Bucky Barnes x reader
Summary:
You make the mistake of testing his limits and learn that actions have consequences. AKA he fucks you hard in the bathroom.
Word Count: 1.6k
Genre: smut, pwp
Warnings: Smut (MDNI), unprotected sex, DEGRADATION, piv, creampie, overstimulation, lmk if theres anything else
a/n: very much written at 6am and posted as soon as i finished it because i have no patience so if its ass thats why
You hadn’t meant for this to happen. Contrary to popular belief, you weren’t just horny all the time—you were a grown adult after all! So no, Bucky dragging you into the bathroom at yet another one of Sam’s parties hadn’t been on your agenda. You’d simply been talking to someone—a cousin or friend of Sam’s, you can’t remember—when you’d caught his gaze from across the room.
You and James Barnes had a complicated relationship, if you could even call it that. Not quite friends—more mutual acquaintances if anything—but it didn’t stop you or him from certain activities. It was convenient, no strings, simple sex.
So when your eyes met his from across Sam’s living room, over the clink of bottles, the too-loud music, the warmth of too many bodies packed into one space, you saw the way his eyes darkened and his jaw tensed, just barely. It was borderline possessive, a side you’d yet to see from the man, and you were just a woman. So you did what you do best and decided to push, just a little. Leaned in a little too close to the man in front of you, laughed at what he said. The last straw, though, was when you once again made eye contact with Bucky and winked.
You knew it was a mistake the second his gaze sharpened, the warmth draining out of his expression and leaving something darker in its place.
That's how you found yourself here, hands braced against the counter, shirt tugged haphazardly over your chest just enough for his eyes to watch them with every thrust inside you. Your pants are shoved down to your ankles—he hadn’t even been bothered to take them off fully before he pushed his own down and rammed inside you.
The wet slap of skin fills the air as he bullies his cock deeper inside you. His flesh hand has a bruising grip on your hip, holding you in place, while the cool, firm pressure of his metal one splays across your lower back, a stark, thrilling contrast that sends shivers up your spine.
"You just had to push, didn't you?" He growls, his voice a low rumble against your ear, the vibrations sinking straight into your core. Each word is punctuated by a sharp, deep thrust that steals the air from your lungs. "Had to see what would happen."
You can't answer, can't do anything but take it. Your knuckles are white where you grip the counter, the mirror in front of you a mess of condensation and movement, but you can see enough— your face, slack with pleasure, and his behind you, dark and intense, eyes fixed on where your bodies join. He’s watching you fall apart on his cock, and the look on his face is pure, unadulterated lust.
"Look at you," he grits out, his rhythm faltering for a second as he grinds in deep, making you cry out. "So fucking desperate for it. Just needed to be filled up, huh? This’s all you’re good for, being a fucking cocksleeve, isn't that right?"
The questions are rhetorical, designed to humiliate, but all they do is send a fresh wave of arousal flooding your core. You can’t even answer, head falling forward, fresh tears falling down your cheeks as he fucks you stupid. His metal hand slides up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back.
“Ah ah ah,” he chastises. “Look at me while I ruin you. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
The metal fingers tighten in your hair, a sharp, commanding sting that forces your gaze to meet his in the foggy mirror. Your own tear-streaked face stares back, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy. Behind you, he waits with an infuriating smirk, eyes dark with the satisfaction of a predator toying with its meal. The question hangs in the air between you, thick and heavy.
"Answer me," he commands, his voice dropping to a dangerously low register. He stills inside you, buried to the hilt, and the sudden lack of movement is its own form of torment. The absence of the punishing rhythm leaves you aching, desperate for the friction he was just providing. "You wanted this. You wanted me to see you with him. You wanted me to drag you in here and remind you who you belong to. Say it."
A sob catches in your throat, a mess of humiliation and a desperate, clawing need. You nod, a pathetic, jerky motion, the pull on your scalp deliciously painful.
"Use your words," he snarls, giving a sharp, shallow thrust that makes you gasp. "Tell me."
"Yes," you finally manage to choke out, the word broken and ragged. "Wanted this—wanted you. Please, sir—"
A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. "Please what, whore?"
You nearly sob, hips rocking back desperately. His hand comes down sharp and unforgiving on your ass. The sting blooms instantly, a hot, sharp throb that melts into a deep, pulsing heat that makes your clit ache. Your body jerks forward, a cry catching in your throat, but his grip on your hair holds you fast, forcing you to arch your back and present yourself for him.
"Beg properly," he commands, his voice dropping to a dangerously low register. "And maybe you'll get what you want."
The shame is a potent cocktail, mixing with the overwhelming need until you're dizzy with it. You can feel the hot, humiliating tears tracking down your cheeks, but you don't care. All that matters is the man behind you, the thick cock stretching you open, the promise in his voice. You push back against him, a silent, desperate plea.
"Please, sir," you sob, the words tumbling out of you, broken and raw. "Please fuck me. Use me, ruin me for anyone else, please. I need it, need you, please sir—"
"Good girl."
He starts moving again, pace even more relentless than before, a brutal, unforgiving rhythm designed to shatter what's left of your composure. The hand on your hip slides around, his fingers finding your clit with unyielding accuracy. He circles it once, twice, before pressing down hard, and that's all it takes. Your orgasm crashes through you with the force of a tidal wave, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your body convulses around him. He fucks you through it, harder, faster, voice in your ear as he tells you to take it.
