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Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Best Friend!Female Reader
Summary: Bucky has lunch with one of his best friends. He wants more than friendship, but is he too late or is there hope?
Word Count: Over 4.7k
Warnings: Friendship, longing, pining, idiots in love (of sorts), tension, bit of angst, thoughts of smut, nicknames, world building, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)
A/N: Oh, look. Another new AU, and I'm excited. We're calling this one True Love and Loyal Friends. Thanks to the @starlightcrystalline for letting me scream about this. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @societyfolklore and @soelstress, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
The diner was quiet as Bucky sat in the booth, only lifting his head to occasionally glance at the door. He could’ve selected a song to play on the jukebox to fill the silence, but he liked the quiet. It gave him time to gather his thoughts without the usual demands and chatter that surrounded him. A couple of his closest men insisted on being in the diner, but he ordered that they keep a reasonable distance. They knew better than to interrupt his time with you, his best friend.
His everything.
He smiled to himself as he checked his phone and saw that you were getting closer, so close he could almost smell your sweet perfume and see your bright smile. Ava was close by too, keeping an eye out. It felt wrong having a tracker on you and people watching you, but it was for your safety. That was what he told himself time and time again since being connected to him meant danger. With the tracker and the security, he or one of his people could reach you quickly if something went wrong, if you were in trouble, or if you needed him.
He couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. If anyone ever tried to lay a hand on you, he’d destroy them. And he'd watch with cold eyes as they turned to ash.
The bell above the door dinged, alerting Bucky of your arrival. He didn’t stand right away since he was too in awe of the way the sun rays behind you cast a soft glow around your body. Solnyshko. Seeing you for the first time was like watching the sun rise, warm, beautiful, and full of hope. And whenever you walked away, it was like the sun set, leaving him in a world of darkness and cursing the moon and stars to bring you back to him.
You spotted him easily since he was the only patron in the place and your smile made the place that much brighter. You were dressed down, but so beautiful and he couldn't help but stare as you walked over. “Hey, Jamie.”
Jamie. Not James, not Bucky, not Buck… Just Jamie. It sounded right coming from you, but not anyone else. One of his men said it in passing once after you left and he threatened to cut his tongue out if he did it again.
“Hey, Solnyshko,” he replied, standing so he could pull you into a hug once you were close enough. You always greeted him with a hug, and he didn’t let many people touch him. He never felt fear when you were in his embrace, only acceptance and care.
As he wrapped his arms around you and breathed you in, his eyes slipped shut and he imagined dragging you to his car and taking you far away, somewhere where no one would interfere in your lives. It was easier to breathe when you were close, but there was still pain in his chest because you were so far away. Every time you had to say goodbye, he worried it was the last time
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” you teased, your lips dangerously close to his skin. He had to suppress a shiver you’d no doubt feel if he didn’t stay in control.
“Never,” he whispered. You’d always be his sun, even if it was an intimate sort of nickname for a friend. Because Bucky didn't love you the way a best friend should. “Been too long since I’ve seen you.”
“You saw me two days ago,” you said.
“Still too long,” he half teased. If he had his way he wouldn't be apart from you because you’d be sharing a bed… a home.
“Please, tell me you didn’t rent out the diner just the two of us could have a meal together,” you said, sliding into the booth once he let you go. He hated letting you go.
“What if I told you I bought the place?” he asked, shrugging at the exasperated look on your face. “What? It’s a good investment, the food is fantastic, and I compensated the owner well.”
That wasn’t a lie. It was a good investment, and the owner had been looking to retire anyway. Bucky just sped up the timeline. And now he could come here with you when he needed an escape.
“All so we could have a quiet meal together?” You shook your head and looked over the menu in front of you. “You flatter me so, even if it is ridiculous.”
Bucky smiled to himself and sipped his water. There were clubs and upscale restaurants all around and he took you there, too, but they were all loud and messy. People around always wanted something from him. Quiet meals with you made him feel like he could truly breathe. And while he could be in his element just about anywhere, this felt better because you were there, steady, calm, and not demanding anything from him. You silenced the chaos around him.
“Anything for my best friend,” he said, a bittersweet feeling washing over him.
You were a friend first, but loving you was one of the easiest things in the world. It felt natural, like breathing. He needed you like the day needed light. No one else could control or sway him the way you could. The terrifying thing was that it didn’t terrify him at all for someone to have that much power over him. Maybe because you weren’t the type of person to take advantage of that kind of power or him. You were too good for the world, for his world.
“I think Steve would argue that he’s your best friend.”
“You're both my best friends,” he said, except he was completely and utterly in love with you. “You excited for your upcoming show?” he asked to pull himself away from his thoughts.
You giggled, a happy twinkling sound. “Yeah, and nervous as hell,” you answered.
Photography was your passion. You wanted to capture the beauty of the world and see things in different ways. You almost always had some sort of camera on you because you didn’t know when inspiration would strike. Whenever you stopped to take a picture with Bucky around, he watched you, even when you took photos of him. He was looking into your soul, not the lens.
“Nervous? You have nothing to be nervous about because there’s no better photographer out there,” he swore. He wasn’t telling you to blow smoke up your ass. Your work was that good.
“It’s nerve-wracking to put yourself out there,” you said.
He understood that because he felt nervous at the thought of confessing how he felt. “It’ll be great, and I’m always right,” he added with a smile.
“You are not always right, but keep telling yourself that,” you teased, your gaze so soft that his heart skipped a beat. “Though your support is greatly appreciated.”
“I’ll always support you,” he promised. He wanted all of your dreams to come true.
In fact, he offered to pull some strings and get you a showing in the top gallery in the city, to which you smacked his arm. You wanted your work to speak for itself, not have it shown because of his connections. He respectfully backed off, and you showed him that you didn’t need his connections at all since you worked hard and got it all on your own.
It shouldn't have surprised him. He thought you could do anything you put your mind to. Not just because you could be stubborn in the best way, but because you put your heart into everything you did. It was admirable and inspiring.
“And you’ll be there?” you asked hopefully.
Bucky was the first person you messaged when you got the news and you told him it would mean the world if he went. “As if I’d be anywhere else,” he told you, making you snort when he playfully rolled his eyes. If you needed or wanted him there or anywhere, he’d find a way to make it happen no matter what.
“You better or I’ll hunt you down,” you threatened with narrowed eyes before you giggled again.
He chuckled and leaned forward. “Wouldn't that be a sight, someone as sweet as you hunting me down?”
You crossed your arms with a huff. “You don't scare me, Barnes.”
“Don’t call me Barnes. I’m Jamie to you,” he said. He’d be your Jamie forever and always. “And I’m so fucking proud of you for getting that showing, Solnshko.”
He'd have to buy something special to congratulate you, which you deserved and more.
You bit your lip and looked in your lap with a small smile. “Thanks, Jamie,” you whispered, raising your gaze again with a larger smile. He almost wished he snapped a photo so you could see how beautiful you looked at the moment, in every moment. “Hey, do you remember when John Walker bumped into me at your birthday party?”
Bucky growled at the memory. You were getting ready to snap a photo of him and Steve together and John fucking Walker purposely bumped into you and made you drop your camera. Your eyes teared up instantly because you had bought that camera yourself and the fucker had the nerve to laugh. He would’ve seen red from the laughter alone, but your tears made him snap.
“I remember punching him very hard in the face a couple of times, threatening to cut his throat if he didn’t apologize, and I forced him to buy you a new camera,” he said. Some would call it overkill, but he called it protecting and caring for you. And while his reaction would've rightfully scared some, it didn't bother you at all. All you cared about was making sure his hand wasn't hurt from punching John.
“Except he didn’t buy me the camera. You made him give you money and then you bought the camera for me,” you said, resting your arms on the table with a knowing stare. “A much nicer one than the one I had before.”
“Yeah, I did,” he admitted unashamedly. John owed you a new camera. Bucky had taken it upon himself to buy you the camera and everything else you needed to go with it since he had no problem showering you with gifts.
“You didn’t want me to see John again, or accept anything from him, did you?”
Not many could read Bucky, but you could. He wondered if you could read his feelings for you or if he hid them well enough. Bucky didn’t want you accepting any sort of gift from John. “He’s a fucking asshole, so I didn’t want him close to you again,” he said honestly. John may have laughed when you dropped the camera, but Bucky saw him check you out more than once. “What made you think of that?”
“Because I used that camera for some of my photos,” you said softly, something warm just beneath the surface before you smiled.
The beat of Bucky’s pulse doubled in time. Did you use it because he gave it to you? Did you think of him when you used it? “I’ll bet the photos you took with that camera are the best ones.”
“I guess you’ll see,” you smiled and took a quick look around. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are there any servers here?”
Bucky winced a little and shot Sam a quick text message. “That’s my fault. I said I wanted a few minutes alone, so the server is in the back with Sam.” He should’ve messaged him sooner. All you had was the water in front of you. “I think he likes her.”
“Oh, Sam’s probably working on getting her number. He’s shameless,” you fondly said.
“If he’s lucky,” he chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know how you put up with us.”
Surrounding himself with people he trusted was key in his world. Steve and Sam were good guys. His entire crew was, despite some of the things they had to do.
“Because I love you guys,” you said.
His expression was caught between longing and sorrow. “We love you, too,” he said. Except Steve and Sam only loved you like a sister.
The server came out before he could say more. “So sorry about that,” she said, giving you both a smile. “Have you two decided on what you want or can I give you another minute?”
Bucky hid a grin when she glanced over her shoulder. She wanted to go back to Sam. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he assured her and winked at you. “Don't know why you bothered looking at the menu when I know what you're going to get.”
You smiled because it was true. “I know what you're getting, too,” you countered. Both of you knew each other's favorites.
The server jotted down the order when Bucky gave it to her and looked between you with hearts in her eyes. “You two make a really cute couple.”
Your mouth fell open and Bucky knew what was coming. You were going to politely correct her and say you were “just friends”, which was bullshit. So he seized the opportunity and took your hand before nodding to the server. “Thank you. I’m very lucky to have her.”
There was a flicker of sadness in your eyes, but you managed a smile for the server before you two were left alone again. His gaze lingered on you and he didn’t look away even as the sadness faded. It had him wondering if he was blind. Did you see the two of you as only friends or was there more? Did you feel it, too?
“Lucky to have me, huh?” you asked, a wistful smile on your face.
“The luckiest,” he replied. He couldn’t imagine his life without you in it “I still have your letters,” he added. He didn't know why he said it, but he had to let you know.
You waited a beat and asked, “You do?”
He swallowed and nodded, knowing this was going into intimate territory, something stronger than friendship. “Every single one,” he said.
You said once that you didn’t understand why people didn’t write letters anymore, why everything was done through email and text. Handwritten letters were special because they took time and care. So Bucky wrote you a letter one day and you wrote him back. The letters were one of his most cherished possessions.
He imagined confessing his feelings in a letter, but it wasn't right. It would be a face-to-face conversation when the time came because you deserved to hear the words from his lips. He wanted to sweep you off your feet and then write you something romantic.
You blinked a few times, likely not wanting to cry in the middle of the diner. “I have yours, too.”
Bucky’s heart beat faster again. He wanted to ask you why you kept them. He wanted to see your eyes when you answered him. Was it for sentimental value or something more?
But you didn't elaborate and he didn't ask.
“You busy this Saturday night? Was thinking we could do a movie night,” he said. He already had your favorite snacks stocked up. He never would've thought to put Reese's Pieces or M&Ms in popcorn, but you could get him to try anything.
You shifted in your seat. “Oh. I don’t think I can,” you said.
Bucky tried not to feel disappointed. Your life didn't revolve around him. “Why not?”
You bit your lip and looked to the side, making him pay more attention. Everyone had tells for when they were lying, nervous, etc. He learned them well in his line of work, and he learned yours since he knew you so well. You sometimes bit your lip when someone complimented you, but your head usually dipped down with a smile like you had done just a bit ago. You only looked to the side when you were avoiding someone’s gaze, like you were in trouble or scared. You were avoiding his gaze. Why?
“Why not?” he asked again, willing you to look at him so he could see your pretty eyes and have your attention.
You took a deep breath and faced him. “I have a date.”
The statement washed over him like a bucket of cold water and he felt a pain in his heart like someone stabbed him. He exhaled slowly and had to put his hands in his lap so you wouldn’t see them curl into fists. “You have a date?” he asked, like was speaking with glass in his throat.
You were a beautiful woman, one of the most stunningly effortlessly beautiful women he had ever seen. He wasn’t lying to himself when he told himself you were his sun because you lit up every room you walked into and made people pay attention without trying. Beyond your beauty, you had a heart of gold, giving and open. Men wanted to ruin and keep you, and he knew that because he was one of them.
“Yeah, I do,” you said.
He wasn’t quick enough to hide his scowl and your flinch let him know you spotted it. His heart sank into his stomach. So many feared him and for good reason, but he never wanted to make you flinch for any reason. “A date. You have a date,” he said as evenly as he could.
You dated here and there and so had he, but you never had anything serious. So why the bad feeling in his gut? Why did this feel like you were slipping through his fingers?
“Yeah. A friend set us up,” you said, his jaw clenching when you pulled your hand away to get your phone. He may have to have a chat with that friend. “I have a photo.”
Bucky’s expression darkened when you showed him. He was admittedly handsome, his confidence oozing from the photo. He had to tamper down the rising rage he felt inside of him because he wanted to wreck his face and tell him exactly why people called him the White Wolf- because he hunted and used a variety of tactics to take down his prey. What right did he have to do that though?
You were his in his heart, but not yet in name.
“What’s his name?” he asked curiously.
You told him without hesitation and he hummed, subtly messaging Steve so he could look into the prick. If there was dirt on him, he wanted it.
Your gaze flickered between him and your phone. “You know, he kind of looks like you if you squint.”
Bucky scoffed. He’d be damned if he was going to be usurped by a knock-off version of him. “I’m way better looking.”
You giggled and put your phone away, making him sigh in relief since he didn’t have to keep looking at the photo. “Very humble, Jamie.”
It was petty and he didn't care. “Bet he tries to rent out the restaurant thinking it'll impress you,” he muttered.
“I'm sorry, but didn't you rent out this diner?”
“I bought the diner. There's a difference. And this isn't a date,” he said too casually.
You sat up straight and he regretted saying that when you leveled him with a glare. “What about your fiancé? Would you buy a diner for her?”
Bucky had braced himself for the inevitable topic, but he still felt the blow in his gut and had to take a moment to keep his breathing under control. He didn’t like talking about his fiancé. Hell, he didn’t like his fiancé at all. She was a stuck-up spoiled princess, and she couldn’t stand him either. Hate fucking would never be a thing because she had another thing coming if she thought he was ever going to touch her.
The arranged marriage was supposed to bring their families together and all it did was tear his heart apart. He got into the biggest fight with his dad when he was informed of the engagement and they still hadn’t recovered from it. Even his mom couldn't sway his dad. The poor woman was stuck between her husband and her son, but she defended Bucky when he delayed the wedding. There were only so many times he could postpone it.
“You know I don't like talking about her,” he said in a low voice.
He couldn't stand breathing the same air as her and hated saying her name. The very few times he made an appearance with her, he wanted to bash his head against the wall. He immediately went to see you after each outing to cool down. You took his mind off her, you always did.
“I know you don't like talking about her, but…” You swallowed hard. “You're going to marry her.”
He flexed his fingers and exhaled. He would've broken the table if this conversation took place with anyone else, but not you. But over his dead fucking body was he marrying her. He was going to find a way out of this mess. He had to.
“I’d prefer if she just married the bodyguard she’s fucking and stayed out of my life,” he said completely devoid of emotion.
Bucky wasn't an idiot and she hadn't tried to be discreet about the affair. It didn't bother him. She probably thought he was fucking you, but that hadn't happened.
Bucky thought about it. How could he not when he wanted you so badly? He imagined it so vividly— how soft your lips would feel against his, how you'd tremble under his touch, moan when you took every inch of him, cry his name when you came, beg for him to fill you up. He lost track of how many times he got off to the thought of you. It was enough to fill a lifetime of daydreams.
He could tell you were trying to think of a response, something witty or to cheer him up, but there was pain all over your face. “I didn't mean to bring her up.”
He nodded. You weren't trying to upset him. You weren't cruel. “I know. It’s okay.”
Silence stretched between you after that, but he offered you a small smile and you reached back over to take his hand. He looked at your joined hands and all the previous anger faded away. You were the only one who could calm the beast inside. He didn't want to let you go.
“I spoke to your dad,” you said.
His head snapped back to you. “You did? When?” he asked.
And why?
His parents adored you, always had, and they weren't easy to impress. The fact that his dad liked you and you weren't from a powerful family spoke volumes. His mom wept after the fight he had with his dad and she admitted she would've loved to have you as a daughter-in-law. He wanted to make that happen.
