[rymndsmth]

bucky hours 003 (bucky barnes)

a short drabble about reader giving him touch therapy. no warnings!

bucky comes home after a mission that leaves his century old bones singing the blues. you see it all over him, not that it takes more than simply combing your eyes over his own sunken pair.

a cushion finds itself beneath your hips on the floor. you place another between your legs, lean back against the sofa and stretch your arms towards him.

“c’mere.” you reaffirm your action with words.

bucky kicks off his boots, wooden floors creaking under the weight of his towering frame as he heavily treads towards you. he settles where you summon him.

it’s just as you expect. there’s so much tension wound up in him that he’s virtually trembling.

your thighs hold his hips snugly and slowly you sway them side to side. bucky tenses for just a second, barely a hitch, before he presses further into you.

“close your eyes.” you’re careful not to speak too loudly.

his long lashes meet at your wish. bucky’s lips part with a sigh when you run your fingers through his hair. you continue to rock his hips in a soothing rhythm as you massage his scalp.

the moment he lets go is inconspicuous because it comes in stages. his head that starts on your chest begins to melt until it rests on your belly. bucky’s arms initially maneuver restlessly. ultimately, they hang limply over the outside of your thighs.

“sweetheart?” he calls for you lowly, groggily.

your lips rise, “mhm?”

“thank you.”

[cheekybarnes]

proof of return | bucky barnes x reader

Summary: You die and come back—every time. But when a mission pushes your limits and you don’t return right away, Bucky’s worst fear threatens to finally be true.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post CACW / Avengers AU

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: depictions of death, medical trauma, near-death experiences, resurrection themes, discussions of mortality, panic/anxiety responses, emotional dysregulation, implied PTSD, field injury descriptions, medical experimentation implications, intense emotional themes, soft romance with heavy angst!!!

Word Count: 9.4k

Author’s Note: brb posting this again because my dumbass accidentally deleted it. but this one was a request and i absolutely devoured it—i loved the concept so much i maybe (definitely) left the ending a little loosely tied up on purpose… might’ve gotten a bit carried away with the angst and emotional spirals, but honestly? no regrets. thank you to the lovely anon who sent this in 💀🖤

The first time Bucky saw you die, he didn’t believe in miracles.

Not really. Certainly not in the Hallmark kind. And definitely not in the gods-and-glory kind. Not after the war. Not after the ice. Not after Hydra. Not after the Avengers fell and the Sokovia Accords cracked open everything that had once felt like progress.

He’d barely believed Steve when he told him the Avengers were a family again. Patched-up, stitched-together, maybe limping a little, but still standing. Still fighting. 

Bucky hadn’t expected to be pulled into that house. Hadn’t expected them to let him stay.

And he hadn’t expected you.

You were fire where the rest of them were steel. Not volatile—just burning, always. Bright eyes, steady hands, too much laughter in your lungs for someone who carried as much loss in their file as he did. 

He hadn’t noticed you at first, not really. You weren’t loud like Tony or cocky like Clint, didn’t crackle with power like Wanda or jab like Sam. But Natasha passed you the remote without asking. Clint stole your fries and never got glared at for it. Steve nodded when you spoke, like your word was enough. Rhodey let you reroute a live op mid-briefing without batting an eye. Even Tony, who didn’t trust anyone he couldn’t outtalk, actually listened when you muttered a correction under your breath.

You had a room in the south wing, but half the time you were in the gym or on the roof, or behind a console in the mission control room, legs kicked up and a lollipop jammed between your teeth like you were doing a bit. Bucky didn’t know how to approach someone like that. 

You didn’t scare him, but you didn’t make sense, either.

Not until that mission in Belarus. Not until the firestorm. Not until the building collapsed, and you—without hesitation, without backup—went in after a hostage nobody had even confirmed was still alive.

It happened fast. They always do. One second, he was behind you, shoulder to shoulder, rifle sweeping the hall for stragglers. The next, a pressure plate went off. The whole floor heaved. He remembered seeing your body twist mid-air, pushing the civilian ahead of you toward a half-shattered window. And then nothing. Just dust. Screaming metal. Silence.

And then red. Everywhere.

He found your body half-buried in the rubble. Neck bent too far to one side. Eyes wide and glassy. Lips open like you’d died with a breath caught in your chest. You didn’t look peaceful. You didn’t look gone. You looked ripped away.

And Bucky—who’d seen bodies pile up like cordwood, who’d watched friends bleed out under moonlight, who’d held too many soldiers as their lungs gave out—could not breathe. He dropped to his knees beside you, gravel and glass biting into his palms. 

Sam’s voice was in his comm, sharp, ordering a retreat. Steve was yelling something, calling his name. But all he could hear was the static of his own pulse roaring in his skull. All he could see was you.

He wasn’t supposed to panic. Steve had told him that. Not in those words, but close enough. The night before their first mission with you, Steve had pulled him aside after briefing, lingering near the map table long after the others had left the room. 

The compound lights had gone dim, casting that glassy blue reflection over everything, and Bucky remembered the way Steve rubbed his thumb over the edge of the table—like he wasn’t sure how to start. Which was rare. Steve always knew how to start.

He had told Bucky you had a… condition. That you could recover from injuries that would level anyone else. That death wasn’t always the end for you. But the words had come with too much weight and not enough clarity. Bucky had assumed it meant you healed fast, like someone like him. Something cellular. Scientific. Something manageable.

Not this.

Because talking about someone’s tendency not to stay dead didn’t prepare you to watch their neck snap against a concrete beam. It didn’t give you tools for handling the stillness of their chest, the unnatural twist of their limbs, the mouth gone slack and blood pooling under their skull. It didn’t make it any easier to reach out and try to close their eyes, only to find them already glassed over.

It was one thing to be told.

It was something else entirely to see.

And yet no one else seemed to be moving like he was. Sam had cleared the building. Natasha’s voice crackled in his ear with calm, crisp updates. Steve sounded winded but focused, calling coordinates for extraction. The rest of the team had already folded the loss into their protocol, trusting that the wrinkle would smooth out. That you’d sit up. That you’d shake it off. 

That it was temporary.

You came back on the jet, somewhere over the Baltic. Coughed once, loudly, and then swore like someone had woken you up from a nap. Your pupils were blown wide, disoriented, blinking into the overhead light. Your voice cracked. Your ribs were still healing when you sat up and reached for a damn granola bar.

Bucky watched the whole thing from across the cabin like he was watching a ghost dig itself out of the grave. No one else even flinched. Steve patted your back. Natasha tossed you a bottle of water. Sam made a joke about “another life gone down the drain.”

After that, he started watching you differently.

It wasn’t obvious. He wasn’t obvious. Just...more aware. How you moved. How you fought. How you flinched sometimes when the flashbangs went off, how you touched your own throat after every mission like you had to remind yourself it was still there. He started walking a little closer to your side. Started memorizing the way you breathed, just in case he had to hear it stop again.

And he did.

He heard it stop. Again. And again. And again.

A dozen times over the past year. Maybe more. He’d stopped counting after the tenth.

And every time it happened, no matter how fast you came back—thirty minutes, five minutes, once in under thirty seconds—some part of him still reacted like it could be the last time. 

It didn’t matter if it was a sniper’s shot that caught you in the neck or a car bomb that threw you half a block down a dirt road or an enemy blade shoved clean through your spine. You dropped. You went still. And Bucky would freeze. For a breath. For a blink. For just long enough to feel that quiet pull in his chest like gravity trying to drag him down with you.

He never got used to it.

Not once.

He never let the others see how it shook him. Never said anything. Just picked up your body when he had to. Pulled you out of fire when no one else noticed you’d fallen.

Because you always came back. That was the rule. Everyone else had accepted it like a fact of nature. But for Bucky, it never felt like science. It felt like gambling. Like every time you died, death got a little greedier. The odds stacked a little higher. And one day, the universe would call it.

And he hated it.

Hated how reckless you were. How little regard you had for your own body. You weren’t suicidal—he wasn’t sure you could be—but there was a fearlessness in you that read like self-destruction. You joked about it. Sam called you “the immortal dumbass.” Tony called you “useful.” Steve said you were brave. But Bucky saw something else behind your eyes. A kind of numbness. A weightless tilt.

It scared him.

Because what scared him more than dying himself…was watching someone else do it. Again. And again. And again.

The compound was quiet at night in the way that only military-grade buildings ever were—buzzing, humming, never truly silent. The ventilation systems always sounded like breath. The floor lights pulsed faintly, like veins. Even the steel walls seemed to whisper in low frequency. But the quiet now was different. It was waiting. Restless. A low, thrumming kind of tension that had nothing to do with the building and everything to do with what was coming.

Bucky sat upright in bed for over an hour, jaw locked, staring at the far wall like it might give him something to focus on that wasn’t you. It didn’t.

You were leaving in the morning.

You, Natasha, and Stark—some infiltration op on the edge of Ukraine that had started as a tech recovery and escalated into something else. Bucky hadn’t asked the details. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want the mental image of another burning compound or another half-collapsed stairwell or another sniper’s nest tucked into a tree line where you couldn’t see it until the shot cracked through your spine. 

He’d already watched it happen too many times. The last three missions you’d been on? Dead. Dead. Dead. And then back again. You always came back. But that didn’t make him feel better. It made everything worse. It made the space between each heartbeat unbearable.

Eventually, he gave up pretending to rest. The sheets were cold. His skin felt too tight. The compound clocks glowed 2:38 AM, and the hallway lights flicked on one by one as he passed, barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over his palms.

He didn’t expect the kitchen to be lit. Or occupied.

But there you were—back to him, standing by the sink with the kind of posture that didn’t belong to someone who was tired. You were wide awake. Methodical. Precise, like you were rebuilding a bomb or stitching a wound. Except your hands were moving around the kettle. Teabags. Your favorite mug.

You turned your head, sensing him before he made a sound. Always did. “Hey, Buck.”

Your voice was low. Not a whisper. Just soft, like you didn’t want to scare the quiet away.

“Can’t sleep either?”

He stopped just inside the threshold. Blinked once. Swallowed the first thing he thought and offered something neutral instead. “Didn’t try that hard.”

You smiled without showing teeth. It didn’t reach your eyes, but it tried. And without another word, you turned back to what you were doing and pulled a second mug from the shelf. Not a guess. Not a question. His mug. The one with the faded shield logo and hairline crack at the rim.

He watched you move in silence, jaw working slightly as your hand hovered over the tea canister, pulling out the one he liked. Not the basic black tea ones the others used. Yours smelled like warm bark and orange peel and cinnamon. You added a splash of milk and just enough honey to kill the bite without making it sweet. You didn’t measure, never did, but it was always perfect. 

You passed the mug across the counter without fanfare, fingers brushing his briefly. They were warm. You always ran warm. He took it without speaking.

“You’re leaving in, what—” he glanced at the digital stove clock, “less than seven hours?”

You nodded, stirring your own tea slowly. “More like six and a half. Don’t remind me.”

He tried not to frown. Failed.

You sipped and leaned back against the counter. Your legs were bare. Oversized hoodie, no armor, no gear. No bulletproof vest. Just soft cotton and skin and the delicate shimmer of a healing scar above your collarbone where a blade had gone in clean two missions ago. You hadn’t even blinked. Bled out in Tony’s arms. Came back with a cough and a nosebleed like it was a mild inconvenience.

You noticed his stare but didn’t call him on it. Just nudged the edge of your mug against his knuckles and murmured, “Don’t do the broody look. I know what it means.”

He glanced down, unsure if he was glaring or just giving himself away. “What does it mean?”

You tilted your head, considering him. Your hair was a mess. Damp at the ends. No makeup. No effort. He liked you better this way. Not performance. Not mask. Just you.

“It means you’re thinking too hard again.” You didn’t say it accusingly. More like it was something you admired and hated all at once. “That or your tea’s already gone cold and you’re too polite to tell me I messed it up.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Shook his head once. “It’s fine.”

“It’s perfect,” you corrected. Then you added, quieter, “I always make it the way you like.”

There was no flirt in your tone. No edge. Just fact.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

You were watching him now. Really watching. Like you could see the tension in his shoulders, the slow grind of his jaw, the way his eyes kept darting back to the clock like it was counting something down.

You leaned forward slightly. “You alright?”

He looked at you.

Really looked.

You, who had died more times than he could count. Who always smiled when you came back, like it wasn’t terrifying. You, who hadn’t asked him for a thing, hadn’t pushed for closeness, hadn’t teased him the way others did, but who had somehow become the only person in the compound whose absence he felt like a bruise.

He let the silence stretch. It took effort to speak through the tightness in his chest. “Just… try not to die this time, alright?”

You blinked once. Then you gave a half-smile. “That’s the plan.”

“That’s always the plan,” he said, voice low, rough. “You just never stick to it.”

You raised your mug in a lazy sort of salute. “Well, someone’s gotta keep things exciting around here.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t return it.

You sobered immediately. “Bucky.”

He looked down at his tea. Didn’t answer.

Your voice gentled. “I know it’s hard.”

That made something sharp move in his gut. He swallowed it. “Do you?”

“I do.” You shifted, setting your mug down. “It’s hard for me too.”

His eyes snapped back to you then, confused.

You exhaled through your nose, slow, measured, like you were weighing the shape of what you were about to say. Like even now, even with the space between you tighter than it had ever been, there was still something in you that hesitated. 

“Everyone assumes it doesn’t really hurt. Dying.”

The words slid out like you’d been holding them back for years.

“I don’t really correct them. What’s the point? I’ve done it so many times it’s almost natural at this point.” You gave a small shrug, and Bucky hated how casual it looked. Hated how practiced it felt. “They think it makes it easier to watch if it’s clean. If it’s clinical. Like I’m slipping under for a nap or something.”

You laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It had a rawness to it, like it was built to cover something far older and more bitter.

“It’s not,” you said. “It’s not clean. It’s not quiet. And no, it doesn’t always hurt. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it’s just cold. Sometimes it’s like static ripping through my chest. Sometimes it’s like drowning. But I’ve done it enough times to know—”

You hesitated.

Then, softer: “The worst part isn’t dying.”

Bucky’s grip on the mug shifted slightly. Not enough to clink it against the counter, but just enough that the tension bled through his fingers.

He stared at you. At the way your expression barely moved, but your voice had pulled taut—something strung between exhaustion and confession. And before he could stop himself, before he could measure the weight of the words or consider whether he wanted to hear the answer, his voice slipped out, quieter than he meant.

“Then what is?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your mouth parted like you might, then closed again. You looked down, thumb running along the seam of your mug, then up again like you were scanning the ceiling for courage or language or both.

“Coming back,” you said, after a long breath. 

Your fingers traced the rim of your mug, absent, like they needed something to circle. “It’s like being dropped into your own body from a great height—like everything’s disjointed and wrong, like your cells are trying to knit themselves into something they almost remember being but keep getting it wrong on the first try. I wake up choking on a breath that doesn’t belong to me. There’s always this—delay—between my heartbeat and my mind, like I’m being rebooted from the inside out.” 

You paused, eyes somewhere near the floor, shoulders rigid but low. “The world doesn’t feel real at first. My senses are too loud, or too quiet, or off, like I’m underwater or too deep in my own skin.”

Bucky didn’t move. Couldn’t. His palms had gone clammy against the ceramic, but he didn’t dare set the mug down—it felt like the only thing tethering him to the moment. 

You looked up then, not at him, but through him, gaze unfocused like you were reliving something only you could see. “I don’t always remember my name. I don’t always remember if I was supposed to come back at all.” Your voice cracked then—barely—but it landed in his chest like a breach. 

“And it does hurt, Buck,” You exhaled, slow and tired. “God, it’s like being remade out of raw wire.”

Bucky didn’t know when he stopped breathing. Didn’t know how long his body had been holding still like it was trying not to wake something. The mug in his hand felt cold now. Heavy. Like it had been drained of heat the same way he had. And still, he didn’t let go of it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with his hands if he did.

And then, softly, you reached out.

Your fingers brushed his forearm like you were checking to see if he was real. Just the lightest touch at first, then a firmer press. 

You didn’t say sorry, didn’t ask if it was too much, didn’t flinch away when he didn’t move to meet you halfway. You just held there—gentle, grounded. The way someone might try to soothe a trembling animal. Or offer comfort without making a show of it. And maybe it was stupid, or selfish, or something worse, but Bucky let himself lean into it. 

“I don’t want it to be my first move, Buck. It never is.” Your thumb shifted against the fabric of his sleeve like you couldn’t help it. “When I charge in, when I make a call that looks reckless—it’s not because I’m aiming to die. It’s because in the moment, there’s no better option. No faster way to stop it. No one else in range. Sometimes… sometimes it’s just easier if it’s me.”

His throat was tight. Too tight to speak.

Because he believed you. Of course he did. But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest from flaring sharp and sudden. Didn’t stop the cold curl of dread he felt every single time your comm went quiet. Every time the room stilled after an explosion. Every time he turned and you weren’t there.

His voice came out low, uneven, laced with too much he hadn’t meant to say.

“Just—just stay close to Romanoff tomorrow. Or Stark. Don’t run ahead unless you have to. Don’t be alone when it happens.”

When.

Not if.

He hated how easily the word came out.

You gave him a soft, lopsided smile. The kind that didn’t make it to your eyes but still tried. “It’s alright, Buck. I’ve done this long enough. I’m used to it.”

And that broke something small and vital in him.

“You shouldn’t be.”

His voice was sharp, sudden, louder than he meant. It cut through the hush of the kitchen like a blade. He saw your eyes flicker at the sound, but you didn’t recoil. 

“You shouldn’t be used to dying alone,” he said, softer now. Raw. “You shouldn’t come back alone, either.”

He didn’t say the rest. Didn’t say I want to be there. Didn’t say I would hold you through it if you let me. Didn’t say it kills me every time I have to watch you fall.

But he didn’t have to.

Because your expression shifted, just enough.

And then—still slow, still careful—you slid your hand from his forearm down to his wrist. Let your palm settle over the place where his pulse jumped like it was trying to escape.

“I don’t want to get used to it either,” you said quietly. “But if I have to… I’d rather it be you waiting for me when I come back.”

The words lodged deep. Lodged somewhere past logic, past instinct—somewhere in that hollowed-out place he didn’t let anyone touch. And he didn’t know what it meant, not really. Not what it implied or promised or asked of him. 

Because that was the one thing he knew how to do.

Wait.

Watch.

Endure the parts no one else wanted to witness.

He’d spent a lifetime surviving the aftermath of things—wars, experiments, governments, grief—and this felt no different. Just another kind of ruin. Just another body he couldn’t stop reaching for. But if there was even a sliver of a choice here, if there was any piece of this he could claim, it would be what you asked.

When you finally looked at him again—wary, uncertain, something like tired hope flickering behind your eyes—all he could do was nod.

The first thing he registered was the sound of his own boots slamming against the tile. The weight of them. The violence of it. Bucky didn’t run in the compound. There was never a need. Never a reason. But now he was sprinting. No hesitation, no precision, just raw momentum. Like if he stopped, the whole world might catch up and swallow him whole.

The overhead lights stuttered past in a blur—white, blue, white, blue—his reflection shattering and reforming in every panel of glass he passed. The comm still buzzed in his ear, but he’d stopped parsing the words. It had become background noise, panic laced with protocol, two voices overlapping in jagged bursts.

“Vitals flatlined—”

“Still no activity—fuck, fuck, we need Bruce—”

“I’ve never seen her take this long—”

“ETA three minutes, someone prep the med bay—”

Tony’s voice cracked on the last word, something clipped and sharp sliding under the usual bravado, and that was what made Bucky run faster.

He didn’t wait for the elevator. Barreled up the north stairwell like it would collapse behind him. His lungs burned. His shoulder ached. He barely registered when he passed Sam near the third-floor turn, just the sound of his name shouted down the corridor, ignored. Nothing else mattered.

Because you were supposed to be back by now.

Not on the quinjet. Not in the air. Not in stasis.

Back.

On your feet. Joking about needing a sandwich. Complaining about the lights being too bright. Mumbling something sarcastic as your system recalibrated. That’s how it always went. Messy, yeah. Ugly, sometimes. But reliable. You came back within the hour. Always. Always.

This time, you hadn’t.

And Bucky had felt the shift in his bones the second the mission feed cut out mid-transmission.

It was subtle at first. Just dead air. Then a flicker of video from Natasha’s body cam—frantic movement, blood on the wall, your body collapsed in a narrow corridor with debris still falling overhead. Tony had shouted something unintelligible over comms. Nat was already kneeling beside you. Trying to wake you. Then the feed cut out again.

Bucky hadn’t heard what happened next.

He didn’t need to.

He knew. He always knew.

And still, he’d waited. Ground his teeth. Paced the hall outside mission ops like a ghost with no orders. Told himself it wasn’t new. Told himself you’d done this dozens of times. Told himself not to make a scene.

But then the timer passed sixty minutes after Tony and Natasha had loaded you onto the quinjet.

Then seventy.

Then ninety.

And no one said it, no one dared, but the silence on the channel had changed. The kind of silence that meant containment, not comfort. Containment of panic. Of grief. Of the beginnings of a body bag.

By the time he reached the landing bay, the hangar doors were already yawning open, air pressure groaning with mechanical grief. Steve was behind him now, not far. Bruce was shouting something to a tech, slamming gloved hands into the control panel and barking for clearance codes. Bucky’s eyes locked on the quinjet’s silhouette as it cut through the horizon, still high, but descending fast. Too fast. The bay lights washed the whole space in a sterile blue that made everything look surgical. Wrong.

The quinjet’s landing gear screamed against the platform as it made contact. The bay was full now—techs, med staff, Bruce at the front with a gurney, clipboard in one hand, tablet in the other, already barking orders before the ramp even dropped. And Bucky—he stood rooted at the bottom of the stairs, fists clenched at his sides, heart hammering like it might give out.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bucky still expected you to walk off that jet like nothing happened.

There was a part of him, desperate and stubborn, that still clung to that image. That hoped you’d emerge before the engines even powered down—smirking, smug, asking why everyone looked like they’d seen a ghost.

He could almost hear your voice. Relax, Barnes. I’m contractually obligated to survive.

But the ramp dropped. And you didn’t walk out.

Tony did.

No suit. No helmet. 

Just his bare hands curled around your limp form. One arm under your knees, the other locked around your back, holding you close to his chest like something fragile. Like something already gone. His face was pale, eyes rimmed red. Whatever had been holding him together on the jet was cracking now, and Bucky watched the breath stutter out of him as he carried you down the ramp and toward the waiting gurney.

Natasha was already moving. Straight to Bruce. Her voice was low, urgent, fast, but Bucky couldn’t hear a damn word of it. It was all static in his skull—white noise flooding out every sense except for the sight of you. Head lolling. Arms dangling. That stupid hoodie half-zipped over your tac gear, stained dark down the front. 

