm.

The grip firm but not claiming.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, and hoped your voice didn’t betray the tremor running down your spine.

He said your name — and when he did, it was quiet.

Like he tested the weight of it.

Like he didn’t want to waste it.

You had spent weeks preparing for this. Rehearsing character motivations, arc development, emotional pacing.

None of that helped with this.

Because no acting textbook covers what to do when your scene partner looks at you like he already knows where the soft parts of you are.

He didn’t stare.

He didn’t smirk.

He didn’t give off the practiced charm of a man used to being wanted.

No — he looked at you like someone reading weather.

Assessing.

Considering the storm patterns.

Like he wanted to learn you, not impress you.

The director talked for a while — blocking, emotional cues, tone of the first scene — but the room felt like it had narrowed to just two points:

You.

Him.

And the distance between.

You sat when they told you to sit.

Opened your binder.

Tried to steady your breath.

He leaned back in his chair. Script resting loosely in one hand, legs stretched out just enough to look at ease. A man comfortable taking up space without needing to demand it.

You caught him watching you once — not your face, but your hands. How tightly you were holding your pen. How your thumb pressed into your palm like a warning.

His voice cut through the quiet.

“You nervous?”

You didn’t look up. “Should I lie?”

He huffed a soft breath — not quite a laugh, but the idea of one.

“No. Don’t waste your time lying to me.”

You looked up then.

His eyes were blue.

Not the dramatic kind.

Not the movie-star kind.

The kind that looked like they had once been too bright and were now softened by years of surviving their own intensity.

“Okay,” you said, exhaling. “Then yes. I’m nervous.”

His gaze held steady — not pitying. Not superior. Just… present.

“Good,” he said.

“Good?”

“Means you care.”

The director called for a run-through before cameras.

You and him moved to the marked spots.

Your first scene together — close. Emotional. Loaded with unsaid things.

You stepped into your character.

He stepped into his.

And when he looked at you in that scene — not as you, but as her — the world changed shape.

Not because it was romantic.

Not because it was dramatic.

But because something inside you recognized him again — in character, in silence, in breath.

You forgot the lines for just a moment.

Not because you didn’t know them.

But because the gravity shifted.

His voice was softer when he delivered his dialogue than it had been in rehearsal.

Not changed — just adjusted.

To you.

After the run-through, the director praised the chemistry.

Someone joked about how natural it felt.

People laughed.

But when the room began to move again — when the noise returned — you were still anchored in that quiet, impossible awareness.

You hadn’t even spoken to him beyond a handful of words.

And yet some part of you already knew:

He would matter.

Maybe too much.

Maybe exactly enough.

But either way —

Your life had just changed.

And you were the only one who felt the ground shift.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

Time bends strangely when you’re being watched.

The interview line dissolves behind you, swallowed by handlers and coordinated movement, and soon you’re being guided through velvet ropes and unwritten hierarchies into the theater where everything you made will be projected ten times larger than life.

Your heartbeat is a slick, restless thing at the base of your throat.

He walks beside you.

Not leading.

Not following.

Just there.

But it feels like the world notices anyway — like the heat between your bodies exists in visible wavelengths.

The theater is dim except for the soft amber aisle lights. The crowd murmurs — coats shifting, whispers weaving, laughter sparking in tiny pockets. You feel the collective waiting.

You are shown to your seats — and of course they are together.

Lead talent, they say, like that explains everything.

You slide into your seat. The dress folds around you like water. The air is cool enough to raise thin goosebumps along your arms.

He sits beside you.

Not close enough to touch.

Just close enough that if either of you stopped holding yourselves exactly the way you are holding yourselves, the space between would collapse.

You look forward. At the screen. At the still nothing of it.

He’s quiet for a long moment — the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty.

Then—

“You handled that well,” he says. Voice low, meant for you alone, in the hush before the film begins.

You swallow. “The interview line?”

“The whole thing.”

And there’s something like… approval there. Not the kind given from above. Not patronizing. No — more like recognition.

Like he’s seen this battlefield before and sees the way you’re standing on it.

You take a breath. The air smells faintly of popcorn and perfume and warm fabric.