“A couple of days ago when you were in a meeting,” you said, looking at the tabletop.
His brows pinched as he repeated the day’s events in his mind. “You mean when you were waiting for me?”
You had been at his family mansion when his meeting ended and he thought nothing of the surprise visit since you frequently surprised each other. He assumed you chatted with his mom or one of the staff while you waited, but not his dad. The man wasn't usually one for casual conversation.
You nodded. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“I don’t think I could ever be mad at you,” he said. You two argued now and then, like a couple would, but he’d never be angry at you. “But why did you talk to my dad? What did you talk about?”
And why didn't his dad or you tell him?
You took a breath like you were steeling yourself. “I asked if you had to marry her because I didn’t think she was the right choice for you.” You still wouldn’t look him in the eye, so you didn’t see the stunned look on his face. “I also said that if you had to marry her that there was a chance that he’d lose you as a son. Or at least, he’d lose the son he knew and loved.”
Bucky’s jaw dropped. It took a lot to surprise him and your answer would’ve put him on his ass if he hadn’t already been sitting. Not many had the balls to question his dad on anything, but there you were defending him and his choices and future. He loved you, he had for some time, and knowing you walked into the lion’s den for him made him love you all the more.
“Are you mad?” Your voice shook and he saw tears shimmering in your eyes when you lifted your gaze.
“No. Fuck no,” he whispered, going around to the other side of the booth so he could pull you close. “Not mad at you. I could never be mad at you for sticking up for me.” Some of his bravest soldiers wouldn't have had the guts to do what you did.
“I just know you don’t want to marry her, and I thought I was helping you,” you said, leaning into him and sniffling. “Your happiness means everything to me.”
“So does yours,” he said, rubbing your back. You were trembling. “What did he say to you?”
“He called me brave, and said the only way you could get out of it was if she betrayed the families in some way,” you replied. He was shocked all over again that his dad told you that. “And affairs don’t count. I asked.”
Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if his dad encouraged him to take a mistress since he knew he couldn’t stand his fiancé. The thought made him sick because he didn’t want a mistress- He wanted you. He wanted his ring on your finger and you by his side.
“I’m not going to marry her,” he declared. He didn’t just say it for himself, he needed you to hear it, too, in case there was any chance he had a place in your heart.
“Okay,” you said.
A single word and Bucky’s heart slowly cracked. There was no anger or sarcasm in your tone, but there was no hope either. “Do you not believe me?” he asked.
Thought he wouldn't blame you if you didn't. Hadn't he put his dad's wishes ahead of his own for some time? But if you didn’t have faith in him, what was he to do?
“I believe you can do anything, Jamie,” you said, pulling back to look at him. A single tear slid down your cheek. “I always have.”
He wiped the tear away with his thumb, wishing he could kiss you. “Don’t go on that date,” he whispered.
“Jamie-”
“I mean it, Solnyshko. Don’t go on that date,” he said more fiercely this time.
Bucky felt like a fucking asshole. He had no right to ask that of you. He should let you live your life and give this guy a try, but he couldn’t.
“Why not?” you asked, looking into his eyes and daring him to open his heart. “Why shouldn't I go on that date?”
Bucky raked a hand through his hair. Your parents were probably thrilled about your date if you told them since they didn't want you to be alone. And the words were there and ready, but he couldn’t tell you until he took care of breaking things off. It was the fair thing for both of you.
“I just need you to trust me. Please,” he begged.
You couldn’t hide your disappointment when your eyes searched his, but you nodded. “I’ll consider it,” you said.
He closed his eyes and reminded himself that you didn't owe him anything and that included your feelings. If all you wanted was his friendship he had to accept and respect that. But if there was a chance, he had to cling to that hope.
“I’ll convince you,” he said, urging you to rest your head on his shoulder. “Somehow.”
And if he couldn’t, he’d have no problem crashing your date.
So, what do we think? Is that date happening or not? And who is he? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
Saw someone say they think the person in the foreground of this shot is Steve and if it is it makes the poses and expressions on Sam + Bucky's faces so much funnier.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You know your boss likes you. His gestures go well beyond the normal professional relationship, but he’ll deny it all the way to the damn bank. That is, until you play a little game and see just how far you can push him…
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ / ᴛᴀɢꜱ: 18+, MDNI, kinda angst, smut, pretty much PWP, there’s some plot but it’s negligible, NSFW (literally), politics but it’s brief, age gap (reader in her 20s, Bucky is ancient), age-related references (Bucky calls you ‘kid’ once and you internally refer to him as ‘old man’), nicknames (‘doll’, mostly), taboo relationship, mirror-play, fingering & oral (f!receiving), inappropriate use of a desk, high heel kink if you squint, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks), creampie (why not), Bucky is sorta mean but also a gentleman, makeshift gag, decryphilia for like a second, semi-public sex, big dick!Bucky, rough sex, reader’s clothes are described, slight objectification of reader, and maybe coercion???
ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: A delayed thank you for 400 followers!! This is kind of a rewrite of a prior fic of mine, or at least it started that way. Really just needed to scratch that Congressman Barnes itch. I spent so much time on this and scrapped it like three times. Beta credit to @laufeydottirs-writings . Uhh…And if this flops I’ll just never post again. :) Cheers!
Divider credit goes to @/cursed-carmine!
It wasn’t like you really tried to fall head over heels for your boss, who also just so happened to be one of the hottest politicians in D.C. Seriously, who would do that? Okay, maybe a few people came to mind - but, you swore that you weren’t one of them!
You were fresh out of college and in need of a job - really any job - and he was…Well…Lifetimes ahead of you comparatively. But, lately, he was becoming increasingly less subtle about his preference for you - and, it was kind of hard to ignore. Of course, he wouldn’t come out and say it to your face because Congressman Barnes wasn’t a man of very many words, but it was the little gestures that did all that sweet-talking for him.
It was the way he smiled at you so warmly when you brought his coffee straight to his desk each morning - just a splash or two of cream and a dash of sweetener was how he liked it. It was the way his sparkling baby-blues would flit across your silhouette like a lion sizing up prey - especially when he particularly enjoyed your outfit that day. And, if you were lucky enough, he’d give you a short, “Lookin’ sharp, kid. How are those surveys coming?” And the intense glint in his eyes as he spoke with that low Brooklyn drawl is what gave away the true infatuation hidden beneath his words.
That’s how it all started. Small gestures that were just barely noticeable, unless you were around him as often as someone in your position was - you were, after all, his personal assistant. His one, true tether to the Earth. And, given adequate time, these small gestures appeared to escalate.
A year into your humble employment, it developed into a subtle brush of his warm, calloused hand against yours while you were trying to explain something important. It became the way that same large palm would find the small of your back with such ease and his fingers began to splay across the fabric of your blouse possessively as he started walking you to your car each evening. You quickly realized he wasn’t doing any of it for you - he was doing it for himself. To make sure you were safe because if he didn’t try hard enough, then he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
If you’d been having a particularly hard day, he’d excuse himself a little early for lunch and then return an hour afterwards with a small bouquet of your favorite flowers from the florist just down the street, and your latte made exactly how you liked it. He often referred to it as a ‘morale boost’, but you saw through that excuse after it became less of an occasional treat and more of a frequent one.
You were slowly coming to the realization that this grumpy old man didn’t go out of his way for very much, but he certainly went above and beyond if it involved you.
“Late night, huh?” His gruff voice startled you, even though the only thing you could think about was how the words on your laptop screen were beginning to blur into a mess. Cohesive thoughts and bright ideas had left your brain a few hours before.
You blinked, glancing to your left where he’d entered his office in that scarily quiet way he had a habit of doing.
He’d noticed when you flinched, and he laughed softly. “Sorry, doll. I know. Need to get better ‘bout announcing myself.”
You smiled, tight but polite. “By now I think I should know you have a habit of materializing out of thin air, Houdini,” you teased.
You let out a heavy breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, and closed your laptop with a soft ‘click’ - having a short break from the screen would surely do you some good. “Also, it’s not a late night until it’s past midnight, remember? It’s only eleven.”
Bucky’s gaze darted up to the standard-issue clock ticking away just above his desk. “And so it is,” he confirmed, shooting you a half-smile before he walked over to inspect the numerous files you’d left atop his desk. “You still shouldn’t be here so late, you know. You never know who’s roaming these halls.”
You rolled your eyes. “Well, your speeches aren’t going to write themselves, and I certainly don’t think anyone nefarious is sneaking about a heavily-secured government office. Unless you’re talking about yourself.”
That squeezed yet another dry laugh out of him. “The only thing nefarious about me right now is my appetite,” he admitted, picking up one of the various navy blue folders you’d set atop the polished mahogany throughout the evening. His eyebrows furrowed and his tongue jutted out just past his blushed lips as he fanned through the top document.
His look of absolute concentration was so amusing to you, especially since most of the time you still needed to explain all of the political jargon to him. But, you appreciated his efforts to learn, in the very least. “There’s something you should take note of on page five,” you piped up.
The stiff papers rustled as Bucky flipped back through the pages, and he appeared even more confused. “Am I blind or…?”
“Oh!” You quickly shifted your laptop onto the coffee table across from you as you jumped to your plush-socked feet. You grabbed a sticky note and pen from the table before flitting over to his side. “My bad, it’s been a crazy day…”
You were wearing plaid pajama pants and an oversized tourist shirt you’d picked up from a girls trip to Vegas. You were casual on these late-night stints - and, as long as you got your job done, Bucky didn’t really seem to mind.
You gently plucked the file from his hands and hunched down over his desk as you skimmed through the bill to find the clause you wanted to highlight. As your finger danced over the black ink, your hand was visibly shaking from the sheer amount of caffeine you needed to drink in order to stay awake as long as you had.
You immediately froze when you felt his hand slide up against your lower back - steady, warm, heavy - and then heard his voice, something low and soft that you had maybe only ever heard once before. “You’re shaking, doll. I think it’s time to call it a night.”
You swallowed thickly - your tongue suddenly felt too big for your mouth and your heart was skipping beat after beat…And it certainly wasn’t from the caffeine this time. “I’m fine,” you assured him curtly, trying to keep some level of professionalism alive between you two - but, that was becoming increasingly difficult under the weight of his piercing blue stare.
He hummed, like he was thinking it over but not really. “I’m sure whatever it is can wait another seven hours for you to come back in the morning.”
You sighed, slapping the sticky note down onto the paper and then scribbling out a small notation for him. “There,” you said, like he hadn’t just given you his explicit blessing to stop. You glanced up towards him - his eyes were still boring into yours.
“I’m being serious,” he murmured, his gaze momentarily flicking down to the file and then back up to yours again. “That’s an order. Go home.”
Coming from literally anyone else, you likely would have been offended at how strongly he was coming off. But, this was Bucky. This was…Kind of normal.
You chewed on your bottom lip, pulse hammering loud in your ears. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, he was pressed so damn close to you - and the direct touch of his palm was hot enough to melt away the icy chill of the office on that autumn’s night. Finally, you gave up - you nodded and closed the file. “Alright.”
You turned to gather your laptop and your bag, but he was already doing it for you. You felt your cheeks flush hot. “Sir, really. You don’t have to-“
“Sir?” he interrupted with another laugh - wow, three in one evening. You were on a roll. “Aren’t we way past the formalities?” He cocked an eyebrow as he held your coat out to you.
Neck, cheeks, and ears dusted pink and on fire, you took the coat and shrugged it on before you reached for your bag. “Uh-uh,” he tutted with a small smile. “Let me carry this for you and I’ll walk you out to your car.”
Right. Once again, anyone else and this would have been plain creepy. But no, this was just good, old-fashioned Bucky Barnes who couldn’t stand to let chivalry die.
“Fine. But just so you know, I’m coming in early in the morning just to spite you,” you muttered, giving him a quick once-over.
If you had to be honest, he looked as if he’d just wrestled with a bear and lost. Your lips gravitated into a frown as you took a quick step towards him. You reached up, not hesitating to take the delicate, blue silk of his tie between your fingers. “Did you try to redo this yourself?” Your eyes flicked up to meet his. This pitiful knot certainly wasn’t your workmanship.
Right then, you swore that in the dim, golden light of the ancient desk lamp, you saw dark pink bloom across the apples of his cheeks. “Perhaps…” he mumbled, jaw ticking as he glanced off to the side.
You worked the tie off with ease, and you could feel your heartbeat racing under the influence of his constant stare. He definitely had a problem with that, the whole staring thing. But, you’d learned to not mind it so much. “Next time, come to me first,” you said quietly, making quick work of fixing the knot and then taking a step back to admire your work.
Bucky, who was trying very hard not to be visibly flustered by the gesture, just nodded. “Noted.”
The next morning, your heels were clicking against the polished marble as you marched your way back towards Bucky’s office. The gray light of the dawn was beginning to seep through the dusty window panes, painting the halls in a pale glow.
You weren’t much of a high heel girl yourself, but today was a rather important press conference and you knew that the Congressman always gave you a few more glances than usual when you wore them. Just for the satisfaction of making him hot and bothered, you were willing to set aside your personal qualms with one of the most heinous footwear designs ever invented.
You paused at his door, knocking exactly three times so he knew it was you - this was something you’d agreed upon within your first week once you learned he had a habit of ignoring just about anyone who bothered to knock. “Come in!” You heard faintly through the aged, wooden entrance.
You turned the tarnished, brass knob and shouldered the creaky door open all while balancing his coffee and yours, along with several binders and your purse and laptop bag. You weren’t afraid of multitasking - no, multitasking was afraid of you.
You tossed him a polite, cheery little smile. “G‘Mornin’, Congressman,” you chirped, tossing your purse and laptop bag down on an ornate armchair before you piled the binders high on his desk and promptly held his coffee out to him. “You can take the girl out of work, but not the work out of the girl,” you said as he huffed in annoyance at the binders.
“I take it that you didn’t sleep?” He took the coffee from you as his eyes searched your face for signs of adequate rest - or, the lack thereof.
You shook your head. “Not until a few hours ago. I was really engrossed in those speeches…” You pouted and perched yourself up on the edge of the solid mahogany desk. You crossed your legs over one another out of politeness only, since you were wearing a short, black pencil skirt.
You couldn’t miss the way his eyes tracked the satiny flow of your midnight blouse, or the way they followed the gentle curve of your body downwards to how the skirt hugged your ass so nicely and the lace of your stockings peeked out from just underneath the skin-tight fabric. They settled on your heels, a sharp exhale coming from his nose before his eyes flicked back up to your face.
You tilted your head. “Yes?”
His jaw ticked because he knew he couldn’t say anything. Well, he could but he was risking an HR complaint if he did. “Nothing. You look ready for the press.”
You beamed. “Oh! Do I?” You giggled. “I tried my best. You know I always do.” Your voice was honey and velvet and everything so sweet and tempting to him…
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he did. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat and then pushing the new pile of binders aside. “I was reading over the press conference address this morning…”
You cocked an eyebrow in silent question.
“Am I…It doesn’t feel right to be taking this harsh of an opposing stance to something that feels…” He trailed off, trying to find the right words. Once again, political jargon was not his forte.
“Mostly bipartisan?” You interrupted with that sickly-sweet smile.
He nodded. “Yes, that.”
You took a rather pensive sip of your coffee. “Bipartisan doesn’t always translate to ‘good’, Congressman,” you quipped, and then reached across to flip through the speech pages yourself.
“Mmm, you see here?” You quickly pointed to a clause on the bill he’d be opposing. “This right here is some pretty…Sneaky business.”
He hummed, his gaze flicking between your delicate finger, the words on the paper, and your glossy lips. The tension that settled in the air between you two felt thick enough to cut with a knife…And that’s when you were rudely interrupted by your first phone call of the day.
“Congressman Barnes’ office, how may I direct your call?” you answered, sliding off the desk. Teasing him would have to wait, although as you glanced back over your shoulder to check, you could see his eyes were still making a meal out of you and your little skirt.
The press conference was a whirlwind as you’d expected it to be.
Before all the lights and the cameras, you’d stood behind him in the mirror, smoothing down the sleeves of his suit jacket with careful attention. You could tell from his stiff expression that he was uncomfortable with the level of professionalism he needed to maintain as your hands just so casually ran along his biceps. “I think navy is more your color than black,” you muttered, stepping around in front of him as you moved to fasten his cuff links in place.
He was trying to look anywhere but directly at you, but it was so hard when you looked so pretty and the aroma of your perfume was dancing dreamily about the air. “Are you saying I wear too much black?” he asked, still staring straight ahead.
You shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not your stylist. I’m just the one who buffs out the rough edges before it’s showtime.”
You straightened his tie and then took a step back. “Go on and get ‘em, Bucky.” With a satisfied grin, you gave him a little wink and the most chaste, polite peck on the cheek you could give. Then, you left him standing there as you made your way to the media room.