No movement. No twitch. No rise of breath.

Tony laid you down without ceremony. Like he couldn’t bear to hold your weight a second longer. His hands hovered as he stepped back, twitching once before curling into fists at his sides.

Bruce was shouting. Snapping gloves on. Calling for neuro pads, ordering an amp of sodium bicarb and a second gurney of crash meds. The med team swarmed, rapid and precise, like they’d rehearsed this. Maybe they had. But none of it made sense to Bucky. Because no one was saying the thing he needed to hear. No one was saying you were alive.

And then you were gone.

Rolled away down the corridor on a rush of wheels and panic, monitors trailing, IV bags bouncing against the rails, Bruce jogging beside the bed while the team barked vitals and stats Bucky couldn’t parse. The doors hissed open. Then closed.

And Bucky moved.

He didn’t remember his legs making the decision—just that he was following, ignoring the hand that caught at his arm, the voice that tried to stop him.

“Bucky—” Natasha’s voice, behind him. “You don’t have to—”

But he did. Of course he did. Where else would he be.

By the time he reached the med bay corridor, the viewing room was already sealed. The glass looked too clean, too polished, reflecting his own wrecked face back at him as he stepped inside. The lights overhead were harsh, clinical. He didn’t blink. Just locked his gaze on the room beyond the glass, where your body lay motionless on the biobed, surrounded by noise.

There were five people in the room with you—Bruce, a trauma nurse, and three field medics. The readouts were red. Your core temp was low. Too low. And that was wrong. Because your body didn’t deteriorate. Not like this. Not if it was going to come back.

Bruce’s voice cut through the comm system, clipped and clinical:

“She’s entering cellular stasis—no signs of resync. EKG flat. Core temp’s dropping—eighty-four and falling. Prep the defib pads. Set to 300 joules.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

One of the techs stepped in, gel already applied to the paddles. Bruce checked your chest placement, then gave a nod.

The charge fired. Your body jolted.

No rhythm.

Another nurse adjusted the IV line. “Bicarb’s in. Still no spike in brain activity.”

“Try again,” Bruce snapped.

Another charge. Higher. Your body arched, then slammed back down. No response.

“Still nothing.”

“Try again.”

It was wrong. All of it. Bucky’s nails dug into his palms, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned. They were treating you like a patient. Like someone they could save. But this wasn’t how it worked. You didn’t need to be brought back. You just came back—like clockwork, like breath, like gravity. There had never been any need for any involvement.

Bruce turned to the others, rattling off a new protocol—hypothermic suppression, something about delaying tissue damage, prolonging viability. Words like organ stability and neural oxygenation passed between them, and Bucky could barely process it, because all of it translated to the same thing:

You weren’t coming back yet. And they don’t know how long you had.

The door behind him hissed open.

He didn’t turn.

Natasha stepped in without a word. No sound but her boots against the tile as she came to stand beside him. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. She didn’t speak, not at first. She didn’t try to comfort him. Just stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and stared through the glass like she was holding vigil too.

It took him several minutes before his voice cracked out of him, low and sharp.

“What happened?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She didn’t look at him, either—just kept her arms crossed, gaze fixed on the glass where your body lay surrounded by wires and machines and steady, unchanging noise. He saw the way her jaw flexed. The tick in her cheek like she was chewing through something unspeakable.

And that alone told him this wasn’t routine.

She never hesitated when it was routine.

Finally, her voice cut through the silence—low, clipped, too measured to be natural. “We were clearing a lab. North end of the facility. Looked like abandoned HYDRA tech, but older. Pre-Winter program. Lots of redundancy, lots of analog systems. Nothing networked. Tony was busy cataloging the hard drives—we thought it was just a data dump. Then she found some sort of weapon.”

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

Natasha’s arms tightened against her ribs. “We didn’t even recognize it at first. It wasn’t primed. No energy signatures, no alerts. Looked inert. Like junk.”

His heart slammed harder.

“She picked it up to inspect the casing. Turned it over. There was a crack in the housing. We think the firing mechanism was already damaged. Or maybe proximity triggered it—Bruce or Tony would know better than I would. But it discharged.”

He didn’t speak. Just waited. Let the pause stretch long enough for Natasha to regret telling him anything at all.

“It wasn’t explosive,” she said finally. “No heat, no impact. No shrapnel. But it hit her. One shot. Center mass. We didn’t hear a sound—just this flash of white light, and then she dropped.”

Bucky didn’t react. Couldn’t.

Not at the image of you turning the weapon over in your hands. Not at the thought of white light and silence and you dropping like a puppet with the strings cut. Not even when Natasha’s voice dropped, brittle and precise in a way it only got when she was holding herself together by muscle memory alone.

All he could see—all he could fucking see—was the scene playing out behind the glass. Your stillness. Your silence. The unrelenting machinery keeping your body warm, your blood oxygenated, your brain stem pulsing with artificially induced potential. But not life. Not you.

It hadn’t felt real until now. Not entirely. Panic had a way of making things surreal—like there was still a punchline coming, like it hadn’t fully landed. But this? This was worse. Watching it. Being trapped behind glass while they shocked you over and over, like they were trying to wake a corpse without saying the word.

You’d survived worse. That was the problem.

You’d walked off missions with your ribs in fragments. Pulled yourself out of burning wreckage. Sat up after being shot in the head. He’d seen it. He’d held you while your pulse fluttered back under his palm. He knew the rhythm of your breath when it restarted. Knew how your fingers twitched first, then your jaw. Knew how you blinked like you were trying to remember the shape of your name.

But now you weren’t even twitching.

And his brain was starting to do that thing it did—the one where it spiraled so hard it looped, where logic cracked open and left nothing but noise behind. Because if it was taking this long… if Bruce didn’t have a timeline… if even Tony was panicking—

“She’s not gone.”

Natasha’s voice was quiet. Steady. Like she’d seen the spiral forming in his posture before he had.

“She’s not,” she repeated, sharper this time. “There’s no sign of neurological decay. Tony said her cortex is holding. There’s no evidence to suggest she won’t come back.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She flatlined for forty-seven minutes that time in Syria,” Nat added, tone more clinical now, like she was reciting a file to ground them both. “We all thought it was over. Bruce was five seconds from calling it when she sat up and asked if we’d eaten her snacks.”

He wanted to believe that should’ve helped. That it mattered. That past precedent meant something. But it didn’t settle the pressure behind his eyes, or the fire crawling up his throat.

“This is different,” he muttered.

Natasha didn’t argue.

He turned just enough to glance at her, the flick of his gaze heavy and pointed. “You’ve never been an optimist.”

“I’m not,” she said simply. “But I’m also not an idiot. If she were really gone, we’d know.”

He let out a bitter, humorless breath. “We’re watching them electroshock her chest every five minutes. You sure we’d know?”

Natasha’s lips twitched—not a smile, not even close. Just something flickering beneath the surface. “You think she’d let some half-functioning relic weapon be the thing that takes her out? After everything she’s lived through?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t disagree, either.

“Tony’s running the analysis now,” she continued. “Whatever that thing was—it wasn’t designed to kill conventionally. That much is clear. It’s probably why it didn’t even register as active. He thinks it might’ve been experimental stasis tech—some kind of field disruptor. Lock the target in a non-degrading state. But even that’s just a theory.”

Bucky ground the heel of his palm against his brow. The ache had started somewhere deep, beneath his skull, where stress nested and bloomed.

His hand pressed harder. “If she doesn’t come back—”

“She will.”

“Nat.”

“She will, Bucky.”

There was a buzzing.

Not a sound. Not exactly. More like a current running through your skin, deep beneath the layers—like someone had threaded copper wire through your veins and left it live. Everything felt… charged. Damp. Wrong.

The air was heavy, too close. Your teeth ached. Your ribs didn’t feel like they belonged to you.

You opened your eyes, maybe. At least you thought you did. Everything was too bright and too dark at once. The edges of the world were sliding. The walls were breathing. Your lungs weren’t. Not quite. Your throat was raw, like you’d been screaming or swallowing metal or—no, not screaming. That would’ve made sense. 

You blinked again, or tried to. The room didn’t shift.

There was a room, wasn’t there?

Something sterile. Bleached light, white tile, silver machinery that hummed like it was alive and watching. Somewhere in the distance, maybe inside your skull, a sound repeated over and over. A slow metronome. A beep. You couldn’t tell if it was coming from you or something next to you. Or beneath you. You couldn’t tell where you were at all.

Your hands weren’t hands. Just weight. Ghosted nerves. One of them trembled. The other didn’t.

You tried to sit up. The effort felt like drowning in a body that hadn’t been built for you. Your limbs didn’t respond so much as wobble, twitching into motion with a lag like bad video playback.

Your feet hit the floor. Bare. Cold. You didn’t remember standing. Didn’t remember walking. But the next time you blinked, the bed was behind you, its sheets twisted like a fight had happened there.

You were… moving. One step. Then another.

The hallway felt endless. Pale and wrong, like a dream version of the compound—hall lights too dim, shadows too tall, silence pressing too close to your skin. There was a tug in your chest. A flicker of wrongness beneath your breastbone, like the rhythm in your body hadn’t fully started yet. Or like it had started crooked.

You touched the wall for balance. The material was cold and real and buzzing. Or maybe that was still you. Maybe it wasn’t the wall at all.

You weren’t dressed right. Thin fabric hung off your shoulders—hospital gown. You registered that in a floaty, useless sort of way. Legs bare. No shoes. One IV port still half-taped to your arm, the cannula snapped off but the tubing still there. 

No one was in the hall. Or maybe they were. Maybe you weren’t seeing them right.

You should’ve gone back. Sat down. Laid down. But your feet kept moving. Left, right, wrong. Left again.

You didn’t know where you were going. You just needed something. Somewhere.

Suddenly, there was a shape ahead. Dark. Tall. Solid.

For one sharp, blinding second, your heart kicked up like it was trying to reboot again, like it had seen something familiar enough to latch onto.

You paused.

You heard a name in your head, but didn’t feel right. It didn’t fit. You tried to reach for it and came up empty.

You blinked, slow and sticky. There was something familiar about him. Something that sent a lurch through your ribs. Broad shoulders. Dark shirt. Dark jeans. Hands clenched at his sides.

Your mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out but a dry, broken sound.

And then there was movement. Too fast for your brain to register. Your legs staggered back a step, warning sparks flaring through your nerves, but there wasn’t enough time. He reached you. Arms wrapped around you like a snap, like a catch, like a promise made good on. It knocked the air from your lungs. Or maybe you’d forgotten how to breathe.

You gasped into the fabric of his shirt. Cold hands on your spine. His arms iron-wrapped around your shoulders, your ribs, your back. Unyielding. Like he couldn’t hold you hard enough.

You didn’t remember how to respond. Your hands hovered, limp, not sure what to do. Not sure if this was safe. Not sure if this was real. Everything felt out of sync.

He pulled back.

Just enough.

Calloused and cold metal hands cupped your face. His thumbs swept under your eyes, across your cheekbones. His touch was trembling. His breath hitched. You blinked up at him, and for the first time, the shape of him sharpened. The fragments aligned. You saw the worry carved into every inch of his expression—the eyes too wide, jaw tight, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

“...Bucky?”

Your own voice startled you. Dry and thready, like it had been caught somewhere deep in your chest and dragged out raw. It barely sounded like you. But he reacted to it like a knife.

His breath caught. His jaw trembled. And then he let out this low, uneven exhale, like it had been sitting in his lungs for years.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah. I’m here.”

His hands were still on your face. Still grounding you, brushing warmth over your cheeks in shaky passes like he wasn’t convinced you wouldn’t vanish if he let go.

You stared up at him, and for a long moment, all you could do was look. Trace the mess of emotion behind his eyes. The strain in his posture. The red-rimmed edge of grief barely reined in. You could feel it in his touch, too—not just relief, but fear. The kind that lingered even after the danger had passed.

Something in you ached.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say anything. Your body still felt wrong. Out of order. Like it had been rebooted without your permission and the software hadn’t finished syncing yet.

He pulled his hands back slowly. Gave you space. But didn’t step away.

“What…” you swallowed, but your throat burned. “What happened?”

Bucky’s eyes searched yours. Carefully. Slowly. As if he were checking to see just how much of you had come back.

“You tell me,” he said, voice low. “What do you remember?”

Your brow furrowed. You tried to think. Tried to pull something forward.

There had been a mission. You remembered that.

Tony, Natasha, an old facility. HYDRA tech. Dust and rust and data cores. A strange silence under the floor. Static in your comms.

Your stomach turned.

“I—uh. We were clearing a lab,” you murmured. Your own voice sounded off—like it belonged to someone else, like it had been stored too long in a drawer and didn’t quite fit anymore. “Tony was pulling drives. Nat was checking the walls. I saw a piece of something near the far console—looked like an old shell casing, but smooth. Heavy.”

You paused. Closed your eyes.

“I turned it over.”

Bucky’s hands didn’t move. His eyes were locked on yours.

You swallowed, mouth dry. “There was a flash. White light.”

It hit you then. Like a thread being yanked too hard. Like memory trying to force its way back through a door that wasn’t fully open.

“I got hit by it,” you whispered. “Didn’t I?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you with something carved into every inch of his expression—exhaustion, disbelief, something ancient and brittle and on the edge of breaking.

“I died?”

The words felt too loud. Too sharp in the silence of the hallway.

Bucky exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. “Yeah.”

And something about that didn’t make sense. Not the dying, that part settled in your chest like it had always been waiting to happen, but the not knowing. The blank space. That was new. That was wrong. Every other time it had happened, you remembered it all. The hit, the fall, the final breath. The fading. The return. You always remembered. Even the worst of it. Especially the worst. 

Your lungs forgot how to breathe again.

You stared at him, heart thudding, pulse catching somewhere behind your ribs. There was no way to make sense of the quiet horror creeping through your chest—not when the room felt too still, too flat, like gravity was being dialed back inch by inch. Like something essential had shifted and no one had warned you.

“How long?” The words rasped from you before you could fully catch them, dry and soft and sharp all at once. 

Because that had to be it, right? That was the only thing that made sense. That strange, sterile absence, like someone had taken a scalpel to your memory and carved a clean edge around it. The only thing that could explain it was time. Too much of it.

Bucky’s expression flickered. His jaw tightened, just slightly, and his eyes dropped for the first time—not in shame, not in guilt, but like he didn’t want to hurt you with the answer. Like even saying it might knock something loose that neither of you could ever put back.

“Three days,” he said quietly.

You blinked. The number didn’t land at first. It circled above you, weightless, disbelieving.

“Three days?” You echoed it like a question, but you already knew it wasn’t. 

Your fingers curled against the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching between your knuckles like it could steady you somehow. 

It had never been that long before. Never more than minutes, maybe up to an hour, maybe. You’d always come back fast. Always. That was the unspoken rule—get hurt, go dark, and snap back into the world before anyone even had time to mourn you. But this…

Three entire days of silence. Of stillness. Of him, of all of them, thinking you were gone for good.

“Oh my god,” you choked out. It ripped from your throat like it had claws. “Bucky. I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t even mean to say it at first. It just burst out of you, clumsy and frantic, like your own voice couldn’t get ahead of the guilt rising fast and unstoppable in your chest. 

“I didn’t mean to—fuck—I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would take that long. I thought—I thought I’d come back like always. I didn’t think—” Your voice cracked, all the breath leaving your lungs in one crushing wave.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure how to hold both your apology and his own devastation at the same time. His mouth opened, then closed again. And then he reached for you—more confident this time, more desperate too—and pulled you into his chest like it was the only thing keeping him together.

“Hey. No.” His voice was low against your ear, strained but steady. “Don’t do that. It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

You wanted to argue. You knew it wasn’t logical, that this wasn’t a choice you made, it wasn’t something you did or forgot or failed to prevent, but that didn’t stop the guilt from clawing its way up anyway. It didn’t stop the ache of imagining what it must have looked like from the outside—your body going still, time dragging on, and nothing changing.

You melted into him, arms curling around his waist as if your bones remembered the shape of him before your brain could catch up. Your face pressed into the worn fabric of his shirt, where it clung damp to his chest, and you could feel it. His heartbeat. A steady, shaking rhythm like it had forgotten how to pace itself without yours beside it. 

Your hands fisted at the back of his shirt, fingertips curling like maybe if you held him tightly enough, you could undo it. Take it all back. Erase the look in his eyes. Rewind whatever hell he’d been living through in those three days without you.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” you murmured again, the words barely a breath this time. “I didn’t know—I didn’t think—I’ve never… I’ve never been gone that long, Bucky. I didn’t even know it was possible. It’s always seconds. Minutes. I blink and I’m back. But this…”

You felt him nod against your temple, slow and pained. “I know,” he said. “I know, baby.”

He didn’t let go. Not entirely. Even as you pulled back just enough to look at him, his hand stayed on the side of your neck, like maybe if he kept some part of you anchored, it would keep you from vanishing again. You weren’t sure if the trembling in his fingers was from adrenaline, or if you were just imagining it. But it felt real. Realer than anything else.

You searched his face, trying to memorize him all over again. The lines carved harder into his brow. The shadows under his eyes. The flecks of grey threading through overgrown stubble at his jaw. Things you’d seen a hundred times before, but now, somehow, it felt like starting over. Like he’d aged a lifetime in those three days, and you hadn’t been there to watch it happen.

Your throat worked. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

He huffed a breath, humorless. “Didn’t really want to.”

“Bucky…”

“I kept thinking…” He paused, jaw flexing. “If I closed my eyes, maybe I’d miss it. You coming back. Maybe I’d wake up and you’d be gone again. For good.”

His voice cracked halfway through and you felt it in your ribs like a bruise. It stole the breath from your lungs. You reached for him without thinking, hand sliding up to his chest again like it was the only place you knew how to go.

“I’m here now,” you said, and it came out steadier than you felt. “I came back.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. But, god, you were cold, sweetheart. You were—fuck. I held you and you were cold. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.”

A sound punched out of your chest. Some awful, broken thing that didn’t even feel like your own voice. You didn’t mean to cry. You didn’t want to cry. But something inside you cracked wide open, and all you could do was stand there, chest pressed to his, hands curled into the collar of his shirt like you needed to feel the beat of his pulse to convince yourself you weren’t still dead.

“But you came back,” he whispered. “You came back. That’s all I care about.”

“I’m so sorry,” you said again, but softer now. “I didn’t mean to put you through that. Any of you.”

His gaze found yours again after a few silent beats. “You didn’t put us through anything. You’ve saved our asses more times than I can count. You’ve carried me out of the field more than once. You think I wouldn’t wait three fucking days for you?”

Your throat went tight.

He shifted, one hand sliding from your back to cradle your jaw with aching care. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, his voice dropping even lower. “You didn’t just die. You scared the hell out of me. I thought you’d left me.”

You closed your eyes against the burn. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to leave you, Buck. Not ever.”

Something in his expression shattered, cracked open, soft and sharp and impossibly tender all at once. “Then don’t,” he said, just above a whisper. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You leaned into him again, because you didn’t know what else to do. There weren’t enough words to explain the grief of being gone, or the miracle of not being gone. Of being here, now, in this dim hallway with the man who refused to let you die without a fight.

His nose brushed against your hair as he exhaled, the tension in his chest finally loosening where it pressed against yours. “But,” he murmured, reluctant, a thread of warmth tugging at the corner of his mouth, “we should probably get you back to your room before Bruce finds out you wandered off. Otherwise he’ll have a coronary.”

You huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t caught on the remains of a sob. It escaped anyway, quiet and shaky, against the curve of his shoulder as you melted into him again. Your forehead pressed beneath his jaw, your fingers curling loosely into the fabric at his side like you didn’t trust your legs to keep holding you up, like maybe you didn’t have to. 

And you didn’t. Not with him. His arms shifted, steady and sure, one looping behind your knees, the other bracing your back as he lifted you without hesitation. You didn’t protest. Just let yourself be carried, the heat of his chest against yours the only reminder you were still here—alive, alive, alive.

The cotton scrubs were gone, thank god, and you were finally back in your own clothes. A soft, lived-in hoodie, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms, and your favorite pair of sweatpants that had survived more missions than they probably should have. 

You sat perched on the edge of the med bay bed, feet swinging slightly off the floor. The sterile scent of antiseptic still clung to everything, and you swore you could hear the damn EKG machine phantom-beeping in the back of your mind, even though Bruce had finally stopped hooking you up to it.

Bucky stood next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed your knee every time he shifted his weight. He hadn’t gone far since you’d woken up. Sometimes he wandered out for coffee, sometimes not even that. You knew the way he hovered was more for his own sake than yours, and you let him. His hand rested casually on your shoulder now, his thumb running slow, grounding passes along the curve of your collarbone like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of your breathing.

Bruce was talking. You’d missed the first sentence—your brain still had a habit of fogging over, like a page half-erased and rewritten at the same time—but you refocused in time to catch the tone of curiosity in his voice, the kind he only ever got when he was equal parts disturbed and intrigued.

“…not a shell casing,” Bruce said, half to himself as he tapped at his tablet. “Or, well—it was shaped like one. That was intentional. Camouflage. What you picked up was a containment vessel.”

“A vessel,” you repeated, brows drawing inward.

Bruce nodded. “Specifically, a dampening field housed inside a compression matrix. HYDRA tech, but not HYDRA-built. We found alien alloy markers in the molecular structure—Xandarian, we think, maybe even adapted from something Kree. That’s why it didn’t register right away on Tony’s scans. It’s old. Repurposed.”

“And boobytrapped,” Tony added, from where he was leaning against the counter with a tablet of his own, fingers tapping fast. His gaze flicked up toward you. “You’re lucky it only discharged once.”

You blinked slowly. “So I… what? Triggered it by picking it up?”

Bruce hesitated, glanced at Tony, then looked back at you. “It was proximity-based. Designed to activate if someone with a certain energy signature got too close.”

You frowned. “What kind of energy signature?”

“Yours,” Tony said, like it was obvious. “Which is why it shorted. It wasn’t supposed to come into contact with whatever the hell you are for more than a second.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your stomach turned. “I’m sorry—what I am?”

Bruce stepped in gently. “That’s not how we meant it. It’s just… we’ve never really gotten to study what happens to you. When you die.”

Bucky stiffened beside you, his hand stilling on your shoulder. You could feel the way the air changed, but Bruce didn’t flinch. He just met your eyes with a softness you didn’t expect.

“We’ve always assumed you regenerate,” Bruce continued. “That it’s some kind of cellular rebirth. Maybe quantum in nature, maybe metaphysical. But this time… this time we had data. You were out long enough for us to run the scans. To observe.”

You felt your pulse stutter. “And?”

Bruce turned the screen toward you. It displayed several charts—brainwaves, cellular readouts, something about energy dispersal. None of it meant anything to you. But the look in his eyes did. That hint of wonder behind all the science.