And you do, crying out, trembling as he doesn’t stop. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, a white-hot overload that has you seeing stars behind your eyelids. Your body is no longer your own, just the pleasure he’s giving you. Every nerve ending is alight, screaming from the relentless stimulation of his cock and his fingers. You're sobbing openly now, the sounds torn from your throat with each punishing thrust, a mixture of "please" and "Bucky" and incoherent begging.
"Shh, I know," he coos, the sound a stark, mocking contrast to the violence of his actions. "You can take more. You will." He doesn't let up, his fingers still working your clit in tight, merciless circles, pushing you past the peak of your first orgasm and hurtling you toward another.
The second orgasm builds slower, deeper, a terrifying wave of sensation that crests and crashes with even more force than the first. Your legs give out, and if it weren't for his iron grip on you and the counter digging into your stomach, you would have collapsed to the floor. Your whole body shakes, a violent, uncontrollable tremor as you clench around him again, a desperate, rhythmic pulse that finally pushes him over the edge.
With a guttural groan, he buries himself as deep as he can go. You feel the hot flood of his release filling you up, staining your insides. He stays there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back, his chest heaving against you. The room is silent save for your shared, ragged breaths and the distant, muffled bass from the party.
Slowly, he pulls out, and the sudden emptiness makes you whimper. He doesn't say a word as he tucks himself back into his pants, the sound of his zipper unnaturally loud in the small room. He watches you in the mirror as you struggle to stand, your legs trembling like a newborn foal's. With a surprising gentleness, he uses a handful of toilet paper to clean the mess between your thighs, his touch almost clinical. He pulls your panties and pants up for you, his hands lingering on your hips for a second before he steps back.
“Don’t pull shit like that again, got it?” His voice cuts through the silence.
You're still shaking, your body humming with the aftershocks as you nod weakly, unable to find your voice, your hands coming up to grip his forearms for stability as he stands between your legs.
His gaze searches yours, the predatory darkness from before replaced with something else, something heavy and intense. "I mean it," he murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "Don't fucking laugh with some other guy. Don't even look at them. You’re mine”
He says it like it's the simplest fact in the world. Like it's always been this way. He leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that's slow, deep, and possessive in its own right—as if sealing the deal. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.
"Got it?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
You finally find your voice, raw and shaky. "Yes, sir."
a/n: i had a softer ending written but decided to go all in. idk how i feel about it lol.
im sending a red record into space on my own dime out of my own volition. the aliens arent real but if some salt ocean bug from planet water ever figures out computers i want it to know that we had cellos down here on this sun warmed planet and they fucking ripped
pictures of every tall mountain. a screenshot from an online shop of a mass produced unbranded muhammad ali tshirt gloating over sonny in a smoked up arena. a soundbite of those night shift crickets that remind you buildings and tap water are an extremely young thing on this old planet of ours. a picture of a kids drawing where the sun is in the corner. the pieta. a video of a fountain and someone throwing a coin into it. a phone number. dna again. aerial shot of the amazon. a salt mine in bosnia. the opening sentence of anna karenina. shakespeare sonnet 29. lou bega mambo number 5. beach boys kokomo. sade paradise. a prayer from every religion except mormonism. riemman hypothesis i beg the salt ocean bug figures it out. how to make a hdmi cable from first principles
“The state came to massacre, it wasn’t a [police] operation. They came directly to kill, to take lives,” one woman in Penha Complex told the AFP news agency.
“There are people who have been executed, many of them shot in the back of the head, shot in the back. This cannot be considered public safety,” said 36-year-old resident and activist Raul Santiago.
Brazil’s Justice Minister Ricardo Lewandowski said President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva is “horrified” by the scale of fatalities and surprised that such an operation went ahead without prior knowledge of the federal government.
I’d sincerely appreciate it if non-Brazilians reblogged this. Media outlets all over the world (and especially in my homeland) will try to sweep this under the rug but the horror has spread nationwide. We call it chacina for a reason.
It would be of great help if other countries and their citizens held Brazilian politicians/figures of authority accountable. Or, at least, acknowledge very publicly that there's an ongoing effort by the Brazilian police force to exterminate black and brown people, especially in Rio.
Stupid ass take. The fame of the artist doesn't define how it makes you feel. Do you not see me go hogwild eating potatoes, easily one of the top 5 most well known vegetables
tags: bucky barnes x reader, voyuerism, public sex, slight choking, creampie, degradation, the reader isn't a 'brat' per say but has brattish tendencies in this fic, so "brat tamer" bucky by proxy, bent over a motorcycle, beefy bucky [drool]....
“not right now, darlin’.”
it had been 5 minutes— five minutes of relentless pawing at his thighs, and teasing the seam of his crotch from behind him. your fingers would splay across the surface of his thigh, inching higher and higher once in a while as he tightened his grip onto the handles of the motorcycle.
bucky can hear his breath catch and waver every time you brush over his growing bulge. cock fattening up against his thigh as he stooped forward, eyes on the road.
your hands slip underneath his shirt, cold from the winds as they smooth circles over his stomach, bunched together from his rounded out posture. the hairs from his stomach tickle your skin as you continue to grope him.