In his office, Bucky stood in a silence that felt too heavy to breathe in. He was…Stunned. Every nerve in his body felt alive and buzzing with electricity - and it wasn’t because of the televised address. No, it was because he could still feel the softness of your lips lingering against his stubbled cheek; and, he could kick himself for just letting you leave after that.
During the conference, you tried to ignore the way he was staring at you more than the cameras, but he was making that awfully hard. You crossed your legs, one atop the other, and squeezed your thighs together as you desperately wished you could disappear. And, before you could even think about making a clean escape from the media room, a gloved vibranium hand was wrapped around your wrist and tugging you back from the double doors. “Prep room. Now.”
He didn’t leave room for protest as he nearly dragged you along to the back briefing room. Once the door clicked shut, he let go of your wrist, mumbling a quiet ‘sorry’ like he’d realized he was being a bit too rough. “What was that?” he questioned.
You blinked. “What was what?”
He sighed. “Before the conference?”
“I…Adjusted your tie?”
“No. You kissed my cheek.”
You couldn’t help the way your cheeks turned crimson and sold you out before you even had a chance to defend yourself. He took that as enough of an answer, beginning to pace the length of the room.
“I should fire you for that,” he said, hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed in thought as his gaze stayed glued to the government-issued blue carpeting.
You leaned back against the conference table and crossed your arms over your chest. “But you won’t.”
That stopped him in his tracks, mid-stride. His eyes snapped over to you, piercing and icy. But the threat fell flat. “How do you know?” he huffed.
“Because if you were really pissed enough, I wouldn’t be standing here alone with you. You have a team that handles anything and everything you could need, myself being one of them. I’d have been sent home from the audience if you so wished.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked. He knew you were right. He didn’t really tolerate nonsense, in fact there wasn’t much he did tolerate. A few people. Select members of the press. Last you’d heard he was still struggling to accept therapy. He didn’t deal with things that he didn’t want to deal with, not since being freed from the mental prison of being the Winter Soldier - which, you knew very little about but just enough.
“You’re not one for a power-trip, but you also don’t put up with bullshit,” you continued, eyes meeting his as you cocked an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same question about the flowers. The lattes. Walking me to my car-“
“That’s just called bein’ nice, doll,” he said, tongue darting out across his bottom lip.
“Not when your hand is on my back. Not when I can feel you practically eye-fucking me every time I wear something nice. Which, news flash, is almost every day in this industry,” you argued back.
You watched as big, bad super soldier Bucky Barnes’ cheeks turned pink. Bright pink. And there was that tick of his jaw again.
You pushed yourself off the conference table and grabbed him by his tie, tugging him down so close you could smell the coffee and wintergreen mint on his breath. His eyes widened. “You could tell me to stop,” you whispered. “But I know damn well you won’t.”
You released the hold on his tie and walked back towards the briefing room door. “You have thirty minutes before the vote. I suggest you get going,” you called over your shoulder, smile in your voice as you flung the door open and - once again - left Bucky Barnes too stunned to speak.
The days that followed were…Long and dull and irritating. The old man was somehow grumpy all the time, seemingly moping about how you’d called him out on his little stunts. No flowers, no coffees, no offers to walk you out.
The routine was simple - you’d hand him his coffee and he’d grunt out a very half-hearted ‘thanks’. His eyes - the same ones that used to shamelessly stare - would avoid you at all costs, even if it meant gazing into blank space. He spoke only when absolutely necessary, and you continued to do your work on your laptop while quietly nestled in the armchair across from him. The tension was heavy.
Finally, you’d had enough. You turned up to work on a gloriously sunny Friday morning in your very best dress, tights, and godforsaken high heels. You appeared to be dressed for the most important press conference of your life, except not even a low-level briefing was scheduled for that day. In fact, nothing was scheduled for that day and that was exactly the point.
You set the paper coffee cup down on his desk, fingers lingering around the cardboard sleeve before retreating. “G’Mornin’, Congressman,” you greeted in your usual cheery tone, not like it mattered that much recently.
“Thanks,” he grumbled, reaching for the cup. And as he did, his eyes caught sight of your dress. For the first time in nearly a week, he gave you a quick once-over that ended in an expression of confusion. “Did I miss something on my itinerary?”
You smiled sweetly and shook your head. “Oh, no,” you assured with a little shrug, batting your eyelashes.
His brows furrowed. “Then…What is all of this?” he questioned, gesturing to your outfit.
You looked down at yourself, playing stupid even though you knew exactly what you were doing. “This?” you asked with a small laugh. “Oh, I have a lunch date. Figured I’d get a little dressed up.”
You watched with satisfaction as his jaw ticked. You’d struck a nerve. His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
“First date.”
“Lunch for a first date?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not a very good impression.”
“And what is?”
Bucky’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, annoyance flickering behind his eyes. “I think a nice dinner would be suitable,” he muttered, and then hunched back over his desk as he pretended to shuffle some papers around. “What’s he like?”
You were a little taken aback that he was so invested in your lie, but you supposed it helped to sell the point. “He’s older. Stubborn. A little hard to talk to, but he’s hot so…”
He huffed. “Good luck with that. You’ll need it.”
Oh, yeah. You’d definitely need it…
Your lunch date ended up being between yourself and a disgustingly healthy salad from the cafe across the street, eaten quietly in the comfort of your car as you watched an episode of a sitcom.
Once the hour had gone and passed, you returned to Bucky’s office. And the second you sat back in the armchair and reached for your laptop, he was questioning you. Prying.
“How was the date?”
“It was…Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Eh…Men. You know how it goes, I’m sure.”
His piercing blue gaze was boring into you, you could practically feel it. But you paid him no direct attention as you navigated to a spreadsheet. “Oh, I’m sure. Just like I’m sure you didn’t actually go on a date.”
You felt your mouth run dry and your heart skip a beat. Your eyes flicked up from your laptop. You cocked an eyebrow. “And how are you so sure about that, Barnes? Don’t think I’ve got a line of suitors a mile long?” You really didn’t, but he definitely didn’t know that.
He chuckled, something dark and low and gravelly - honey flowing over jagged stone. “Doll,” he drawled. If you hadn’t been seated, you were sure your knees would have buckled beneath you. “I’m sure you do. But we need to start being honest with ourselves.”
You tried incredibly hard to play it cool, but you were losing it - especially over the fact he was turning this into a ‘we’ situation instead of a ‘me’ situation. You’d long since accepted that you were in love with him - it was he who needed to be honest with himself.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” you snapped back, arms folding across your chest defensively. “I’m not the one wallowing in denial.”
Bucky’s jaw did that little tick-and-set that you knew damn too well and had become awfully acquainted with over the last week in particular. Except, this wasn’t a tick of defiance. You could see it in his eyes - his resolve was crumbling, slowly but surely.
“It’s not right.”
His words sat in the air for a moment, heavy and hard to ignore. Of course he’d be obsessed over thinking through whether something was right or wrong…You knew him. He wanted to do whatever was right.
“Just because it’s not right, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” you replied. “Plenty of wrong things exist that we can’t just ignore and push away.”
He sighed, closing the folder he had opened before tossing it aside on his desk and scrubbing a hand down his face. He looked…Exhausted. Clearly you meant something to him in a way he couldn’t control, and the lack of control was eating him alive.
You closed your laptop, slowly unfolded your legs like you were giving yourself an extra second to back out, and then you made your way over to his desk. You propped yourself up against the corner, a finger hooking just beneath the Congressman’s chin and gently bringing his gaze to yours.
“What do you want?” you murmured, searching his face for answers. “Tell me…”
You didn’t expect it. Not in the very least - not with how conflicted he seemed. But he stood up from his chair, towering over you and leaving your hand hanging in the negative space. Then, his palms were on your cheeks - large, warm, calloused…Comforting. And he stooped down, lips colliding with yours.
He didn’t even need to use words - the kiss expressed it all. It was firm, confident. Reverent and gentle like you were a precious treasure for the taking. He pulled back just briefly, just long enough to whisper, “You.”
His lips were back on yours before you even had a chance to react - rough, claiming, and messy. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time, devouring every bit of you that he could. The kiss suffocated you and gave you life in the very same breath, and everything that followed was uncoordinated chaos.
Without breaking the kiss, his hands reached behind you and shoved everything off the desk - he sent papers, pens, binders, folders, paper clips…Everything tumbling to the floor. Luckily, the carpet muffled most of the sound.
His tongue was slipping into your mouth now, entangling itself with your own as you both moaned into the kiss. His hands grabbed roughly at your waist, picking you up and setting you down on the dead center of his desk - cold mahogany bit at the backs of your thighs through your stockings as he impatiently nudged his chair out of the way with his hip.
Although reluctant, he finally broke the kiss and knelt between your legs - he wasted no time rucking your tight dress up over your thighs. He couldn’t help himself - Lord knows he tried. He audibly groaned just at the sight of the silver garter clips biting into the delicate, black lace frill of your stockings, and how they squeezed at the plump flesh of your upper thighs just slightly. “Smart girl,” he murmured, tongue darting across his bottom lip as his eyes traced gradually upwards to where you were already soaking through your matching lacy panties. “You know what I like, don’t you?”
Your cheeks flushed dark crimson - guilty as charged! And you figured you didn’t need to actually answer that question seeing as you were already wearing the bastard child of all the clothing items that had ever gotten his attention.
Looking up for just a moment, breath hitching in your throat, you noticed the full-length mirror set just behind Bucky’s desk - the exact one you’d convinced him to get so he could keep better tabs on his appearance. And, right now, reflected back at you was a most scandalous image of yourself with Congressman Barnes nestled between your legs and your red-bottom heels dangling over his broad, muscled shoulders.
He noticed the way your breath caught and how you tensed beneath his touch, and his gaze followed your awe-struck stare to the reflective surface. A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Mmm…I see,” he said, plotting. “Wanna watch while I make a mess of you?” His voice was low, quiet.
You nodded, coming off more eager than you’d intended. “Y-Yes…” you managed to stammer out, brain still stuck two minutes ago on the kiss and the confession.
He hummed in approval, and then you felt his fingers hooking into the lace of your panties - you began to feel the soft, slow drag of the thin fabric as he guided them down your legs and left them hanging off the pointy toe of your left heel - it was like he was displaying a trophy, soaking wet and glistening in the dim light.
You watched as he shifted himself barely off to the side and tugged you closer to the edge of the desk. Now, displayed proudly in the mirror, was your dripping heat. You swallowed hard, throat running dry as Bucky watched your reaction through reflection. “She’s pretty, huh?” he cooed, bringing his flesh hand up and gently spreading your folds apart with two fingers - he was touching you like glass, something fragile.
You saw how you clenched around nothing at just his words - needy and involuntary like your body knew exactly what and who it wanted - no, needed. “She’s cryin’ f’me already,” he drawled, voice slurred in lustful wonder. “Beggin’ for somethin’…Don’t ya think?” He tilted his head, stormy blues flicking up towards you. “Look at me and answer me, doll.” He was almost pleading.
You managed to peel your gaze away from the mirror and gaze directly down at him, seeing those once icy orbs turning dark as blown pupils swallowed nearly all signs of brilliant color. “Y-Yes,” you whispered. “N-Need it…”
“Need what?”
You could feel a shameful heat blooming up your neck and across your cheeks to the tips of your ears. “Y-You…Y-Your fingers…”
“Mouth too?”
You whined and nodded, so eager yet again.
“Greedy…” he muttered, but he didn’t protest any further as he leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe up your exposed cunt.
You shuddered at his delicate touch, his breath fanning warm against your skin as he circled the tip of his tongue teasingly along your clit and then trailed back down to your entrance. You gasped, hands flying up and finding purchase in that perfect raven hair.
You hung your head back and then felt him pull away, drawing a whimper of protest from you. “Want you lookin’ over there f’me,” he said, nodding towards the mirror. “Don’t you be closing those pretty little eyes on me now.”
He leaned up and kissed you, soft and chaste but just long enough to get a good taste of yourself on his lips. And, as he sat back, you felt him slowly push a finger inside you. You moaned - soft and breathy - while glancing into the reflection across from you and watching as his digit slowly disappeared inside you. Your legs trembled a little as you felt him crook that finger up, burying even deeper against your fluttering walls. “Fuck…” you sighed out.
“That’s it, doll. Beautiful. Think you can handle one more?” he murmured, kissing at the side of your neck - wet and sloppy - as he slowly moved his finger in and out in a rocking motion that was borderline hypnotic.
“Mmm…Mmhm,” you whined, gasping as you felt him immediately slip a second finger in right beside the first. You continued to watch the obscenities play out in the mirror as his fingers stretched you open, pumping in and out of your weeping cunt - slow and deep.
“Got a tight little pussy…She’s greedy, not wantin’ to let me go…” he teased, and you swore you saw stars as he shoved them in even deeper and curled them up right against that soft, spongy spot that had your back arching towards him. He seemed pleased with that reaction. “Is that it? That where ya need me, doll?”
You nodded almost frantically, crying out as he started to bully his fingers into that spot over and over and over. “Yes! Yes! Buck-“ He quickly clapped his metal hand down over your mouth.
“Quiet, doll,” he warned, shaking his head, “Don’t wanna get caught…”
You swallowed hard, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the blinding hot pleasure building inside you. “B-Bucky…” you mumbled against his hand, watching as his fingers fucked in and out of you, curling deep and scissoring apart to stretch you open for him.
“Atta girl…C’mon…Just let go f’me…” he encouraged, pupils blown as he glanced between you and the mirror. “Let me see how gorgeous you are when you cum f’me…”
And so you did, screaming out against the cold vibranium vice across your mouth as you felt yourself clench down tight around his fingers. The rolling tide of your orgasm washed over you - a warm, electric wave that left you breathless and panting and pulsing around his digits.
After coaxing you through your high, Bucky slipped his fingers out and held them up in front of him as he watched your glistening slick drip down the length of them. He licked his lips. “Look at that,” he breathed, not breaking eye contact as he popped the soaked digits in his mouth and moaned as he sucked them clean.
You whimpered. God, he was so fucking hot. The salt and pepper of his beard was also coated in you, shining golden in the lamplight. Watching how his eyes fluttered shut as he savored the taste of you on his skin…
He pulled his fingers out, wiping them dry on your dress before diving in head-first and beginning to lap up all the sweet release that coated your cunt.
“A-Ah~! B-Bucky…” you gasped out, chewing down hard on your bottom lip as he made the most obscene sounds while he licked and sucked you clean - devouring you like it was his last meal.
“Sweetest little pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mumbled against you, voice sending vibrations straight through your ruined core.
As he stood back up, you couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the way he was absolutely towering over you. You were entirely in his shadow and at his mercy.
He shrugged his suit jacket off, tossing it onto the nearby chair and then he slipped off his tie, balling it up in his fist. He looked at you with dark eyes, but there was a softness peeking through that contrasted so heavily with the words he spoke. “Open up, doll,” he drawled, low and slow. “Gotta make sure the whole of Congress doesn’t hear ya now.”
You obediently parted your lips, mouth almost being shoved open as he stuffed the balled-up silk into your mouth. You tried to moan, just to see how you’d sound. It was muffled, but just loud enough that he could still get the satisfaction of hearing it.
Then, metal clinked softly against metal as he slowly undid his belt and threw it over the chair where his jacket lay discarded. He popped open the button on his dress slacks, pulled down the fly, and then unfurled himself from inside his boxers. He wasn’t trying to put on a show, but that didn’t stop you from staring the entire time.
You weren’t sure you’d ever seen such a delicious sight in your life, let alone the glaring fact that he was huge. His cock stood, curved slightly at attention and flushed red - aching and already leaking incessantly at the thought of being buried inside your tight cunt.
Bucky took a step towards you, almost completely closing the gap between his pelvis and yours, save the length of his throbbing dick. Flesh hand wrapping around the base, he teasingly guided the fat tip of his cock up and down your folds, lubing himself up before just notching himself at your entrance.
You whined through the gag, the corners of your eyes already damp with tears.
“Hmm? I didn’t quite catch that, doll,” he murmured as he began to push himself inside inch by agonizing inch.
And it wasn’t agonizing in the sense that it hurt. No, it was agonizing because all you wanted was his entire cock sheathed between your walls, but all he was doing was feeding it to you little by little. The stretch burned, but in a way that once again had your back arching off the damn desk and your toes curling in your heels as you locked your ankles around his waist.
Once he bottomed out, hips pressed flushed to yours, his hands roughly gripped at the flesh of your thighs as he carefully pulled out and then slammed his hips back against yours. You moaned out, voice muffled by the tie. Your eyes screwed shut, tears of pleasure tracking black trails of mascara down your cheeks.
“Uh-Uh,” he grunted. “C’mon, sweet thing. Open those pretty eyes f’me again. Don’t close ‘em now…”
You whimpered at his words, but obeyed like your life depended on it - like you were tethered to him and existing there just to grant his every lustful plea. Your eyelids, although heavy, fluttered back open and you gazed up at him through wet lashes.