“Thank you,” you say, even though something in you wants to ask why it matters to him at all.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just shifts one elbow on the armrest between you — not touching, just… near.

The lights dim further.

The audience hushes into a single held inhale.

And as the studio logo flickers into blue light, you feel it:

Him turning his head, just slightly, toward you.

Not to look at you.

To make sure you are ready.

It is absurd how much that undoing lives in your chest.

The movie begins.

There you are — on screen — younger by months but worlds away from now. You watch yourself move, breathe, break, rebuild.

But the strange thing isn’t seeing yourself.

It’s seeing him.

It’s seeing the way he looked at you even then.

Not romantic.

Not hungry.

Like he saw you.

Before anyone else did.

Before you even knew how to see yourself.

The first scene between your characters arrives — the one you filmed on your first day. The one where your breath had caught without warning.

The audience reacts — soft murmurs, the smallest shift of attention, leaning forward.

You feel every muscle in your body tense.

Beside you, he leans in.

Just enough for his shoulder to nearly brush yours.

“Breathe,” he murmurs.

Barely a whisper.

Barely sound.

But you hear it.

Of course you do.

Your body is tuned to him whether you admit it or not.

You exhale.

On-screen, your character looks up at his — and there it is, the moment where something unsaid sparked to life.

You remember filming it — the way the room felt smaller. The way silence thickened between you. The way the director had whispered perfect under their breath.

You remember your pulse being a desperate thing.

And now the whole room gets to witness it.

Your stomach flips — not with embarrassment, but with something resembling… grief? Longing? An ache for something that was never spoken but lived in the spaces between breaths?

In the dark, he shifts just slightly, enough that his knee could touch yours if you moved even a fraction.

But he doesn’t touch you.

He doesn’t have to.

The restraint is the touch.

Another scene passes. Laughter ripples through the crowd at a line you improvised. Your chest warms. You glance at him — quick, instinctual.

He is already looking at you.

Not smiling.

Just watching.

Softly.

Like he’s proud in a way he doesn’t know how to disguise.

Your breath stutters.

You look forward again.

The screen light flickers over both your faces — white-blue-gold-blue. And in the dark, the world feels smaller. Simpler. Like just the two of you exist in a quiet universe.

Halfway through the film — during a moment of silence — his voice reaches you again, soft enough that you almost think you imagine it:

“See?”

You blink. “See what?”

He doesn’t look away from the screen.

“Why they’re all looking at you.”

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

Because the thing you feel is not vanity.

It’s not pride.

It’s something tender.

Something terrifying.

Something like being witnessed.

The film moves on — scene after scene — and the tension between your on-screen characters becomes the tension in the room. The kind you can’t disguise. The kind you can’t perform.

You feel warm. You feel too aware of your own breathing. You feel like if you looked at him again, something would break open in your chest.

So you don’t look.

And neither does he.

But the space between your bodies is not empty.

It’s alive.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

Applause begins like rain — scattered at first, then swelling, filling the room all at once.

The credits roll. Your name appears larger than you’ve ever seen it, and the theater responds with something that sounds like belief.

Your chest goes tight.

Not painful — just full.

You rise with everyone else. The lights return slowly, taking their time with you. People turn in their seats, smiling, congratulating, touching your arm, praising with the frantic brightness of those who want to say I was here first.

But it all blurs.

It all floats.

Distant.

Because he is right there beside you. Standing. Straightening his jacket. Running a hand through his hair like he’s shaking off sunlight.

You don’t look at him.

But you feel him.

You move together toward the aisle — not walking as one, but falling into step like you have done this for years. Like your bodies know something your minds are still catching up to.

Someone stops him. Someone else stops you. Your hands brush as you step aside for different greetings, different compliments. The contact is nothing.

But your entire pulse skips anyway.

You keep smiling. Thank you, yes, so grateful, unreal, unbelievable — the words all folding into each other like they mean the same thing.

Eventually, a handler waves you both toward a side exit — smaller, quieter, away from the main flow of the crowd. You follow, heels tapping soft rhythm on carpet, the dress whispering around your legs.

He follows too. Or maybe you followed him.

You can’t tell anymore.

The door swings shut behind you, and the noise dims to a hum on the other side of the wall. Like you’ve stepped out of the world and into the space between moments.