“You weren’t regenerating,” he said softly. “You were… gone. Dead. No neural activity. No cellular motion. For seventy three hours, you were—there was nothing.”

“But she came back,” Bucky said quietly, firmly, like he had to say it out loud to believe it. “You came back.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “And that’s the thing. We did see something shift. Around the seventy-hour, fifty-five-minute mark, there was a surge—massive, sudden, untraceable to any physical origin point. It wasn’t just energy. It was like… space itself rewrote you.”

You stared at him. Your skin prickled.

“What does that mean?” you asked, your voice too thin.

Tony finally set the tablet down. “It means whatever’s happening to you—it’s not biological. Not entirely. You don’t regenerate. You reboot. Like your existence is being rewritten every time. Like someone’s hitting a reset switch.”

Silence.

Bucky’s hand tightened gently on your shoulder, and your eyes flicked toward him. He looked calm. But only on the surface. You knew better than to trust that expression—he was the king of silent panic.

“Any idea who or what is doing the rewriting?” he asked.

Bruce hesitated. “We don’t know. It’s beyond our instruments. Beyond anything we’ve seen. It’s like you disappear from this reality, and then—bam. You’re back. Same cells, same vitals, same memories. Except this time, you were out too long. And your body didn’t come back on its own.”

You swallowed hard. “So what did?”

Bruce and Tony exchanged a look again, and it was Tony who answered this time—quiet, rare for him. “That’s the question. Because whatever it was… it didn’t come from here. Not from this plane, or dimension, or hell, even this time signature. But something out there yanked you back.”

You leaned forward slightly, elbows to your knees, head in your hands.

“And if it happens again?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

But Bucky did.

“Then we’ll be ready,” he said, his voice low, rough with something that sounded like a vow. “We’ll bring you back. No matter what it takes.”

no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!

[fairyysoup]

hotel room service

(repost)

pairing(s): adrian chase x fem!reader

summary: An off night, a hotel room, a bottle of peach Jim Beam, and Vigilante. What could go wrong?

words: 9.8k

cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), some dubcon elements, shower sex, praise kink, sub!adrian, technically switch!adrian but (gestures vaguely), alcohol consumption, drunk sex, blood kink, mentions of contraception, cowgirl position, choking, gagging, friends to lovers, character study disguised as smut, james gunn said the visor is prescription and i took that as canon, reader uses prescription lenses, yes i did name this after the pitbull song

a/n: we are so fucking back

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

“Working hours” with this black ops group are loosely defined at best, and entirely nonexistent at worst. And don’t even get started on pay, because you think at this point that you’re only getting comped whatever the pay is for your cost of living, and that’s only really when you’re on the clock. They’ll pay for the hotel room and sometimes the food, but besides that, you’re on your own.

But, back to those working hours. You don’t know when they stopped, but maybe it was around the time your roomie decided to crack open a bottle of whisky and pour out half of it for you into one of the plastic solo cups they provide with the coffee pot. God knows you’re not working anymore, you’re just sort of sitting idle while he rambles about the room, gesticulating with the bottle. Like he does.

(Plus, you don’t think he’s even being paid for this? Adrian is just here for the fun and because he’s available, and the rest of the team just let him tag along because he’s useful. The thought makes you smirk a little bit.)

You admire his profile as he talks, one finger pressed to your smiling lips as your eyes trail him back and forth, thinking he might eventually hypnotize you. He’s so… expressive. And he has dimples and curly hair, which you’ve always been a sucker for. He hasn’t even taken off his suit; blue on silver on black, with a red visor on the mask discarded on the table. You had watched him remove it, and carefully tried to hide the fact that you were staring as he pulled his wire-rimmed glasses out of a hidden pocket.

You’re very pointedly staring now, sizing him up like your next fucking meal (alcohol does that to you), and Adrian keeps on blathering in one long spiel, pacing in circles like hasn’t even noticed your hungry gaze (alcohol does that to him).

“Is that prescription?” you ask, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence, which you’d barely been paying attention to. Something something Twilight, something something cultural reset.

Adrian stops pacing, looking at you with a deer-in-headlights expression. “Huh?”

You nod at the mask laying on the table by the door. “The visor. Is it prescription?” 

He swivels to look at the mask, and then back to you with an almost bashful laugh. “Uh… yeah?”

“That’s sick.” 

“Really?” Dimples. You take another sip of your whisky to calm yourself, and it burns at the back of your throat. Objectively, you should not be feeling this way about your pseudo-coworker, who also happens to be somewhat of a lunatic. But, y’know, he’s… sweet. To you. Which is the odd thing, but you’ve gone beyond worrying about the details at this point. You’re hunting alien butterfly creatures that live in people’s brains, you can get past a couple character flaws.

“I mean, yeah.” You lick your lips, which have taken on the flavor of the peach liqueur in the whisky. “I wear prescription lenses, too, but they’re a bitch to keep clean on the job. If I could afford prescription hardware, I would. Good on you.”

“Yeah, I mean… yeah, it is fucking cool, thank you!” He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners and making you clench your jaw with how badly you want to reach out and kiss him long and hard at that exact moment. “I was starting to think no one else would notice how genius it is. Y’know, I don’t even think Peacemaker’s noticed, which is totally not very best friend-like of him, but it’s fine, I’m sure he’ll come around eventually, the guy constantly has a lot of shit on his plate. Like I remember one time, me and him got stuck in a Winnebago that was rolling downhill toward a cliff like something out of Looney Tunes because some idiot crack dealer locked us in there with his load, and-”

He’s pacing again, and the amber colored liquid in the square bottle he grips by the neck sloshes against the glass as he continues waving it around emphatically. And you’ve zoned out again, because now you’re thinking about his hands, and how nice they’d feel on your body. You’ve seen him beat the shit out of people, you know he’s packing some major force in those fists, but you haven’t felt them on your own skin, or had the experience of having them wrapped around your throat for yourself. 

“-then, y’know, Eagly’s a fucking badass, I don’t know if you’ve seen him in action, but the little dude can take a guy out in like one peck. Like do not get caught on the wrong end of those talons is all I’m saying. Anyways, he swooped in and yanked the fucking wheel, so the Winnebago flipped. I mean, can you imagine! A bald eagle rolling a camper. That shit’s gotta be, like, legendary-”

And his quads as he walks, Jesus Christ. You’ve never been super partial to burly, buff guys (sorry Chris), but there’s something to be said for muscle in the right places. Adrian’s legs are nice, you can tell just by the way the fabric of his pants stretches around them when he turns, and fuck his ass is so tight. You nearly salivate just staring at it, thinking about how much you’d love to dig your heels into it, or squeeze it to urge him on as he fucks you. 

Your eyes snap down to your solo cup of whisky, and you frown. When did you drink half of it?

“-but like I’m sure you know Eagly pretty well because he loves you, I can tell. He kind of scooches closer every time you sit near him, it’s really cute actually, I mean, I would scooch closer whenever you sat near me too except I feel like you’d punch me in the dick, good thing my suit’s got a reinforced crotch-”

“Wait, what?” You blink up at him, your brain sort of fizzling out and then rebooting as you stare at him. What did he say? 

Adrian doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, the guy who made it was like, ‘That makes no sense, you’re gonna have the worst time trying to take a piss in this,’ and I said, ‘No, dude, have you ever been karate kicked in the nuts before? Shit hurts.’ I still had to pay extra-”

“No, no, what was that shit about scooching closer? To me?” You squint at him. “Babe, are you trying to tell me something?”

He blushes. You know he’s joked about not feeling emotions like other people do, but you wonder how true that really is, because he goes beet fucking red like he’s having trouble breathing as he stares down at his shoes. “I, uh- well, I mean, yeah, I’d scooch closer to you. Theoretically. If- if you wanted me to. And if you weren’t going to punch me in the dick.”

“Why would I punch you in the dick?”

“I don’t know, it’s like… it’s an understandable reaction to someone getting in someone else’s personal space!”

“No, it really isn’t…”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t punch me in the dick?”

You throw up your hand in an exasperated gesture. “When have you ever seen me punch someone in the dick?”

He screws up his face. “UM, I don’t know, you punched Peacemaker in the dick!”

“What? When?”

“When he tried lifting you onto the truck that one time!” 

“That was a misunderstanding, I kneed him because he didn’t give me a heads up!”

“But you did it!”

“Well, the last thing I would want to do to your dick is punch it, all right?”

You both stop and stare at each other for a long moment. You think you might have stopped breathing, too. Yeah, you are definitely tipsy at this point, but you raise a slightly shaking hand to take a casual sip of your drink, as if you aren’t staring at him with bulging eyes like you’re possessed.

He opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he comes out with a response. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I mean, what other stuff would you do to my dick?”

“Uh… stuff.” You jerkily stand, nearly sloshing your drink as you try to get your bearings. You set the cup down on the bedside table and turn to look at him with the most awkward, pin-straight posture you could possibly muster, like a high schooler trying to pretend they aren’t drunk in front of their parents. “I’m going to take a shower now. Yeah. I am. I’m going to do that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Adrian looks down at the bottle in his hand, and then shuffles a bit to the side so that you can pass him.

“I mean, unless you wanted to shower first?” You pause at the end of your respective bed, and turn to see him turning down the covers on his own by the window. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting in bed,” he says flatly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches up and undoes a latch on his armor that frees the chestplate, and lifts it over his head in one swift move, leaving him in his tight fitting black undershirt.

You stare at him, scatterbrained until you manage to scowl at him, and the two knives he wears crossed against his lower back. “You’re going to sleep with all your weapons?”

“Yeah.”

“With all the dirt and sweat and fucking blood from fighting?”

“Yeah.” 

“You can’t just… you can’t just get in bed with your outside clothes on, dude!” you splutter, leaning your thigh against the end of the mattress before you, and slow your speech carefully as you declare, “It’s… unsanitary.”

“Oh, and who are you, the sleep police?” Adrian turns to sneer at you. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”

“Well I was, but that was before I knew you weren’t planning on it!” You throw your hand out at him. “Why?”

“Because! If I go to sleep with wet hair it dries all weird, okay? Get off my dick!”

“I’m sure you’ll look just as pretty regardless, Adrian,” you tut condescendingly at him, rolling your eyes as you turn on your heels toward the bathroom. “Do what you want, or fucking join me if you change your mind, I don’t care.”

You don’t register the full weight of your words until you turn on the tap. But, by that time, you also don’t get to see the way Adrian stares at the door to the bathroom like you’ve just presented him with the key to the city.

You very rarely opt for lukewarm showers, but you certainly do now. With the way your blood is humming through your veins like electricity, and you feel hot just from the sight of Adrian’s muscles in that tight fucking shirt, you feel a cold shower is in order. Well, colder, anyways. 

The water pressure is complete bullshit, of course. It pathetically trickles out, and it takes longer than usual for your body to get completely soaked. In that time, you lean against the tile and hold your head in your hands as the water drips down your face. How the fuck are you supposed to sleep in the same room as this guy? Between the way you’re just aching to jump his bones, and his inability to stop talking, you don’t think it’s a possibility tonight.

You wonder what he would sound like when you ride him. You wonder if he would finally shut up, or if he would switch to talking to you like a lover instead of a drinking buddy. You wonder if he would beg, or if he’s more dominant than that. 

You’re imagining his head between your thighs. You’re imagining what he’d look like with your hands tangled in his hair. You’re imagining the feeling of his mouth on your skin, the calloused planes of his palms on your breasts and beneath your thighs. You’re… you’re shaking.

The white shower curtain rips open, and Adrian steps in beside you, naked as the day he was born. “Hey, can you pass the soap?”

“What the fuck?” You turn your head to look at him with a bewildered expression, simply refusing to tear your eyes away from his face because you do not want to cross that line and have the image of his dick imprinted in your brain while you try to get to sleep tonight. “Adrian, what are you doing?”

“Well, you said to join you if I changed my mind.” He shrugs, his smile the absolute picture of innocence, but his eyes still rake slowly down your body before finding your face again. 

You blink, searching for a proper response to that. His eyes are green. Jesus Christ, that’s three for three: dimples, curly hair, and green eyes. He’s trying to kill you. 

“I was being sar-” you cut yourself off with a sigh, “yeah, you know what, I did say that. Shit. Fucking… okay. Whatever. Here.” You fumble with the tiny complimentary body wash tube and thrust it toward him. “Go apeshit.”

“You have a really great ass by the way.”

“Adrian.”  

“What? You do. I’m just being honest. I’m not even saying that because this is the first time I’ve seen you naked, I always thought your ass was nice, there just wasn’t a good time to say it.”

Your face is burning. You turn your back on him and try your hardest not to clap your hands over your eyes or do something equally embarrassing. You don’t think Adrian is even fazed by any of this; he wasn’t wearing his glasses, either, and you don’t know how strong his prescription is. You imagine pretty strong, if he needs it in his visor. Maybe there’s a good chance he can’t see the exact details of your tits. Maybe-

He touches your shoulder, and you feel lather running down your back as he starts massaging circles into your skin.

“Are you washing me?” you wheeze, your voice coming out an octave higher, and you really do cover your face again this time. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and you can’t focus on anything other than the touch of his hand on your shoulder blade.

“Uh, yeah? I wash your back, you wash mine, right?” He sounds cheery and completely content with everything that’s happening and, despite the sheer oddness of all of it, you don’t really want him to stop. You guess that’s why you haven’t told him to get the hell out, yet.

Maybe you’re just as much of a lunatic as him. “‘Scratch,’ Adrian. It’s fucking ‘scratch.’” 

He pauses. “What?”

“It’s ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine.’”

“That makes no fucking sense.” He shakes his head in your periphery, his hand resuming its circular motion against your back, moving across to your other shoulder. You feel the soft, wet glide like a molten lava trail.

“Of course it makes sense! Why would it be ‘wash?’”

“Why wouldn’t it be ‘wash?’”

“Because it’s about doing your friends favors,” you argue in a wobbly, strained voice as you shiver while his fingers slide down your spine. It raises goosebumps on your skin, despite the heat in your veins and the cool of the water. “Friends don’t wash each other’s backs, genius.”

“So, we’re not friends?”

His hand pauses again just at the curve of your lower back, where it extends down into your tailbone. You bite your lip, and you can feel his eyes on you, the touch of his gaze almost as real as his hand is. Your thighs clench together involuntarily. You simpering little… weak, desperate thing, you are not going to beg for him to touch you. That’s not it. That’s not how this should go.

But, you could turn around and touch him, too. You could probably kiss him, if you were feeling really adventurous. He just basically implied that he wouldn’t be opposed to fucking you, right? That was where the conversation had been going earlier, if you hadn’t been such a pussy. Neither of you is nearly as subtle as you think you are.

You manage to chew your lip enough to tear a gash in it, and salty, coppery blood hits your tongue. You’re losing it, standing on the precipice of something way bigger than the two of you. You’re just an inch away from becoming more than just friends with Adrian, if you don’t reel it in quickly. Your hand comes up to slam against the wall when his fingers, which seem to be discontented to remain idle, start tracing little shapes on your lower back. A star. A diamond. A heart.

“N… No, I- I mean, we are. But I don’t think we’re going to be, if you keep it up.”

He grunts carelessly. “I’m having a hard time not keeping it up, really.”

“What do you mean?” You turn around, and his hand glides across your lower back and to your hip, because he refuses to stop touching you now (not that you want him to stop, either, if you’re being honest with yourself). Your eyes flick down, and you know exactly what he means, because he’s hard as a rock. 

And also thick, and long, and veiny, but hey. What did you expect?

Your eyes linger on his erection for a long time, and drag your gaze slowly from the burst of dark hair at the base of his cock, up the line of his torso and to his chest. His pale skin is riddled with little scars here and there, from small injuries that weren’t serious enough to slow him down. He has a faint spray of freckles on his shoulders, suggesting that he spends at least some time in the sun. It makes you inordinately flustered to think of him doing some sort of outdoor activities to get that toned body of his. 

You clear your throat as you find his gaze again. “Next dumb question,” you say, and he gives you a wide-eyed, vaguely awestruck look that makes you way more confident than it ought to. “Are you gonna fuck me, Adrian?”

His eyelashes flutter. His cheeks are painted with that sweet pink blush again, like he’s been entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s had you melting for him since he cracked open the bottle of Jim Beam. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a fucking fantastic idea, do you?”  

“Yeah, I do.” And he grabs you by the face to kiss you, and crowds you back against the wall. You give a surprised yelp into his open mouth, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as your back hits the cold tile. He grunts and brushes his soap covered fingers across your cheeks. “Did you bite your lip?”

“Yeah.”

“...Was that because of me?”

You whimper weakly as he slowly, and very purposefully, traces the length of your bottom lip with his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of your blood. “Yeah.”

“That’s so fucking hot.”

He yanks you up off of your feet, making you squeak and hold in a nervous laugh. Your leg bumps the faucet handle, and the water turns ice cold just as Adrian scrambles to hook your legs around his waist. 

“Shit.” Adrian hisses and smacks the wall beside your hip once or twice before he finds the faucet, because he doesn’t stop kissing you. He’s sloppy and rushed and overexcited, but at least he gets the water running warm against as he presses you up against the wall. “I’ve never done this here, have you?”

“Shower sex? No.” You bite his lip as he hitches you up by the back of your thighs, and he groans as his hips jerk up toward yours. “But I think you’re doing a good job.”

“Wait, fuck. Do we need, like, a condom…?” He blinks at you with a glassy look in his eyes. 

“IUD. I have- it’s all good, you’re fine.” You knock your head back against the wall with a whimper high in your throat as he brushes his cock against your entrance. You can feel the world spinning as you tangle your fingers in his wet hair, giving it a small but sharp tug. “Now, if you don’t fuck me I’m gonna-”

You choke when he drives the full length of his cock into you, pushing your hips back against the wall. Your nails scratch down his neck and across his shoulder blades as he splits you open, your legs tightening around his waist while simultaneously trying to spread wider to accommodate him. Adrian spits a curse into your neck, his teeth grazing a vein there as he ruts up into you, filling you so completely that a cry dies in your throat. 

“God, fuck, Adrian,” you sob toward the ceiling, only too aware of him moaning loudly against your skin. He feels better than you had imagined, stretching you out so perfectly that your toes curl as you try your hardest to draw him forward with your legs alone.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” you catch him whispering into the crook of your neck, just barely audible over the trickle of water over your head.

He doesn’t even give you time to adjust before he starts pistoning his hips into yours, jolting you up the wall. Your skin squeaks against the wet tile, and his grunts echo in the curve of your neck. Tears might actually be streaming down your face, but you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart from the warm water coming from the showerhead.

Adrian’s hand comes up to brace against the wall beside your head, and he surprises you. “You really think I’m pretty?” He asks with such a genuine note of hope in his voice that you think he must be serious. 

“I think you’re fucking gorgeous,” you breathe, whining when he nips at your jaw with his teeth. You interrupt your train of thought with a series of hoarse cries, because Adrian picks up the pace with less precision, and more just forceful thrusts that drive all the way to the end of you and make you see stars, regardless.

“You’re the most perfect person in the world and I wish I could paint because the only thing I’d be painting is just you over and over and over-” 

He’s blathering into your shoulder, his mouth brushing your skin as it moves and his hips slamming yours back against the wall hard enough that you’re definitely going to be feeling it in the morning. Every bit of desire you have for him surges up inside you like an inferno catching on, like every stroke he makes is stoking that fire within you.

“-so pretty everyone wants you I can’t believe you would let me touch you or even kiss you but you’re letting me do this to you and it’s all I’ve wanted to do since I first saw you-”

It occurs to you to tell him that you’d let him do anything he wants to you at this point, as long as he just doesn’t stop fucking you- but that’s yet another line you refuse to cross for the sake of self preservation. You’re already drunk, and confessing the true scope of your feelings to him in this state would just be a recipe for disaster. 

Oh god, but he’s like a reckoning. You shake your head to compose yourself and scratch your nails along his neck before you take his face in your hands and draw him up to you. His pupils were already blown out, but you think they nearly eclipse his irises when his hips falter and he sucks in a sharp breath. His dark hair is thoroughly drenched, and water drips down his face in little rivulets that you trace with your fingers just before you draw him to your lips.

You feel his small moan vibrate on your lips, and that’s enough. Your legs spasm, and your orgasm suddenly snaps within you like a rubber band, every muscle in your core tightening down on his cock as you see a burst of white behind your closed eyelids. It snuck up on you just as much as it did him.

“Holy fuck-” Adrian loudly gasps against your lips with a startled jolt of his hips, his full weight crushing you up against the wall. His nose nuzzles yours, so intimate in a way that you hadn’t expected from him, and with a few shuddering huffs of breath you feel him come with a rush of warmth deep inside you.

You’re floating somewhere above awareness when he slouches forward, his forehead resting against yours and his eyes closed as he takes deep, steadying breaths. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s just holding you, with his fingers digging into your thighs like he’s just trying to ground himself in your body.

You raise a shaking hand to smooth his wet hair back from his face. “Earth to Adrian. You still with me, babe?”

He grumbles something entirely non-coherent directly in front of your face, and blinks his eyes groggily open at you. 

“The alcohol’s catching up with you, huh?”

He nods.

“Guess I’m washing your back, anyways. C’mon.” You wiggle out of his grip, and you’re only too thankful that you’re smushed up against the shower wall, or else you may have easily slipped and ate shit on the tile. The alcohol is fucking with your head quite a bit now, too, and your movements are a little jerky and uncoordinated as you try to help him get cleaned up.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The rest of the shower takes place in complete silence, actually, with the exception of the little grunt he makes when you urge him to bend down so you can get his hair for him. You catch him looking a little dazed as you turn off the water, and he gives you an unfocused stare when you toss a towel at him. You wonder if you actually succeeded in frying the guy’s brains just by fucking him.

But then, back in the room as you clumsily dig through your bag to pull out a night shirt and a pair of underwear, Adrian shuffles directly to his bed and tosses his towel aside before clambouring into it, bare ass to the wind. He flops down face first, and shoves his feet under the turned down comforter.

“Adrian… what are you doing?” You say for what feels like the millionth time this evening. 

“‘M going to bed,” he drawls into the pillow. His entire body shakes as he hiccups, and then turns his head to the side to look up at you with his big green doe-eyes that make your heart do a somersault in your ribcage. “You should tooootally join me. There’s-” hiccup- “lotsa room. We could go again.”

You blink at him as you semi-stagger, semi-walk toward the bed, stooping to pick up pieces of his uniform strewn across the floor as he had, presumably, just ripped everything off as he made his way to the bathroom. “Mm, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Uh, you said it was a great idea,” he argues as you toss his clothes into a pile at the end of the bed.

“That was before the whisky kicked in and we were both staggering… fuckin… drunk-” you accidentally whack your foot against the corner of the bed and bite your lip as you fight not to crumble to the floor. “One of us has to be responsible.”