The pace he set was brutal and breathtaking, and it had you moaning and sputtering around the makeshift gag as he dragged out to his tip and then slammed back in so your body was flush to his. You could feel the way his cock so perfectly nudged against that soft spot inside of you, leaving your thighs trembling in his grasp.
“Perfect little pussy is takin’ me so well,” he breathed out, head dropping down by your shoulder and soft grunts falling from his lips as he continued to pound into you. “Want me to fill ya up? Hmm?” he growled. “C-Cum f’me, doll. I can feel it…Know ya want to…”
Every merciless intrusion of his cock sent sharp, white-hot sparks of pleasure straight to your core. And it didn’t take very long before you were trying - and failing - to scream his name through the spit-dampened tie. Drool was running down the corners of your mouth and dribbling onto your tits from your chin - and, your cunt clenched down around his cock as your body shook and your fingers white-knuckled the edges of the desk.
Bucky followed shortly afterwards, your name rolling off his tongue so effortlessly and entangled in sweet praises. “That’s it, doll…Mmph~ Give it all to me…” He buried himself in as deep as he could, his cock throbbing and filling you up completely with his thick, warm release.
After a moment where the two of you were catching your breaths in the electrified silence, he suddenly slipped out and tucked himself back into his slacks. You squeaked a little in shock when you felt your combined releases leaking all over the dark mahogany of the desk in pearlescent, white streaks.
Bucky looped his belt back on and then reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve a large, embroidered handkerchief - of course he had one of those. “You made such a mess, doll,” he scolded softly, taking a corner of the soft, cotton square and dabbing up your hot, inky tears and pathetic drool before folding the hanky over itself and wiping up the cum that was still lazily dripping from your entrance.
Once you were clean enough, he retrieved your panties from the toe of your heels and helped you slip them back on. Only then did he take the tie back from your mouth.
“I expect you to have that speech done by six,” he said, like he hadn’t just fucked you right there in his office. “And then I want you to go home. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”
You were shaking as you wobbled on your heels and tried your best to fix your mussed dress and hair.
As you turned to walk back to the armchair, head still floaty and fuzzy and warm in the afterglow, his hand caught your shoulder and you turned around.
“But don’t forget to let me walk you out tonight, okay?”
You could almost laugh. Bucky Barnes, always a goddamn gentleman.
bucky slowly realizing he can’t live without y/n? it creeps up on him so subtly he doesn’t even realize it, but suddenly his day doesn’t start until u walk into the room? or he can only concentrate once he knows ur safe? he doesn’t know when exactly u became his entire world and he’s a bit terrified of it bcuz of how easily he could lose u
There’s no lightning bolt, no cinematic swell of music, no single moment where Bucky Barnes wakes up and thinks, I can’t live without her.
It creeps in quietly. Patiently. Like dawn bleeding into the sky before you even realize the sun is up.
At first, it’s small things.
He notices that his coffee tastes better when you’re in the kitchen with him. Not because you add anything to it—he still drinks it black—but because you’re there, humming softly while you dig through the fridge, stealing sips from his mug when you think he’s not looking. He pretends not to see. Pretends not to wait for it.
But on mornings you sleep in? He finds himself standing at the counter longer than necessary, mug cooling in his metal hand, listening for your footsteps in the hall.
His day doesn’t feel like it’s started until you appear.
He tells himself it’s coincidence.
It isn’t.
He realizes it again during missions.
There was a time when Bucky could compartmentalize anything. He could put emotions in a locked box, shove it to the back of his mind, and focus solely on the objective. Clean. Efficient. Detached.
Now?
Now he checks his phone before every briefing.
Just to make sure you texted back.
Just to make sure you’re safe.
He doesn’t relax until he sees your name on the screen—some mundane message about groceries or a picture of the stray cat you’re trying to befriend. His shoulders loosen. His breathing evens out.
Only then can he concentrate.
Sam notices it before he does.
“You’re distracted,” Sam mutters one afternoon while they’re reviewing intel.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Bucky bristles automatically, jaw tightening. But when Sam raises a brow and glances pointedly at the phone in Bucky’s hand, Bucky feels something twist low in his gut.
He sets it down. Pushes it away.
He doesn’t pick it up again.
Not for fifteen whole minutes.
And then he checks it anyway.
It’s subtle at first, the way you become the axis his world turns on.
He starts timing his workouts so he’s home when you are. Starts grocery shopping for things you like without thinking about it. Starts leaving a light on if you’re coming back late because he doesn’t like the idea of you walking into a dark apartment.
He tells himself it’s just… consideration.
He doesn’t realize it’s devotion.
The first time it truly hits him is on a random Friday.
You’re late.
You said you’d be home by six.
It’s 6:17.
And Bucky is pacing.
He hates that he’s pacing.
His chest feels tight in a way he hasn’t felt in years—like something is pressing down on his ribs from the inside. He checks his phone. No new messages. He considers calling you, then stops himself. He doesn’t want to be overbearing.
You’re fine.
You’re fine.
You’re—
The lock clicks.
You walk in, shaking rain from your jacket, muttering about traffic and a flat tire and how your phone died halfway through the tow.
You barely get two steps inside before he’s in front of you.
“You okay?” His voice is rough, sharper than he means it to be. His hands hover at your shoulders like he’s afraid to grab you too tightly.
You blink at him. “Yeah? Buck, I’m fine.”
But he doesn’t breathe properly until he pulls you into his chest and feels the steady rhythm of your heart beneath his palm.
And that’s when it settles in.
The realization.
It’s quiet and terrifying and absolute.
His world doesn’t function right without you in it.
He doesn’t know when it happened.
He doesn’t know the exact moment you became the first thing he looks for in every room, the person his mind reaches for when things go wrong, the calm in the storm of his thoughts.
He just knows that somewhere along the way, you stopped being a part of his life and became the center of it.
And that scares the hell out of him.
Because Bucky Barnes knows loss.
He knows how easily things can be ripped away.
He knows what it’s like to wake up in a world where everything you love is gone.
The thought of that happening with you?
It makes him feel hollow.
He starts watching you differently after that; much more aware.
Of how you laugh when you’re half-asleep. Of how you chew your bottom lip when you’re thinking. Of the way your hand always finds his without looking.
He memorizes you.
Like if he learns every detail, he’ll somehow be able to keep you.
One night, you catch him staring.
“What?” you ask, smiling softly from where you’re curled against him on the couch.
He hesitates.
He doesn’t do vulnerable easily.
But this feels too big to swallow.
“I don’t remember when it happened,” he says quietly.
“When what happened?”
“When you became… everything.”
You go still.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles, metal cool against your warm skin.
“My day doesn’t start until I see you,” he admits. “I can’t focus unless I know you’re safe. If you’re late, I feel like I can’t breathe.” His jaw tightens. “And that’s— that’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” you whisper.
“For me.” He swallows. “Because I know how easy it is to lose things. I know how fragile good things are. And you…” His voice falters just slightly. “You’re the best thing I’ve got.”
You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.
“Bucky,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” you agree softly. “But I can promise I’m here right now. And I choose you. Every day.”
The tightness in his chest eases, just a fraction.
He wraps his arms around you, holding you close like he’s grounding himself in something solid.
He may not know when you became his entire world.
He may never pinpoint the exact moment.
But he knows if loving you means being terrified of losing you, he’ll take that fear.
content warning: bucky x fem!reader, friends to fuckers, flirting, dirty talk, smut (dub!con, dry humping, daddy!bucky, fingering, handjob)
Masterlist
💋
“I guess it’s on us to pick a movie,” You say once the others leave the motel room, slamming the door shut behind them.
Bucky doesn’t reply. He’s too busy staring at your nipples which are poking through your cotton top, practically drooling at the sight.
“I’m in the mood for horror, but Steve will complain,” You think out loud, laying back on the bed and continuing your verbal thought process while Bucky continues drinking in the view.
imagine waking up one morning, the sun gently warming your face as you turn over, expecting your husband’s side of the bed to be cold like it usually is, only to find him still dead asleep next to you.
To others, it might seem like a couple spending a cozy morning in bed together, but panic creeps up your spine so quickly your heart nearly beats out of your chest because this isn’t like your man at all.
Usually, Bucky is up and out of bed with the sun rise, as he never really managed to get rid of the habits he developed as a soldier.
Sure, he always comes right back to bed when he notices you’re waking up, ready to spoil you with cuddles and fresh coffee first thing in the morning, but this isn’t something that has ever happened before. Bucky never sleeps in, not even after a long and grueling mission or when he isn’t feeling well. Now, it’s 9 am already, and you can’t help but carefully shake his shoulder, trying to wake him up as gentle and calm as possible even though you are anything but.
“Buck?” Your voice isn’t much more than a whisper, but the urgency hidden underneath makes his eyelashes flutter immediately. “Everything okay?”
The sound that slips past his lips is definitely not one you would expect from a super soldier like him, a whine more than it is a groan.
“No,” he complains, blindly reaching for you so he can tug you closer and nuzzle his face against your stomach, voice muffled against the fabric of your shirt now. “You are a crazy woman, you know that? I won’t ever recover again. This is it.”
It takes you a moment to understand what the hell he is talking about, but when do, you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, your fingers comfortingly running through his hair. “That bad, huh?”
”Bad? I’m broken, sweetheart. Leave it up to you to completely wreck a super soldier. Not that I’m complaining, though.”
“Of course you’re not,” you agree, your thoughts going back to how good you’d made him feel last night, finding out just how much his enhanced stamina could actually handle, making him take you until your husband couldn’t give anymore.
Turns out, testing just how often your man can cum in one evening is enough to leave him spent and exhausted like nothing else ever manages to wear him out.
And if that is enough to give him a break from the buzzing energy usually running through his nerves?
Yeah, you are definitely going to do it again.
(yeah that’s it I think this is my sign to go to bed now.)
warnings: 18+ MDNI. angst + comfort. and there was only one bed. mutual pining. communication is key guys, do that.
word count: 2.9k
prompts: lemonade: something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution: “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
missed call: almost connection, the one that got away → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been: “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.”
summary: road tripping would be a lot more enjoyable if you hadn’t kissed the driver, bucky barnes, two months ago. and if you would, you know, talk about it.
sc talks: i’ve never done a prompt thing like this before, so hopefully it’s decent enough!. sc write anything other than angst challenge: impossible. i plan on writing a cute little fluffy counterpart to this, so hopefully i can have that out soon! p.s. shoutout to @tookhimtomypenthouse for the sunglasses and t-shirt ;)
Bucky was going to have words with Sam.
He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”
“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”
You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position.
“Hey, feet down.”
You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”
Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”
Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”
Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him.
"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add.
The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments.
“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you.
Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”
“I’m a good driver!”
Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”
Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS.
“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”
Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.
“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio.
It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders.
The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement.
You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night.
The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”
You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.
“Sounds good.”
“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.
The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”
Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time.
The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.”
You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly.
Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else.
“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more.
“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud air conditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”
Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”
“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”
Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”
Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”
Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting.
His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”
Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.
He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him.
What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.
The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying.
“Good shower?” He asks tentatively.
You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like.
“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”
Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”
“Go for it.”
Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.
A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”
Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”
In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”
“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”
“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all.
“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”
“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”
“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark.
“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you pick up?”
There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.”
It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared.
“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours.
“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”
Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap.
This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like you're something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark.
Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.
“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”
Bucky exhales, gathering you into his arms and feeling you relax into him. “That,” he hums, “I can do.”
Warnings: explicit sexual content, mutual pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, flirting, dirty talk, public flirting, model!reader, Avenger!reader, Bucky Barnes is bad at feelings, reader is a menace, oral sex, fingering, vaginal sex, praise kink, light manhandling, possessive sex, multiple orgasms
Summary:
You have been shamelessly flirting with Bucky Barnes for months, mostly because watching him pretend not to enjoy it is too much fun to resist.
He thinks he has your little game under control until a gala puts you in front of cameras, admirers, and one man who gets close enough to make Bucky finally stop pretending.
Author’s Note:
written for this request
i have been trying to post this since 7 am this morning but the airport wifi sucked and i havent had time until now to sit down and properly format everything for tumblr (and it's 10:25 pm)
Bucky Barnes first realized you were going to be a problem on a Tuesday morning, which felt insulting.
Problems, in his experience, usually had the decency to announce themselves with gunfire, alarms, compromised exits, or Sam Wilson saying, “Don’t be mad,” in a tone that guaranteed Bucky was about to be furious. They did not usually stroll barefoot into the Avengers compound kitchen wearing a silk robe, sunglasses indoors, and an expression that suggested you had never suffered a consequence in your life.
You had been an Avenger for three days.
Technically, you had been an Avenger for longer than that, if he counted the months of files, interviews, mission assessments, and cautious deliberation that had led Fury to finally put your name on the team roster. You had enhanced reflexes, a combat record that even Natasha raised an eyebrow at, and the kind of public image Stark’s media people had described as “valuable but chaotic.” You were a model, an occasional actress when a director could afford your schedule, a fixture at fashion weeks, charity galas, beach clubs, magazine covers, and gossip columns. You were also a very competent fighter with a worrying talent for making people underestimate you until they were already on the floor.
Bucky did not underestimate you.
That was what he told himself, anyway, watching you open every cabinet in the kitchen like you were personally offended by storage.
“Where do rich people hide mugs?” you asked.
Sam, who had been leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal and the grim, protective posture of a man guarding the last of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, looked at you over his spoon. “You mean cabinets?”
“I checked cabinets.”
“You checked one cabinet.”
“It disappointed me.”
“There’s a difference.”
“This kitchen has seven ovens,” you said. “That feels excessive for people who eat protein bars like they’re being punished.”
“That’s because we are,” Sam said.
“You poor thing. Do you want me to call someone?”
“God, you’re worse before coffee.”
You gasped. “I haven’t had coffee?”
“You’re standing in the kitchen.”
“I’ve been betrayed by architecture.”
Bucky had not meant to laugh. It escaped him before he could stop it, barely more than a breath against the rim of his mug, but you heard it. Of course you heard it. Your attention snapped to him with terrifying precision.
Your sunglasses slid down your nose.
“Oh,” you said, with the pleased interest of a cat finding a glass too close to the edge of a table. “You laugh.”
“No,” Bucky said.
Sam snorted into his cereal.
You smiled at Bucky as if he had personally made your morning. “That was definitely a laugh.”
“It was a cough.”
“You should see a doctor about that. It sounded handsome.”
Bucky stared at you.
Sam put his spoon down. “And there it is.”
“There what is?” you asked, all innocence, which made it worse.
“The thing you do.”
“I do many things.”
“Yeah, and most of them are illegal in at least three states.”
You drifted closer to the counter, apparently unconcerned by the fact that Bucky had looked less startled the last time a man had pulled a knife on him in a parking garage. You rested your elbows on the marble and propped your chin in one hand, turning the full force of your attention on him.
“What’s your name again?”
“You know my name.”
“I know lots of names.” You smiled wider. “I wanted to hear you say it.”
Bucky took a sip of coffee. It bought him three seconds and no dignity.
“Barnes,” he said finally.
“Barnes,” you repeated, like you were trying it on. “Cute.”
“No.”
“Strong. Classic. Slightly broody. Very marketable.”
“I’m not marketable.”
“That’s what makes you marketable.” You lifted your sunglasses from your face and pushed them up into your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll win you over one day.”
Bucky blinked.
Sam closed his eyes as if in prayer.
You said it so easily, so brightly, that for a second Bucky did not know what to do with it. People flirted with him sometimes. Not often, not casually, and never with the delighted confidence of someone announcing tomorrow’s weather. The flirting he noticed usually came wrapped in caution, curiosity, or the strange, hungry attention people gave the Winter Soldier when they had read too much, understood too little, and wanted to see what a ghost looked like up close.
This was different. You were not looking at the Winter Soldier. You were not even looking at Sergeant Barnes, the tragedy, the history lesson, the man out of time. You were looking at Bucky, annoyed and under-caffeinated at the kitchen island, with his hair still damp from the shower and his left hand curled around a mug someone had bought as a joke because it said “I survived another meeting that should have been an email.”
“I’m not something to win,” he said.
Your expression changed only slightly. The smile stayed, but something behind it softened with recognition, like you had heard the line he had not said and decided not to touch it in front of Sam.
Then you leaned across the counter, stole Sam’s coffee, and said, “We’ll workshop the phrasing.”
Sam made a wounded noise. “That was mine.”
“You called me ‘worse before coffee.’ This is justice.”
“I called you worse before your coffee.”
“Details.”
Bucky left the kitchen before you could catch the second laugh.
That was where it started.