A narrow hallway. Warm light.

No cameras here.

Just breath.

Just you.

Just him.

You stop without meaning to.

Or maybe you did mean to.

He stops too — close, but not invading. Just enough that the air seems to vibrate between your bodies.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Your heartbeat is too loud. You’re certain he can hear it.

You’re certain the world has narrowed to this one hinge of time.

He looks at you then — really looks.

Not like on the carpet.

Not like on the interview line.

Not like on set.

This is the look of someone taking inventory of the truth.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet.

Your first instinct is to lie. Smile. Say yes. Keep the mask on. But the mask feels… wrong here.

So you exhale.

And you shake your head. Just once.

He nods. Not surprised. Not worried. Just… understanding.

“It’s a lot,” he says softly.

You swallow. “More than I thought.”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Yeah. It always is, the first time.”

There’s a weight behind that sentence.

A history.

A memory you have not earned the right to touch.

But he stands here anyway. Sharing it, somehow.

Your hands twist together at your waist, and his eyes flicker down — a small movement, barely there — before returning to your face.

Then, slowly, he steps closer.

Not to touch.

Not to close the space entirely.

Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

Close enough that your next breath trembles.

His voice drops to something almost private.

“You did good, you know.”

You laugh — quiet, embarrassed, too small.

“I don’t know. I kept thinking I was going to mess up.”

“You didn’t.”

You lift your head. “How do you know?”

He tilts his head, and there is something like softness at the edge of his mouth.

“Because I was watching.”

There it is.

The truth neither of you will name.

Your breath stutters. His does too — barely, but you feel it, like a shift in the air pressure.

He looks at you like you are something fragile and dangerous at the same time.

Like he knows exactly what this is and exactly why it shouldn’t be touched.

You step back — not because you want space, but because you need to breathe.

The distance resets the world.

He notices. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does — a tiny loosening, a silent thank you for holding the line with him.

His voice comes low, almost gentle:

“Ready for what comes next?”

The words land like a question and a warning.

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because there is no safe answer to that.

Because yes is too much.

And no is a lie.

So you hold his gaze.

And he understands.

Of course he does.

A small breath leaves him — not frustration. Not disappointment. Something steadier.

Respect.

He nods once, slow.

Not breaking eye contact.

And then the door at the end of the hall swings open — handlers calling both of your names, the next moment ready to swallow you up again.

You look away first.

You walk forward first.

He follows.

But something has already taken root.

Something that will not go away.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

You remember it all too well. It was late.

The kind of late that settles into your bones, where the air feels thinner and the world feels smaller, like everything outside this moment has gone to sleep.

You had made it through your first emotionally heavy scene — the one where your character cracks open, the one the script said required rawness, the one that had lived under your skin since the table read. And you had done it — or at least, you hoped you had — but the weight of it stayed on you like a second skin.

You stepped outside the soundstage to breathe.

The night air was cool.

Not cold — just enough to remind your lungs they were real.

The studio lot was quiet now, most of the crew gone, the set pieces sleeping in the dark. A couple of floodlights buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across asphalt.

You leaned against the trailer wall and lit a cigarette.

You didn’t even like the taste.

You just needed a moment that belonged to you.

Something to hold.

Something to ground you.

The smoke curled upward, slow and silver.

Then the door of the neighboring trailer opened — and he stepped out.

Not stumbling. Not searching. Just… arriving.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

He didn’t look like he expected it, either.

He just existed in the space with the quiet kind of confidence older men carry — not performance, not ego, just a familiarity with his own presence.

He walked toward you — slow, unhurried — hands in the pockets of his coat, hair a little mussed from running his hands through it. He looked tired in the way people look when they’ve given too much of themselves on camera and haven’t figured out how to take it back yet.

He stopped beside you, not close enough to assume familiarity — just close enough to be companionable.

Neither of you spoke.

The night didn’t need words yet.

After a moment, his eyes flicked to the cigarette between your fingers.

He let out a breath that was almost a quiet laugh — barely there, just the exhale of someone who understands too much.

“You’re too young for that,” he said.

Not scolding.

Not patronizing.

Just noticing.

You didn’t look at him.

You took another drag.