“c’mo—on, buck. get us home a little faster and i’ll touch you just the way you want.” a teasing lilt to the end of your muffled voice from the helmet.
bucky huffs, clearly growing more frustrated by the minute. he can feel just how hard he’s gotten from your teasing alone, it’s straining against the denim of his jeans and no amount of shifting around can conceal it.
sooner or later, after you continue touching him in ways you know get him riled up, you find yourself face first with the leather seat of the motorcycle in some back end alley. skirt hiked high up to your hips, and panties torn off you.
his steel hand is coiled around your throat, unforgiving and digging into your skin, “what’d i say ‘bout, ‘not right now’, sweets.”
you whine and try to worm yourself out of his grip, to no avail, clearly. “maybe this is what i was hoping for, takin’ me like this.” your eyes are glassy, lashes wet with sprouting tears as you look up at him pathetically. your cheek blooms red as he presses you harder into the leather, nostril crushed against it unflatteringly so.
bucky’s thumb swipes across the fat of your ass, before striking down with such a force, you manage to choke a cry out. it stings against your cheek, but fuck, did it feel good. the sharp ache as cold air hits your exposed skin has you trembling, spot still warm and raw from the impact.
“really? ‘s that what that was, you trying to rile me up on purpose?” he scoffs, breath pushed sharply out of his nose. another strike comes down your ass cheek, this time stinging like it would bruise over tomorrow in the shape of his hand. a tear springs from the corner of your eye, pooling in the divots of the seat as your knees go weak.
you can feel the thick flexed muscle of his arm wrap around your waist, before grinding backwards against his throbbing hard on, still just as lively as before, and bucky fights back a groan at the pressure. “pl—lease, buck. give me it, give me your cock.” your whine is pitchy and pathetic in his ear.
“you’re in no position to be asking me to do anything f’you, sweets. you’ll take what i give you,” the cold zippers on his jacket prod against your back, kiss planted right on the ridge of your ear, “so be good, and take it.”
he works off his belt with a quickness, buckle clanking against itself and echoing on the alleyway walls. the moment his cock sinks into your tight heat, you clamp down so tightly that bucky thinks he’s going to come right then and there.
the fat head of his cock fucks into you, thick and unrelenting against your sweet spot. steel tightens against your throat again, leaving red imprints of his fingers as his bicep flexes and bulges underneath his jacket. grounding himself as he loses himself in the throes of your cunt.
you feel way too fucking good, warm, and so unbelievably tight around his cock. almost as though you’ve been molded to fit him all the way to the hilt, cockhead threatening to kiss your cervix the deeper it pushes inside. each sharp slap of his heavy balls against your swollen clit, and the deep ache of your cunt not having yet adjusted to him wholly, has you seeing stars swirling behind your eyes.
bucky’s addicted to the ripple of your ass as he pistons into your hole, feeling the squeeze around his shaft when he hits just the right spot. he can feel sweat grow on his eyebrow, body burning at the relief he’s feeling.
there’s faint chatter, noise of the city around you still spinning while you’re lost in your own corner of the world. you think you’re deep enough in the alleyway to not be seen, the shadows of the buildings sandwiched together concealing you from the street lamps and neon LED street signs— but there’s that fear in your gut that weeds out.
the click of heels down the concrete sidewalk has you eyeing upwards, goosebumps washing over your skin. “w— wait, wait, buck. someone’s there.” your nails scrape against the muscle of his thigh, flexed and tough as he continues to fuck into you.
your voice comes out choked, partly in embarrassment, about the “what if” someone catches you in the act. tucked away in an alleyway, cock buried so deep inside you, it feels as though it’s in your throat.
bucky looks up briefly, through the bill of his cap. he can make out a silhouette, long billowing curls and heels that had to be 4 inches, minimum. his hips still, wary as he stares down the alley.
there’s a knot in your brow, furrowed as your face contorts in something of panic. but the flaring heat in your gut betrays you, feeling the way you pulse around his girth still inside you. and you can feel the smallest smirk etch it’s way onto bucky’s face, the way his flesh hand tightens against your waist, almost bruisingly so.
the silhouette is gone just as fast as it appeared. they probably assumed it was nothing.
a moan gurgles out from your throat, drool spilling down your chin as bucky continues again, pushing inside your heat again.
“what, ya’ want to get caught? you got all tight around me when you thought they saw you.” laugh hot against your ear, abdomen pressed tight against your back as he drills even deeper. the new, tighter angle punching broken whines from your chest.
“mm mm!” ‘nuh uh’, muffled from your squished cheek. the edge of his laugh, the darkened blue of his irises as he looked down at you, had your ears burning at the tips. flushed red and hot, squirming against him.
“you probably woulda’ liked that, huh? getting watched as you all come all over my cock.” his grip loosens as you feel his palm snake down your stomach, thick, rough fingers working circles into your clit. they’re rough with no coordination, moving, simply with the goal of getting you to the other side.
the filthier the words bucky would spit into your ear, the louder your obscene squelches would get. every word enunciated with a sharp snap of his hips, the coil in your gut snapping as you felt your breath grow shallow from the iron grip around your throat.
your cum gushes out, thick and frothed at the base of his cock as he pulls out to spill onto your back. warm slick dribbling and collecting into the divots of your back. breath growing raggedy as he milked the rest of his spend onto your lower back, fist squeezing upwards.