It should have ended there, but you treated restraint like a rumor and Bucky’s sanity like a hobby. Within two weeks, you had settled into the compound as if you had been born under Stark-grade security lights. You learned where Tony hid the expensive snacks, which elevators were fastest when FRIDAY was not pretending not to judge you, and which training rooms had the best lighting for the occasional sponsored workout post Pepper pretended not to know about.
You were good at being watched. That was the thing Bucky noticed first, even before the flirting became a problem with a schedule. Cameras loved you. Rooms adjusted around you. People tracked your movements before they knew they were doing it, drawn by the easy glamour of someone who knew exactly how she looked and had decided to make that everyone else’s issue. You could turn your head half an inch and change the temperature of a photograph. You could laugh at a reporter’s question and make it sound like an answer.
Bucky understood performance. He had been made into one. The difference was that yours belonged to you. He respected the precision of it. The public saw sparkle, flirtation, lazy smiles, and a model who sometimes saved the world and somehow emerged from the fight with her eyeliner still intact. The team saw more. They saw the hours in the gym, the quick reads you made in the field, the way you listened when Steve gave instructions and ignored him when you had a better plan. They saw that you could play dumb in four languages and threaten someone in six.
Bucky saw all of that.
He also saw the way you looked for him when you entered a room. That was harder to ignore.
At first, he assumed you did it to everyone. You were friendly with Sam, outrageous with Tony, conspiratorial with Natasha, affectionate with Wanda, and shamelessly dramatic with Thor, who adored you after you once told him his arms looked like a horny Renaissance sculptor had carved them. You flirted like breathing, lightly and often, always with enough humor that nobody had to take it seriously unless they wanted to.
With Bucky, you made it personal. You found him in the gym one morning while he was working through a knife sequence alone. The compound was quiet, still blue with early light, most of the team asleep or pretending to be. He caught your reflection in the mirrored wall and kept moving, blade turning between his fingers as he shifted his weight, stepped, struck, pivoted, and reset.
“Morning, future husband.”
The knife stopped in his hand.
He looked at you through the mirror. “No.”
“You’re right. Too soon.” You set your water bottle on the bench. “Morning, future emotionally unavailable boyfriend.”
Bucky resumed the sequence. “That’s worse.”
“Morning, handsome man who definitely missed me.”
“I didn’t know you were gone.”
“That’s hurtful and untrue. You stared at my empty chair at dinner.”
“I was looking at the door.”
“Because you hoped I would come through it.”
“Because I was considering leaving.”
You pressed a hand to your chest. “God, the passion.”
He turned, knife loose in his hand. “Do you ever get tired?”
“Of you? Never.”
“Of talking.”
“Also no.”
Bucky pointed the knife toward the door. “Some of us are training.”
“Wonderful. I love a man with discipline.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not training in that.”
You glanced down at yourself, as if surprised to discover you had arrived dressed for exercise. “This is athletic wear.”
“That sweatshirt has no back.”
“It has some back.”
“It has sleeves and ambition.”
You grinned. “You noticed.”
Bucky made the mistake of looking. The sweatshirt dipped low between your shoulders, leaving a long line of bare skin above the band of your sports bra. It was impractical, which probably meant it cost more than some cars. It was also distracting, which was clearly the point.
He looked away too late.
You saw it. You always saw it.
“I knew you liked me,” you said.
“I noticed fabric was missing.”
“You noticed my back.”
“Hard not to when half your shirt surrendered.”
Your laugh came bright and easy. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to flirt back.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You’re bantering. That’s flirting with plausible deniability.”
“It’s arguing.”
“With cheekbones like yours? Impossible.”
Bucky exhaled and turned back toward the mirror. “Are you here to train or talk?”
“I can do both.”
“I’m devastated.”
You came onto the mat beside him and held out your hand. “Give me a knife.”
“No.”
“Afraid I’ll impress you?”
“Afraid you’ll stab me to make a point.”
“Only a little.”
He should not have given you one. That was his first mistake. His second was forgetting that beneath the designer nonsense and the sparkling public menace was someone Fury had recruited for a reason.
You moved beautifully. Bucky had seen you fight on missions, but missions were dirty and practical, all impact and adaptation. Here, with nothing exploding and no one yelling in his ear, he could see the shape of your training. You were fast, lighter on your feet than he expected, with a dancer’s control and a vicious sense of timing. You let him push you back twice, then changed rhythm on the third pass and came under his guard, stopping the dull practice blade a breath from his ribs.
You looked up at him through your lashes.
“Oops,” you said.
Bucky’s hand closed around your wrist.
You did not pull away.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Your pulse beat steadily beneath his fingers, quick but controlled. You were warm from sparring, a flush high on your cheeks, and a loose strand of hair caught at the corner of your mouth.
Bucky noticed it. He hated that he noticed it.
Your smile softened into something less theatrical. “You okay?”
The question slipped under his ribs more effectively than the knife would have.
He let go. “Fine.”
You tilted your head. “That means yes, or that means stop asking?”
“It means fine.”
“Mm. We’ll workshop that too.”
“There’s no we.”
“There will be.” You spun the practice knife once and offered it back handle-first. “I’m very persuasive.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“Foreplay.”
Bucky choked on air.
You patted his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ll win you over one day.”
He watched you leave because apparently he had lost control of his eyes.
From the doorway, without turning around, you called, “I can feel you staring.”
“I’m checking that you’re leaving.”
“Progress!”
After that, Sam started keeping score.
Every compliment became a point. Every accidental smile became evidence. Every time you blew Bucky a kiss across a briefing room, Sam looked personally blessed by the universe. Bucky threatened to throw him off the roof twice. Sam remained unmoved.
It would have been easier to ignore if you flirted with Bucky the way you flirted with everyone else, bright and careless and harmless enough to laugh off. But you saved him seats. You asked him to watch your back even when you did not need watching. You looked for him when you entered a room, and sometimes, when the joke softened at the edges, Bucky caught the dangerous shape of something honest underneath.
He liked your precision. He liked the moments when the smile slipped sideways into something observant. He liked that when you teased, you watched for the line. He liked that you had never once called his left arm cool, had never asked to touch it, had never stared at the place where metal met skin with anything but the same open appreciation you aimed at the rest of him.
He liked you, and that made the flirting dangerous.
Bucky had spent too long as a weapon in other people’s hands to enjoy becoming anyone’s entertainment. He knew that was not what you were doing. He knew it with the part of him that assessed threats and the quieter part that had begun to understand kindness when it wore teeth. Still, knowing did not make it easy.
You were a public person. You had exes whose names still trended whenever you attended the same event. Actors, athletes, heirs, musicians, one princess whose denial in an interview had been so unconvincing that even Steve had understood it. You had a reputation the tabloids loved because it sold beautifully: glamorous, flirtatious, unserious, impossible to keep, impossible not to want.
Bucky did not care about tabloids. He cared that you laughed when other people flirted with you. He cared that sometimes you touched their arms. He cared that you were generous with your attention in a way that made everyone feel chosen for exactly as long as you wanted them to. He cared that he had no right to care. He cared that the idea of being one more person orbiting you, one more name in a gossip column, made something old and defensive curl beneath his ribs.
So he pretended not to want.
It worked about as well as all his other bad ideas.
The mission in Prague should have helped. It did not.
You handled a weapons broker with old Hydra ties in a red dress and heels, broke his composure with a smile, and nearly broke his foot when he touched you without permission. Bucky watched from surveillance while Sam and Natasha pretended not to notice the exact moment his jaw locked.
By the time the mission went bad, you had already put two men down, stolen a handgun from a third, and greeted Bucky in the hallway with blood on your knuckles and a cheerful, “Hi, handsome.”
He caught your chin to check the graze on your cheek before he could stop himself.
“Careful,” you said softly. “A girl might think you like her.”
“Extraction first,” he said.
“Romance later?”
“Move.”
“Bossy,” you said, and then you moved.
After Prague, the teasing changed.
Not enough for anyone else to notice immediately. You were still shameless at breakfast, still dramatic in the gym, still prone to calling him gorgeous in public just to watch his left eye twitch. But sometimes, when the room was empty or nearly empty, you let the joke soften at the edges.
You brought him tea one night without making a big deal of it, setting the mug beside him on the balcony and leaning against the railing with your own. The city glittered below the tower, restless and alive.
“You’re thinking loudly,” you said.
He looked at you. “Didn’t know that was part of your power set.”
“It’s not. You get a line between your eyebrows.”
“Maybe I’m brooding.”
“You do that too, but this is different.”
He huffed, taking the mug. “You catalog my facial expressions?”
“Only the handsome ones.”
“Sounds time-consuming.”
“It is, but I’m committed.”
The familiar rhythm was there, but gentler. Bucky let it sit between you.
After a while, you asked, “Do you hate it?”
“What?”
“All of this.” You gestured vaguely, meaning the tower, the team, the city, the life none of you had chosen cleanly. “The attention.”
He looked down at the tea. “Some days.”
“Yeah.”
“You?”
You smiled without much humor. “Some days.”
It should have surprised him. It did not.
You turned your mug in both hands, rings catching the light. “People think it’s the cameras that get old, but cameras are easy. They don’t want anything you can’t predict. It’s the people who look at you and decide they know what’s there. The ones who think access and affection are the same thing.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “You’re good at making them think they got something.”
“I had to be.” You glanced at him. “It’s easier to choose what they take.”
He understood that too well.
Something in his expression must have shown it, because your voice gentled. “I don’t flirt with you because I think you’re easy to embarrass.”
“I am not easy to embarrass.”
“You once short-circuited because I called you pretty.”
“I didn’t short-circuit.”
“You walked into a chair.”
“It was in the way.”
“It was furniture, baby. That’s where it lived.”
Bucky shook his head, but the laugh came easier this time.
You smiled into your mug. “I flirt with you because I like you.”
The air changed.
You did not look away. Neither did he.
“You like everybody,” he said, because old defenses were familiar and his voice still worked around them.
Your smile stayed, but something in it dimmed.
“I’m nice to everybody,” you said. “That’s different.”
He knew that. He had known it for a while, which made his answer crueler than he meant it to be.
You looked back out over the city. “Anyway. Don’t look so scared. I wasn’t asking you to catch up all at once.”
He should have said something then. He knew that later, with a clarity that annoyed him. He should have told you that he liked you too and had no idea what to do with it because wanting things still felt like reaching across a minefield. He should have done anything except stand there holding the tea you had brought him and watching you retreat behind a smile.
Instead, he said nothing.
You did not punish him for it. That would have been easier. You kept being yourself, kept calling him handsome, kept saving him the seat beside you in briefings and pretending it was because you needed “emotional support eye candy.” But you stopped letting the softer moments linger.
Bucky noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything about you now.
Which was why the gala was a disaster before it even started. The event was one of Tony’s, though Pepper had done the actual work and Tony had mostly provided money, branding, and three separate opinions nobody asked for. Bucky tried to get out of it. Steve said attendance mattered. Sam said Bucky needed to stop treating black tie like a war crime. Natasha said nothing, which was worse because her silence contained judgment.
Then you walked into the common room before the cars arrived, and Bucky forgot every argument he had prepared.
You were wearing gold. Not bright gold, not the kind that shouted for attention because it did not know what else to do. This was deeper, warmer, a liquid shade that caught the light when you moved and made your skin look sunlit. The dress crossed over your chest and left your shoulders bare, fitted through the waist before falling in a long line that split high over one thigh. Your hair was styled away from your face. Your mouth was painted soft and glossy. Diamonds winked at your ears like little threats.
The room went briefly, stupidly quiet.
Tony recovered first. “Okay, great. So we’re all underdressed at our own event.”
“You look beautiful,” Steve said.
Wanda smiled. “Very beautiful.”
Sam whistled. “Damn. Barnes, you breathing?”
Bucky looked at him with murder in his heart.
You turned toward Bucky last, which was deliberate. He knew it was deliberate because he knew you now, knew the rhythm of your performances, the way you built a moment and chose where to land it. Your eyes moved over him in his black suit, slow enough to be rude, warm enough to make his spine tighten.
“Well,” you said. “There goes my ability to behave.”
Tony groaned. “Please don’t start before we’re in public.”
“I make no promises.”
Bucky adjusted his cuff because his hands needed something to do. “You ever behave?”
“For you? I could be convinced.”
“Unlikely.”
“Progress,” you said, pointing one manicured finger at him. “You didn’t say impossible.”
Sam leaned toward Steve. “I give him two hours.”
Steve looked confused. “For what?”
“For whatever emotional constipation this is to resolve.”
“I can hear you,” Bucky said.
“I know.”
You crossed the room and stopped in front of Bucky. Up close, your perfume wrapped around him, warm amber and something floral he could not name. Your smile was bright enough for the room, but your eyes searched his face with a quieter question beneath it.
“You clean up nice, Barnes.”
“So do you.”
For once, the answer came without a fight.
Your expression flickered.
Then Tony clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Compliments exchanged. Sexual tension acknowledged by everyone except the two people causing it. Let’s go raise money.”
Bucky was going to kill him.
The gala was worse than he expected. Not because of the security. That was manageable. Not because of the crowd either, though he disliked being surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand and pretend they were not checking whether the metal one felt cold.
It was you. It was the way you belonged there.
The second you stepped onto the carpet, the cameras found you. Your whole posture shifted, not into someone false, exactly, but into someone sharpened for public consumption. You became the woman from magazine covers and fragrance campaigns, the one whose face sold fantasies Bucky did not want to examine too closely while standing three feet away from you.
Reporters called your name, and you gave them what they wanted. A smile over your shoulder. A laugh when one of them asked who you were wearing. A teasing answer when another asked whether there was anyone special in your life.
“Oh, I’m working on it,” you said, and somehow your eyes found Bucky past the cameras.
The reporters followed your gaze.
Sam made a sound as if he were choking on joy.
“Is that Sergeant Barnes?” someone called.
You widened your eyes with perfect innocence. “Is it?”
“Are you two here together?”
Bucky braced himself.
You only smiled and said, “We’re teammates.”
It was the right answer. The professional answer. The safe answer.
Bucky hated it.
Then you reached back without looking, caught his sleeve, and tugged him forward.
“Come on, handsome,” you murmured, low enough that only he heard. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”
“You’d enjoy that too much.”
“Depends where.”
His brain briefly stopped producing language.
You smiled for the cameras.
Bucky stood beside you under the lights and tried not to look like a man thinking about teeth marks on your skin.
Inside, the ballroom was all polished marble, tall windows, white flowers, and wealth pretending to be benevolence. The Avengers were strategically scattered around the room, mingling with donors and keeping a casual watch, but Bucky barely paid attention to any of it.
You disappeared into the crowd like light through water.
He tried not to watch. He failed immediately.
Everywhere you went, people leaned in. Men and women, donors and celebrities, people with expensive watches and practiced laughs. You gave them that glittering public smile, touched a forearm here, accepted a kiss on the cheek there, let someone admire your dress with a grace that made Bucky’s hand curl around his glass until he heard the stem complain.
Sam appeared at his side. “You’re gonna break that.”
Bucky loosened his grip.
“You know,” Sam said, accepting a champagne flute from a passing waiter, “for a guy who’s not interested, you sure look like you’re planning to challenge half the room to ritual combat.”
“I’m watching security.”
“Security is not six foot two, British, and trying to make her laugh by the ice sculpture.”
Bucky’s gaze moved before he could stop it.
Sam hummed. “Interesting.”
“I hate you.”
“That has been established.”
The man beside you was exactly the kind of person Bucky had seen in magazines he pretended not to notice on coffee tables. An actor, probably. Handsome in a polished, expensive way, with dark blond hair, a white dinner jacket, and the lazy confidence of a man used to doors opening before he touched them. He was standing too close. You did not seem bothered. That was part of the problem.
You laughed at something he said.
Bucky hated him.
“Who is he?” Bucky asked.
“Oh, we’re doing that?”
“Wilson.”
Sam took a sip of champagne and looked delighted by the entire situation. “Julian Hale. Actor. British. Very famous cheekbones. Dated a princess once, if the internet is to be believed, which it isn’t, but sometimes it gets lucky.”
Across the room, Julian Hale touched your waist.
It was brief. A guiding hand, barely there, the kind of touch that could be explained away by the crowd, by the noise, by the half step he encouraged you to take so someone could pass behind you. You did not flinch. You did not step away. You kept smiling.
Bucky’s vision narrowed.
Sam’s voice changed. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to invent a new international incident.”
“His hand’s on her.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s tone was careful now, without the teasing edge. “And she can remove it if she wants to.”
Bucky knew that. The knowledge landed hard because it was true. You were not helpless. You were not cornered. You had broken a weapons broker’s foot in heels and threatened his hand in Russian. If you wanted Julian Hale away from you, he would be away from you.
The problem was not that Bucky thought you needed saving. The problem was that he wanted to be allowed to care.
That was worse.
You looked up then, as if you felt the weight of him watching. Your eyes met his across the room. For half a second, the public smile slipped. Something else took its place, something private and questioning.