“So are you,” you said.

He huffed — an actual laugh this time. Soft. Real.

“Probably.”

You offered him the cigarette.

He didn’t take it.

He plucked it from your fingers instead — slow, delicate, like he was removing something breakable — and then dropped it to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his boot.

You stared at him.

He didn’t apologize.

He just said, “There are other ways to come down from a scene.”

“Like what?” you asked, folding your arms to hide the tremor in your hands.

He shrugged. “Breathing. Music. Shower hot enough to peel your skin off. Whiskey, when it’s a bad day.”

“Which was today?” you asked.

He didn’t answer for a long moment.

The night stretched around you.

The floodlights hummed.

Then he said, quietly, “Not for me.”

You turned your head to look at him.

He was watching you.

Not intensely — not the kind of look that takes something from you — but the kind that waits.

The kind that says:

I saw what you did today.

I saw what it cost.

You don’t have to pretend with me.

Your chest tightened.

“I didn’t know if I got it right,” you said softly.

“You did,” he replied without hesitation.

“How do you know?”

He looked up at the night sky — empty except for the washed-out haze of city glow — and then back at you.

“Because it was honest,” he said. “And you can’t fake honest.”

The words landed somewhere deep — low in your ribs, where belief and longing share the same room.

You wanted to look away.

You wanted to hold the moment still.

You did nothing.

He leaned back against the wall beside you — not touching, but near.

The kind of nearness that builds its own gravity.

“You did good today,” he murmured.

You almost told him he didn’t have to say that.

But you didn’t.

Because you needed it.

Because you wanted him to be the one saying it.

You let your head fall back against the trailer wall.

You let the quiet return.

After a while, he spoke again — softer this time.

“You’re going to have to learn how to put yourself down after scenes like that,” he said. “Otherwise it’ll eat you up. This job — it doesn’t end when the cameras cut.”

You looked at him then — really looked.

At the lines beside his eyes.

At the tired shadows under them.

At the history sitting in the slope of his shoulders.

“Did it eat you?” you asked.

He didn’t look surprised by the question.

But he didn’t answer quickly, either.

He took a slow breath.

Exhaled just as slow.

“Yeah,” he said. “Once.”

The floodlight buzzed. The air felt still.

He didn’t say more.

You didn’t push.

Some truths don’t need audiences.

Some are only meant to be held, not spoken.

You nodded.

He nodded back — a silent acknowledgment of what had passed between you.

After another long moment, he pushed off the wall.

“Come on,” he said softly. “You should sleep.”

You expected him to walk away.

He didn’t.

He waited for you to move first.

So you did.

And the two of you walked back across the lot — side-by-side but not together — saying nothing at all.

But the silence wasn’t empty.

It was a promise.

One neither of you had agreed to.

One neither of you had named.

One that had already begun.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

It was weeks later.

You were no longer the new one trying to memorize where the marks were taped on the floor. No longer the girl who held her script like armor. You had learned to breathe inside your character. To live inside her skin. To let her heartbeat run parallel to yours without swallowing you whole.

And he — he was steady as always.

Steady like a tide comes in.

Steady like gravity.

Steady like something you could lean on, if you were foolish enough to try.

The scene was a quiet one.

No shouting.

No crying.

No fast movement.

Just the kind of silence that means something is about to happen.

Your character had just revealed something. Not everything — just enough. Something vulnerable. Something sharp. The kind of vulnerability that asks for nothing but is still a question.

And his character was supposed to be the audience to that.

Witness, not savior.

The crew quieted in that way they only do for scenes that matter. The director didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. The room already understood what this moment was supposed to be.

You took your mark.

He took his.

The distance between you was small — close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body across the air.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the director said.

You didn’t even hear action anymore.

You simply stepped into it.

The scene asked for stillness.

So you gave it stillness.

Your character speaks first.

Voice soft.

Words stripped of pretense.

The kind of line that can only be said once in a story — and only when it matters.

You remember the way your voice wavered — not because you were acting, but because something in the words had been sitting in your chest for days, waiting to come out.

You lifted your eyes to him.

And he was already there.

Not acting.

Not performing.

Seeing.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

Didn’t soften or tighten or adjust for the camera.