it’s just you and bucky in this pocket of the alleyway, silent as his steel thumb smoothes over your cheek. your right cheek is rubbed raw, the friction from the leather seat chafing your skin. your eyes are just as glassy, warm spots of light reflecting from what shines at the end of the alleyway.
both hands cup your jaw, slotting themselves just behind your ears, and he presses a long kiss against your plush ones. quiet, gentler than the ones before. it’s reverent, taking you in whole as you shakenly come down from your high.
he doesn't say much, nothing besides fleeting words of affirmation presses against the crown of your head as he pulls you in closer. pulling the lapel over your shoulder, shielding you from the cold. it’s all small actions, no grand spiel of romantic professings. but maybe all you need is to be held just that much tighter for now.
wrote this thing instead of sleeping. blame (dedicated to) @colettebarnes + @kqtholins <3 also @devililithh thanks for helping me goon GEEEWD tonight hehehe
bucky always thought that he despised being called anything but ‘bucky’, the chime of his real name bringing back memories that he’d fought so long to forget— or at least, tried to.
that was until he met you, the random question you’d blurted out, ‘no, but— like, what’s your actual name?’
and when he told you his actual name, a light bulb switched on in your brain, your eyes filled with glee as if you’d been starstruck. and maybe, just maybe, you were. the thrill of finding out what cored deep beneath the thick skin and layers of ‘bucky’ exhilarating.
“oh my gosh!” you squealed, a smile spread fondly on your cheeks, “can i call you ‘james’?”
“no.” he affirmed, no tone beneath it all.
you pouted, unsatisfied with the lack of enthusiasm within bucky’s person, his eyes glued to the daily paper as you takes a prolonged sip of pure black coffee. typical.
“alright,” you huffed. “‘jamie’ it is, then!”
bucky’s focus snapped completely onto you, darkened eyes meeting the doe of the innocence in yours.
now, this is where the line hazed between certain timelines of events because, quite frankly, you don’t really remember how you ended up on the couch, bent over yelena’s favourite throw pillow, face squished into the velvety fabric as a vibranium hand gripped tight on the back of your neck.
“what’s my name, sweet girl?” bucky cooed, groaning as the clench of your walls around his cock pushed him closer to the edge of his climax.
your face jerked under the touch of his hand, cheek mushed against the cushion as drool accumulated onto the fabric, a wet patch forming where your lips touched the surface.
the ring of white around the base of his shaft indicated that this wasn’t the first time, the amount of combined orgasms unknown and lost, buried deep inside your head, his thrusts too intoxicating for you to even care. he continued to rut into your sweet pussy— his words, not yours— pace increasing as he continued to chase the longing feel for his own finish.
“‘s too much buck—”
you took a sharp inhale, a yelp almost, of the surrounding air as a hand came into contact with the fat of your asscheek, the harsh slap delivered with intent and full force.
“wrong. what is my name?” bucky reiterated, grip tightening on your hips as he pulled you closer with his thick length, driving into your cunt like a piston with each coaxing thrust.
“j—jamie,” you whimpered, voice cracking as you vibrated with each flick of his hips. “ple—ease jamie, need it… need it now.”
“tell me what you need, baby.” bucky smiled, lust fogging over the blues of his eyes, “words, big girl. use ‘em.”
you gagged a moan, breath hitching as he thrusted in rapidly, your wetness making it easy for him to ram his cock into your entrance, though your grip was still tight and enticing, never letting him leave.
“need you, again…” you whined, lip biting at the immense pleasure that quickened the arrival of your orgasm.
“could’ve—hah— just said that,” he embedded, hips stuttering and pace increasing as he fucks into your pussy, glistening and winking with pure need, “earlier, sweet girl…”
his sight was fixated on the view in between your thighs, the way your walls kept inviting his cock back in looked too tempting— too ravenous and certainly way too greedy.
his hips drove forward, pace becoming unsteady as he neared his orgasm, the thick white spurts coating your insides, “there ‘ya go…”
your back arched into him, knees rocking forward to fulfill the movement bucky was no longer doing. your back clung onto his chest, bodies glueing together with sweat as he slumped his weight on the dip of the couch.
“you oughtta start calling me ‘jamie’ more often, yeah?”
ᴜɴᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ | ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ [ 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐮 ]
You lie back, staring at the cracked ceiling. The air is cold again already. Somewhere outside, a low groan rises and fades into the night. You should feel afraid. Instead, you feel the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin, a fragile reminder that for a moment you weren’t entirely alone. At least not anymore.
Maybe that’s all survival is now—moments. Brief, borrowed, already fading.
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ/ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, zombie apocalypse au, angst-ish, touch starved bucky barnes, implied/reference suicide, ptsd, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of depression, kinda sub!bucky barnes, smut
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 4.6k | read on ao3
Red, red, bits of brown and tinges of pink. It’s monumental–high, attention grabbing and deserving of reverence. With blurry focus, perhaps a bit of bokeh, Bucky could imagine this photographed in a museum. Under hazy conditions the colors might even be beautiful. A morbid mirage. Sinew and piles of undeath shouldn’t have a place there, but it shouldn’t exist at all.
He shudders and keeps moving through the supermarket.
Twenty one months and twenty four days of this. Of his daily missions consisting of fighting true abject horror. The undead in each stage of life and decay.