Bucky did nothing.
Julian leaned down to say something near your ear.
You looked away first.
Bucky set his glass on the nearest tray and walked toward the balcony. The night air helped, but not enough.
Outside, the music softened behind the closed doors, reduced to bass and strings through glass. The balcony overlooked the city, all lights and distance, and Bucky gripped the stone railing with both hands until the cold settled into his metal palm and the other hand stopped wanting to hit something.
He was being ridiculous. He knew that. He had no claim on you. He had made sure of it, in fact. Every time you had stepped closer, he had stepped back. Every time you had offered him a joke with honesty folded inside it, he had taken the joke and left the honesty untouched.
Except you had never been holding a knife.
You had been holding out your hand.
The door opened behind him.
Bucky did not turn around. “I’m not in the mood, Wilson.”
“Tragic,” you said. “I wore the good dress and everything.”
His eyes closed briefly. Of course.
You came to stand beside him at the railing, close but not touching. For once, you did not fill the silence immediately. Bucky could see you in the corner of his eye, gold dress shifting in the wind, one hand resting on the stone, the other holding your shoes by their delicate straps.
“You left your own party,” you said after a moment.
“Not my party.”
“You’re on the posters.”
“Against my will.”
“You look very handsome on them.”
He glanced at you despite himself. “That why you came out here? To tell me I photograph well?”
“I came out here because you disappeared.”
“You were busy.”
Your eyebrows rose slightly. “Was I?”
“With Hale.”
Bucky regretted it the second it left his mouth. Not because it was false, but because it sounded exactly like what it was: jealousy dressed badly as observation.
Your mouth curved. “Julian?”
“You on a first-name basis with everybody who puts a hand on you?”
The silence that followed was not loud, not dramatic, but it cut cleanly through the air between you.
Your smile faded.
Bucky’s stomach dropped.
“That came out wrong,” he said.
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“What part?”
He looked at you then. Really looked. Your posture had changed, the playful ease folding away into something guarded. Not hurt, exactly, or not only hurt. Disappointed. That was worse. He had seen you deflect rudeness from reporters, donors, strangers who thought your smile gave them permission. He had never wanted to be counted among them.
“All of it,” he said.
You studied him for a moment, then looked out over the city. “He’s an actor. We did a campaign together three years ago. He flirts because he likes attention, and I let him because attention is half of this room’s currency.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Bucky’s jaw worked.
You turned toward him, shoes dangling from two fingers, the city light catching in your earrings. “Because that sounded a little like you think I don’t know when someone is touching me.”
His chest tightened. “I don’t think that.”
“Good.”
“I know you can handle yourself.”
“Great.”
“That’s not what bothered me.”
Your expression shifted.
The admission sat between you, more revealing than he had intended, but Bucky forced himself not to retreat. He was tired of retreating. Tired of watching you offer him chances while he pretended they were traps.
Your voice went softer. “What bothered you?”
He looked down at his hands on the railing. Metal and flesh. Past and present. Both capable of holding too tightly if he was not careful.
“I didn’t like him touching you.”
The honesty was rough, but it was honest.
You inhaled slowly.
Bucky made himself meet your eyes. “I know I don’t have a right to that.”
“No,” you said. “You don’t.”
The answer landed where it should.
Then you stepped closer.
“But you could,” you said.
Bucky stared at you.
The city noise seemed very far away.
You smiled faintly, but there was no performance in it now. No cameras, no audience, no easy escape disguised as a joke. “That’s been on the table for a while, Barnes.”
His heart beat once, hard.
“You flirt with everyone,” he said, because apparently some stubborn, stupid part of him needed to hear you say it again.
“I perform with everyone.” Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. “I flirt with you.”
He had no defense against that.
“You told me you liked me,” he said.
“I did.”
“I was an ass.”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry.”
Your expression softened. “I know.”
“I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“I know that too.”
The gentleness nearly undid him. Bucky could handle anger. Anger had edges he understood. He could handle teasing because it gave him somewhere to hide. But you were looking at him like you had seen the frightened thing beneath the jealousy and decided not to make it bleed for your entertainment.
He wanted to kiss you so badly it felt like pain.
You seemed to read that too. Your mouth curved, the menace returning just enough to make his pulse jump.
“Careful,” you said. “You’re looking at me like I’m winning.”
Bucky turned fully toward you. “You always this smug?”
“When I’m right.”
“You think you’re right?”
“I think you’re jealous, annoyed about it, wildly attracted to me, and about three seconds away from doing something reckless.”
He stepped closer. “That so?”
Your eyes brightened. “Two seconds.”
“Still think this is funny?”
“A little.” Your voice dipped. “I also think you should kiss me before I start flirting with someone else just to prove a point.”
His hand caught your waist. You went still, but not with fear. Bucky felt the change in you beneath his palm, the quick breath, the way your body answered before you had time to make a joke of it.
“Don’t,” he said.
Your eyes lifted to his. “Don’t what?”
“Flirt with someone else.”
The words should have embarrassed him. Maybe they would later. Right now, with you this close and the city wind moving around you, he could not make himself care.
Your smile faded into parted lips.
“Bucky,” you said, and it was the first time you had used his name instead of Barnes.
That was what broke him.
He kissed you. For a second, it was almost careful. His mouth found yours with all the restraint he had spent months pretending was indifference, one hand at your waist, the other still braced on the railing because touching you with both felt like admitting too much at once.
Then you made a soft, pleased sound against his mouth and everything careful in him snapped. Bucky pulled you closer. Your shoes dropped to the balcony with a quiet clatter, your hands coming up to grip his jacket as he deepened the kiss. You tasted like champagne and gloss, sweet and warm, and you kissed him like you had been waiting to do it for so long that patience had become offensive. Your fingers slid into his hair. He groaned before he could stop himself.
You smiled against his mouth.
He nipped at your lower lip in warning.
You gasped.
The sound went straight through him.
“Still annoying?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth.
“Still not interested?”
He kissed your jaw, felt your pulse jump beneath his lips, and tightened his hand at your waist. “Don’t push it.”
“Oh, baby,” you breathed, and the endearment hit differently now, stripped of performance and made intimate by the way your voice trembled. “Pushing it is my best quality.”
Bucky drew back enough to look at you. Your lipstick was smudged. Your eyes were dark. The woman who had smiled for a hundred cameras looked at him like she wanted to be ruined somewhere private and had already decided he was the only man in the building qualified for the job.
His entire body went hot.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
Your brows lifted. “Are we?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
He gave you a look.
There it was again, that wicked smile. “Just confirming. You’re new to this whole admitting-things process.”
Bucky bent, picked up your shoes, and caught your hand.
You laughed as he pulled you toward the door, bright enough that two people near the bar turned to look when you stepped back inside. Sam spotted you first, his face transforming with open delight.
Bucky glared at him. “No.”
Sam’s mouth opened.
“Wilson.”
Sam closed his mouth with visible effort.
You wiggled your fingers at him as Bucky guided you past. “Goodnight, Sam.”
Sam looked as if Christmas had come early. “Goodnight, future Mrs. Barnes.”
Bucky kept walking.
You nearly tripped over your own laugh. “Future Mrs. Barnes?”
“Don’t encourage him.”
“I don’t know. It has a ring to it.”
Bucky leaned closer as you reached the corridor. “Keep talking, and I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”
The sound you made was small, sharp, and not laughter.
Bucky stopped walking.
Your voice softened. “Promise?”
Something dark and hot moved through him.
“Car,” he said.
“Elevator,” you countered.
“We’re not doing this in an elevator.”
“Cameras?” you guessed.
“Cameras.”
You paused. “Right. Sensible. Deeply disappointing, but sensible.”
The ride back to the tower was torture. The partition stayed up. Your shoes lay abandoned on the floor. Your lipstick was ruined, his tie was crooked, and every time your hand drifted toward his thigh, Bucky caught your wrist before you could make the driver’s job any more uncomfortable.
“You’re very strict for a man who just dragged me out of a gala,” you murmured.
“You were going to behave until we got upstairs.”
“I never agreed to that.”
“No,” he said, pulling you across the seat and into his lap with one arm around your waist. “You didn’t.”
Your breath caught, hands landing on his shoulders as your dress rode higher over your thighs.
Bucky’s hands settled at your hips. “This a problem?”
“No.” Your voice came out softer than before. “Definitely not.”
“You wanted attention.”
“I usually do.”
“You’ve got it.”
Your smile flickered, and for the first time that night, you looked almost overwhelmed.
Bucky stroked his thumbs over your hips. “Still with me?”
“Yeah.” You let out a breath and laughed quietly. “Sorry. It’s just…”
“What?”
“You.”
That did something stupid to his chest.
His hands tightened on your hips.
“Me?” he asked.
You nodded. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Barnes.”
His body reacted hard to the words, but underneath that, something else opened, uncertain and hungry in a way that had very little to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted by someone who knew he was difficult.
“Bucky,” he said.
Your brow creased. “What?”
“My name.” He swallowed. “When it’s like this, use my name.”
The softness that moved through your expression was almost unbearable.
Then you leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, your hands gentle at the sides of his face.
“Bucky,” you whispered against his mouth.
He held you tighter.
By the time the car reached the tower, both of you looked bad enough that Natasha stopped in the lobby, took one look at your face, Bucky’s mouth, and the shoes in his hand, and smiled.
“So I see,” she said.
Bucky kept walking. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Eventually.”
Clint, who had been crossing the lobby beside her with a pastry in hand, pointed at Bucky. “Steve owes Sam twenty bucks.”
Bucky closed his eyes.
You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the elevator. “Goodnight!”
Natasha’s voice followed you. “Hydrate.”
The elevator doors closed on your laughter. Bucky hit the button for the residential floors.
You leaned against the wall, still laughing. “Hydrate.”
“Don’t.”
“I like her.”
“Everyone likes her. That’s how she gets away with everything.”
“You like me, and I get away with almost nothing.”
Bucky looked over at you. “You think you get away with nothing?”
“With you? Absolutely not. You’re very mean to me.”
“You’ve been sexually harassing me for months.”
“I have been romantically persistent.”
“You called me a slutty Victorian ghost in front of Fury.”
“You were wearing that coat.”
“It was tactical.”
“It had drama buttons.”
Bucky stepped closer. “You like the coat.”
“I love the coat. I wanted to climb you like a tree in the coat.”
His mouth twitched. “At a debrief?”
“It was a very boring debrief.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet.” You hooked one finger into his loosened tie and tugged him closer. “Here you are.”
The elevator rose.
Bucky let himself be pulled. Your smile softened when he came near, and he thought, not for the first time, that the worst thing about you was not the flirting. It was the moments after, when the joke stepped aside and left all that wanting visible.
He cupped your jaw. “You sure?”
You blinked. “About you?”
“About tonight.”
The question sobered you slightly, but not in a bad way. You held his gaze. “Yes.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Two glasses of champagne over four hours, one of which I abandoned because Julian started explaining his movie to me.”
“Tragic.”
“Deeply.” Your fingers slid over his wrist. “I’m sure, Bucky.”
His name in your mouth still hit like a touch.
“And if I say something you don’t like?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you.”
“If I do something you don’t like?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“If you want to stop?”
“I’ll tell you.” Your voice softened. “I need you to believe me.”
He nodded once.
You leaned in, brushing your mouth over his. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
The elevator doors opened.
Bucky caught your hand and pulled you into the hall.
“Tell me,” he said.
Your steps faltered.
He looked back. “You had plenty to say before.”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
Bucky smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
“Oh,” you said faintly. “You’re going to be awful.”
“You like awful.”
“I like you.”
He nearly lost the thread entirely.
His room was closer than yours. He chose his because it was familiar. Controlled. Sparse, though less than it had been when he first moved in. A few books on the shelf. A jacket over a chair. Clean sheets because Steve had once broken into his room, taken one look at the bed, and muttered something about “bachelor despair.”
Bucky unlocked the door. You stepped inside and went quiet. That, more than anything, made him nervous. He watched you take in the room, the low light, the neatly made bed, the absence of clutter. There was no judgment on your face. Just curiosity, and something like care.
“You can say it,” he said.
You turned back. “Say what?”
“That it looks like nobody lives here.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“But you thought it.”
“A little.” You walked to the bookshelf, trailing one finger along the spines without pulling anything out. “Mostly I thought it smells like you.”
Bucky shut the door. “That a good thing?”
You looked over your shoulder. “Very.”
The lock clicked. The sound changed the room.
He crossed the room slowly. You stayed where you were, one hand still on the shelf, chin lifted like a challenge.
“Last chance,” he said.
Your eyes darkened. “For you or me?”
“For behaving.”
That smile again. “I already told you I’m bad at that.”
Bucky stopped in front of you. “I noticed.”
“Still interested?”
His hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing the ruined edge of your lipstick. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Could be a friendly escort.”
“To my bedroom?”
“You’re old-fashioned.”
His thumb pressed lightly against your lower lip. “Open.”
Your lashes fluttered, and for one perfect second, you did exactly what he told you. Your lips parted beneath his thumb, breath warming his skin.
Then your eyes narrowed with returning mischief. You bit his thumb. Gently.
Bucky stared at you. You smiled around it.
He laughed once, low and disbelieving, and the sound seemed to please you until his metal hand closed around your hip and turned you, backing you into the shelf with careful force. Your breath caught. A few books shifted behind you.
“You think you’re cute?” he asked.
“I know I am.”
His mouth brushed your cheek. “You’ve been poking the monster for months, sweetheart.”
The pet name slipped out before he could stop it. He felt the effect immediately. Your breath stuttered, your hand tightening in his jacket. His gaze sharpened.
“Oh,” he murmured. “You like that.”
You looked irritated, which would have been more convincing if you were not flushed to your chest. “Don’t be so smug.”
“You’ve been smug since March.”
“I was charming.”
“You were a menace.”
“You liked it.”
His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, following the open slit in your dress. Your words caught as his fingers found warm skin.
“I did,” Bucky said.
Your eyes snapped to his.
He held your gaze, hand moving higher by slow degrees. “‘S’that what you wanted to hear?”
For once, you did not have an immediate answer.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. “You wanted to get under my skin so bad.”
“I did get under your skin.”
“Yeah.” His fingers tightened on your thigh. “You did.”
Your lips parted.
Bucky kissed you before you could fill the silence with something clever. He kissed you deep, pressing you back against the shelf until he felt your body yield beneath his. Your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid under his jacket, pushing it down his arms with impatience.
Your fingers went to his tie next.
Bucky caught both your wrists. You stilled immediately, breathless against his mouth.
His eyes searched yours. “Still okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Bucky,” you said, and the impatience in it soothed him more than any soft reassurance would have. “I swear to God, if you don’t touch me, I’m going to become difficult.”
“You’re already difficult.”
“I can get worse.”
“I know.”
You tugged against his grip. “Then do something about it.”
The last of his restraint went very, very quiet. Bucky released one wrist and guided you back toward the bed. You went willingly, though you tried to keep your smile in place. It slipped when the backs of your thighs hit the mattress. He stood in front of you, close enough that your knees brushed his legs.
For a moment, he just looked at you.
Your chin tipped up. “What?”
“Trying to decide where to start.”
Your breath caught.
Then, because you were you, your smile returned. “I can make suggestions.”
“I bet you can.”
“Several.”
“Generous.”
“I’m a giver.”
Bucky’s hand went to your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to quiet you. “You’re a brat.”
Your eyes lit.
He felt that reaction everywhere.
“And you like that too,” he said.
You swallowed. “Definitely.”
“Better.”
Your thighs pressed together.
Bucky noticed.
He lowered himself slowly, one knee touching the floor between your feet.
Your expression changed at once.
“Oh,” you said, much smaller than before.
Bucky looked up at you, his hands sliding over your calves. “Still got suggestions?”
Your mouth opened.
No sound came out.
He smiled again, slower this time. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
His lips brushed the inside of your knee.
You watched him like you were afraid to blink.
“I had a whole speech prepared,” you said.
His mouth moved higher. “Did you?”
“Very persuasive.”
“I’m sure.”
“I was going to tell you how much you want me.”
He kissed the inside of your thigh, just above the slit of your dress. “I know how much I want you.”
Your breath hitched.
“Do you?” you asked.
Bucky looked up at you. “You want me to prove it?”
The answer left you quickly. “Yes.”
He smiled. “Good.”
His hands slid farther beneath your dress, slow enough to make it deliberate, warm flesh and cool metal moving over your thighs with the same careful pressure.
Your fingers curled into the edge of the mattress. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’ve listened to you run your mouth for months.” His lips brushed higher, close enough that your next breath went uneven. “Let me have my fun.”
“Your fun is very mean.”
His mouth curved against the inside of your thigh. “You want me to stop?”
Your answer came too fast to be dignified. “No.”