“I’m-” hiccup- “responstable.”

“Uh-huh.” You stop as your eyes land on the mostly empty Jim Beam bottle on the bedside table. You’re almost positive it had been at least quarter full when you left him to go take a shower. “Adrian, did you drink all that?”

He blinks his eyes open and follows your pointing finger to the bottle. “Oh, yeah. Hhhuuuhh… had to… I lost the cap so we can’t keep it.” When you march forward to snatch it off the table, he grunts dismissively. “Gotta… get rid of it.”

“Guess that’s why you’re worse off than me.” You shake your head and drop the entire bottle into the trash bin. “Aren’t you gonna put something on to sleep in?”

“I don’t have anything.”

You snap your head towards his sprawling, naked form. Your eyes linger on his ass for way too long. “You didn’t bring a single thing to wear?”

“Why… why would I bring a change of clothes to kill bad guys?” 

“I don’t fuckin’ know! Anonymity!” 

He grumbles into the pillow, “I have a mask.”

“Fuck the mask. You can’t sleep in the mask.”

“Sure I can. I fuck in the mask, I can sleep in it. S’a free country.”

You blink, your eyes flicking between Adrian and the mask on the table. “Dude, you fuck in that thing?”

“Hell yeah I do. I could fuck you in the mask. Could do it right now. Go get the mask.” Despite the conviction of his words, he’s slurring them, and his face is still pressed into his pillow as he lies motionless on the bed. 

“I… don’t think that’s gonna happen tonight.” You sigh as you toe forward and grab the end of his comforter, drawing it up over his body. “We’re both way too drunk. We probably… probably shouldn’t have…”

Adrian flops over to look up at you as you, essentially, tuck him in. There’s a note of hurt in his voice when he mumbles, “You regret it?”

You pause, staring down at his expression of confusion and betrayal. Do you regret it? You can’t deny that you hadn’t been hesitant to have sex with him for a litany of reasons- one being that you work with him, and another being that he’s a loose cannon on the best of days. Not exactly relationship material, you think. 

Or, you thought, but now he’s gazing up at you with these wide, dumbfounded eyes, and you’re tucking the comforter up beneath his chin, and he turns his face down and kisses your knuckle even though he looks mildly hurt. And yes, you liked the sex very much. You liked it so much that you can’t trust yourself not to do it again if you don’t shuffle off to your own bed immediately.

“No,” you tell him firmly, combing your fingers through his wet hair as you draw back. “I don’t regret it, but I think we both need to sleep this off.”

“Okay,” Adrian says quietly, his expression relaxing, but his arms come out from under the comforter and he reaches for you with grabby-hands. “Sleep with me?”

You catch one of his hands and give it a gentle squeeze. “G’night, Adrian.”

You hear him sigh in disappointment when you shut off the bedside lamp. His hands audibly plop down onto the mattress as he rasps, “Night.”

You wake from a dreamless sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, and your throat is bone dry. Smacking at the nightstand a couple times, your phone manages to illuminate and tell you that the time is only 1:30. 

You blink sleep away from your eyes and try to see through the dark as you stumble into the combination vanity, closet, and kitchenette. You knew you brought a water bottle or two, it can’t be that hard to find-

“Hey, what’cha doing?”

You hardly even startle at this point. You’re slowly becoming acclimated to the idea that Adrian is just constantly awake and witness to your every move, which isn’t as disconcerting to you as one might think. “I’m looking for the water. Did you see where I put it?”

“Uhhhhh mini-fridge?”

You reach blindly under the counter and yank the little fridge open, once again smacking around until your hand lands on the shape of a water bottle. “You want some?”

“Yeah, you could spit it into my open mouth-”

“Adrian.”

“What? It would be fucking sexy.” Adrian grunts, and the light clicks on from the main room. Then, he wolf-whistles just before you straighten up from where he’d caught you, bent over in front of the fridge. “Y’know, I was right. You have a really great ass.”

You grumble a half-hearted thanks under your breath as you approach his bedside and thrust a water bottle at him. “I see you’ve sobered up a bit.”

He waves a hand at you dismissively. “Pshh, I wasn’t that drunk.”

“You were drooling all over your pillow.”

“Maybe I always do that.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s a long pause, wherein you perch on the edge of your mattress and chug an obscene amount of water. Adrian watches your throat work until he, too, succumbs and lifts his bottle to his lips. 

An uncomfortably heavy silence settles between you two, only permeated by the quiet sipping of water and the cheap motel AC unit kicking in. It’s entirely unlike him to be silent and still for more than a couple of seconds, but he’s just sitting there looking despondent and running a hand back and forth over the white comforter, periodically lifting his bottle to take another drink. He doesn’t even really look tired, and you wonder if he ever got to sleep in the first place.

You know that the tension in the air is so thick because you have yet to address the giant fucking elephant in the room; and to address it is to have the most awkward and intimate conversation you can possibly imagine with Adrian, of all people. As much as you love his sense of humor, the idea of baring your soul to him is almost enough to have you running into the bathroom again, and locking the damn door this time.

But, in true Adrian fashion (because damn it all to hell if he ever lets something be), he beats you to the punch. “So, are you? Sober now, I mean.”

You chew your lip again, and reopen the gash you’d put there before. “Yeah. I am.”

He nods, pursing his lips as he looks down at his lap. He was right, his hair does dry… well, not weird, but just rather unruly if he goes to bed with it wet. Dark curls stick up at odd angles, a cowlick on the back of his crown standing straight up and begging you to come over and smooth it down. More curls fall across his forehead and nearly touch the top of his glasses. He blinks slowly, and severe shadows from his lashes cross his face in the golden light of the bedside lamp. You snap your gaze away, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

“So… was that a lie? About just needing to sober up?”

Your thumbs twitch on your bottle. To tell the truth, or to lie? You feel like your mouth just stays dry, no matter how much water you drink. “Look, Adrian, I-”

“Also, I have, like, no pride and a ridiculously thick skull, or- or whatever Peacemaker calls it. So, you don’t have to beat around the bush or anything for my sake, you probably won’t even hurt me-”

“Adrian, I like you too fucking much, don’t you get it?” 

That fully shuts him up, and he locks his jaw as he fixes you with a startled look. You suck your bottom lip through your teeth, perturbed at the taste of blood still apparent on it, and dig your heels into the carpet. 

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You’re… one of my closest friends, all right? But I’m afraid that if we keep going like this, I’m not going to want to be friends anymore. And I think I’ll fall in love with you really quickly, and that might be a really bad idea for both of us. You just…” You shake your head, your voice dipping in volume as you stare bashfully down at your feet, “you have no clue how much I want you all the time, baby.”

“Why would it be a bad idea?” he asks you plainly.

“What?” You pick your eyes up off the floor to squint at him, finding him staring at you challengingly, a flush already on his cheeks. 

“I mean, honestly. Name a single reason why it would be a bad idea. Bet’cha can’t.” Adrian throws his empty water bottle across the room, and it makes a gentle tap against the side of the television before skittering to the floor. “I think we’d fuck like rabbits and then I’d wake up every morning and make you pancakes, because I’m really fucking good at those, but you’d have to make the eggs because I always burn them. And I think we’d kick ass together as a cool superhero power couple, and I’d carry your gun for you if you got tired, and I could show you where all my hidden knives are. And you could also do anything you wanted to me, like any time, and I’d be totally fine with it and probably also turned on by it, as long as you call me baby like you just did.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m super hard right now. Probably should’ve warned you, I have a thing about that-”

“No, smartass, I mean are you serious about the other stuff?” You tilt your head at him. “I never really took you for the domestic sort.”

“Tsch- yeah! I’m, like, super domestic. I’m like one of those domestic...ated... cats?” He trails off as you step forward and crawl onto his bed, up his legs to straddle his lap.

“Cats?” you repeat with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m… I…” Adrian’s eyes flick across your face, down to your shirt and bare thighs on either side of his, your knees pressing the comforter taut across his lap and (very prominent) erection. “I don’t know, I have trouble thinking when you’re on top of me-”

Nodding, you reach forward and take his glasses by the wire earpieces, and pull them from his face. He goes stock still, his lips parted in awe as you slide them onto your own face, and give him a sweet smile. “I like your glasses. They look good on you.”

“They look good on you.” His voice cracks. “Can you see in them?”

You blink at him, and then turn your head to look across the room. “A lot better than I thought I would. I think our prescriptions are similar.”

“That means you can also wear my mask.” 

You look back at him, and find that he has his million-mile stare on, like he’s completely lost in thought. You smirk. “Do you want me to wear the mask?”

He blinks, and it’s like you’ve flipped a switch and turned his focus back on. “Uh… no. I mean, yes. Maybe later. I want to look at you.” His eyelashes flutter so fast you think he might take flight for a second. “You’re so fucking beautiful I could stare at you all day.”

“You can touch me, too. Don’t be shy.”

He practically vibrates with anticipation as his palms glide up your thighs, hot and big and just a bit rough. His eyes are everywhere at once; your lips, your eyes, your chest, your thighs, where your hips disappear under your oversized shirt. His fingers catch the hem, and he curls it between them.

“You should totally get naked, too. It’s super unfair that I’m the only one naked right now,” he says breathlessly, nodding the whole time like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“So, do it.” You shrug, trailing a finger up his chest. “Take it off, baby.”

Adrian fists the hem of your shirt and rips it in half up the middle with a loud tear. You gasp, shivering as the garment falls from your shoulders and leaves you in just your panties. “Adrian!”

His eyes are trained on your tits. “What? It’s not like you need it tonight, anyways, and tomorrow we’ll be home…”

“What if that was my only shirt?” you retort.

He looks up at you. “Was it?”

“Well, no-”

“Then there’s your answer. Now, can I go down on you? Because I’ve wanted to for a really long time and I think it’s super hot that you’re wearing my glasses so it’s like I’m watching myself eat your pussy.”

He has such a hopeful expression on his face that you have to hold in a manic string of laughter as you nod at him. “Yeah, sure. Are you going to tear up my underwear, too?”

“No, I wanna keep those.”

“That makes perfect sense.” You shake your head before you kiss him deeply, and his tongue dips into your mouth as he rolls over with you, briefly getting tangled in the sheets before he roughly kicks them off. 

You run your fingers through his hair, snickering as he climbs between your legs and his hands deftly tug your panties down. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Depends on how incriminating it is.”

“I’ve never come from someone eating me out before,” you admit quietly, a blush furiously heating your cheeks until you fear that if you touch your face you might burn yourself. 

Adrian fixes you with a deadpan stare, and a slew of emotions cross his face before he lands on something relatively serene and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

He nods and grins, like this is the most casual conversation in the world, and his green eyes bore into yours. “Yeah. You should probably, uh… hold on, though.”

You frown in confusion. “To what?”

He rocks back on his knees, picking up your arms by the wrists, and he very simply places your hands on his head, with a little smile that conveys, ‘it’s no big deal,’ but the tenderness with which he does it sends another message, altogether. Your fingers weave between soft, unruly curls, your fingernails digging in just a bit when he lowers himself down between your thighs, and you come to the conclusion that this is just how he is. Tenderness, closeness, hidden behind casual sighs and dismissive shrugs.

You’re learning. Slowly. 

His breath finds you before his lips do, where you’re wet and swollen and slippery like you haven’t been touched in your fucking life. But he has once already, and still his mouth feels like a searing hot brand between your legs. In fact, you nearly jump out of your skin at the first brush of his tongue through your folds, your hands tightening on his hair and tugging as you buck your hips up against him. 

Adrian grasps your hips and slams them down against the mattress. Sometimes you forget how fucking strong he is. His slight frame really doesn’t give justice to the force behind those lean muscles, because he holds you in an iron grip that you can hardly wiggle out of. It makes you feel small, in a way, that he holds you hostage to his tongue and won’t let you move away from or towards him. 

A long, miserable whine rips out of your lips before you can stop it, and you could blush at how pathetic it sounds, except that Adrian mimics it with a groan against your cunt. Your head is flung back against the pillows, but when you just barely tilt up to glance down at him, you find his green eyes trained directly on you. They start off wide as moons, and then narrow like he’s challenging you to look away as he drags the flat expanse of his tongue slowly over your clit, curling the tip just as it skims the mark.

“Oh, fuck you, Adrian, you’re so fucking good,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Your nails dig into his scalp and he shudders, briefly nuzzling his head up into your touch before he dips down to give you his tongue again. Your breath hitches, and your eyes flutter shut when he sucks on your clit long and hard. “So… s-so good… good boy…”

The moan that Adrian makes is overtly pornographic, and his hips snap once against the mattress so hard that the bed shakes beneath you. He breaks away from you to rest his forehead against your thigh, squeezing your hips tightly in his hold as his hot breath billows across your sweat-damp skin.

You loosen your fingers in his hair to stroke it softly, subconsciously struggling to flatten the cowlick at the back that you’d noticed earlier. Adrian’s eyes are squeezed shut, his shoulders heaving while he tries to steady his breath through his nose. “Did you just come?”

The tips of Adrian’s ears glow pink. He gives you a little nod and then a feeble, “Couldn’t help it.”

So, he can’t just take his praise in stride, he has to react to it with fervor. “That’s really sexy of you,” you blurt out, your voice ragged and just this side of adoring. 

He returns with a quiet mmm, rumbling across your skin as he drags his open mouth along the sensitive flesh of your thigh, his eyes drowsily shut. It takes him another moment to catch his breath, but once he does, he’s right back at it again. Dipping his head down and absolutely going for it with no signs of letting up, and you have to suck in a deep stream of air and scramble for a hold on him somehow.

“Oh- oh my fuckin-g god-” your voice comes out without thinking, wrung thin and anguished, as your foot plants itself in his shoulder. Adrian simply grunts, paying no mind to the fact that you’re effectively kicking the living shit out of him as he sucks so hard on your clit that you threaten to break his vise-hold on your hips.

He was right that you needed something to hold onto, because you feel like you might leave the ground. He works at you relentlessly, devouring you with his lips and tongue and teeth like he can’t get enough of you, his fingertips pressing so hard into your hips that his nails are turning stark white. 

“Fuck, you’re so squirmy,” Adrian groans when he pulls away from you for half a second, and struggles to hold you down when you try to chase his mouth. “Should I tie you down?”

“Do you have anything to tie me down with?” you mutter breathlessly toward the ceiling.

A beat. “Nope. Stay still.”

You fight not to jolt as the next touch of his mouth on you. He dips his tongue into your channel, seemingly trying to draw your arousal out of you that way. You start whining when he finally nuzzles his way back up, giving you soft, teasing licks to your clit that edge you closer and closer to the release of the swell of heat you feel building in your core. Your volume turns up a notch when his tongue starts drawing little circles around the swollen flesh. 

And when his lips come down to latch onto it and gently suck, you know you’re just shy of howling. His soft groans vibrate onto your skin as you scratch at his head and pull on his hair, and you eventually find yourself babbling, “Adrian, please, I’m gonna come, please pleasepleaseplease-”

He sucks harder, moaning like it turns him on just to hear you say it. You heave a few rapid breaths, and then come against his face with a cry that crackles and breaks in your throat as your head arches back, baring your neck forward. Your heels digging into his back, hands scratching, hips flailing like you can somehow escape the barrage of hypersensitivity he’s putting you through.

You really fucking hope no one is in the room next to yours.

His fingertips stick to your skin once he releases his grip on you. He’s practically glowing, grinning from ear to ear at you from between your legs, and it’s a better image than you had imagined. 

You drop your head back with a breathless chuckle. “Okay, Mr. ‘I Have No Pride.’”

“I made you come,” he chirps happily.

“Yeah, you did. It was really good, too.”

“So, why didn’t anyone else?” Adrian pushes his head toward your touch when you stroke your hand gently through his hair. 

“I dunno. They weren’t applying themselves, I guess.”

“That’s stupid. You’re, like, the hottest person ever. Hotter than Doja Cat,” he grumbles petulantly, and you can tell by the look in his eye that he’s dead serious. “Want me to kill them? I should kill them.”

“No.” You trail your fingers down the curve of his face, going for his chin, but he turns his face and sucks your two fingers into his mouth before you can manage it. You stop dead as the pad of his tongue swirls around the digits, and he blinks up at you innocently, despite the lewd connotations of the act. “N-no, I… hhhhh… you’re distracting me.”

He bats his eyes at you, and he slowly pulls back along your fingers until they pop out of his mouth, covered in saliva. “How am I distracting you?”

“You’re- you… you little shit.” You grab him by the chin and draw him up from between your legs. He clumsily crawls up the length of your torso with his cheeks smushed between your fingers as you hiss, “I’m going to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you, I swear to god.” 

“You know, that sounds slightly menacing when you say it like that,” he slurs, his jaw working against your hold. 

“On your back, Chase.”

He grabs you before you can protest, and rolls back over so that you plop down on top of him, your hand still jammed up against his jaw. A blast of air comes out of your lungs in lieu of laughter, and Adrian snorts, shuffling his hips so that he moves back against the pillows.

“Okay, look, I really really really like you,” he says as you pick yourself up, straddling his lap, “but if you’re too good at this I might accidentally fall in love with you. Just to let you know what you’re getting into here.”

“Oh, is that so?” 

“Yeah, and I think I might actually, um, ask you to move in with me, like, immediately. Like tomorrow. Do you rent or own? Doesn’t matter, I can put your name on the lease. Maybe if you own a house it can be income property-”

You cast your eyes down and find him, remarkably, hard and leaking precum as he continues babbling about living situations. You tilt your head, letting him get his stream of consciousness out there in the open, as your eyes catch on a dark wad of fabric beside his pillow. Your underwear, which he’d gingerly set aside instead of tossing across the room like you thought he would.

“Hm, Adrian?”

He blinks up at you, his eyes wide and dilated. “Yeah?”

You pick up the wadded up underwear. “You wanted to keep these, right?”

He licks his lips. “Um. Yes.”

“Hold them for me, then.” You grab his jaw and stuff them in his mouth, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull as he makes a noise of protest, but then actually moans when, presumably, he tastes you on them. “You’re so fucking cute, I haven’t even tied you up. You just want my taste in your mouth, huh?” He nods. “Yeah. Pretty boy.”

He predictably moans again, his hands grasping at every part of you they can reach; your arms, your breasts, the expanse of his palms gliding down the curve of your waist and settling on your thighs. You grab one, lifting it and settling his palm against your throat.

“Hold this for me, too?” You ask him sweetly, giving his bewildered expression a devilish smirk in return. You rock forward, sliding your dripping pussy along his erection, and his hand tightens on your throat just a bit. “That’s it.”

You pick your hips up, reaching between your legs to position him where you want him, and when you sink down onto his cock, the underwear in his mouth does nothing to muffle the obscene groan that he makes. His hand flexes on your throat, and his eyes close and open a few times as he tries to maintain a certain amount of control. Something tells you that he’s not really used to taking it lying down. 

You’re already decently sore from the way he effectively fucked your brains out in the shower. This is just ensuring that you’re going to be feeling it for the rest of the week, but you can’t help yourself. You take him in all the way, making agonized noises the entire time, and then jolt your hips down a little more so you can feel him bottom out. 

“Fucking hell, baby, you’re something else,” you snarl down at him, and his eyes go wide again as you squeeze him, every bit of your aching strength bearing down onto his cock until he whines loudly through the fabric and his fingers tighten on the sides of your throat. “Oh, god, I could ruin you. You could ruin me. I want you to, it would be so easy for you, I wouldn’t even be able to walk in the morning.”

And you’re moving, picking up your hips and letting them fall back down in slow, deep strokes that have him writhing, his free hand in a death grip on your thigh. You raise your hand to press against the back of his on your throat, your fingers weaving in between his, and he flexes them back a bit to make room. 

Even when he’s gagged, he’s noisy. Keening and grunting at you, his jaw tightening every once in a while and the tendons of his neck jumping out at you when your hips meet his. Dark curls hang down his forehead, damp with sweat, and you can’t help but feel like the shower was useless.

No, not useless. It brought you here.

Adrian bucks his hips up suddenly, meeting you halfway when you take a particularly long time on the downstroke. You gasp, tightening your hand on his, and your nails dig into his chest. 

“Oh, you want me to ruin you, don’t you?” You murmur at him, baiting him to do it again. And he does, just like you hoped he would. You pick up the pace in retaliation, letting the lewd sounds of your skin hitting his fill the room. “Silly boy, I knew you would.”

He whimpers, blinking up at you slowly, his face screwing up and tightening in earnest when you rake your nails up and down his chest. He makes a couple pathetic, weak groans in the back of his throat like he wants to convey something to you, but he’s not reaching up to remove your underwear from his mouth.

(You wonder if he even remembers that he can.)

“You gonna come for me?” you ask as his whimpers increase in volume. His cock is so hard, twitching and dragging thick inside you, and his chest jumps with every desperate, ragged breath he takes. “Yeah, you are. Go on, baby, make a mess.”

Adrian gives you a curt shake of his head, and paws at your thigh for a second before his hand slides forward, and his thumb touches your clit.

“Oh fuck, Adrian-” you lurch forward, pressing your throat hard against his palm, your legs seizing up on either side of his hips. He makes you come again with a single fucking touch, and it burns through your core like fire, almost more satisfying than the first because you’re able to feel him inside you this time, something warm and hard and thick to come on.

Apparently, that was all he needed in order to let go. His back arches a bit as he jerks his hips up into yours, and he fills your pulsing cunt until his shallow breaths rattle in his throat, his eyes squeezed so tight that you see a tear collecting in the corner of one. He lays with his head driven back hard into the pillow, whimpering and whining like he’s been mortally wounded. 

Too sore to move just yet, you pull his hand away from your throat and kiss his palm. Adrian’s eyes flutter open, and he finds you with a glazed-over stare, like he might either see you or see through you. Still letting out soft whimpers with each harsh exhale. 

“Oh. Sweetheart,” you giggle, and reach forward to pull the wad of underwear from his mouth. It comes out with a long string of his spit attached to it, and you give him a cheeky smirk as you break the string with your finger and lick it off, rather than wiping it on your skin. 

“You… you’re…” You swear his eyes nearly roll back in his skull before he closes them, trying to collect himself. He takes a deep, long breath, and then splutters, “Willyoumarrymeactually?”

You give him your biggest, goofiest grin, a little bubble of laughter wedging itself deep in your chest. “Get a little more whisky in me, and we’ll see what bright ideas I have then.”

“Okay.”

You lift yourself off of his softening cock, and the release comes with a dribble of his cum sliding down your thigh. He groans, but with one look at him you know that there’s not going to be any more action for the rest of the night. 

You shift to the left, and his hand smacks down onto your thigh. “Mmmm no, you sleep with me.”

“Yeah, obviously. But you came all over the sheets earlier, genius.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes in time to see you taking his glasses off. You blink a few times, your eyes having adjusted to the slight difference in your prescriptions, and refocus on his face to find him gazing up at you adoringly. 