At first, it was a goddamn nightmare. Well, it still is a nightmare–just far more manageable. The initial weeks featured a complete breakdown in communication. The dead rose and imbibed on the living to join their fate. No one knew where it started, why, or how. Every country wanted someone, something to blame and punish for the walking corpses. But the global search and subsequent fight failed to find a culprit. It just happened.
While the Avengers broke into small forces to fight reanimated fires around the world, those who saw the world coming to an inevitable end took another way out. Bucky didn’t judge Steve for what he did, he just missed him.
A small plant root drives through a crack in the flooring–the product of a shotgun pellet most likely. He does well not to step on it.
Somehow, after months and months of terror, their efforts started to make a difference. They gained the space they needed to rebuild. Quarantine zones and small communities of life. T’Challa wouldn’t let him say it, but Wakanda carried most of the burden for keeping humanity afloat. It’s a Wakandan crossbow in his hand, the latest brainchild of Shuri’s–tailored perfectly for the undead. Yeah, anarchy remained principal in the world, but day by day they were working towards normalcy again.
The pharmacy sign swings under the strain of rust, but he spots it still. Metal dividers at the counters keep him from assessing the full situation inside. As the soldier exits the empty aisle, he slings the crossbow over his shoulder and pulls a knife from his back.
He’s not a hundred percent certain he’s alive anymore. Sure, he breathes, walks, talks. But he feels mechanical. As cold as the creatures he’s tasked to exterminate. There’s more comfort here–clearing old buildings for reconstruction–than there is back at the Raft.
They could perish any moment, and the dead are beyond gone.
Bucky held his breath as he forced the tip of the blade under the barricade. With a heavy push, the lock snaps, then the shutter retracts with ease. To his delight, the inside is clear. Even better, it doesn’t look like it’s been touched once in the last two years.
Thin layers of dust cover pill-stocked shelves. It stretches back quite far, beyond what he can see over the shelving, especially in the dark. Cautiously, he couches down to take out his flashlight. He hits the heavy body against the counter, listening for groans. Nothing follows, so he slides over the counter into the pharmacy.
The job’s always simple: clear. And so far, he had nothing to clear. That wasn’t just a good day, that was an exceptional day. Sure, he felt more comfortable at work (if he dared call this work) than with his coworkers–that didn’t mean he liked it.
SHIELD, CDC, and every other agency had whatever remaining immunologists and other assorted eggheads working 24/7 to sort this shit out, and not once had that produced a meaningful answer. In Bucky’s opinion, this was seraphic punishment for something. For what, he didn’t know, but humanity had surely managed to piss off its creator.
Tired brown eyes catch a makeshift tent in the back right corner. It’s almost perfectly hidden between the shelves. He approaches slowly, knife raised. The moment he crosses into the aisle, a gun clicks behind him.
“Drop the knife–that bow, too. Hands in the air.”
A faded bandana muffles their voice, though Bucky guesses it’s a woman from the pitch.
He can’t see his opponent, and nonetheless has no idea where they came from. So many superheroes and mutants went their own way that there was no telling who you might be dealing with on an average day. It wouldn’t be his first time encountering one in this, but they normally kept to safeguard lairs, not abandoned grocery stores.
Yet, he can’t be sure. The knife clatters to the floor in front of his boots. The crossbow follows. He keeps the flashlight.
His heart stays calm as his opponent steps ahead of him, gun trained on his head. Slowly, the assailant drops to grab the knife, tucking it behind their waistband.
“You’re the Winter Soldier.” you declare.
“If you know that, why’s your gun still pointed at me?” It’s a small arm, 9mm at best and surely not enough to stop him if he decided to attack.
He thought that’d deescalate you, but the barrel stays on him. Maybe this was a suicide attempt on your part.
“Why are you here?” You raise your voice, ignoring his question.
Bucky doesn’t move, watching you eyes scale his metal arm.
“The store’s marked for sweep and reconstruction. I’m sweeping, that’s all.”
There’s no need to lie. SHIELD wants everyone to know authority is making a return, regardless of if they're ready or not. And honestly, Bucky thinks they’re going too slow. If he had to guess, you’re one of hundreds of thousands of American settlers that fled to the interior, or found their way there by luck. The sparse plains meant significantly less undead, and greater potential for survival. Now, those same individuals who survived on their own had to readjust to the rules and outlook of society. Or rather, SHIELD’s rules and outlook.
And that meant no more living in grocery stores.
“I’m not leaving.” Your fake confidence is easily seen through, and he wonders if you’re scared of him, or what might hide in the shadows.
“Not your choice. You do have a choice on where you go–there’s camps all around here.” He drops his arms and you are indeed too scared to do anything about that.
You’re focused on him, not on the weapon in your hand. It takes him a second, but he realizes you’re not scared, you’re interested. There’s an instability to your fingers. A sharp focus to your eyes. It confuses Bucky. No one looks at him. Not like this, not like they can see his entire soul.
The legends of the Winter Soldier might be a few decades old, but you weren’t ignorant. Plus, the metal arm speaks for itself.
“You look tired.” you declare, softly, gun lowering.
Bucky looked at his own body when you spoke. Tired? What do you care? Who wasn’t tired right now? If anything, you looked worse off than him. Yeah, maybe, this was his fourth sweep in this area in as many days. His armor vest and pants were stained with the blood to prove it, and there’s no doubt more decay didn’t taint his hair.
When was the last time he slept?