He received you.

There is a kind of intimacy in being looked at like that.

A dangerous one.

A quiet one.

A truthful one.

Your breath caught.

Not loudly.

Just enough to shift something in the room.

Your next line came out lower than rehearsed.

Warmer.

Truer.

He stepped closer — that was in the script — but the way he did it wasn’t.

Slow.

Not hesitant.

But like something inevitable.

His gaze never left yours.

You didn’t move back.

You didn’t breathe.

You didn’t know how.

His character was supposed to touch your cheek next — gentle, grounding, careful.

He lifted his hand — exactly as written.

But the moment before the touch — the space just above your skin — that was the thing.

Your breath shifted.

His did too.

No one else in the room existed.

His hand cupped your cheek.

Warm.

Steady.

And your eyes closed — not because your character would — but because you would.

Your heart was a live wire.

You opened your eyes again — slow, like waking up.

And he was there, pupils darkened, jaw tense, breath deep and controlled like he’d had to rein himself back into his own body.

The scene gave you your final line.

You spoke it.

Soft.

Bare.

True.

And that was when something happened the script never asked for:

Neither of you stepped away.

The silence settled.

The air held itself.

The director didn’t call cut.

The crew didn’t move.

No one breathed.

Because everyone could feel it.

The invisible thread.

The pull.

The moment that was not character, not blocking, not craft.

Just you and him.

Your eyes stayed locked.

His thumb barely — barely — brushed your cheekbone.

Not enough to be deliberate.

Enough to undo you.

Your pulse hammered.

His throat worked in a swallow.

Your bodies did not move apart.

The scene was over.

Every instinct inside you said:

Don’t move.

Don’t break this.

Don’t breathe.

And then —

“Cut.”

The word broke the spell.

He dropped his hand.

You stepped back.

The world returned.

Crew started adjusting lights. Someone laughed. Someone rolled cables. Someone complimented the natural tension. Someone said the chemistry was unreal.

You couldn’t look at him.

But you could feel him.

A gravity at your back.

A pull you did not know what to do with.

You went to your mark for the reset.

You stared at your own hands.

You tried to slow your breathing.

Behind you — the sound of him breathing out through his nose.

Calm.

Measured.

Controlled.

Like he had put something dangerous back behind a door.

But doors like that are never locked.

Not really.

୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ⋆୨♡୧

The night was almost over.

The interviews were done.

The cameras had stopped flashing.

The red carpet had cooled from something electric into something close to normal again.

The theater lights spilled onto the street. Cars idled at the curb, waiting to take people back to hotel rooms, afterparties, quiet apartments where their costumes would finally fall away.

You stood near the entrance, arms wrapped loosely around yourself — not because you were cold, but to keep your body from floating off into the air. You could still feel the premiere inside you — the lights, the voices, the questions, the eyes on you.

Your first premiere.

Your first leading performance.

Your first time seeing yourself that big on a screen.

Too much and not enough all at once.

And then — like gravity remembering you — he appeared beside you.

Not from across the room this time.

Not from a shadow or a doorway.

Just there.

Like he had known where you would be.

Like he always would.

He didn’t speak right away.

You didn’t either.

The night hummed between you — busy and loud and somehow distant. Cars. Voices. Laughter. Music drifting from somewhere nearby.

But here — in the small pocket of space you shared — it was quiet.

Finally, he said, “You okay?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Not because you didn’t know — but because you did.

And saying it out loud felt like stepping onto a ledge.

You nodded. “Just… taking it in.”

He hummed — a soft, approving sound.

“You handled yourself well,” he said. “Better than most do their first time.”

You glanced up at him.

There was something in his tone.

Not mentor.

Not co-star.

Not friend.

Something warmer.

Something proud.

Something careful.

“You meant what you said earlier,” you murmured. “About the paps keeping an eye on me.”

His mouth curved — not a smirk.

Something real.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replied. “You’re going to be big. People are going to know your name. Soon enough you’ll be tired of hearing it.”

You wanted to laugh — or deny it — or brush it away with something light.

But you didn’t.

Because you remembered the smoke break.

And the scene where the world stopped.

And every small moment in between where he looked at you like he recognized something in you.