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you don’t sleep in these, too?” You wiggle the glasses at him. 

He licks his lips. “No, not… not usually.”

You set the glasses on the bedside table, and then slowly slide off of him, off the bed and onto shaky legs. You take his hand and tug just a bit. “C’mon, pretty. Into my bed.”

He follows your lead without a fuss, making the two step journey to the other bed and plopping down face-first. 

“D’you wanna get pancakes when we wake up?” he asks around a yawn as you nudge his ass, prodding him to scoot over. 

You nod furiously, even though you know he can’t see you as you switch the light off and climb in beside him, curling up against his warm back. “Pancakes sound fucking delicious.”

“Not as delicious as your pus-”

“Adrian.”

[dramaticanderson]

I don't share the ideals of some Bucky Barnes fans who say that this man is charming and flirtatious and all that. No. I'm more of the opinion that he's a bitter grump who uses sarcasm as a shield and always has that dangerous look on his face, even though it's really just his default expression because he has no emotions due to all the trauma he's been through. I think people forget that this man is too traumatized and that he is rarely seen being genuinely happy, and when he is genuinely happy, it's with his partner.

I mean, sure, this man has his charm and of course he flirts, but only once they're already a couple. I don't see him flirting in a bar or somewhere public and getting the person's number and then starting to date. No, it really bothers me a lot to read that kind of fanfic. I'm sure this man flirts horribly because of how well-mannered he was back then. It was the 1940s, men did have their charm, but things changed and he just became a little old-fashioned. Which doesn't make him bad, but usually people get turned off.

This man approaches someone, stutters, falls silent, and then has that regretful, disoriented look on his face, that he wouldn't like to be there when all he wants to do is tell the person in front of him that they look pretty.

It's a bit controversial to say that this man is pathetic, because I see him as completely clueless about what to do on a first date. He's probably unsure whether to bring flowers, because he doesn't know if men do that nowadays, or whether to just show up and be rude because some people like partners like that, even though he isn't.

The only time we've seen him openly flirt was with Sam's sister, and if I have to be honest, it doesn't contradict my point of view. He was flirting with her because he was comfortable, and yes, he was charming with her and a little sassy, but the truth is that he was with people he trusted, not strangers. He wouldn't approach a random girl and start flirting with her.

I have nothing against people who write him as a charming, flirtatious, sarcastic character. I'm not saying he isn't, I'm just saying he doesn't go beyond the superficial. I would simply like to see more adaptations where he is softer and more vulnerable.

He has been through so much because of Hydra, and I would like to see more people touching on that softer side of him. He has PTSD. People who suffer from that disorder usually stare at a fixed point, lost in their thoughts. I'd like to think that from time to time, when he has those episodes, he just likes to be alone. And when reality returns, stunned and emotionally down, he just likes to seek out his partner. It's those little details that I'd like to see explored more deeply. Even when they're turned-up-the-heat fanfics. There could be a little more personality, beyond rudeness, flirting, and sexy male charm.

He is smooth; he is charming and polite. He always opens the car door, gives flowers weekly, listens to his partner talk about their day, and always has that puppy-dog look. He has that stupid smirk on his face when he makes a particularly bad joke. He is always flirting with his "'40s charms," as he puts it, when he has nothing else to do. He likes to hold his partner's hand, make them spin around. He always has a hand on their hip or waist. He often leans in to listen when they speak particularly softly. He tilts his head to one side when he doesn't understand. And he always has sleep in his eyes when he wakes up holding his partner. He is very clingy and definitely starved for contact, so he is always cuddling his partner. His favorite place to position them is on his lap because he likes to feel the warmth. So he always sits them on his lap, hugs them around the waist, and rests his head on their shoulder while listening to them talk. He almost always kisses their exposed skin.

[rymndsmth]

Since you mentioned Bucky being sweet (which i agree with 10000%), could we get one where he falls for reader?

you’re onto something here…

bucky hours 002 (bucky barnes)

notes: congressman!bucky x assistant!reader, he’s trying his Best, sam is a blink and i’ll die on this hill, sexy (not really) packet audiobooks narrated by reader, bucky’s down so bad. he’s emotionally gooning in pits never before seen, mandatory dress scene but it flows trust me, may or may not be based on true events 🧍🏽‍♀️ 3.4k words.

this makes me think about congressman bucky.

it’s a period of his life where he’s accepting the idea that he’s a part of society again. no longer under anyone’s control, just an ordinary guy. james buchanan barnes, pardoned of all his horrors and now...a politician?

yeah, he doesn’t really know how it happens either. something about working to further clean up his image as cap’s bestie — whatever the hell that means. it’s not that he doesn’t care about anything, it’s just that he’s constantly…overstimulated.

there’s so much everywhere all the goddamn time, bucky could just about burst out in a scream.

but that’s not what he does now, not who he is anymore. so, he just goes along with what the people who give a damn around him think is best. it’s better to go in some direction than in none at all.

he meets you during his first day on the job. the chief of staff tells him all about you and how you’re gonna be a godsend or something to him. again, sure, he’ll take it. though in this case there’s some more enthusiasm behind that because he really could use the help.

bucky’s staring down at all the packets on his desk and wondering what the hell he’s gonna do about them when he hears a knock on the door.

“mr. barnes,” you tilt your head. “good morning.”

you’re…unassuming. not that being unassuming is a bad thing. it’s just you’re very not imposing and they told him you’re supposed to be like his guard dog (not his first choice in words), so he expects not this — hair tied back in a neat bun, blouse showing just a sliver of collarbone and trousers falling perfectly to your ankles.

bucky feels himself doing that smile that’s not really a smile. “yeah, good. uh…” oh no, how is he fucking up remembering your name? every day it feels like his transgressions are never going to let him know a moment of peace.

you give him a genuine one as you remind him, “y/n.”

“yes! sorry, not your fault.” bucky wants to groan but laughs awkwardly instead. “i’m all over the place.”

a soft sigh leaves you as you step inside. the carpet absorbs most of the sound from your black patent leather heels, only letting out tiny tuffs as you close the gap between yourself and him. those eyes of yours are tame yet curious while they scan him over. bucky pulls at the collar of his button down.

“congressman,” you hold up your hands. “take a deep breath.”

first, he looks at you like you must be joking. then, he realizes that he actually should take your advice and breathe. bucky goes slow in an attempt to not embarrass himself further by huffing. what’s he so nervous for? it’s not like he’s just getting into the swing of things when all of a sudden he’s thrust into the spotlight of dc politics.

“i’m absolutely shitting the bed right now, aren’t i?” bucky attempts to bring life back into the room.

you manage to do that with your laugh. “absolutely not. take a seat, i’ll bring you a coffee.”

he’s about to tell you that you don’t have to do that, but you’re already out the door. bucky takes another deep breath, clenches and releases his fists and settles into his chair. it’s way too soft, how’s he supposed to get any work done in a lounger?

you return with a cup and a small plate. “i have some coffee here, black, and on the saucer there’s some mini creamers and varieties of sweeteners.”

it’s really much more than he needs. bucky lets his gaze roam around until he gets what he always goes for — just one packet of classic table sugar. he looks up to catch you watching intently like you’re internalizing the action.

“i’m grateful, but you don’t have to do all this for me.” bucky shakes his head.

“oh, i won’t moving forward.” you speak matter of factly before collecting everything he doesn’t use while leaving the dish. “black, one sugar.”

so maybe he misread the meaning behind the choice of words used to describe you as derogatory when they weren't intended to be. language and slang changes every week these days. what bucky knows for sure though, is that you’re very much the opposite of unassuming.

he comes to realize it more and more as he spends time with you.

you rival even him with your skills of observation. from the coffee, you continue to pick up on his little habits and preferences. every morning when he comes in, he’s met with his brew, his email box clear and, one day, a new chair.

bucky admires that you’re very good at your job, but not uptight about it. you sometimes sit to your desk cross legged, swinging the seat from side to side. in between typing briefs, you stand up and start shaking out your limbs. one time, he catches you in the break room giving your best blackpink impersonation.

yes, he knows who lisa is thanks to a certain bird costume wearing shield toting guy.

it’s the way you notice things without him having to explicitly state it that amazes him too. bucky likes to come off cool and collected, but this politics stuff makes him feel alien. you pick up on the fact that he struggles to memorize the summaries you leave him of the packets and decide to do him one better.

his phone dings with a message as he eats standing up at his kitchen island, as usual.

Listen to this before your meeting tomorrow morning.

it’s a message from you and attached is an audio memo with what he comes to realize are everything he’s been trying to drill into his brain for most of the afternoon. bucky doesn’t know how many times he plays it or why.

maybe it’s the way you start off so sure of yourself, not even stumbling over your words as you begin, this recording is a brief proceeding the meeting between congressman barnes and senator boscoe. or maybe it’s how he catches it, he swears he hears the smile in your voice as you go on in your natural, story-telling like cadence:

if you want to get the upper hand with him quick then you should bring up the rumblings about his party wanting to nominate his assistant. shadily, like a southern lady. that means you should pretend to be on his side with a tinge of drama, “please, sean, tell me these are lies i’m hearing about jensen?”

bucky takes your advice and sure enough, the man opposite him is shaky at best in his legless debate. it leaves him on a high and it spreads onto you, making you both chatty. for the first time, he gets to know more about how you get to be here with him.

from your appearance, you’ve got to be easily be a decade and a half younger than he looks at least. he learns that to be in the ballpark and you tell him that you truly just got lucky. you were in the right room with the right person.

he feels like he’s the lucky one as you begin to drop more of your assistant armor in front of him. bucky talks to you on rides to hearings and finds himself entrenched in your stories with your animated hands. his bottom lip finds itself between his teeth as he nods while you go on about how thom yorke must be a teenage girl trapped in a man’s body, he just gets it too much.

bucky has a realization as chaos ensues between the council members around him. he can’t stop thinking about you. serious matters are at hand and all he’s doing is smiling to himself recalling earlier when your white pencil skirt made you do this awkward little run to get the files he left.

and that can’t happen. it would be absolutely inappropriate and totally weird of him to make a move on you, right? he’s a congressman and you’re his assistant. so, it would one hundred percent be both inappropriate and weird.

bucky wants to pull back, he has every intention of doing so. after the business trip you have with him to a conference in new york, he’ll start to lock himself away. he’s good at doing that and it’s safe there.

but it also is starting to feel comfortable there, in your gaze that finds him across the room as you mingle with other event attendees. how when your office is all forced together for a picture, he feels you inhale when he touches your shoulder.

he can’t forget the most important of them all, the dinner that follows that night.

it’s impossible to. you saunter in, signature bun in tact, wearing this floor length silk black gown that sways with your body as you walk. there’s a sheer black scarf draped over your shoulders and it’s only when you sit next to him that he realizes you have it on because the dress is entirely backless.

company except yourself aside, this restaurant suddenly seems very romantic. it’s dimly lit and you sit on the patio that faces the hudson, which is calm and flowing.

he is home. bucky feels the warmth coming from your body that’s pressed to his as you share this little ottoman, which he hates at first but now adores, and it feels even more real then.

the music is so loud, he thinks they must’ve confused this place for a club. it turns out to work in his favor because you lean in when you have to speak to him. the more the wine flows, the nearer your brushes get until they actually connect.

“the truffle pasta is so good—”

you hold your mouth right after it swipes clear as day across his stubbled cheeks. bucky can feel the trail of your lipgloss.

“don’t apologize,” he leans in further, right to your ear. “and yeah, it’s fuckin’ delicious.”

bucky can’t help imagining how perfect this night would be as a date. he escorts you back to your hotel and in his version, you’re holding his hand that’s draped over your shoulders in both of your own. you laugh and he makes more bad jokes about how things have really changed around here.

in the lobby, he would spin you around to get one last good look. oh, bucky would tell you too. the way when you move the fabric catches on your thighs to show their shape and how you play a dangerous game of lifting your arms with the cut of your dress.

you look at him in reality and he transfer that same stare to his dream world. it’s suiting since your eyes are soft, whispy lashes meeting every so often like you’re telling him to come out from hiding. with you, he thinks in both realms, he's on his way.

bucky bids you goodnight and as you leave, your scarf slips just a bit down your shoulders. you leave it as you roll your neck, waiting for the elevator to come.

it might’ve been the single most attractive sight he’s even seen.

when he returns to dc, he realizes that he’s out of options. there’s no going back to the previous goal of cutting himself off from you now that things are back to normal. bucky can’t act like he’s not on the edge of several hr violations if he doesn’t get a hold of himself before he says something like the vest you’re wearing today is very distracting.

he’s driving around aimlessly on his bike when he sees you walking along a street. you’re bundling yourself against the sudden fall breeze, pulling your light jacket in tighter. he makes a u-turn and slows a bit ahead to idle.

“want a ride?” bucky finds himself asking before he even thinks to.

“on this thing?” you nudge your head to his beloved machine.

“that’s just,” he points with one hand. “see now, you’ve insulted him and now you’ve got to apologize.”

you laugh, letting your head tilt back. there goes the beautiful column of your neck again. he personally loves, in a completely objective and not stalker-ish way, that you seem to love wearing your hair up presumably because it shows the soft slopes following your chin.

“and how am i supposed to do that?” your hand toys with the strap of your tote.

bucky gives you a deadpan look, as if you don’t know how. he shoves the helmet he should be wearing at you and tries, potentially unsuccessfully, to hide any expression of the joy flowing in his veins when you take it.

you secure the strap, sling a leg over the bike and settle behind him. he feels it again even through all of your combined layers as you lean in and hold him close, arms circling his waist — that deep inhale.

“i’m just on the corner a few blocks up, i’ll squeeze you when the right turn is incoming.” you push up a bit to speak in his ear over the engine and he nearly collapses.

bucky nods and pushes off. his brain doesn’t completely go to mush, so he’s aware that when you grip him tighter then it’s because you’re startled. your thighs tense around his as he weaves slow and easy through the light traffic.

the city lights blurring by, the purr of the bike below and the warmth of your body pressed to his against the cool breeze feels so familiar. this is a moment his soul dreams of, craves, manifests, inhabits and conjures again over and over in the future.

you give his waist a prolonged squeeze. bucky wishes you would never let go.

he banks the next right easily and you flow with him — at ease, you feel safe now. he prays he doesn’t ruin that with what he’s about to do. that new fear stands atop the existing mountain as he pulls to the side and you press your hands on his shoulders to hike yourself off.

“'far as apologies go,” you smooth back your still flawless bun after removing the helmet. “that one’s my favorite.”

you hand it back with a smile, waving goodnight in a whiplash and he’s scrambling, grasping at straws in his mind until he finally blurts out:

“wait—”

your arm falls back to your side as you pivot on your heel and let your head tilt — an exact replica of the picture of you on that first day.

“i…i gotta say something and i’m finding it hard because i don’t wanna make things awkward for you, but god, it feels almost like a sin to keep it in now. there’s no need to panic! i’m not being presumptuous, and if this is out of line please let me know. please don’t be hesitant to reject me either, like at all—”

“mr. barnes?”

“—if you don’t though, i’ll definitely quit and do something else and —”

“bucky.” you place your hand on his chest.

he doesn’t even know when you get so close again. once he started talking, it was the most frightening feeling. the thing his therapist wants him to do just…happened. bucky feels almost like he’s in a state of undress, shockingly even more as your eyes widen and hone in on his.

you smile widely, “take a deep breath.”

bucky does so with way less cool than he did the first time around. how he manages to make the same mistake twice would be a shock without context, or maybe it wouldn’t. all bucky knows is that it in his mind, as the former hunk of brooklyn, howling commando hottie, even the soldat of grunge women’s fantasies, it makes sense that you’re the reason for his slip ups.

“it might be slightly out of line, but…” you purse your lips. “would it be bad of me to say that i’ve been feeling this way too?”

if a pin drops in a unit all the way across the city, he might hear it. all sound drowns out and he’s falling into those hypnotizing pupils of yours, how they seems to suck the color of your irises in.

“what? you have, really?” he squints. surely, he must be going nuts.

you nod and use that same matter of fact tone from the office, “yes.”

“are you absolutely sure?-”

“yes, bucky.” your hands clutch and shake his shoulders. “i know how i feel about you and how i feel right now with you at my doorstep on a fucking motorcycle confessing your feelings, are you kidding me?!”

he watches your cheeks rise as you get to the end of your mini rant and can’t help matching your expression. that’s what he wants to see, what he wants to hear. this version, the bubbly, yapping yet still highly assuming version of yourself telling him that you’re in this too.

“can i…can i kiss—”

you seem to be over his responses coming in the form of more inquiries. bucky is quick to steady himself on the bike before catching you in his arms. he grins in between your pecks that build slowly.

his eyes peel open slightly following a deep kiss that leaves your mouth chasing his and it’s bliss. your face is full of it and he’s bursting with it. he dives in again with even more fervor now knowing that’s the state he leaves you in.

bucky feels like he’s in an ice bath after running a marathon. fuck politics, fuck flying saucers, fuck it all if it means he gets to kiss you like this. he could wake up in the morning to the taste of your lips, probably not like the drinks you had earlier tonight, but just the way he likes anyways.

his afternoons would be full of the dip of your spine beneath his hands, your jaw under his fingers. his nights? well, those look like him holding you tight, hearing your little moans and those goddamn inhales.

“just to be clear,” he breaks for air, rasping, “i’m quitting.”

you kiss him quickly, head shaking, “no, i’m transferring.”

bucky holds your face in his hands to give you both a minute to catch your breaths. you’re burning up under his touch, lips so swollen it looks like you had a run in with a bee who wasn’t so friendly. and also for him to get the last word in:

“i confessed first, doll, so i’m quitting. end of.”

of course, the tug of war continues as the days go by. you say you’re wrapping up your tasks up to two weeks out, then resigning. bucky rebuttals that he is the one wrapping up and he’s gonna do it in ten days so he beats you to it.

and then, perhaps doing the only good thing she’s ever done, valentina allegra de fontaine puts an end to that sprawling argument with the events proceeding her announcement of the new avengers.

a/n: lust for life by lana ft abel came on as i was writing the ending omg i think it suits this ramble so well🥹🩵

[rymndsmth]

Are you okay? The past few fics have been..😅

ovulating in your late twenties with no baby yet is unfortunately as bad as they say. i do constantly fantasize about cock and balls and even bumping cooters. i am fine i think

[rymndsmth]

bucky hours 001 (bucky barnes)

i literally have too many thoughts about this man. particularly when i’m having my morning cigarette and espresso while my fiance cooks, but anyways…so i’m making a small series i guess? feel free to chime in on any Thoughts of Buck, i can always daydream for hours 💭

notes: just a once looked over ramble from my notes app but she gets naughty. like what am i even talking about? begging for 🐈‍⬛..bucky is a munch...he needs reader to Feel Good! 1.4k words. mdni. seriously...sound off!

this morning, i’m just sitting on the terrace. it’s that perfectly wet, balmy summer air that clings to your skin. morning dew pushes up from thin blades of fresh cut grass between your toes as you ground yourself. your head tilts back to feel the sun shower down waves of heat, bringing blood to the surface of your cheeks and lips.

it makes me think of bucky when he’s needy. which, let’s be real…like i do love a dominant bucky moment for purely selfish reasons But! i feel like if we’re talking in character bucky he would be sooo sweet. you really think the man straight from one of history’s begging for cewchie era would be all about degradation and suck it, slut? and i say this also as a guilty party because again! i’m selfish! and sometimes I Need That. but back to the point…

they truly do Not make them like him anymore.

you can see how badly he wants you long before you ever get together. how he can’t hold your gaze for longer than a second without his fists clenching by his sides, or how he let out a particularly curious groan when he thinks your far enough out of earshot after an argument. they continue on and that’s when you realize — you've got him.

when you finally put him out of his misery and let him know that it’s okay to touch you, if he wants, he shakes his head incessantly. gotta at least buy you dinner first. so, you put on a cute little dress and another.

by the third, you have it’s fabric bunching up around your waist with his steel blue eyes looking up from between your thighs.

he kisses the supple skin caging his head, nips at the muscle and you yelp. want you to feel so good…best you ever have. you can’t deny that bucky is a man of his word, especially not after he follows through with flying colors on that promise.

you roll into his face, fingers pulling his brunette locks taut as his tongue moves ravenously through your folds. bucky is devouring you. one hand takes advantage of your curved spine to curl around your lower waist, the other rests on the wet sheets with two fingers pumping and curling slow and deep.

he grunts and moans and rasps against your throbbing clit, let me taste you, please gimme some more. you curse, legs clamping shut around his head with no care for his potential asphyxiation. he doesn’t care either. bucky buries himself in you. his nose bumps into your sensitive clit, mouth open and hot all around your pulsing hole while he pushes your hips deeper into his face like he can’t get enough.

on a lazy morning in august, you stir in his hold. the light in your bedroom would be like this — golden hued blue with streaks of pink. his flesh arm would pull you in. you’ve been together for so long at this point that he leaves the metal one by the foot of his side of the bed.

“mornin’.” his low, gravelly drawl floats into your ear. a kiss on your neck follows shortly. you arch into him, smiling. he’s already half hard and trying not to buck into your bare ass.

“still thinkin’ about last night?” you tease.

shit, you can’t blame him for that. when you think back to the way he softly guides you to bite into the pillow as he talks you through it in prone, your thighs instantly press together.

“mhm,” his hand curls lower to cup your hot cunt, “always want more of you.”

bucky knows he can take as much as he wants. it is nice, however, to hear him say it and that he’s not shy in telling you just how deep his desire for you runs. you pivot your head to catch his cloudy eyes. he licks at his bottom lip as he stares at you, brows knitting.

“what if someone’s awake?” you ask innocently, but roll yourself into his hand.

“i’ll help you out again,” he bargains with a dirty smirk, “c’mon…please…”

you can’t help the giggle that bubbles out and something about that just does it for him. it’s like he nearly forgets that he’s supposed to not be making you moan since the soundproofing in this tower is ironically shit. bucky spreads your knees with one of his and plunges two fingers into you.

“ah-shit!” you bawl before dramatically clamping a hand over your mouth.

“you’re okay, doll.” he bites your shoulder, chuckling. “‘could’ve just stubbed your toe on something…”

“fuck you, buck.” your eyes roll in annoyance that melts into bliss as he hits that extra soft spot.

“will you?” bucky’s question comes breathy and quiet. “please, hm?”

you turn your head to look at him again and he’s so pretty like this — eyes lowered and hooded, lower lip plump from his constantly grazing it with his teeth. a hand curls around his strong bicep. you squeeze into his flesh, barely leaving an indent, and nod.