“It’s just me here, the rest of the exits should be blocked. You can just go.” He forgets to speak for too long and you fill in the blank. It breaks his concentration, or maybe it’s a subroutine. Your bandana is gone now too, and he takes in your face with a surge of shock.
You’re beautiful–even if you are dirty like most these days.
“Look, I don’t need to suck up resources at some FEMA camp–I can take care of myself here.” You sigh, finally looking away to sit on a pile of tattered sleeping bags.
He wishes this was the first time he had a conversation like this. Lone wolf survivalists who spent the better part of two years taking care of themselves while the world concerned themselves with a cure. He understands it, hell he misses it for himself. But that’s not his role anymore. Or anyone’s for that matter.
If they were going to get through this, they needed people. And they needed them together.
Bucky doesn’t argue with you, slumping into the empty space beside you. He should call this in. But really, he could use the break. Even if only for a few minutes. It’s rare he got the chance to have a civil conversation with someone that wasn’t a doctor or government worker. He obviously doesn’t say it, especially when you give a quizzical look.
“Yeah, sure, make yourself at home.” you scoff, shifting on the nylon.
“Oh, my apologies, doll–didn’t realize this was such a coveted spot.”
He closes his head and lets his hit rest against the wall behind you two. Your lips part to tell him off again, with words that more clearly say ‘I’d rather be alone, thank you’, but you stop. His forehead crinkles like he’s thinking a thousand words a minute.
You two are awkwardly silent for a few minutes. You hadn’t had full conversations in months and lost the tact for small talk. Either way, it didn’t seem like that’s what he wanted either.
Bucky breaks the silence first.
“What’s your name?” he asks, head still against the wall.
Embarrassingly, it takes you a half-second to remember. It’d gone unused for so long. When you answer, it’s with a bit of uncertainty.
Maybe you should be around more people. Solitude might have been safer, but you were starting to forget yourself.
“So, who died?”
“Excuse me?” you scoff, taken aback.
“Everyone’s got a story now, parents died, little sister starved to death–maybe a boyfriend or girlfriend,” This time he turns his head to look at you, “And now you think it’s better to be alone so you don’t have to lose anyone else.”
Your jaw tightens at his words, but you don't snap back this time. Instead, you studied the tiled floor, fingers tapping against the pistol’s grip. Thinking through all the ways you've already lost.
“You think I’m scared of being alone?” you mutter.
“I think you’re scared of what comes after.” His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the stale air.
For a long beat, the only sound is the groan of the rusty pharmacy sign outside. Finally, your hand lowers, the gun resting against your thigh.
“I don’t need charity.”
“It’s not charity,” Bucky says, pushing himself to his feet. “It’s survival. And it’s a hell of a lot easier with more than one person watching your back.”
You huff, but the edge in your eyes is softening. He can see it. The walls you’ve been forced to build are cracked. You couldn’t ignore the fact that actually talking, even if it was about something you didn’t want to talk about, was familiarly nice (or maybe it was just Bucky).
“Fine,” you sigh. “I’ll go. But only to look.”
He doesn’t smile, but something in his shoulders eases. He holds out a hand.
“Deal.”
You ignore it, stuffing a few supplies into your pack instead. Still, when you finally stand, you fall into step behind him.
The trip out of the store after Bucky clears the back storage room is quiet, almost too quiet. Bucky exits the doorway first, crossbow raised, scanning the ruined street. You hover close, bandana back over your face, watching the way he moves—efficient, unshaken, like every shadow has already tried to kill him once.
It’s not until you’re a block away, weaving through abandoned cars, that the sound comes: the heavy, dragging shuffle of something that should be dead and gone.
Bucky’s arm shoots out in front of you, metal fingers locking around your wrist before you even register the movement. His other hand is already on the crossbow.
“Stay behind me.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
You don’t answer, but you don’t pull away either.
From the mouth of an alley, two figures stagger into view—skin gray, jaws slack, eyes clouded with that same hunger you’ve tried not to dream about.
Your chest tightens, but you catch yourself staring not at them, but at him. At the way his body slots instantly into motion, the kind of soldiering no camp or survivor group could teach. For the second time, you wonder if maybe listening to him isn’t a mistake.
The camp is louder than you’d imagined. Not from jovial parties or laughter—though there are plenty of moments of that, too—but the constant hum of humans alive. Children cry and play, mothers gossip by the canteens. The steady murmur of conversations that bleed together into a background drone. After months of silence, it’s nearly overwhelming.
You’d picked a simple spot near the edge of the commune for yourself. A makeshift room with a cot shoved against the wall of an empty classroom in an abandoned school. became your new home. Sometimes you miss the solitary of the pharmacy aisle, but you don’t miss sleeping with a gun pressed to your chest. Eyes half shut.
It’s still strange, though. Returning to rules, to structure. The way everything moves around you independently.
And then there’s him.
After he dropped you at the intake, you never expected to see him again. Instead, you catch glimpses of Bucky—patrolling the perimeter, talking low with SHIELD officers. Once even helping carry crates of rations like he wasn’t half metal and half myth. He never seeks you out, but somehow he always knows where you are.
Tonight, the generators hum low and the lanterns flicker against the old cinderblock walls in the school’s gymnasium. You’re sitting with a chipped enamel mug of watered-down soup when you feel it: that same presence, heavier than most, settling across the room.
He doesn’t approach right away, just leans against the doorway like he’s weighing something. When his eyes finally meet yours, it’s the first time you realize how much you’ve missed being recognized.