Something dangerous.

Something familiar.

Something he couldn’t name either.

You exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”

He looked at you — really looked — and something softened in his eyes, the way something softens only when no one else is watching.

“Don’t thank me,” he said quietly. “You did the work. You earned this.”

You felt your heartbeat where it lived — deep in your ribs, where breath and want intertwine.

A driver called out a last boarding for the cast van.

A producer waved at him from across the pavement.

Someone was ready to pull him back into the night.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

You stood close — closer than public should allow — close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, not touching but nearly.

Your bodies had always known how to find that distance.

That half-inch of space that feels like a question.

He lowered his voice — quiet enough that only you could hear it.

“You did something on that screen tonight,” he said. “People saw you. Really saw you. That’s rare.”

Your breath caught.

He watched that happen.

His gaze didn’t leave your face, even when someone called his name again.

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “Tomorrow’s going to be loud.”

You nodded.

Though neither of you moved.

For a moment — the kind of moment that could tilt an entire future — he leaned in.

Not a kiss.

Not a touch.

Just close enough that the air changed.

Close enough that his breath brushed your cheek.

Close enough that you felt how carefully he was holding himself back.

Close enough that you knew — he felt it too.

Then he stepped away.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Measured.

He walked toward the waiting car.

Crew. Publicists. Cameras. Flash.

But before he got in — he looked back.

Just once.

A look that was not for the public.

Not for the movie.

Not for the story you’d filmed.

A look that said:

This isn’t over.

We both know it.

We just haven’t said it yet.

And then he was gone.

Leaving you standing in the warm spill of streetlight, heartbeat loud in your chest, the night too full, your lungs too tight, the world newly tilted.

The chapter doesn’t end with an answer.

It ends with want.

And want is only the beginning.

𓂃 ࣪˖ thea’s taglist: @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @bckyslover @herejustforbuckybarnes @umbreoni @devililithh @metal-armed-muse @demiebarnes @barnesandashes @mrgrungusthefrog @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnesgirlx @phoenix-in-writing @dolcesaints @loveforcap @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @superbassbuck @wint3rbarnes @wifeofbarnes

[ikissbucky]

what do you MEAN he kisses like this what do you mean.

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

I wanna choke on his tongue.

[yourentity06]

‼️WARNING THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILER‼️

Lowkey need a fic of what everyone else (Bucky) saw when they got turned into Bob Shadows. 👀

[heldbybarnes]

what do we think of shy reader asking her bf bucky if she can ride him?

that's the whole ask lol, thank you<3

im dead. im actually dead.

--------

You don’t usually get nervous around your boyfriend anymore. You’ve been together long enough that he’s seen every part of you—soft, messy, sleepy, clingy, cranky, needy. All of it. And Bucky never makes you feel anything but wanted.

But tonight? Tonight your face is buried in his chest like you might die of embarrassment.

Bucky’s leaned back against the headboard, warm palms stroking your back as you half-sprawl over him. He smells like his body wash, like the dryer-warm shirt he’s still wearing, like comfort. The TV hums in the background, some show you’re not watching.

“Sweetheart?” he murmurs, thumb tracing the nape of your neck. “You’ve been squirmy for the last ten minutes. Somethin’ on your mind?”

God. This is why you can’t have nice things. You freeze. Actually freeze.

And Bucky feels it immediately, because suddenly he drops the remote, angles his head down, and nudges your cheek with his nose.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly. “Talk to me, baby.”

You shake your head. “It’s dumb.”

“Not possible.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Bucky smiles, gentle and crooked. “You told me once you thought raccoons were just cats in little burglar masks. I think we survived that.”

You groan into his chest, mortified. “Buckyyy…”

He laughs—quiet, fond—and cups your face so you have to look at him. “C’mon. Tell me.”

Your heart is racing. Your thighs press together. You swear your whole body is warming up from the inside out.

“Okay,” you whisper, “but don’t make fun of me.”

“I would sooner swallow a grenade.”

“Bucky.”

“Alright, alright. I’m serious.” His thumb brushes along your cheek. “What is it, doll?”

You inhale… and then it all bottlenecks in your throat. So you do what any self-respecting anxious person does: you look everywhere except his eyes.