“yeah…” your thighs widen and you move your other hand to hold yourself open.

bucky runs his cock back and forth slowly through your folds. his tip catches your clit as he pushes up and you feel as if you’ve been stung. the sensation is so sharp, all of your senses freeze like your tongue is on ice cold metal, but it swiftly dulls into something lightweight and cozy.

then, there’s pressure in your lower tummy. his cock inches into you in increments, puffy lips swallowing him until they rest flush against his skin. you choke on a cry that threatens to escape, but manage to find your pillow just in time.

and speaking of, bucky fucks you like you have all of it in the world. he’s never in a rush with you, no, he likes you to know that you have as much of his attention as you command. when he’s with you, like this, there’s only one goal and that’s to make you realize you literally mean everything to him.

he gives it to you long and deep and seemingly endlessly. at one point, you have a leg between both of his, fucking yourself on his cock as you spill around him stickily and noisily — what could be the excuse for that sound?

it just feels so good you have to knock one out yourself every time before he gathers your spent frame how he wants it again. bucky raises your legs higher to loop around his arm and kisses your knee as he would your knuckles.

“how’s it feel, baby?” he thrusts to fill you up so much that it makes your throat tighten.

you rub your clit sporadically, gasping, “please don’t stop-”

“i won’t…” he promises.

and again, when bucky speaks something it’s always the truth. he manages to keep the same pace, angle and depth on repeat — something that would astonish you had you not known his story.

you feel like you’re bursting out of your skin when you cum once more. there are literally no words and you’re glad because that means you’re doing a good job of being quiet. nearly.

they might not be the english language, but they sure is whatever bucky makes you say when your brain turns as mushy as your cunt. and you speak it every time he keeps fucking you as your walls all but curb stomp his cock.

bucky swallows all of your babble in long kisses until he too adds his own adlibs while he shoots his thick, heavy seed far beyond retrieval.

he feels all over your body from your misty breasts to your heaving tummy and your tingling hips. you hum, the perfect embodiment of the word satisfied, thinking you could die like this. but then hating that thought because that would mean this is the last time.

and you need this for eternity.

[rymndsmth]

in waves (jason todd)

sometimes, he just needs you to ease his mind.

notes: it's filth. 18 plus. jason is a menace, reader is overstimulated. cockwarming etc etc. 2k words

jason lets out a long breath of air behind you that’s quiet, but raises the fine hairs on the back of your neck as it passes by.

you’d stirred awake when he’d slipped in after taking a shower, but feigned sleep in hopes that he would follow suit soon. there’s been a lot on his mind lately. a new gang has been on the rise with their cult like parties and even more mind controlling drugs, and jason can’t seem to pinpoint the head of the snake.

you can tell when he’s strategizing his next move — his fingers still for longer than five seconds as they absentmindedly trail along your waist, his eyes glaze over as he peers out of the window while having his morning coffee, what was that babe?

his lips press to the rise of your shoulder, soft yet firm.

“baby…” warmth trails up the side of your neck, settling at the skin stretched taught over the bone behind your ear. “sweetheart, i’m sorry but-“

you spin in his arms, head shaking, “it’s okay. what do you need, jay?”

he drags his teeth over the space where his mouth lingers, rasping and whispering hushed words of appreciation. as always, you’re thinking that you should be the one thanking him. it’ll never feel anything close to being an inconvenience to have sex with him. you could die and resurrect over and over again and still choose him, his heavy hands pawing at you like he wants to rip you open, above all.

you feel him teasing himself, small groans leaving him as he strokes his cock through his boxers. your back arches into the movement and you run your tongue along the fading bruise on his cheek.

“take everything off except your panties,” jason grips your chin and kisses you so deep your stomach flips. “and get on top of me.”

the shirt you stole from him finds itself discarded with haste before you crawl onto his lap. your nails dig into his firm chest as you press your hips down, the light squelch of your wet cunt making him buck upwards with a growl.

“that’s it…just grind on me.” jason looks up at you. “tease yourself, pretty girl.”

your fingers burrow deeper and he hisses, thrusting up again. calloused digits run along your body adoringly while you roll your hips back and forth, small whines breaking through your shallow breaths like radio static. jason squeezes your thighs, your breasts, and runs his thumbs along your lower tummy.

“god…jay…” your head lulls.

“i know it feels good, baby, ‘can feel you soaking through our underwear.” he chuckles, fingers caging your ribs.

he’s right. your panties are way less fabric than slick arousal and his boxers now cling to his cock, its head the most distinct since you’d been rutting yourself repeatedly on his tip.

jason sits up, propping himself up on one palm while the next sneaks around to squeeze a handful of your hair. he drags your head back, kisses up the middle of your neck and then moves to place soft bites on its right side.

“wanna show me that gorgeous fucked out face when you cum? show me how bad this pussy needs me?” he hums against where your pulse jumps and you feel his lips pull into that taunting smile you love to hate.

your eyes flutter shut as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding his head to your chest. “please-“

“fucking show me.” jason grabs your ass, kneading its soft flesh.

the motion makes your panties ride up and curl inwards, the seam now parting your folds and nudging against your clit with delicious friction. your hips roll from one side to the next, burying your partially exposed pussy into his cock in between.

your fingers thread through his wet curls, tugging so that he looks up at you. his brow is still tense, but his eyes have gone glassy — he’s close to letting go, but he’s waiting for you to do so first.

jason nods, urging lowly, “come on, pretty girl. you can do it…”

a fist curls tight in your tummy and you shiver, “fuck, jay, i’m gonna-”

the tail of your sentences catches in your throat as it swells, jaw falling slack in search of air. his tongue drags across your bottom lip and then dips into your mouth and you’re breathing again. your knees squeeze his hips as you rut your contracting cunt over his achingly hard cock.

jason soothes you with small grabs of your thighs and coos between lazy kisses, slowly bringing you back down into your body. you run your hands along the expanse of his back, tethering yourself to the disordered patches of raised skin.

“made such a mess of yourself,” he rests you to the bed and peels apart your sticky thighs. “so pretty like this.”

you writhe, causing him to huff out a laugh. there’s no one in the world more impatient than you when you’re waiting to be fucked by your boyfriend. jason knows that and likes to push you to your limit sometimes. tonight, luckily, isn’t one of those occasions.

“gonna take what i need,” jason leans down and presses against your entrance. “that okay, angel?”

your hips curl upwards, begging, “take it all.”

he pushes forward quickly and fully, slicing through your drenched walls with just the slightest resistance. you arch into him, remaining curved as he sets a pace that leaves you winded with each thrust.

you melt beneath him. your legs fall further apart and you claw at your nipples, moaning breathily. jason hitches a leg higher over his dip, going so deep that you gawk soundlessly.

“love stretching you out.” his hot hands caress your waist. “let me take care of this pretty little cunt.”

he’s pounding into you relentlessly, your pussy trying to grip onto his cock desperately but failing with his speed. you could feel every inch of him — thick, making you burn to take it fully, and throbbing with everything he wants to give you.

“it’s so, it’s so-” you wade blindly through your mind for the words, overwhelmed with the possibilities.

it’s so what? big? of course, jay was fucking huge and he never let you forget that. not even when he’s on a stakeout — your phone tends to blow up a few hours in with your name caught on his tongue, hand already doing what you wish you could. deep? well, yeah. he’s hitting that one spot with such strength and precision, you start to scramble up the bed.

jason presses down on your hipbones, bottoms out and fucks into you again and again and you scream. tremors wrack your frame as you call out for him, scratching at his muscled shoulders.

“there you go...” his hips slow, but keep thrusting. “’so fuckin’ cute, baby.”

you cling to him, arms around his neck and legs locking possessively around his waist. holding onto jason was the only thing you could do to keep your mind from shattering completely. you could feel the chipped fragments floating around your skull, small bits etched off every time he pants against your throat.

“too good, too much.” you groan.

“just focus on me, hmm?” jason nips your collarbone.

he tells you to focus on how good his cock feels going in and out of you, nice and deep. you want to curse at him because fuck if that didn’t make you get even more lost. when he kisses your jaw and then your upper lip, eyes locking with your own, you realize that’s exactly what he wants.

you drop your heels to the bed to push up, fucking yourself onto his cock. jason smirks and grabs your ass to pull you in at the pace you set. your skin stings as it meets his over and over again.

he sits up and spits, adding more fluid to the place where your bodies join for the hell of it. “that’s my good girl.”

a knife twists in your gut, sharp and burning. you scramble to grab at anything — the sheets in one hand, his thigh in the other. and then you’re squeezing him to the tune of your galloping heartbeat, legs pressing together in a pathetic attempt to end the torturous pleasure.

jason only uses that to pull you even deeper into the abyss. he puts them over each of his shoulders and leans forward until your knees touch your chest. your face twists with the shift in angle. you could barely take in a full breath with how he’s stuffing you whole.

“oh, look at you,” he cocks his head. “one more, with me? you can do it.”

you’re so severely fucked out that it takes some time for his question to register. when it does, you nod and pull him in for a kiss. jason makes a meal out of it, loudly smacking and sucking and laughing at your needy little noises.

they melt into whimpers and cries as he starts to go fast again. he’s right there with you. his once low growls and murmurs become shaky moans and broken pleas that float directly into your ear that he bites, take this big fucking dick, all its cum, baby.

it’s like someone flings you with all of their might off a cliff's edge when you coat him for the countless time. your stomach caves in and you can feel it with an intensity words can’t describe — his cock tucked right behind your navel, inching higher and higher and letting go.

jason quite literally fucks you into the bed as he erupts with a glorious string of moans. you run your hands up his neck and into his hair, eyes searching his to see that he’d finally joined you. for now, it seems his worries have been cast aside.

and then, they shift into something darker.

“still need to fuck this cum into you.” he brings your legs back down to drape around his waist. “doesn’t that feel nice, princess?”

“jesus, jay-” you shudder despite the heat rolling from between your thighs.

jason is everywhere with his kisses. they travel from the side of your arm to your neck and finally your lips. he takes your hands, laces your fingers with his and places them together above your head.

you’re far beyond a mess. your hair must be standing in all directions like you’re seconds away from a lightning strike. the sheets below you are so damp you’d catch a cold if you slept on them tonight. and the man above you, inside you? he’s grinning, swallowing every bit of the state you're in.

“know i said that was the last, but can you give me one more?” jason bites your lower lip. “i just need one more.”

you don’t even know if it’s physically possible. the realm you float in is uncharted territory. you know nothing of its peaks and valleys, its deserts and forests.

but you know him. every inch of his salty and spiced skin, the timbre of his voice when he’s on the verge of tears with need long before he says, “please, baby. just one more for me.”

so you stare down his eyes that consume you and follow him. you draw on his strength, teeth bared as you huff and tears following the curve of your cheeks as you gently rock that squishy spot against the leaking tip of his cock.

it’s too much, all so much that your body starts to lose one sense. your vision blurs, but your hearing spikes to tune into his gravelly encouraging uh huh’s and the sound of your ruined cunt being turned out.

your throat burns as you soak him and the sheets once more. jason kisses you as the waves rip through you until they lull on the shoreline. he murmurs between your shuddering exhales, “thank you, baby.”

you push his curls back to look at his face in all its beauty. even with the bruises and the scars and the harsh lines that settled from deep seeded resentment, he was the most gorgeous person you’d ever seen.

“wasn’t too rough, right?” jason nudges your nose with his.

you shake your head, “no.”

“you feeling okay?” he massages your calves.

leave it to him to be so sweet after fucking your brains out. you’re tingling all over, feeling like the sun is warming your skin from within. to say you’re okay is a gross understatement.

“’mazing, jay.” you roll your eyes playfully.

jason laughs and pulls you to lay on your side, still tucked in you. your face rests in the crook of his neck as he holds you to him with one arm curled around your upper body and the next around your hips.

you drift to sleep like that.

jason joins you two minutes later.

[scenesandscreens]

Sinners (2025)

Director - Ryan Coogler, Cinematographer - Autumn Durald Arkapaw

"It was the last time I saw my brother… The last time I saw the Sun."

[rymndsmth]

caretaker bucky.......I need more of that 😭

soft buck is my fav 🥲

[rymndsmth]

saiko (bucky barnes)

final part: only time would tell if you were both able to finally spit it out. (part two)

notes: mutant reader, new avengers au, pov switches, reader and bucky are kinda silly and stubborn, s*x on the roof..., mentions of weapons and blood, deadbeat dad tw, i love angst but i love Love more, 4.6k words

you: one month ago

Something shifted.

You didn’t know what what it was, but you could pinpoint the exact moment when. It wasn’t when Bucky was doing the most to rile you up - his blatant attempts like dry humping you on the mat to get you to react. It was that night he made you call out for him again and again.

Not just the fact that your name spilled from his lips like a frustration kept in for too long, but his actions that followed. He took your cuffs off. At the very moment that every nerve ending in your body was singing with overwhelming pleasure, he freed your powers to let you bask in it, in him, fully.

What did that mean?

You couldn’t find a way to ask him organically. Not even when he put them back on as the sun rose, muttering some excuse, don’t wanna have the team up in arms about the lack of protection. The perfect moment presented itself for you then. Yet, you still failed to conjure the words needed to acquire the answer you sought.

Instead, you tried to focus on what you were sure of. You knew that there was something transpiring between you two. It was animalistic, electric and consuming. You knew that Bucky took pride in that. He never once denied himself a touch despite the presence of others.

That wasn’t enough. It didn’t satiate your desire to know why he let you free that night, why his metal fingers trailed along your spine soothingly, why he stayed tucked deeply into you until sleep took you under.

Why he kept holding you as dusk made way for dawn.

Those thoughts remained at the forefront of your mind as you got ready for some gala meant to benefit the causes the team fought for. You weren’t even officially an Avenger, just something akin to a sub contractor. Though, you guessed if Bob could throw on a tuxedo and woo a few monied old women, you could too.

Instead of his black and white get up, your frame was draped in something with a bit more color. The dress itself, hugging every part of your body from the bust to where it flared just below your knees, was a brilliant blood red. In this outfit, your cuffs looked more like Asgardian accessories than a tool of control.

Bucky’s eyes were the first yours met. They lingered on yours for a beat before combing down with a look you’d seen before - flashbacks transported you to the way he took you in when you were on top and holding on to him for dear life, his gaze awed, reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

He didn’t bring the conversation he was having with a man you didn’t recognize to a natural end. Bucky simply walked away, drink in hand, and made his way directly to you. The crowd seemed to ripple around him, though it was impossible to tell if they moved aside or if he just barreled forward, unseeing

“You’re late,” He said, his tone lacking any real edge. His thumb brushed the rim of his glass, eyes flicking past you for half a second - scanning the room, as if checking who else had noticed your entrance.

You smirked. “Had to make sure I was worth the wait.”

He forced a casual shrug. “Every second of it.”

Your lips curled. “That so?”

A beat. Then his expression shifted, realizing what he’d just let slip. His grip on the glass tightened. “Fuck.” He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply before meeting your eyes again. “Meant to say your delayed arrival was distracting.”

“Distracting to you, or to everyone else?” You tilted your head, amused at his bumbling.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, lingering on the dip of your waist before he leaned in, his voice low, “’You really gonna make me say it?”

Though you had gotten over the timidness of being seen with him, both of you so obviously communicating with more than words, there were a few too many eyes for comfort tonight.

You took him in, smiling. All that time he put in as a congressman really paid off. Those broad shoulders of his were made to wear the navy blazer enclosing them, not to mention that small waist of his - the matching vest hugged it in a way that was quickly making you jealous.

“Put a pin in that.” Your hand fell to his chest and slid off slowly as you walked off.

Being locked away in the most secure prison in the world, and then restricted to this tower hadn’t diminished your ability to make conversation with strangers. You had no problem buttering up a few donors, making them feel like they were the most important person in the room - and making them open their wallets to prove it.

Y/N, you would’ve made a good Widow, Yelena whispered in passing. It was quite possibly the nicest, and only, thing she’d ever said directly to you. The rest of the team still mostly kept their distance, but they didn’t disperse upon your entry or flinch when you spoke like before.

Bob was the most talkative with you, maybe even more so than Bucky. You shared tales of your travels with one another that were both kind of fucked up for different reasons - yours usually ended in murder and his were just…dark.

He was telling you about this shop he found in Thailand with the weirdest oddities when you felt the back of your neck burning. The source of that laser was Bucky’s eyes that didn’t shift when you pivoted your head to look. They remained locked on yours as he made his way to the elevator.

“Tell me more about that 18th century dagger later.” You excused yourself and followed the trail.

The lift still smelled like Bucky - even beneath the warm spice of the cologne he put on, you picked up on his natural aroma of earth and metal. When the doors opened, you spotted him sitting on one of the rooftop’s loungers. The ice in his drink clinked as he swirled the glass absentmindedly, his slick backed hair allowing the moon to shine its light over his angular face.

“Ready to finally spit it out, Barnes?” You exhaled, taking a seat beside him.

His brows knitted for a second and then softened. “Fine.” He looked upward, tongue in his cheek as if he was asking himself what he was doing. “You were distracting to me when you walked in. You are distracting…every second of every day.”

Time stretched and you let it before responding. You’d expected him to just say something about how ravishing you looked tonight, but got to know a lot more. His words shouldn’t have surprised you given how close you’d gotten physically. Maybe it was the way he said them, like there was more to it than just an obsession with your touch and labored breaths.

You would never ask if you didn’t then, so you forced yourself to, “Why’d you take them off? Why’d you…”

Your voice trailed off and you cursed yourself for it. Bucky tilted your chin up with his fingers to bring your gaze to his. You closed your hand around his wrist, his pulse thrumming steadily against your palm.

“I took your cuffs off and I held you because I wanted to see if I was alone in what I felt.” He spoke in that gravelly tone that made your flesh raise. “It’s like you’re inside me and I can’t get you out.”

There you had it. You got the answer you so badly wanted, you finally knew. And it was so much better than you’d hoped.

As you brought your lips to his - not in a rush, but slow enough to taste the air around him before the whiskey on his tongue - you came to know a lot more too. You were drawn to him unlike anything else. It was more than just the firm vibranium beneath your hand as you gripped his left bicep, Bucky felt like all the things you’d been chasing your whole life.

Not the soft, gilded lies the world fed you, but the truth you could finally exhale - like the first breath after breaking the surface, after years of drowning in your own fury. He was the silence after the scream, the unclenching of fists you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

In him, you found it: not escape, but surrender. Not absolution, but the quiet, staggering grace of being understood. The rage didn’t vanish. Instead, it turned to embers, warm in your palms instead of scorching your throat. And for the first time, you weren’t chasing freedom. You were tasting it.

“Stand up for me.”

You complied with his instructions without hesitation. Bucky joined you too, only for a moment. His hands ran over your shoulders and down your arms to remove your cuffs. They then came around to slacken your zipper and as he sat, he pulled the fabric with him until it pooled at your feet.

His touch continued to wander all over your body - your bare breasts, the backs of your thighs. You shuddered not against the blowing breeze, but his lips that pressed to your belly, his nose that nuzzled into your skin as he said more to himself than anyone, “So perfect, like you were made for me.”

And maybe you were. That would explain how just his murky cerulean eyes looking up at you made feel like you were collapsing through a trap door. It would give rationale to the way he fought to keep his eyes from rolling back at your scent as he buried his face between your thighs.

“Bucky…” You breathed, or tried to.

“I know,” He lifted your leg so that your foot rested on the chair. “Just wanna take my time, okay?”

It was an odd thing to say given that anyone could catch you up here, and an even stranger thing for you to agree to. You ran a hand over his hair, “Okay.”

Bucky closed his mouth over your covered cunt, its movement growing in pace the more your arousal seeped through the fabric. He groaned as he lapped it up, tongue sweeping greedily from your hole to your clit to catch every drop - all while his eyes were on yours.

God, you were a fucking mess. You clung to the back of his head, rutted your hips into his face, panted so desperately as you felt the storm brewing in your abdomen. He watched you come apart at the seams and waited until you were tilting forward on the edge - lips trembling, thighs tensing in his hold - to pull away.

“Come here.”

Bucky laid your burning body down and slotted between your legs. He let you taste yourself, tongue so deep in your mouth it was millimeters away from becoming a choking hazard. You didn’t mind. Not when he was spreading your knees wider and pressing into you without caring how ruined his trousers would be.

Both your hands worked to shed his layers - his blazer, his bow tie and his shirt. His hungry mouth was still on your own, refusing to part even as he got rid of the rest to join the pile on the floor.

You were already far beyond gone by the time his cock stretched you out, yet you somehow travelled further. You didn’t want to come back, didn’t care to, because he was right there beside you. His left hand hitching your leg over his hips, stomach rubbing against your own with each thrust, broken moans falling down your throat - he was right there with you.

And when you came for him, he was there. Bucky held you closer, tighter than he ever had before. As your body wracked with tremors, cunt squeezing with an unshakable grip around his cock, he cradled your head to his chest.

And when he came for you, you were there. Your legs locked around his waist, pulling him in as deeply as you could manage. As his moans ascended into whines, hips staggering until they stilled, you kept him right where he wanted to be.

While your heart rates went from galloping to resting, you remained entwined. Bucky ran his thumb over your cheek, mouth slightly agape like there were words waiting to tumble out. You felt the same urge. All that was so uncertain before had dissipated, leaving your mind clearer than ever.

There was something so sweet about this moment - his eyes crinkling at their corners and his lips lifted, a huff of a laugh from you carried on the wind. You didn’t feel the need to alter it with any proclamations. The way he looked at you promised that there would be more time to do so in the future.

The way you looked back promised that you’d let him know then.

bucky: now

The scene that unfolded before him was familiar, but the impact it had was new.

Doctors moved in concert, movements steady and synchronized as they pulled bullets from your wounds - their loud clangs into the metal pan echoing through the glass he stood behind. Their gloves, like his, were stained with your blood. There was so much of it on the ground where you’d collapsed, on the floor around your operating table, on his hands at his sides.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell to the tune of a washing machine on it’s spin cycle. His heart thrashed erratically beneath his ribs like the ground beneath a stampede on a safari.

How could he let this happen to you?

He felt helpless now, standing here, begging to anyone out there in the cosmos that you’d come back to him. He was pitiful and shameless in doing so, he had no right, but he’d grind the skin from his knees in prayer if the result was seeing your eyes and hearing his name on your lips again.

Bucky knew this was his fault.

It didn’t have to do with your ability, you’d proven to be in control on the two missions prior to this - the ones you’d been on immediately following the gala. It was because he failed to be a good leader. If he’d been more cautious, gave a bit more thought to why the team might’ve been called to thwart this particular effort, you wouldn’t be dancing on the razor’s edge between life and death.

In retrospect, it was so obvious that he wanted to scream until his throat was raw. They knew the Avengers would be called to deal with a nuclear threat, knew you’d be there. They planned for you to be by putting the reactor in a safe that only you could get into outside of the one person who knew the code.

That person refused to speak under interrogation until they started laughing, howling, after you’d taken off to retrieve the reactor while the team secured the opposition’s base. Bucky still heard their voice in his ear, dripping in sick delight, Erik’s gonna love it when he gets a box with his daughter’s head inside.