Bucky missed that feeling too. Not to say no one knew he was. He’s recognized for his reputation more than not. You seem to look at him in a different light. Like just another person.
“You settling in?” he asks at last, voice rough but casual.
You snort. “Define ‘settling.’ I haven’t bolted yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. He pushes off the frame and drops onto the bench beside you. For a minute, neither of you speaks. The sounds of camp life fill the silence instead.
“You made the right choice coming here,” he says, low.
You want to argue out of habit, out of pride. Words catch somewhere behind your teeth. Because the truth is, you’re starting to believe it.
You stare into the thin broth, swirling it around your mug. “Doesn’t feel like it yet.”
Bucky shifts beside you, metal arm braced on the bench, the other resting loosely on his thigh.
“It will. Takes time.”
You glance at him, and he’s not looking at you but at the kids darting between cots, adults drinking homemade ale, at the lantern glow flickering across faces he doesn’t know. His profile is carved with exhaustion, yet there’s something softer in it, too.
“You really believe that?” you ask.
His jaw ticks.
“I have to.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward this time. It’s comfortable, stretching, until you realize you’re studying staring at the scars along his flesh arm. There’s faint lines across his knuckles. He notices your stare, and instead of pulling away, he lets it linger.
“You look better,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He huffs a laugh, rough. Real.
“That’s a first.”
He wants to tell you the same. That you look great even. How clean clothes and camaraderie returns a glow to anyone’s face. Well that and a steady source of warm food. But he’s worried that’ll imply he thought less of you before.
“Guess exhaustion suits you.” You smirk, tilting your head.
His eyes cut to yours then, sharper, searching. You’re suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting, how his presence has become familiar in a way that feels dangerous. Not because you don’t trust him, but because you do.
For weeks you’ve been sleeping in a cot that never feels warm, surrounded by people who never speak your name. And here he is, saying nothing at all, and you feel less alone.
“Gets cold in here at night,” he mutters, like he’s not sure why he said it.
You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. It does.”
The words hang between you, heavy with meaning neither of you pushes too far. Not yet. But when his shoulder brushes yours as he stands—just barely intentional—you don’t move away.
Perhaps that’s what sets it off.
He offers to walk you back to your room, if you could call it that. There’s no locks or electricity, and you two navigate the empty halls with a flashlight. Light arcs between metal lockers and chipped paint.
Dust and rust fill the air, tinged with the faintest trace of woodsmoke drifting in from the campfires outside. Your footsteps echo more against the linoleum, leaving the sounds of life behind you.
Bucky walks a half-step ahead, crossbow slung over his back, his frame filling the narrow hallway. His shadow spills long and uneven across the walls, metal arm glinting in the thin light.
“You always this quiet?” you finally ask, voice low, almost swallowed by the cavernous space.
He glances over his shoulder, mouth twitching like he’s considering a smirk.
“Only when I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s funny,” you murmur. “You don’t strike me as someone who runs out of words.”
“Guess I save ’em for when it matters.”
Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten. You look away first, focusing on the rows of classroom doors until you reach your own. The cot waits in the corner, blanket rumpled from another restless night.
You step inside, expecting him to leave. Instead, Bucky lingers in the doorway, flashlight steady in his hand. His eyes roam the small space, then come back to you.
“Gets dark fast in here,” he mutters, more observation than judgment.
“Yeah, well, I make do.” You cross your arms. “Been doing that a while.”
He studies you, quiet again. The flashlight beam drops to the floor, catching dust motes in the air between you.
For a second, you think he’ll step away, give you the solitude you’ve been clutching like a shield.
“If you ever, “ he trails off, softly, almost reluctantly, “don’t want to be alone, you know where to find me.”
Obviously, you think it's not an invitation in the way others might mean it. A soldier offering a watch-post, a man offering something rarer.
You swallow, nodding once.
“You’re here now, aren’t you?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, fleeting.
Somehow, he winds up beneath you on the green cot. Still mostly clothed, because neither of you seemed to have the patience to get fully undressed. And whimpering, of all things. Not at all like the superhero assassin you heard so much about. No, this man pants and reaches for your body out of pure need. You’re not too sure where you get the gall either–to hold his wrists above his head while he tries to kiss you again. It’s not entirely your fault, he does allow it after all.
Who knew a six foot tall man would be so eager to submit like this?
Truth is, Bucky was starving and you were the first drop of cold water he found. The desire to please never left him. Even amongst all the hellfire and despair. It just got forgotten. Shoved into the back of his brain where he never had time to think about it. A past him would’ve broken you apart just how you imagine.
But this Bucky? The new hollowed out shell? He wanted to feel alive again. And what better way than to let you take everything you needed. Or rather he felt grateful for whatever you felt he deserved.
And clearly, you thought he deserved more than enough. Warm skin had never felt so good, and he thought he might burn up under your touch. With his hands free now, he finds your waist in the dark, trying hard not to squeeze as tightly as his muscles wanted.
He watched in awe as you lowered yourself onto him, thighs trembling the second you straddled him. He can’t help the soft whimper that escapes when he’s finally inside you. He only hopes you didn’t notice.
Oh, but you did.
You watched how his brown furrowed, how his bottom lip trembled before he had the mind to seize it between his front teeth. How his hands shivered on your waist. You hadn’t even done anything, really, and he already looked moments away from release.