Bucky’s smile deepened. His hand slipped higher, thumb tracing the edge of your underwear beneath the dress, and your knees tried to close around his shoulders. He let them. He even turned his head and kissed the inside of one thigh.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
You gave a breathless laugh. “I’m being polite.”
“Liar.”
“I am a delight.”
“You’re soaked.”
Your entire body went hot.
Bucky looked up at you with the unbearable calm of a man who knew exactly what he had found. His thumb pressed again, dragging lightly over damp fabric, and your grip on the mattress tightened hard enough that your knuckles ached.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “All that talking, and this is what you wanted?”
You swallowed. “Among other things.”
“Still making suggestions?”
“I’m trying to decide if I hate you.”
His eyes warmed. “You don’t.”
“I could.”
“You won’t.”
You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but then he leaned in and kissed you over your underwear, and the argument vanished somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The sound that came out of you was embarrassingly soft. Bucky heard it anyway. His fingers flexed against your thighs, and the next kiss was slower, firmer, open-mouthed enough that your hips lifted before you could stop them.
He made a low sound of approval that went through you like heat.
“That’s it,” he said, the words rougher now. “There you are.”
His fingers hooked into your underwear. He paused there, waiting.
You looked down at him. “Bucky.”
That was all you had to say.
He drew them down your legs, taking his time despite the way his breathing had changed, and tucked them into his pocket with a look that made your pulse jump.
“Really?” you asked.
His hands returned to your thighs. “You want them back?”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
His smile was sharp. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he leaned in.
The first touch of his mouth was enough to knock the air from your lungs. Bucky groaned like he had been the one waiting, like the taste of you had answered some question he had been refusing to ask all night. His hands gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed, and you fell back onto one elbow, the other hand flying to his hair.
“Fuck,” you breathed.
He hummed against you.
His tongue moved over you again, and your hand tightened in his hair.
“Bucky.”
He groaned at the sound of his name, one hand sliding higher to hold your hips down when they jerked toward his mouth. His mouth was hot and merciless, his stubble scraping the inside of your thighs, his metal hand cool against your hip where the dress had bunched around your waist.
You tried to say something. It came out as a broken little sound.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark enough to make your stomach twist.
“You had a comment?”
“I forgot it.”
“Good.”
“Smug,” you accused, but there was no strength behind it.
He kissed your thigh. “Pretty.”
That was unfair.
You made a sound that was half a laugh and half a whimper. “You can’t call me that when you’re down there.”
“I can call you whatever I want when you’re this wet for me.”
Your head tipped back, eyes closing. “Jesus.”
“That bother you?”
“No.”
“Then take it.”
His mouth returned before you could recover, and this time, two fingers pressed against you, spreading slickness before easing inside. Your body took him greedily, clenching around the slow push of his fingers, and Bucky’s groan vibrated against your clit.
Your hand tightened in his hair again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
He set a steady rhythm, fingers curling inside you while his mouth worked over you with devastating focus. The room narrowed to the scrape of his stubble, the pressure of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the soft obscene sounds of his mouth between your legs. Your thighs began to tremble, and his metal hand shifted from your hip to your stomach, pressing you down when you tried to arch away from how good it felt.
“Don’t run,” he said against you.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m preserving my dignity.”
He laughed softly. “Little late for that.”
You would have cursed at him if he had not chosen that moment to curl his fingers again, hitting the place that made your whole body go tight. His name broke out of you, too loud, too needy, too honest, and Bucky made a sound like that alone could have ruined him.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me have it.”
The orgasm hit hard enough that the room went white at the edges. You came with his mouth still on you and his fingers buried inside you, thighs shaking around his shoulders while he worked you through it. He softened his mouth, slowed his hand, but kept touching until your breath turned into little broken sounds and you had to tug at his hair.
“Bucky,” you gasped. “Too much.”
He stopped immediately.
For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing.
Then he kissed the inside of your thigh, gentle now, and stood.
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His hair was a mess from your hands, his tie loose, his shirt still buttoned but wrinkled where you had grabbed him. His mouth was wet from you. He looked wrecked and controlled at the same time, which felt deeply unfair when you were sprawled on his bed with your dress around your waist and your ability to speak in complete sentences somewhere on the floor.
He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head. “You okay?”
You nodded, then remembered words. “Yeah.”
His gaze searched yours. “Too much?”
“No.” Your hand lifted to his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. “Just enough to make me regret every time I let you leave a room without doing that.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Every time?”
“I’m dramatic, not dishonest.”
He turned his head and kissed your palm.
You caught his tie and pulled. “Come here.”
He came willingly, covering your body with his and kissing you deep. You tasted yourself on his mouth and moaned into it, hips lifting against him. He was hard where he pressed between your thighs, thick and restrained by the fabric of his pants, and the feel of him made you impatient all over again.
Your hands went to his shirt.
This time, he let you.
The buttons were more difficult than they had any right to be, mostly because he kept kissing you and partly because your fingers had not fully recovered. Bucky made a low, amused sound against your mouth when you fumbled with the third one.
“Don’t laugh,” you warned.
“I’m not.”
“You are spiritually laughing.”
“Spiritually?”
“Don’t question me while I’m undressing you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The words were dry, but his breath caught when your hands finally pushed the shirt open. You smoothed your palms over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the hard lines of muscle, the scars where skin changed and history refused to be quiet. He went very still beneath your touch.
You noticed immediately.
Your hands slowed. “Okay?”
His eyes flicked to yours.
For a second, the room held its breath.
Then he nodded. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Using my lines on me?”
“They’re good lines.”
His shoulders eased, just a little. “I’m sure.”
You sat up enough to kiss his chest, right over his heart. Bucky’s hand came to the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. You kissed another scar, then another, careful not because you thought he might break, but because you wanted him to know you saw him and wanted him anyway.
When you looked up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that stole some of the teasing from your tongue.
“Still with me?” you asked.
His hand slid along your cheek. “Yeah.”
The word came out rough.
You kissed him again. This time, the kiss was slower. His hands moved over your back, finding the closure of your dress, and you let him turn you enough to work it open. The fabric loosened with a soft whisper. He drew it down carefully, and you lifted your hips so he could pull it away.
Then you were in front of him in nothing but jewelry and the ruined remains of your composure.
Bucky stared.
You gave him half a smile. “Careful. A girl might get shy.”
“No, she won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
The answer landed low in your stomach.
He touched you then, both hands moving from your waist to your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he lowered his mouth to follow. Your head fell back as he kissed and licked and learned you with the same terrible patience he had used between your thighs. When his mouth closed around one nipple and his metal hand held your waist still, you arched hard enough that he had to press you back down.
“Sensitive,” he murmured.
“Observant.”
“Smart mouth.”
“You like my mouth.”
“I do.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”
Heat rushed through you. “Have you?”
“Every time you called me handsome in front of half the team.”
“You poor thing.”
“Every time you blew me a kiss across the gym.”
“I was motivating you.”
“Every time you bent over a briefing table like you didn’t know what you were doing.”
You blinked. “I always know what I’m doing.”
His mouth curved. “I know.”
Then he kissed lower, over your stomach, and the laugh that had been forming turned into a gasp.
You reached for his belt. “Bucky.”
He caught your wrist again, but only to bring your hand to his mouth and kiss your knuckles. “What do you want?”
“You.”
“Specific.”
“You are such an asshole.”
He smiled. “Specific,” he repeated.
You stared at him, breathing hard, pride fighting a losing battle with need.
“I want you inside me,” you said finally.
His expression changed.
“I can do that,” he said.
Your smile came back, softer this time. “Competent?”
His hand went to his belt. “Very.”
He stripped without performance, which somehow made it worse, shirt hitting the floor, belt sliding free, pants pushed down with a controlled impatience that told you he was closer to the edge than he looked. When he finally climbed back over you, bare and warm and heavy between your thighs, your ability to joke deserted you entirely.
He noticed.
“Quiet again,” he said, mouth brushing yours.
“Busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Reconsidering all my life choices.”
His smile softened. “Regrets?”
“Mostly that I didn’t try harder.”
Bucky laughed, but it caught when your hand slid between your bodies and wrapped around him. He was hot and thick in your palm, his hips pressing forward before he could stop himself. His forehead dropped to yours.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“Not so cocky now, are you?” you whispered.
His eyes opened.
You smiled up at him, thumb stroking over the tip of his cock, and watched his restraint fray in real time.
He caught your wrist after another stroke. “Condom.”
It was not really a question, but you nodded toward the nightstand. “Please tell me Steve’s bachelor despair intervention included supplies.”
Bucky huffed a laugh and reached for the drawer. “He’s thorough.”
“Heroic, really.”
He found one, tore it open, then paused. “You’re sure?”
You looked at him then, at the seriousness under the heat, and something in you softened so quickly it almost hurt.
“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want you.”
His jaw tightened.
You touched his face. “Bucky.”
He kissed you as he rolled the condom on, and the kiss was so intimate that it made the next moment feel even sharper. He settled between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to you. The first press of him stole the air from your lungs.
He stopped immediately. “Okay?”
“Yes.” Your hands gripped his shoulders. “Just go slow.”
His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve got you.”
You believed him.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust even though his breath was rough against your mouth and his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. The stretch was intense, almost too much, then perfect, then overwhelming all over again. You clung to him, nails pressing into his back, and Bucky whispered praise against your mouth until he was fully inside you and both of you went still.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved.
You had flirted with him for months. You had imagined this, wanted this, teased him because wanting him quietly had started to feel impossible. But imagination had not prepared you for the weight of him, the heat of him, the way his body covered yours like he had finally stopped deciding whether he deserved to be there.
Your throat tightened.
Bucky brushed his nose against yours. “Hey.”
You swallowed. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” You managed a smile. “You’re just a lot.”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve heard that before.”
You pinched his side.
He laughed under his breath, then groaned when the movement made you clench around him. His eyes dropped closed.
“Oh,” you said, interest returning through the haze. “You like that.”
“Don’t start.”
“I think I should start.”
He drew his hips back slowly and pushed in again.
Your words dissolved.
Bucky’s smile was brief and devastating. “That’s what I thought.”
The pace stayed slow at first, deep enough to make your breath catch every time he filled you. His metal hand slid beneath your hip, lifting you slightly, changing the angle until pleasure sparked bright and sudden through your body. Your head fell back into the pillow.
“Bucky.”
“I know.” His voice was rough. “I know, sweetheart.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, needing more of his weight, more of his heat, more of the quiet sounds he made when you clenched around him.
He kissed you through it. Messy, breathless kisses that kept breaking when one of you moaned or when his rhythm faltered because you dragged your nails down his back. He muttered your name against your mouth, then against your throat, then into the curve of your shoulder as the careful pace began to slip.
You liked the moment he lost patience.
You liked it more than you should have.
One second, he was controlled, moving like he could make restraint last all night if he had to. The next, your hips lifted into his at the wrong angle or the right one, and something in him broke. He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with his metal hand, the cool pressure making your whole body tighten around him.
His eyes snapped to yours. “Okay?”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, don’t stop.”
He did not.
The next thrust drove you higher on the bed, hard enough to pull a cry from your throat. Bucky made a low, wrecked sound and did it again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours into the mattress while his free hand gripped your hip. Every thrust pushed the breath out of you. Every drag back made you desperate for the next one.
“Still got something to say?” he asked.
You tried. You really did.
What came out was not language.
Bucky’s mouth found your neck, teeth scraping just below your jaw. “Mouthy little thing until I get my cock in you.”
The words should have embarrassed you. They did embarrass you, which was unfortunately part of the problem. Heat rushed through you so sharply that you clenched around him, and Bucky swore, hips stuttering before he recovered.
“There it is,” he said. “You like being talked to like that?”
“Yes.”
His hand tightened on your wrists. “You like me jealous?”
Your eyes flew open.
He lifted his head, looking down at you with his hair falling loose around his face and his mouth swollen from kissing you. There was vulnerability beneath the possessiveness, something exposed and honest enough to change the shape of the question.
You pulled against his hold, not to get away, but because you wanted your hands on him. He understood after a second and let go.
You touched his face at once. “I like when you want me enough to stop pretending you don’t.”
His expression shifted.
Then he kissed you, and the kiss was almost too much, too deep and too honest for the frantic movement of his hips. You held onto him as he fucked you harder, his body heavy over yours, your name breaking out of him like a confession. Pleasure built again, faster this time, sharpened by the orgasm he had already given you and the steady drag of him inside you.
“Bucky,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m close.”
His hand slid between your bodies.
You nearly sobbed when his fingers found your clit.
“Come for me,” he said. “Let me feel it.”
You did.
The orgasm tore through you, harder than the first, your whole body locking around him as pleasure crashed hot and bright through your veins. Bucky held you through it, thrusting shallowly while you clenched around him, his mouth at your temple and his voice rough with praise you could barely understand.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, that’s it. So pretty like this.”
The praise only made it last longer.
By the time you came back to yourself, Bucky was shaking above you, jaw tight, every muscle in his body pulled taut with restraint.
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Come on, baby.”
His breath caught.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I want it.”
That was enough.
Bucky buried his face against your neck and came with a broken groan, hips pressing deep as his body finally gave in. You held him through it, fingers in his hair, your own body still trembling beneath his. For a long moment, he stayed there, breathing hard against your skin, heavy enough to ground you but not enough to hurt.
The room went quiet around you.
Eventually, his arm shifted, bracing some of his weight. “Am I crushing you?”
“A little,” you said.
He started to move.
You tightened your arms around him. “I didn’t say stop.”
His laugh was exhausted and warm against your shoulder. “Brat.”
“Sweetheart,” you corrected.
He lifted his head.
You smiled up at him, softer than you meant to. “You said it first.”
Something flickered through his face.
Then he kissed you, gentle now. “Sweetheart,” he said, quieter, like he was testing how it felt when nobody was hiding.
You felt embarrassingly close to crying, which was rude of your body after everything else it had already done tonight.
Bucky noticed. His thumb brushed your cheek. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
His brow rose.
You huffed. “I am.”
“That means yes, or that means stop asking?”
The echo of your own question from months ago made your chest ache. “It means I’m fine.”
“Mm,” he said. “We’ll workshop that.”
You stared at him.
The smile came slowly.
“Oh, you absolute nightmare.”
He kissed you again before you could say anything worse.
Afterward, Bucky cleaned you up with a gentleness that left you strangely quiet. He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, his boxers pulled on haphazardly, his hair a disaster and his expression too careful. He moved slowly, checking your face more than he needed to, watching for any sign that you had changed your mind now that the wanting had settled.
You caught his wrist when he finished.
“Bucky.”
He looked at you.
“I’m fine.”
His shoulders eased by a fraction. His fingers turned in your grip until he was holding your hand.
“Yeah,” he said.
You tugged lightly. “Come back to bed.”
He did.
The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted toward him immediately, which seemed to surprise him even after everything. You rested your cheek against his chest, one leg thrown over his, the sheet pulled messily around your waist. His arm hovered for half a second before settling around you.
“You’re thinking loudly again,” you murmured.
His fingers moved once over your back. “You’re going to be unbearable now.”
You smiled against his skin. “I was unbearable before.”
“Worse, then.”
“Probably.” You lifted your head enough to look at him. “You can handle me.”
His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”
“You’re very competent.”
That got you a small smile.
You rested your chin on his chest. “Are you okay?”
He was quiet for long enough that you did not think he would answer. Then his hand slid slowly up your back, warm and steady.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.
There was no self-pity in it. Just honesty, rough around the edges.
You softened. “Do what?”
“This.” His fingers brushed your shoulder. “Wanting someone. Having it. Keeping it without waiting for it to go bad.”
Your heart hurt.
“I don’t need you to be good at it right away,” you said. “I just need you not to punish both of us because you’re scared.”
His eyes met yours.
You held his gaze. “And I need you to talk to me before you start glaring at actors like you’re deciding where to hide the body.”
His mouth twitched. “He had it coming.”
“Bucky.”
“He touched your waist.”
“You dragged me out of the gala and fucked me in your bed. I promise you won that exchange.”
A laugh broke out of him, surprised and real, and you grinned because you had earned that.
After a moment, he said, “I don’t want to be one more person in the crowd looking at you.”
You went still.
Bucky looked away, as if the confession had cost more than he meant it to. Before he could retreat completely, you touched his jaw and guided him back.
“You’re not,” you said.
His eyes searched yours.
“You were never that,” you continued. “That’s why it was so annoying when you kept acting like you were.”
His brows lifted. “Annoying?”
“Deeply. Tragically.” You tapped his chest. “I was doing excellent work.”
“You were harassing me.”
“I was courting you.”
“You bit my thumb.”
“You liked it.”
He looked at you for a long moment. “I did.”
Your pulse jumped, even now.
Bucky noticed that too, and his expression warmed with a darker kind of satisfaction. “Interesting.”
“Behave,” you warned.
His mouth curved. “That’s my line.”