The maniac went on about the ability dampener in the warehouse, the 3D printed guns and concrete bullets they’d prepared. There was no real threat, no big disaster that needed to be derailed. It was a trap set for you intended as a means to exact revenge upon a man you barely even knew.

Bucky refused to let you die, much less for such a fucking useless reason.

All he could remember telling Yelena to call for backup as he ran, your broken mumble of his name through his comms, his promise that now seemed unkept. He did come, it was just a split second too late.

An assailant rounded the corner and shot you just as you shot them. And you fell.

He rushed to you and fell too, the impact brutal - not that he felt it. You were bleeding from three bullet holes with no exit wounds, so limp in his arms that it made his stomach turn. He gave you a cardiac massage, called out to you and for a moment, you came to.

Bullets…concrete.

Bucky pressed down on the wounds on your stomach and side, I know, baby, just stay with me.

Your lips tugged, baby, and you were out again.

A few medics got onto the jet with the team, doing just enough first aid to at least keep you breathing and your heart going until you got to the med bay. They warned him that your condition was poor for surgery, to prepare for the worst. And he warned them too, you’ll see the worst if she doesn’t make it.

There were some close calls. Your lungs had gotten clipped from the bullet in your side, their efforts to repair them coming dangerously near the opposite. They must’ve recalled his words because the doctors were quick as a whip to suture and adjust your oxygen levels.

“We have to keep her sedated and monitor her extensively for the next few days.” The lead surgeon said as he exited.

“How’s she now?” Bucky clenched his jaw.

“Critical, but stable.” They gave him a pat on his shoulder before leaving.

He stayed behind as the rest of the doctors wrapped up the surgery. When they were done cleaning you up, you almost looked like yourself again. A tinier, frailer version, but most importantly, alive.

Bucky wanted to let out the breath he’d been holding for three hours, but he didn’t dare to. He’d keep it in until the moment you looked at him and made some inappropriate joke about your near death experience.

As he was about to update the team, a voice came from behind him, “She’s as strong as they say.”

Bucky didn’t have to pivot to know who it belonged to, nor did he have to question how he’d gotten in here - no one would’ve, could’ve stood in his way. A surge of heat licked up his spine as he turned to come face to face with Erik Lehnsherr.

“They did this to her because of you.” His voice was low and guttural, each syllable heavy with rage.

The man formidable in reputation and presence didn’t flinch. Of course, he knew. That had to be one of, if not the only reason he had come. And that did nothing but infuriate the centurion to no end.

If it were true that you being comatose and fighting for your life was his fault, then it was even more of a fact that your father shared the blame. Countless enemies had been made by his scorching of the earth. All the extremes he had gone to without care for the fallout led to this. The innocent victims, collateral damage in his cause, now unironically included his own blood.

And he had the audacity to stand here as you breathed through a machine like he deserved to bear witness to your survival.

Erik’s eyes held his steadily, voice the same as he said, “It cost them their lives.”

Was that supposed to be offer some consolation? Was it supposed to negate all the pain you’d suffered, all the trauma you’d endured and the uncertainty the lingered that you would even make it through despite the doctor’s best efforts?

Bucky marched forward until his sticky boots were a hair away from your father’s. The man didn’t blink, didn’t step back - not even as he sneered in response, “And it nearly cost hers.”

Erik was unreadable. It was impossible to tell whether or not he felt any remorse about the situation, any guilt. The window into the inner workings of his mind came when he looked down at Bucky’s metal arm.

It was the same way that you took it in. He was compelled, head seeming to tilt slightly on it’s own without his knowing, mouth parting with the slightest gap to let out a breath. A hand formed a fist and twisted Bucky’s insides.

The mutant had no rebuttal to those words - to the truth. He simply nodded and made his way to the door. Erik didn’t pause as he left, but he did toss over his shoulder, “She’s in good hands.”

Following that exchange, Bucky became something between a sentinel and a saint.

He didn’t just stay by your side - he rooted himself there, as immovable as the earth beneath a century old oak. The medical staff stopped suggesting he leave - the first time they tried, he gave them a look that could have frozen hell over.

He learned the rhythms of your machines like they were his own pulse. The steady beep beep beep of your heart monitor was his metronome, the hiss of the ventilator a lullaby he’d come to dread. When they finally removed the breathing tube, he nearly collapsed from the sheer force of his relief.

Every morning, he washed your face with a damp cloth, tracing the curve of your cheekbone like it was the edge of a sacred text. He combed your hair with his fingers first, then a brush, working through the tangles with infinite patience. Once, when a nurse offered to do it for him, he’d just shaken his head. She doesn’t like it pulled too tight.

At night, when the med bay was quiet, he talked to you. Not the empty platitudes people murmured to the unconscious - he spoke to you like you were listening.

"Yelena brought you those gross sour candies you love. Hid ‘em in your drawer so the docs wouldn’t see." A pause. "If you wake up, I won’t even steal one."

Sometimes, his voice dropped to a whisper, raw with things he’d never say in the light.

"You gotta come back to me. I’m - fuck. I’m not good at this waiting thing." His thumb brushed your knuckles. "And I’m not good at saying this kinda stuff when you can hear me."

The team drifted in and out like ghosts.

Yelena came most often, her usual sharpness dulled by worry. She’d perch on the edge of your bed and poke your shoulder, as if annoyance alone could wake you.

"You are missing all the good gossip," she’d say, before launching into a dramatic retelling of Ghost’s latest failed attempt at cooking. Once, when she thought Bucky wasn’t listening, she leaned close and muttered, "Do not make me miss you, солнышко. It would be very inconvenient."

Bob brought books - not to read to you, but to discuss, as if you were merely choosing to stay silent. "And that dagger you mentioned? The pommel’s a memento mori skull. Sick, right?" He’d pause for a second, peering at you like you might respond.

Even Walker showed up, though he lingered in the doorway like your condition was contagious. "Barnes is gonna wear a hole in the floor," he said gruffly. "So. You should probably fix that."

Two weeks in, Bucky was trying to convince himself that you were doing this on purpose. It was better than the alternative.

He’d fallen asleep in the armchair, again, his neck at an angle that would’ve crippled a normal man. His metal hand rested on the bed, fingers loosely curled. That’s when he felt it.

A tug.

His eyes flew open.

You hadn’t moved. Your face was still, lashes dark against your cheeks. For a heartbeat, he wondered if he’d imagined it, if the exhaustion had finally gotten to him.

Then it came again. Bucky felt it, saw it this time - his left fingers straightened and inched towards the arm that rested at your side. He held his breath, nearly choking on it as he waited for something more.

Just as he bordered on asphyxiation, your lips parted. They ticked to one side, a soft, groggy and barely audible sound floating from them. Bucky released the air he held as he let his hand be pulled to rest over your wrist.

"Could’ve just asked.” He murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something dangerously close to hope.

Your eyelids fluttered. A slow, deliberate blink - like the world was too bright, too much. Then, with effort, your gaze found his.

And you smiled, "Where’s the fun in that?"

The noise that punched out of him was half laugh, half sob. He was on his feet in an instant, cupping your face like you might slip away again - like you’d vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

"Easy, sweetheart." He whispered, catching your wince. "You’re held together with stitches and spite right now."

You groaned. “Spite and your questionable bedside manner.”

Bucky huffed and helped you drink some water, one hand cradling the back of your head. You swallowed greedily, then sank back into the pillows, studying him with a focus that made his throat tight.

Your fingers lifted, trembling, to trace the stubble along his jaw. "You let yourself go.”

"You died a little," He shot back with no real bite. "I get a pass."

The quiet that settled between you wasn’t empty, it was full. Heavy with all the things left unsaid for too long, the words that had lingered in the space between his ribs and the back of your throat, waiting for a moment that wasn’t stolen by the fear of what might happen if either of you dared to speak them aloud.

But now - after blood and concrete and the terrible, yawning silence of waiting - there was no room left for hesitation. Bucky didn’t plan it. They just spilled out, raw and unguarded, like they’d been carved into his bones and finally broke free.

"I don’t want to live without you." His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, achingly gentle. "Can’t do it. Won’t."

There was no teasing this time. No deflection. Just the quiet truth of your fingers curling into his sleeve, anchoring him to you as you turned into his touch.

"Takes more than that to keep me from you," you murmured, voice rough but sure. A joke, but not really - not when your other hand found his, lacing your fingers together like a vow. "I’m not going anywhere, not unless it’s with you."

His breath left him in a rush, forehead dipping to press against yours. "Should’ve said it sooner," he admitted, voice thick. "Should’ve told you-"

"I know." You squeezed his hand. "Me too."

After all, there was no need for grand speeches or dramatic proclamations. Just this - your pulse under his fingertips, the way his shoulders finally eased, the quiet understanding that from now on, there’d be no more wasted time.

And ever the opportunist, you couldn’t resist one last jab. "Armor’s still shit, by the way."

Bucky laughed - a real, full bodied sound - and brought your knuckles to his lips. "Yeah," he agreed, grinning against your skin. "I’m working on that."

a/n: thank you to all five of you that read this btw! i hope your pillow is always cold and that you receive the warmest hug this week 💌

[cigarmp3]

[heyitsjustmoi]

It's really cool how you really see Bob go from doubting himself to suddenly feeling all god-like.

[theinternetarchive]

from the cd packaging for 'silk & soul' by nina simone, copy printed 2006.

[rymndsmth]

saiko (bucky barnes)

part two: you couldn't hold it back and ended up getting more than bargained for. (part one).

notes: mutant reader (magneto is implied to be her father), new avengers au, pov switches, retrospect, reader is insane, bucky is insane, this is 18+ and insane , that one tweet that says ass up baby girl (stick around for it at the end!), you've heard of yes chef well give it up for yes bucky, 4k words

you: three months ago

You and Bucky never spoke about that night in the bathroom.

Immediately following your highly satisfying defusing, he told you gruffly that you were benched. The cuffs were reapplied and in the interim, you had been scheduled to do lots of resistance training.

He didn’t look at you like a man who’d been knuckles deep in you when he talked you through exercises. That rigid demeanor, the one that you realized belatedly had actually softened a bit, returned - and it was stricter than before.

Bucky didn’t call it what it was, but he might as well have. It was punishment. Torture. His unflinching stare narrowed in as you held a wall sit with your arms outstretched.

“You wanna stop?” He taunted.

Your throat worked with a thick swallow. Fuck him if he thought you were gonna fold so easily, if he believed that his slick wordplay would bring you to your knees. His mouth ticked upwards as he watched you crash to the floor when he called time.

It was infuriating.

He told you to use him, to let it all out. You thought you did, but there was this force gnawing at your guts. Day after day, it grew hungrier. The times he slammed you on the mat when you sparred, and the way his eyes followed when you walked by - his left hand grazing yours for a whisper - all worked together to create a gluttonous void.

Lightning thrashed, illuminating the hallway as you opened your door. Though your wrists remained cuff, you could feel the energy of each tear in the dark sky. It bounced against the thin invisible shield surrounding your body, the final ripple in the lake able to just caress your bones.

You thought you were quiet when you slipped into his room. You knew you’d been. It was just that he would’ve heard a pin drop in the kitchen even through the raging storm outside, so of course, he’d hear you.

“I want these off.” You stepped in further and shoved out your wrists.

Bucky sat up, dog tags over his bare chest catching the reflection of another strike. He stood from the bed and walked over to you. There was much less than you’d imagined to his sleepwear - you didn’t take him for a boxers only guy.

“Why?” His tone was steady, like sleep had been avoiding him too.

“The storm it’s making everything…” You sighed. “It’s just out of reach and I can sense how good it would feel if I could…let me feel it for just a minute, please.”

Maybe it was the time of night, or him feeling caught off guard. It was more likely that your uncharacteristically raw words and voice made him move. Bucky disabled the dampeners with his thumbprint and removed the cuffs, letting them thud to the floor.

You inhaled deeply, hairs on the back of your neck standing up. There was so much energy in the air that it was instantly intoxicating. You could feel every strip of iron and steel in the tower, the cars lined up along the roads and those parked in garages. A ripple of light in the sky flashed and you felt all the surrounding elements close in around your body, embracing you.

A satisfied breath released from the void, a name carried on its wind. Bucky.

His head turned down, drawing your eyes to the movement too. There was a slight groan, a sound of protest against the foreign entity seizing control of his left arm. It rose under your compulsion and fell heavily when he regained control.

“Could’ve just asked.” Bucky muttered.

He pulled you against him roughly and kissed you in kind. You grew lightheaded quickly under the endless rolling of his tongue against your own and him grabbing your ass by the hand fulls.

You floated backwards as he walked you toward the bed without breaking the kiss. Bucky pressed his hips into yours when he lowered your body to the sheets and you gasped - was he gonna give all that to you?

“I know you still think about that night, even touch yourself to the memory.” His voice scraped against his throat. “Show me how you do it.”

You slipped a hand under your thin shorts, mouth dropping wide at the ease of your fingers sliding between your folds. Bucky would never beat the allegations that he was the all seeing eye.

He always knew.

Knew where to find you no matter where you were, knew you always meant more than you said, knew that you’d brought yourself to the edge again and again to his hot breath on your neck while he curled his fingers deep inside your cunt.

“Like that?” His eyes fell between your bodies as you circled your clit.

You groaned, hips starting to move too.

“So needy, so desperate.” He traced your collarbone with his teeth, chuckling. “Can’t even wait long enough to take your fuckin’ shorts off.”

The sound you made only proved his point. You couldn’t contain it when you got worked up, especially not while you replayed the image of him ruining you to the point of debility. It was even more impossible right now with his body hovering over your own, his eyes full of you panting and writhing.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Not yet.” Bucky yanked your hand out of your pants. He sucked the juices from your fingers, rasping, “You don’t get to cum yet.”

He flipped you onto your stomach and pulled you up by the hips until you were on your knees. Your upper body stayed pinned to the bed under his metal hand that rested between your shoulder blades.

Its power made your blood rush. You could feel every compound, natural and refined, that came together to form the vibranium. Without using your hands, you carved out every gold filled etch, followed their lines up and down the length of his arm.

Bucky ran his flesh hand along your waist and your ass reverently. You felt yourself open and close around nothing, your body begging for him for finally give it what it craved so badly.

The whole torturing you bit seemed to be done. He pushed your shorts to the side and curled his cock through your folds, pushing it over your clit and up until it rested in the hollow of your navel. You pressed your face into the sheets to muffle an ungodly moan - and he chose that moment to enter you fully.

“I know…” He shushed you and then leaned over one of your shoulders, thrusting slowly, and asked, “Can I go deeper? Let me take all of it…”

You whined as his cock, thick and heavy, pushed to the back of your pussy. God, he could have everything and you showed him that. Bucky growled when you used your knees to back onto him, working his length, leaving it glistening in your arousal.

His hands ducked under your tank, squeezing and pulling at your tits while his hips rocked into yours rhythmically - a toe curling metronome that ticked mockingly in your ears.

You looked back at Bucky, lips full and bruised as you whispered, “I want more.”

His left hand fell to your clit, the shock of it sending jolts of current up your spine. The atoms danced between it and your aching bud, vibrating over the tender nerves. You closed your hand over his and pressed down even harder, your hips outpacing his strokes.

“That’s it,” Bucky bit his lip. “Fucking use me.”

Your mind went numb as you kept going faster and faster until you could no longer carry on. He was right there waiting to pick up where you left off. In the midst of your walls squeezing and your throat going dry, he continued to fuck into you.

“You’d do anything for me, right?” He put his head right back next to your ear. “Let me put my thumb in that cute asshole of yours?”

The cry that left you was downright filthy. Bucky laughed and licked your neck, continuing, “Wanna see the way it makes you squirm, hear the noises you make for me.”

His cock was so deep in you that it removed your ability to take a full bellied breath. Still, you had to find a way to tell him in more ways than twitching when his tip brushed the edges of your folds only to slide entirely back in that you wanted it too.

You arched your back, opening yourself up even wider for him, begging, “Please.”

He coated his thumb in some of your cum and eased it into your previously lonely hole. Your body threatened to go limp, but again, he was there waiting. Bucky got a good hold of you with his free hand, bringing you towards him with each languid thrust.

“I can feel myself on the other side,” His moan sent tremors through you. “Feel my cock filling up this pretty little pussy...”

You grabbed at his arm, pulling him down just enough for your tongues to be able to twist. It was as sloppy as the sound of your cunt being pounded to oblivion from behind.

He was burning and stretching you out so fucking good, you’d forgotten that this wasn’t your private residence - that you should probably clamp down on those oh god’s that kept growing in pitch and level.

It was a task that sat firmly under impossible, not remotely able to complete. Not with him panting wildly into your mouth, take what you want, take all of it, while you threw it back on his thumb and his cock.

“My good fucking slut,” Bucky bunched up your shorts and yanked you back by the waistband as he thrusted. “Look at me.”

Your misted lids lifted, shiny eyes meeting his. They went from the darkest you’d ever seen them to overcome with euphoria within seconds, and suddenly, he came. Hard.

Bucky shot his cock up and up with each wave of cum he released. Your back curved, the sensitivity becoming all too much, but he didn’t let go. Not until you were so full that some dripped back down his length and onto the sheets below.

He sank to his knees and dove face first into your turned out cunt. You were speaking a dead language into the mattress, hips jolting as you brushed your leaking hole against his open mouth.

His tongue lapped up all the evidence of his presence that it could reach. To get the rest, he closed his lips around your lower set and sucked it out.

And just when you thought he was done, still hard as steel, he entered you again.

“Turn around and look at me.” Bucky grunted.

Your head felt like it cinderblock. The effort taken to swivel it around your flaccid neck was gargantuan, but you managed. Fuck how right he was about everything, about your willingness to do anything for him.

His metal hand wrapped around your throat and pulled you up. The openness of your mouth made it easy for him to lay claim with his tongue. He licked at every inch, lapped up all your spit and gave it back.

Your knees dropped wider, inner thighs screaming in protest as you sank onto his cock faster. Bucky squeezed tighter, strokes growing frenzied. His voice rumbled low, yes, claim it, fuck-

All the noises he wanted you to make filled the room. Their wavering tone joined in with the coming together of your hips and the rain that furiously pelted his floor to ceiling windows.

“What a cock hungry girl…” His hand drove you back into his crumpled sheets.

That was the understatement of the decade. You were arching deeply and fucking yourself onto him like you weren’t already wrecked, like it would never be enough.

Bucky pressed down on your lower back and you felt him hit a spot you didn’t know existed. He moaned at your piercing yell, then asked softly, “Can I cum in this pussy again?”

You nodded without stopping. He could fill it up as many times as he wanted to, you needed to drain him dry - to see him as fucked out as you were.

“Beg me.” His pace quickened, bordering on mania.

Your eyes fluttered up into your skull. They searched for the words he needed to hear, grasping at them in a flimsy hold to drag out of your parted lips:

"P-please, please cum in me-"

Bucky grabbed your hips in a bruising hold while he finally let himself go. He was beautiful - thick hair spilling around his face as his head bowed, tongue running over his swollen lower lip, eyes glued to the way your pussy swallowed his dick whole.

You clenched around it and he sputtered, I’m-fuck-, and then there was a glorious hymn. He fucked into you over and over and over again, pushing his cum so far in that it felt like your throat filled up with it too.

Your became trapped beneath his, brain doing a hard reset, while his movements slowed. His breath was hot and rough on your cheek, stubble scratching your skin when he nuzzled against it, whispering, promising:

"I’m gonna have so much fun with you, doll."

bucky: two months ago

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He found himself asking that question day after day, starting the moment he left that bathroom. Bucky didn’t mean to lose control like that he just…snapped. He’d been good at keeping that part of himself at bay, but when you were around - all quick tempered and foul mouthed - he couldn’t.

That was dangerous. You were dangerous.

While it was world news well before he’d gotten the pleasure of knowing you, he realized that your reputation was sorely undersold. You were the slow drip of poison. The kind of thing its host didn’t even realize was in them until they were all stiff and scorching limbs, choking on the ground in a pool of their own blood.

Bucky took it out on you, tried to fight you out of his system. He went harder in training and tried to steer clear of you otherwise. The latter would ultimately turn out to be useless.

He was drawn to you. The way you squared your shoulders as he walked by, pushing your breasts out. His hands nearly found themselves reaching out to touch them, but they only managed to reach as far as your fingertips.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

That same question rang clear in his mind again when he took off your cuffs. You were so pretty that night - the sheen in your eyes and a sullen pout to your lips, that thin tank top that rode up to show your belly and your ass hanging from the end of your shorts.

How couldn’t he have taken you right then just like that? Just like in all the ways he’d imagined since he had his fingers at the back of your tight hole. And, god, were you tight.

Bucky was in disbelief that you took all of him so well. He’d forgotten those towels, but couldn’t have given less of a shit about that. Not when you were spreading your juices all over his groin while you worked his cock. Certainly not when you were pleading for him to full that swollen cunt up.

He was paralyzed, you flowed through his veins. If he was going a prisoner of his mind, the one you cum for him in over and over, he was taking you with him. If he was going to be one of your victims, he would be your last.

You were shier than he expected with all that had went on.

There was no use in pretending anymore, not to himself or anyone else. They heard you that time in the jet and they definitely heard you begging for him. The color of your cheeks changed when he squeezed your ass in the kitchen the following morning - right there, in front of the whole team.

“Who voted fucking?” Yelena raised a finger.

Ghost and Bob shared a high five. Alexei and Walker groaned, the former whispering something like, I’m sure they fight while doing it too. Absolute children. Though he did love the way their bet made you stumble as you quickly fled to your room.

The roles had reversed and you turned out to be the one actively avoiding him. Or tried to. He made it his mission to dominate your mind, to drive you to the point of insanity - just like he had been.

Bucky pinned you down harder during hand to hands, dropped his hips just that much deeper to brush between your parted legs. Once you were writhing and pushing off your heels to grind into him, he got up and told you to reset.

It was so fucking sexy watching you put up a fight. You weren’t as unreadable as you liked to think. He saw the way it ate at you to not take him every time he teased you - the twitch of your left eye, quick puff of air bypassing your pressed together lips.

Bucky had to commend you for how long you lasted and for you trying to deal with your hunger all own your own. He heard you when he walked by your room, knew exactly where you had to have your fingers to have made that sound.

You were so wrapped up in your mind that his entrance remained unnoticed. That wasn’t to sell his ability to move like a shadow short - Bucky wasn’t even making an effort to be stealthy. It just went to show how lost you were, legs reaching for either side of the bed as you rocked onto your fingers.

Such a dirty fucking girl.

He knew for certain, but tonight, he wanted to make sure that you knew too - you belonged to him. Your eyes flew open to catch him just as he pulled you to the edge of the bed.