It hadn’t seemed possible to you–Bucky was handsome enough and charming enough to garner attention from anyone. Certainly it hadn’t been that long, had it?
The stutter in his hips says otherwise. It was subtle, soft, but another slow roll of your hips and he couldn’t help it. As much as he wanted to lie back and savor every movement, his brain was starting to fray apart like pieces of thread. He forces his eyes shut, knowing that keeping eye contact with you, like this, would actually end things before it even got started.
“Oh,” you moaned softly. It’d been too long for you too, and somehow Bucky managed to perfectly fit in every untouched nerve. Deliciously sweet and filling you till the air left your lungs. Unlike him, you wanted to savor every second of this. Take him as slowly as you could before this brief shard of history passed you both.
You didn’t mind his desperation. Only made it all the more sweet. Like the sticky mess spreading between you. You could count on one hand how many men acted like you were the greatest gift from god. Only better for this time to be the Winter Soldier himself.
“Jesus, doll,” he panted–voice high and needy, “you’re killin’ me here.”
You had half a mind to tell him to shut up, knee deep in your own pleasure, but something told you that’d only turn him on more.
So, of course you do it anyway.
In the same breath, you bring your mouth down to his, kissing him for the second time–tender and slow, jutting your tongue into his mouth and stilling the movements of your hips. You’ll be damned if he doesn’t whimper again. This time, louder, with less shame. Too sensitive and turned on to care what you thought about it.
He needed this. To feel human again. A craving he didn’t know he had. To hell with pride.
You smirk against his lips, pulling back to plant your palms against his broad chest.
“Please.”
His begging is nearly angelic. All that gruff bravado you got in the pharmacy is long gone.
“Please what, baby?”
Maybe it’s the newfound power over him, but you’re feeling uncompassionate. Simply keeping still, you can feel his cock twitching, almost matching the quiet pants leaving him.
It takes him an embarrassingly long time (around thirty seconds) to gather the awareness for an answer.
“Please, I need this–need you,” he whined, fists tight around the blanket beneath you, “please don’t stop.”
He could’ve taken hours and still wouldn’t have come up with anything more coherent. In the flicker of the lantern, you might've sworn there were tears pooling in his eyes.
You reward his honesty eagerly, riding him steadily and watching as his mouth falls open slowly.
Bucky’s hips twitch against you again. Pure instinct, really, since he couldn’t think clearly enough to stop his body from seeking more. You move your hands down to his waist, just before his open belt, hoping that’d give him a hint. This was your show for the time being.
He seems to listen well enough, but not without a low groan.
You chase your own high, rolling against him to perfectly tease that soft spot inside you. Watching him fall apart made it easier. A wonderful kerosene to the fire growing in the pit of your stomach.
The closer you get, the faster you move–less than concerned with how much Bucky’s whines increase in tandem. His thighs, tucked inside your own, trembled slightly. What little air remains feels lighting charged, reeking of sex and desperation. Despite the tight grip on the sheets, he can’t seem to feel a thing besides you.
“Doll, m’gonna–”
“Shh, hold on for me,” you gasped, close but not close enough.
He finds the strength to open his eyes again, swearing at how good you look and not at all expecting you to be staring right back at him. It takes what little sense he had left right out of the room. Both of you are sweaty messes by this point. Panting heavy and lost in each other’s gaze.
You thought your peak was further away. Taunting and imperceptibly splitting your mind in two. But the way he looks at you, like your holy–nearly sacrosanct. It brings your orgasm right to the forefront.
You can’t look away as you fall. Not without trying of course. This level of intimacy was too foreign for you both, yet somehow you get caught in it–locked into his sharp blue eyes.
It’s a good thing too, because Bucky doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out on the tight clench you have around him.
“Bucky–” you start, but a loud moan interrupts, head falling back while your hips still roll against him.
A hard, fast end hits you, shuddering and gasping as you feel him move against you for the final time, nearly sobbing your name. Even with his eyes trained on your face, his vision goes white-hot.
Neither of you speak in the moments after. Not when you find the clarity to move off of him, settling into the tight space next to him. The empty classroom falls silent minus you’re heavy breathing.
You hear Bucky adjust himself back into his pants, belt snapping into place. Your pants had winded up somewhere across the room, and you were in no rush to retrieve them.
He turns on his side, meeting you face and tucking an arm under his head. Your eyes meet again, this time in a weird afterglow that you find to be somehow more exposing than before. Gently, he reaches his metal arm out to stroke your face, and now it might be your turn to cry.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he says softly, though it sounds more like a plea than a request.
Your throat feels tight. “I won’t.”
He kisses you once, slow and unhurried, like he’s trying to remember how. Then his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm for a heartbeat too long before he pulls away. The cot creaks in protest when he rises. His shadow stretches across the room, metal glinting faintly in the dying lantern light.
At the door, he pauses—just long enough that you almost believe he’ll stay. But then the hall swallows him, leaving only silence and the faint scent of gun oil and sweat.
You lie back, staring at the cracked ceiling. The air is cold again already. Somewhere outside, a low groan rises and fades into the night. You should feel afraid. Instead, you feel the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin, a fragile reminder that for a moment you weren’t entirely alone. At least not anymore.
Maybe that’s all survival is now—moments. Brief, borrowed, already fading.
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