“So you know how… sometimes… we, um…” You gesture weakly. “Do things.”

Bucky blinks once. Then twice. His smile turns slow and sinful in a way that makes your stomach drop.

“Sex things?” he clarifies with absolutely no shame.

“OH MY GOD,” you choke, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Shut up.”

He laughs against your palm, kisses it once, then pries it from his lips. “Sweetheart, it’s just me. You can say anything. Promise.”

You take another breath, one that shakes a little.

“I… I wanna…” Your voice disappears entirely, barely a whisper. “I kinda want to ride you.”

The world stops.

Bucky goes very still. Like you just told him his deepest wish, his private fantasy, his holy grail of desires.

“…You do?” he asks, voice deepening in a way that curls heat right through your core.

You nod, cheeks burning so hot you’re surprised the blankets don’t catch fire. “I mean—you always do more work and I just thought maybe—maybe I should, um, contribute? Or something?”

“Sweetheart,” he says, almost pained, “that is not contributing. That is—fuck, come here.”

He pulls you up, straddling his thigh without warning, his hands big and warm on your waist. The position alone makes your breath stutter.

“You think I wouldn’t want that?” he murmurs, staring at you like you just offered him the sun. “You think I wouldn’t lose my damn mind watching you take what you need from me?”

Your embarrassment hiccups, flipping into something molten.

“You’d like it?” you ask timidly.

“Baby.” He leans forward, lips brushing your ear. “I would like it so much I’d probably forget my own name.”

You shiver.

His hands skim under your shirt, sliding along your warm skin, slow enough that you feel every inch of the journey.

“You sure about this?” he asks, kissing down your jaw. “I don’t want you doing it for me. I want you doing it ‘cause you want it.”

“I do,” you whisper. “I really do.”

And the sound he makes—low, grateful, hungry—is one you’ll think about later, long after the room stops spinning.

“Then let me take care of you,” he murmurs. His hands are already tugging your shorts down your hips, helping you climb into his lap, settling you right over the thick bulge in his sweatpants.

You gasp softly, thighs tensing.

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Feel what you do to me?”

Your hands grip his shoulders instinctively.

He leans back a little, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you like you’re a miracle.

“Baby,” he says quietly, “you can have me any way you want.”

Your pulse jumps. “Even like this?”

“Especially like this,” he corrects. “You on top? You calling the shots? You taking your pleasure however feels good?” His fingers dig into your hips, possessive but patient. “There is nothing—nothing—I want more.”

You can barely breathe.

He helps you slide the head of his cock through your slick folds, guiding you but not forcing anything, letting you set the pace. Each slow rub steals a tiny whimper from your throat.

“You’re doing so good,” he praises, voice warm as syrup. “Look at you, bein’ brave for me.”

Your whole body trembles. “Bucky…”

“I’ve got you.” He kisses your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your trembling mouth. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

You sink down slowly—tentative, breathless—and his hands tighten, a helpless groan pushing from his chest.

“Fuck… good girl. That’s it.”

You cling to him, burying your face in his neck as you slide further, stretching around him, every inch a dizzying new fullness.

“Doing so perfect,” he murmurs. “Feels good, yeah?”

You nod against his collarbone, overwhelmed in the best way.

And when you’re fully seated in his lap, when your hips finally settle and the shock of fullness steadies into something achingly right, Bucky kisses your temple.

“See?” he whispers. “Nothing embarrassing about wanting me.”

Your voice trembles. “I just… I’ve never asked before.”

“Ask me anything,” he breathes. “Especially if it’s you asking to ride me.”

His hands slide up your spine.

“Now take what you want, baby.”

You do.

And Bucky holds you like worship, like gratitude, like he’d spend every night for the rest of his life letting you climb into his lap and shyly ask for more.

[lovemesomebucky-inactive]

I need water. Or gasoline.

[vunblr]

January Jumble Scribbles Masterlist

Event hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles in the month of January

Day 02: Where worlds collide and days are dark. Rooftop

Day 03: “You make it very hard to think.” Hard to Think

Day 04: “Here’s another curse. May all your bacon burn.” All Talk

...

[yenyenyen19]

Bucky art dump from Twitter x)