It would’ve been nice to lick up all the mess you’d already made, but Bucky couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to feel you wrapped around him, throbbing, and crying into his mouth.

Your tongue tasted of your juices and Bucky grinned primally. His dirty fucking girl, indeed. He stripped you of your shirt and got undressed too before pulling you onto his lap. You brushed his hair back, cuff clinking softly, and pressed your forehead to his - all while sliding his cock between your sticky folds.

“I want you to put it in.” Bucky held your stormy gaze.

You bit your bottom lip, unflinching as you asked, “Yeah?”

“Yes-”

His breath caught to cut his response at its tail. You were so warm, your grip just the slightest bit too intense. It loosened the more you adjusted to him, the more you rotated your hips until it all fit.

You grabbed his shoulders and bounced your ass up and down, mouth gaping each time your body met his. Bucky’s eyes immediately fell to your breasts. They danced to the beat you set with your hips, lulling him even further into a state of delirium.

His voice came back then, “Yes, fucking ride me.”

Your chest pressed to his own, letting him feel your hardened nipples drag against it. Bucky’s fingers dug into your waist as he began to fuck up into you. That little hole of your was so close, he felt it swelling with your cum against his tip.

“Grind on me nice and deep,” He gripped your hips. “Show me how you like it.”

You wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, the other falling behind you to hold onto his thigh. And oh, fuck, you looked like a dream. You were one. He thought, as he watched you use his cock like it was your sex toy, maybe he’d somehow conjured you from his subconscious.

The one that would listen to every command, the one that was just as insatiable as he was, the one that wouldn’t break when he didn’t hold back. Your hair grew damp at your temples as you rolled your hips to the point of them stalling - a momentary glitch that made way for even quicker waves while you screamed.

“Let her out…” His mouth dropped, eyes fixated on the fluid coating his lower stomach.

“Fuck!” Your head dropped back.

It was an invitation to kiss your neck, one that he accepted without hesitation. Bucky went beyond just that. He licked every drop of sweat that rolled down, sucked at your jumping pulse point and scraped his teeth over the skin behind your ear. You shook and mewled.

He chuckled, “That feel good?”

Your voice cracked, “- Yes.”

Bucky wanted to make sure everyone else knew what the two of you did as well. He moved his right fingers to play with your clit and pressed down on your belly with the ball of his hand. Your knees crushed his hips, but you kept grinding on his cock.

He smacked your ass with his left hand, “Yes, who?”

A heavens opening groan tore from your throat, “Yes, Bucky-y…”

You pushed him down the bed and sank your nails into his chest. He had been a fan of those cuffs for the obvious, but he definitely fell in love with them in that moment - they casted a faint glow, illuminating just how much of that ruin between your legs he was responsible for.

“Feel how wet I’ve got this pussy?” He slurred.

“Yes…” Your head sluggishly rolled.

Bucky reached up to cup your face, and as you turned your cheek to lick his palm, he pulled you in. Your moans spilled out quick and short into his waiting mouth. He pulled your bottom lip between his teeth, asking:

“Yes, who?”

“Yes, Bucky, fuck-“

You leaned over to one side and fucked him into the mattress. With every bounce, yearning rapidly became obsession. He felt like he could live in your sopping cunt, die listening to your vocal cords fray with croons.

Bucky was so far gone. He wrapped his arms around you and pinned you to his body. Shaky breaths left him as he urged, keep saying it like that. Your wet lips dragged against his skin, yes, Bucky, yes, Bucky, yes. He held your ass up and pounded into you, the noises you and your cunt made in response were deliciously obscene.

“Like getting this pussy fucked into don’t you, doll?” Bucky chuckled.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling, “Fuck! Bucky, I’m cum-”

Those hips of your rutted violently, rocking your headboard against the wall. You bit his neck as you took him balls deep and squeezed your walls around his cock. Oh, that was gonna make him cum too.

“Want my load where I put it last time?” His metal hand came down hard on your ass again.

“Yes, Bucky.”

He didn’t even have to correct you - such a good fucking girl. He gave you every inch until his tip stilled behind your navel. Curses flew out as he fucked his cum too far into you to retrieve.

You were limp in his arms, barely moving besides your chest heaving and hole pulsing around his cock. Bucky left it inside. He ran his hands all over you and deactivated your cuffs so that you could feel him too.

God, you were even more dangerous than he thought. You spread in his blood like a wildfire, lighting up not just his temple of desire but something else. Something more ancient, a structure long left untouched.

Bucky felt you saunter through its front door, knife of a grin on your mouth, and curl up to make yourself at home.

an: if you read this i hope you were alone and tysm 😭 lmk your thoughts if you have any! stay tuned for the last part coming soon...

(the tweet)

[rymndsmth]

🧍🏽‍♀️

[rymndsmth]

saiko (bucky barnes)

part two: you couldn't hold it back and ended up getting more than bargained for. (part one).

notes: mutant reader (magneto is implied to be her father), new avengers au, pov switches, retrospect, reader is insane, bucky is insane, this is 18+ and insane , that one tweet that says ass up baby girl (stick around for it at the end!), you've heard of yes chef well give it up for yes bucky, 4k words

you: three months ago

You and Bucky never spoke about that night in the bathroom.

Immediately following your highly satisfying defusing, he told you gruffly that you were benched. The cuffs were reapplied and in the interim, you had been scheduled to do lots of resistance training.

He didn’t look at you like a man who’d been knuckles deep in you when he talked you through exercises. That rigid demeanor, the one that you realized belatedly had actually softened a bit, returned - and it was stricter than before.

Bucky didn’t call it what it was, but he might as well have. It was punishment. Torture. His unflinching stare narrowed in as you held a wall sit with your arms outstretched.

“You wanna stop?” He taunted.

Your throat worked with a thick swallow. Fuck him if he thought you were gonna fold so easily, if he believed that his slick wordplay would bring you to your knees. His mouth ticked upwards as he watched you crash to the floor when he called time.

It was infuriating.

He told you to use him, to let it all out. You thought you did, but there was this force gnawing at your guts. Day after day, it grew hungrier. The times he slammed you on the mat when you sparred, and the way his eyes followed when you walked by - his left hand grazing yours for a whisper - all worked together to create a gluttonous void.

Lightning thrashed, illuminating the hallway as you opened your door. Though your wrists remained cuff, you could feel the energy of each tear in the dark sky. It bounced against the thin invisible shield surrounding your body, the final ripple in the lake able to just caress your bones.

You thought you were quiet when you slipped into his room. You knew you’d been. It was just that he would’ve heard a pin drop in the kitchen even through the raging storm outside, so of course, he’d hear you.

“I want these off.” You stepped in further and shoved out your wrists.

Bucky sat up, dog tags over his bare chest catching the reflection of another strike. He stood from the bed and walked over to you. There was much less than you’d imagined to his sleepwear - you didn’t take him for a boxers only guy.

“Why?” His tone was steady, like sleep had been avoiding him too.

“The storm it’s making everything…” You sighed. “It’s just out of reach and I can sense how good it would feel if I could…let me feel it for just a minute, please.”

Maybe it was the time of night, or him feeling caught off guard. It was more likely that your uncharacteristically raw words and voice made him move. Bucky disabled the dampeners with his thumbprint and removed the cuffs, letting them thud to the floor.

You inhaled deeply, hairs on the back of your neck standing up. There was so much energy in the air that it was instantly intoxicating. You could feel every strip of iron and steel in the tower, the cars lined up along the roads and those parked in garages. A ripple of light in the sky flashed and you felt all the surrounding elements close in around your body, embracing you.

A satisfied breath released from the void, a name carried on its wind. Bucky.

His head turned down, drawing your eyes to the movement too. There was a slight groan, a sound of protest against the foreign entity seizing control of his left arm. It rose under your compulsion and fell heavily when he regained control.

“Could’ve just asked.” Bucky muttered.

He pulled you against him roughly and kissed you in kind. You grew lightheaded quickly under the endless rolling of his tongue against your own and him grabbing your ass by the hand fulls.

You floated backwards as he walked you toward the bed without breaking the kiss. Bucky pressed his hips into yours when he lowered your body to the sheets and you gasped - was he gonna give all that to you?

“I know you still think about that night, even touch yourself to the memory.” His voice scraped against his throat. “Show me how you do it.”

You slipped a hand under your thin shorts, mouth dropping wide at the ease of your fingers sliding between your folds. Bucky would never beat the allegations that he was the all seeing eye.

He always knew.

Knew where to find you no matter where you were, knew you always meant more than you said, knew that you’d brought yourself to the edge again and again to his hot breath on your neck while he curled his fingers deep inside your cunt.

“Like that?” His eyes fell between your bodies as you circled your clit.

You groaned, hips starting to move too.

“So needy, so desperate.” He traced your collarbone with his teeth, chuckling. “Can’t even wait long enough to take your fuckin’ shorts off.”

The sound you made only proved his point. You couldn’t contain it when you got worked up, especially not while you replayed the image of him ruining you to the point of debility. It was even more impossible right now with his body hovering over your own, his eyes full of you panting and writhing.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Not yet.” Bucky yanked your hand out of your pants. He sucked the juices from your fingers, rasping, “You don’t get to cum yet.”

He flipped you onto your stomach and pulled you up by the hips until you were on your knees. Your upper body stayed pinned to the bed under his metal hand that rested between your shoulder blades.

Its power made your blood rush. You could feel every compound, natural and refined, that came together to form the vibranium. Without using your hands, you carved out every gold filled etch, followed their lines up and down the length of his arm.

Bucky ran his flesh hand along your waist and your ass reverently. You felt yourself open and close around nothing, your body begging for him for finally give it what it craved so badly.

The whole torturing you bit seemed to be done. He pushed your shorts to the side and curled his cock through your folds, pushing it over your clit and up until it rested in the hollow of your navel. You pressed your face into the sheets to muffle an ungodly moan - and he chose that moment to enter you fully.

“I know…” He shushed you and then leaned over one of your shoulders, thrusting slowly, and asked, “Can I go deeper? Let me take all of it…”

You whined as his cock, thick and heavy, pushed to the back of your pussy. God, he could have everything and you showed him that. Bucky growled when you used your knees to back onto him, working his length, leaving it glistening in your arousal.

His hands ducked under your tank, squeezing and pulling at your tits while his hips rocked into yours rhythmically - a toe curling metronome that ticked mockingly in your ears.

You looked back at Bucky, lips full and bruised as you whispered, “I want more.”

His left hand fell to your clit, the shock of it sending jolts of current up your spine. The atoms danced between it and your aching bud, vibrating over the tender nerves. You closed your hand over his and pressed down even harder, your hips outpacing his strokes.

“That’s it,” Bucky bit his lip. “Fucking use me.”

Your mind went numb as you kept going faster and faster until you could no longer carry on. He was right there waiting to pick up where you left off. In the midst of your walls squeezing and your throat going dry, he continued to fuck into you.

“You’d do anything for me, right?” He put his head right back next to your ear. “Let me put my thumb in that cute asshole of yours?”

The cry that left you was downright filthy. Bucky laughed and licked your neck, continuing, “Wanna see the way it makes you squirm, hear the noises you make for me.”

His cock was so deep in you that it removed your ability to take a full bellied breath. Still, you had to find a way to tell him in more ways than twitching when his tip brushed the edges of your folds only to slide entirely back in that you wanted it too.

You arched your back, opening yourself up even wider for him, begging, “Please.”

He coated his thumb in some of your cum and eased it into your previously lonely hole. Your body threatened to go limp, but again, he was there waiting. Bucky got a good hold of you with his free hand, bringing you towards him with each languid thrust.

“I can feel myself on the other side,” His moan sent tremors through you. “Feel my cock filling up this pretty little pussy...”

You grabbed at his arm, pulling him down just enough for your tongues to be able to twist. It was as sloppy as the sound of your cunt being pounded to oblivion from behind.

He was burning and stretching you out so fucking good, you’d forgotten that this wasn’t your private residence - that you should probably clamp down on those oh god’s that kept growing in pitch and level.

It was a task that sat firmly under impossible, not remotely able to complete. Not with him panting wildly into your mouth, take what you want, take all of it, while you threw it back on his thumb and his cock.

“My good fucking slut,” Bucky bunched up your shorts and yanked you back by the waistband as he thrusted. “Look at me.”

Your misted lids lifted, shiny eyes meeting his. They went from the darkest you’d ever seen them to overcome with euphoria within seconds, and suddenly, he came. Hard.

Bucky shot his cock up and up with each wave of cum he released. Your back curved, the sensitivity becoming all too much, but he didn’t let go. Not until you were so full that some dripped back down his length and onto the sheets below.

He sank to his knees and dove face first into your turned out cunt. You were speaking a dead language into the mattress, hips jolting as you brushed your leaking hole against his open mouth.

His tongue lapped up all the evidence of his presence that it could reach. To get the rest, he closed his lips around your lower set and sucked it out.

And just when you thought he was done, still hard as steel, he entered you again.

“Turn around and look at me.” Bucky grunted.

Your head felt like it cinderblock. The effort taken to swivel it around your flaccid neck was gargantuan, but you managed. Fuck how right he was about everything, about your willingness to do anything for him.

His metal hand wrapped around your throat and pulled you up. The openness of your mouth made it easy for him to lay claim with his tongue. He licked at every inch, lapped up all your spit and gave it back.

Your knees dropped wider, inner thighs screaming in protest as you sank onto his cock faster. Bucky squeezed tighter, strokes growing frenzied. His voice rumbled low, yes, claim it, fuck-

All the noises he wanted you to make filled the room. Their wavering tone joined in with the coming together of your hips and the rain that furiously pelted his floor to ceiling windows.

“What a cock hungry girl…” His hand drove you back into his crumpled sheets.

That was the understatement of the decade. You were arching deeply and fucking yourself onto him like you weren’t already wrecked, like it would never be enough.

Bucky pressed down on your lower back and you felt him hit a spot you didn’t know existed. He moaned at your piercing yell, then asked softly, “Can I cum in this pussy again?”

You nodded without stopping. He could fill it up as many times as he wanted to, you needed to drain him dry - to see him as fucked out as you were.

“Beg me.” His pace quickened, bordering on mania.

Your eyes fluttered up into your skull. They searched for the words he needed to hear, grasping at them in a flimsy hold to drag out of your parted lips:

"P-please, please cum in me-"

Bucky grabbed your hips in a bruising hold while he finally let himself go. He was beautiful - thick hair spilling around his face as his head bowed, tongue running over his swollen lower lip, eyes glued to the way your pussy swallowed his dick whole.

You clenched around it and he sputtered, I’m-fuck-, and then there was a glorious hymn. He fucked into you over and over and over again, pushing his cum so far in that it felt like your throat filled up with it too.

Your became trapped beneath his, brain doing a hard reset, while his movements slowed. His breath was hot and rough on your cheek, stubble scratching your skin when he nuzzled against it, whispering, promising:

"I’m gonna have so much fun with you, doll."

bucky: two months ago

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He found himself asking that question day after day, starting the moment he left that bathroom. Bucky didn’t mean to lose control like that he just…snapped. He’d been good at keeping that part of himself at bay, but when you were around - all quick tempered and foul mouthed - he couldn’t.

That was dangerous. You were dangerous.

While it was world news well before he’d gotten the pleasure of knowing you, he realized that your reputation was sorely undersold. You were the slow drip of poison. The kind of thing its host didn’t even realize was in them until they were all stiff and scorching limbs, choking on the ground in a pool of their own blood.

Bucky took it out on you, tried to fight you out of his system. He went harder in training and tried to steer clear of you otherwise. The latter would ultimately turn out to be useless.

He was drawn to you. The way you squared your shoulders as he walked by, pushing your breasts out. His hands nearly found themselves reaching out to touch them, but they only managed to reach as far as your fingertips.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

That same question rang clear in his mind again when he took off your cuffs. You were so pretty that night - the sheen in your eyes and a sullen pout to your lips, that thin tank top that rode up to show your belly and your ass hanging from the end of your shorts.

How couldn’t he have taken you right then just like that? Just like in all the ways he’d imagined since he had his fingers at the back of your tight hole. And, god, were you tight.

Bucky was in disbelief that you took all of him so well. He’d forgotten those towels, but couldn’t have given less of a shit about that. Not when you were spreading your juices all over his groin while you worked his cock. Certainly not when you were pleading for him to full that swollen cunt up.

He was paralyzed, you flowed through his veins. If he was going a prisoner of his mind, the one you cum for him in over and over, he was taking you with him. If he was going to be one of your victims, he would be your last.

You were shier than he expected with all that had went on.

There was no use in pretending anymore, not to himself or anyone else. They heard you that time in the jet and they definitely heard you begging for him. The color of your cheeks changed when he squeezed your ass in the kitchen the following morning - right there, in front of the whole team.

“Who voted fucking?” Yelena raised a finger.

Ghost and Bob shared a high five. Alexei and Walker groaned, the former whispering something like, I’m sure they fight while doing it too. Absolute children. Though he did love the way their bet made you stumble as you quickly fled to your room.

The roles had reversed and you turned out to be the one actively avoiding him. Or tried to. He made it his mission to dominate your mind, to drive you to the point of insanity - just like he had been.

Bucky pinned you down harder during hand to hands, dropped his hips just that much deeper to brush between your parted legs. Once you were writhing and pushing off your heels to grind into him, he got up and told you to reset.

It was so fucking sexy watching you put up a fight. You weren’t as unreadable as you liked to think. He saw the way it ate at you to not take him every time he teased you - the twitch of your left eye, quick puff of air bypassing your pressed together lips.

Bucky had to commend you for how long you lasted and for you trying to deal with your hunger all own your own. He heard you when he walked by your room, knew exactly where you had to have your fingers to have made that sound.

You were so wrapped up in your mind that his entrance remained unnoticed. That wasn’t to sell his ability to move like a shadow short - Bucky wasn’t even making an effort to be stealthy. It just went to show how lost you were, legs reaching for either side of the bed as you rocked onto your fingers.

Such a dirty fucking girl.

He knew for certain, but tonight, he wanted to make sure that you knew too - you belonged to him. Your eyes flew open to catch him just as he pulled you to the edge of the bed.

It would’ve been nice to lick up all the mess you’d already made, but Bucky couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to feel you wrapped around him, throbbing, and crying into his mouth.

Your tongue tasted of your juices and Bucky grinned primally. His dirty fucking girl, indeed. He stripped you of your shirt and got undressed too before pulling you onto his lap. You brushed his hair back, cuff clinking softly, and pressed your forehead to his - all while sliding his cock between your sticky folds.

“I want you to put it in.” Bucky held your stormy gaze.

You bit your bottom lip, unflinching as you asked, “Yeah?”

“Yes-”

His breath caught to cut his response at its tail. You were so warm, your grip just the slightest bit too intense. It loosened the more you adjusted to him, the more you rotated your hips until it all fit.

You grabbed his shoulders and bounced your ass up and down, mouth gaping each time your body met his. Bucky’s eyes immediately fell to your breasts. They danced to the beat you set with your hips, lulling him even further into a state of delirium.

His voice came back then, “Yes, fucking ride me.”

Your chest pressed to his own, letting him feel your hardened nipples drag against it. Bucky’s fingers dug into your waist as he began to fuck up into you. That little hole of your was so close, he felt it swelling with your cum against his tip.

“Grind on me nice and deep,” He gripped your hips. “Show me how you like it.”

You wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, the other falling behind you to hold onto his thigh. And oh, fuck, you looked like a dream. You were one. He thought, as he watched you use his cock like it was your sex toy, maybe he’d somehow conjured you from his subconscious.

The one that would listen to every command, the one that was just as insatiable as he was, the one that wouldn’t break when he didn’t hold back. Your hair grew damp at your temples as you rolled your hips to the point of them stalling - a momentary glitch that made way for even quicker waves while you screamed.

“Let her out…” His mouth dropped, eyes fixated on the fluid coating his lower stomach.

“Fuck!” Your head dropped back.

It was an invitation to kiss your neck, one that he accepted without hesitation. Bucky went beyond just that. He licked every drop of sweat that rolled down, sucked at your jumping pulse point and scraped his teeth over the skin behind your ear. You shook and mewled.

He chuckled, “That feel good?”

Your voice cracked, “- Yes.”

Bucky wanted to make sure everyone else knew what the two of you did as well. He moved his right fingers to play with your clit and pressed down on your belly with the ball of his hand. Your knees crushed his hips, but you kept grinding on his cock.

He smacked your ass with his left hand, “Yes, who?”

A heavens opening groan tore from your throat, “Yes, Bucky-y…”

You pushed him down the bed and sank your nails into his chest. He had been a fan of those cuffs for the obvious, but he definitely fell in love with them in that moment - they casted a faint glow, illuminating just how much of that ruin between your legs he was responsible for.

“Feel how wet I’ve got this pussy?” He slurred.

“Yes…” Your head sluggishly rolled.

Bucky reached up to cup your face, and as you turned your cheek to lick his palm, he pulled you in. Your moans spilled out quick and short into his waiting mouth. He pulled your bottom lip between his teeth, asking:

“Yes, who?”

“Yes, Bucky, fuck-“

You leaned over to one side and fucked him into the mattress. With every bounce, yearning rapidly became obsession. He felt like he could live in your sopping cunt, die listening to your vocal cords fray with croons.

Bucky was so far gone. He wrapped his arms around you and pinned you to his body. Shaky breaths left him as he urged, keep saying it like that. Your wet lips dragged against his skin, yes, Bucky, yes, Bucky, yes. He held your ass up and pounded into you, the noises you and your cunt made in response were deliciously obscene.

“Like getting this pussy fucked into don’t you, doll?” Bucky chuckled.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling, “Fuck! Bucky, I’m cum-”

Those hips of your rutted violently, rocking your headboard against the wall. You bit his neck as you took him balls deep and squeezed your walls around his cock. Oh, that was gonna make him cum too.

“Want my load where I put it last time?” His metal hand came down hard on your ass again.

“Yes, Bucky.”

He didn’t even have to correct you - such a good fucking girl. He gave you every inch until his tip stilled behind your navel. Curses flew out as he fucked his cum too far into you to retrieve.

You were limp in his arms, barely moving besides your chest heaving and hole pulsing around his cock. Bucky left it inside. He ran his hands all over you and deactivated your cuffs so that you could feel him too.

God, you were even more dangerous than he thought. You spread in his blood like a wildfire, lighting up not just his temple of desire but something else. Something more ancient, a structure long left untouched.

Bucky felt you saunter through its front door, knife of a grin on your mouth, and curl up to make yourself at home.

an: if you read this i hope you were alone and tysm 😭 lmk your thoughts if you have any! stay tuned for the last part coming soon...

(the tweet)

[mjwatson]

bucky has a disability??

he doesn’t have an arm.

[sailing-ever-west-deactivated20]

happy almost ten years to my all-time favorite disability post on this braincell forsaken website