“You’ll live.”
“I might.”
You were smiling when the next words slipped out, too soft to be a joke and too honest to call back.
“I wanted a boyfriend, you know.”
He froze.
For one terrible second, all the warmth in the room seemed to hold still.
Bucky lifted his head.
You tried for a smile, but it felt shaky at the edges. “Emotionally unavailable boyfriend, technically. I’m flexible.”
His expression softened in a way that made your throat tighten.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You could have backed away. Made it a joke. Given him the escape hatch you had always been so good at pretending you did not need. Instead, you looked up at him and let the truth sit plainly between you.
“Yeah.”
Bucky’s hand came to your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, so gentle it made the rest of him feel even heavier beside you.
“I can do boyfriend,” he said.
Your heart gave a stupid, hopeful little kick. “Can you?”
“I’ll probably be bad at it.”
“I’ll workshop you.”
He huffed a laugh. “Of course you will.”
“I’m very persuasive.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“Foreplay,” you said.
His mouth curved.
Then he kissed you, and this time, there was nothing frantic in it. It was slow and deep and almost painfully sweet, a kiss that felt less like surrender than arrival. You wrapped yourself around him and let him take his time, because Bucky was warm and solid beside you, because his mouth was soft when he wanted it to be, because the man who had spent months pretending not to want you had finally stopped pretending.
Much later, you woke to pale morning light and the smell of coffee.
For one disoriented second, you thought you were in your own room. Then you shifted and felt the pleasant ache in your thighs, the warmth of a body beside yours, and the weight of Bucky’s arm around your waist.
You opened your eyes.
He was awake, propped on one elbow, looking at you like he had been caught doing something private.
“Hi,” you said, voice rough with sleep.
His expression eased. “Hi.”
“You watched me sleep? Very gothic of you.”
“I woke up two minutes ago.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe ten.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
His mouth twitched. “Apparently.”
The answer was too easy. Too honest. It warmed you all the way through.
You stretched carefully, then winced.
Bucky’s hand moved at once. “Sore?”
“A little.”
His face changed. “Too much?”
“No.” You turned into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Exactly enough.”
He looked unconvinced, because he was Bucky.
You sighed. “I will accept pampering, though.”
“That so?”
“Yes. I’m very delicate.”
He looked down at the marks his mouth had left on your neck, then back at your face.
You smiled. “Emotionally.”
That got you a quiet laugh. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your mouth, soft enough that you melted into it despite the morning breath concerns you decided not to acknowledge because romance required sacrifice.
A knock sounded at the door.
Both of you froze.
Then Sam’s voice came through from the hall. “I’m not coming in because I value my life, but Steve wants to know if you two are alive, Natasha says hydrate again, and Tony says if the bed is broken, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”
You buried your face in Bucky’s chest.
Bucky closed his eyes. “Go away, Sam.”
“I also brought coffee.”
You lifted your head. “Wait.”
Bucky looked betrayed.
You patted his chest. “Baby, I love whatever brooding domestic morning-after thing you’re doing right now, but I need coffee if I’m going to survive the team knowing you rearranged my insides.”
From the hall, Sam made a delighted choking sound. “Oh my God.”
Bucky threw a pillow at the door.
It hit with a soft thump. Sam laughed all the way down the hall.
You collapsed back against the mattress, laughing too, and after a second, Bucky gave in. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until your laughter softened into a smile against his skin.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
“You knew that on Tuesday.”
“I knew it before then.”
You tipped your face up. “And yet.”
His eyes moved over you, warm and a little helpless, the way they had looked last night right before everything changed.
“And yet,” he agreed.
You smiled, pleased enough that he narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was letting the moment breathe.”
“The moment can suffocate.”
Your smile widened. “You’re so romantic.”
Bucky rolled you beneath him before you could laugh again, his body settling carefully over yours, one hand braced beside your head. His hair fell around his face, soft with sleep, and he looked less like a ghost, less like a weapon, less like the man who had spent months standing at the edge of his own wanting.
He looked like yours.
Or almost yours. Enough to make your chest ache. Enough to make you brave.
“So,” you said, touching his jaw. “Did I win you over?”
Bucky looked at you for a long moment, then bent until his mouth hovered over yours.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm, “you have no idea.”
Then he kissed you, and because you were a menace, because he was smiling against your mouth, because you had never known how to leave a victory unannounced, you wrapped your arms around his neck and whispered, “Progress.”
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @saradika-graphics for the Winter Soldier divider ❤️💛
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, pwp, straight porn, missionary, d/s dynamics, softdom!bucky, sub!reader, slight brat!reader, slight dumbification, oral fixation, sweat/spit/teeth kink (idk maybe lol), the aftercare is fucking again, creampie, bucky has a bush . . .
word count: 1.8k
a/n: this is me trying to get some requests finished :") i have a whole bunch, some of which i accidentally turned into long fics, some i hate the things i wrote and am trying to start again and some im figuring out, but this one came to me when i woke up horny for bucky barnes lol
thank you anon for the request !! <3
masterlist || navigation
The mattress creaks and the frame knocks into the wall, chipping the paint, denting the wood where the two meet.
Forehead to forehead, sweat accumulating with torrid breaths and aching muscles, Bucky's hips caught to yours. Pressing, slamming, holding down as he clenches his glutes and humps, elongating the pleasure, taunting.
But the light chime of his tags kept ringing. They keep batting across your chest, cold and moist, patting your chin and dragging across your skin when you were right there.
It was just as your legs fell open, knees laying up as his dick dragged in and out, and he willed his noises to stay at a minimum, when the tags flittered to the dip of your neck. Your lips parted, sighing, rolling your eyes as it tap tap tap's and sings against your hot skin. You move, careful not to ruin the precision, pressing the chain against his peck, holding them firm to his chest.
At first, Bucky almost sat up, almost paused to ask if you were okay — pushing at his sternum, brows taut and eyes glassy, whining with every breath. Instead he pushed deeper, metal fingers drawing up your body until they held your jaw, squeezing your cheeks, making you look into his eyes.
"What's the matter?" His breath sticks to your face, bumping his nose to yours. "Pushin' me away? C'mon, speak to me."
You can't. That's the problem. It feels like with each pull and push, each pulse around his cock, and every kiss his tip grants your cervix, he drives all linguistic knowledge out of your brain, spilling it from your lips in garbled nonsense and breathy moans.
A whiney hum spills out as you tighten your lips into a line, keeping your jaw firm. You lean back into the pillow, shutting your eyes trying to find any semblance of words, but his hips keep moving. Slower now, yet still as effective, still holding you rigid and perfectly, and tauntingly precise. Rutting the length of himself inside of you while the fuzz of hair that littered the base kept grazing your clit. It isn't until one hand claws at the meat of his shoulder, and the other, the hand that pushed at the chain, leaving tiny dents in it's wake, fisted at the metal.
It clinks as the tags stay dangling from your palm, bumping to and fro.
"Oh, sweetheart," Bucky soothes, the warm metal of his thumb strokes against your bottom lip, slicked with spit and salty with sweat. "We're they botherin' you?"
You nod quickly, leaving a sharp smile on his face, dipping down to leave gentle kisses against your jaw.
"My smart girl," you keen into the praise, leaning deeper into his hand, letting his voice rasp and vibrate into your skin, leaving more room for him to lick and kiss. "Thought you wanted me to stop."
Ardently, you shake your head, ruffling your hair into the pillow behind you.
"No, no stopping. 'M not gonna stop." And he doesn't. His flesh hand replaces your own around the tags and he slots them between his teeth.
Salt and iron cover his tongue, sweat that had dripped from his down body, and your own that had mixed in as it had laid against your own skin, or tapped annoyingly your neck. It makes a dull sound as they sat firmly between his teeth, braced to the side, just where his molars start and his canines dig into the printed letters of his name.
It shouldn't be hot.
The sight of his mouth full, his teeth bared, carrying something precious with an iron grip of his jaw, made your walls pulse. You almost wanted to swap it out, to reach up and take the tags in your own mouth, enveloped in the debauched taste of century old metal, skin and spit.
But its hedonic. You love how he looks. Skin slick, chest heaving, drool already pooling at the edges of the tags, at the corner of his mouth right where his lips met. Animalistic in a way.
"There we go, there we go," his speech muffled, yet still affirmative and firm as he brings back the pace. Making your head drop back and mouth hang open on a gasp, arching your back. The warmth of his palm glides up your torso, leaving goosebumps as he drags up and down, before pulling your leg up by the thigh to latch onto his waist and holding you firmly at the hip. All while holding himself up on his forearm, vibranium fingers holding the top of your head reassuringly, grazing his thumb on your hairline.
He hums, unable to speak with his mouth full, unable to gather the spit about to fall. Your hands claw at the contorting muscles of his shoulder blades, moving to capture his hair between your fingers.
The tug you force has him stuttering, hips pressing to your own, the hair surrounding his base tickles again, right against your nub.
"Oh—fuck," you breathe out, jaw slack and tight all at once, the light feeling of release easing up your back as your thighs begin to tingle and tremble around his torso. "Bucky… Bucky, please."
The rivulets of spit drop, coating your neck and chin, and he follows them down until his hot, wet breath finds your temple. His chest caves with each inhale, keeping his hips up, holding down the pace that has you throbbing up his shaft, your nails digging into his shoulder and thighs shaking. He can feel the ring around the root of him, creamy and white, mixed in with the dark patch of hair.
The tags tinkle dully, let go from the cell of his teeth to lay wet next to your neck. You pay no mind to the slurping sound of him gathering spit from his lips; only staying in the blissed out haze of Bucky's body atop of yours and his pretty cock slapping in and out of you.
"C'mon, c'mon…" he repeats like a mantra, whispering under his breath, heated on the shell of your ear. "You got it, fuck, you feel so good. Wanna cum—cum inside of you, wanna push it in deep, n'keep fuckin' it in… Please, please, please…"
As your nails print crescents into his skin, your mouth holds a jumble of 'yes's to his shoulder. Balm and torrid to the meat of his shoulder, your body locks and a sweet ache begins to release around the stretch of him. Your lips press to his collarbone, muffling the shudders and whines and gasps that release as he fucks you through it, wet slaps and mumbled grunts chorusing together while you jolt and pulse.
It isn't long until he follows through, finishing deep inside, pressing and holding himself as his cock twitches with each spurt of cum. As if awoken from his daze, he keeps his hips moving.
Splatterings of white coat both of your pelvises and thighs, shuddering with overstimulation, muscles limp from overexertion, eyes half lidded and lips parted and red.
Bucky slowed himself as your jerking lessened and your teeth bared to hiss at the mild pain, and his dick softened. He watched, holding himself up with his knuckles to the pillow, guiding the softer limb to stay inside of your full warmth, uncaring about the mess that now coats his fingers — absentmindedly licking them off like candy residue.
Sighs and soft groans alike leave you both as he slips out. Your nails caress his torso, gliding gently up the red marks you printed on his back, down to the sensitive muscles of his ass, making him twitch and press his hips to yours again with a stifled laugh to your jaw.
"Careful, might get hard again before I can clean you up." He kisses and breathes you in, holding you into his body as your fingers hold their gentle rhythm.
You huff a lazy version of a laugh, nosing against the sweet smell of sweat where his neck meets his shoulder.
"Oh no, how awful," You croak sarcastically. The weakness in your voice makes you both laugh fully, rumbling chests pressed against one another, cheeks tight with smiles, and eyes watching with warm fragments. After a short moment of silence, of lungs catching up, you follow down the column of his neck to where his dog tags laid lopsided on your chest, and hummed. "I liked that thing you did."
"'That thing'?" He pressed, smirking, lowering his voice. "I've got many things goin' for me, sweetheart, be specific."
Another laugh breaks, crinkling your eyes at the corners, playfully pushing at his chest.
"That dog tag thing, you know, putting them in your mouth."
"You liked that?"
You nodded, fervently. "Uh-huh. Very much."
His lips move into a soft smile, catching the slick metal cards between his fingers to bring them up.
"That so?" He teases quietly, dragging them across your bottom lip, leaving the dewy residue to sit, sliding them just between the seam of your lips only to jut it out with a pop. "Maybe next time you can hold them for me?"
With your tongue poking out, you get a taste of the flavour that pooled alongside Bucky's own tongue. Musky and sour, tangy with body heat. And with a soft press on your thigh, you know that you're under a limit.
"Next time meaning five minutes?" You prod, tilting your head innocently. "Haven't even gotten cleaned up and it seems like little Sergeant Barnes is reporting for duty."
With a tut, he holds your chin, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh, fuck that and your smart mouth. Open wide, hold tight."
You obey and bite down as he slots the tags between your teeth, tugging at the chain twice to test out your grip. You scrunch your nose and furrow your brows, playfully pulling back at the chain. The grotesque brackishness of the tester you got grips you fully and drips down your throat.
"'Little Sergeant Barnes'," he repeats, sitting up as far as he could to grab ahold on himself. Sticky, wet and just as hard as before. He strokes himself, groaning as he fists tighter at his ruddy tip, coaxing a pearl of precum. Defiantly, he taps his heaviness on your clit. "Keep that up and making sure every inch of you aches with me the next day, understood?"
A giggle bubbles up before you could force it down. He slaps his cock against your clit again, holding and coating it down and between your lips, still creamy and dripping his own release, bullying your button with his tip. Your whine is muffled between your teeth as you bear them down.
"Understood?" He pushes, voice firmer, harsher, and you nod, heart racing, ribs already quivering. The sounds of your joint bodies squelch louder and louder, as your head lays dizzier and dizzier, but his voice whispers so soft and the way he terrorises and hounds your insides brings stars to the corners of your eyes.
Warnings: Bucky Barnes (yup!), established relationship, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex (be safe, lovelies!), oral sex, mention: breeding kink, anal, cockwarming and other kinks, neediness, fluff if you squint really hard (hard like Bucky’s cock)
Banner by the talented @cafekitsune
Horny!Bucky who has needs but isn’t interested in random flings. He’s content to use his hand to get off.
Horny!Bucky who wanted you the second he saw you. The beast inside him clawed to get out and take you.
Horny!Bucky who did everything the “right” way. He courted you, treated you well, and waited a reasonable amount of time before he slept with you the first time.
Horny!Bucky who got hard just from kissing you. It was like all the blood in his body went south because of your lips.
Horny!Bucky who spent a generous amount of time worshipping your breasts, alternating between pinching and sucking on your nipples. How could he not when you’re so responsive.
Horny!Bucky who wondered if you’d like him fuck your tits one day. He’s always wanted to try that with the right person.
Horny!Bucky who went down on you because real men appreciate the delicacy of eating pussy. Real men also put their partner’s pleasure above their own.
Horny!Bucky who humped the bed in time with his tongue because you tasted so good. Your sounds made you taste even sweeter.
Horny!Bucky who came in his pants when you came on his tongue, both of you moaning. And he didn’t stop tongue-fucking you until you begged for him to fuck you.
Horny!Bucky who felt a surge of pride when he fisted himself and your eyes went wide. He’d fit, even if he had to make it fit.
Horny!Bucky who was thankful you didn’t want him to use a condom because he didn’t want anything between you two. If by any chance he did knock you up, he’d be happy to have a family with you.
Horny!Bucky didn’t realize he had a breeding kink until that moment. Or maybe it was just you.
Horny!Bucky who had to grit his teeth when he pushed inside you, willing himself not to come from how wet and tight you were. He did anyway.
Horny!Bucky who swore he died when he painted your walls since his soul left his body. He’d happily spend the rest of his life deep inside you if he could manage it.
Horny!Bucky who then felt embarrassed for finishing so quickly until you shushed him with a kiss. Your perfect pussy gripped his throbbing cock like a vice until he thrust again.
Horny!Bucky who held your chin gently so he could see your pretty eyes. He wanted to see how much you loved being fucked by him
Horny!Bucky who thinks you’re perfect, but even more so when you’re taking his cock. Parted mouth and tears in your eyes, you’re ruined and beautiful
Horny!Bucky who suddenly felt possessive and vowed that no one else would ever have you like this again. You were his and only his.
Horny!Bucky who almost blurted out that he loved you when you came with his name tumbling from your lips. He does love you, but the middle of sex may not be the best time to say so.
Horny!Bucky who kissed you when he came again and knew he was addicted. You had a hold on him that would never be released.
Horny!Bucky who wanted to make love to and fuck you. He wanted to watch you shatter so he could put you back together.
Horny!Bucky who fucked you into the early hours of the morning and only stopped because you needed rest. He cleaned you off and praised you.
Horny!Bucky who held you while he slept and couldn’t sleep himself because he wanted you again. But it would be wrong to wake you after he wore you out.
Horny!Bucky who cancelled his plans for the weekend so he could fuck you on every surface of the apartment. He made sure you stayed fed and hydrated.
Horny!Bucky who tries to calculate how long he can be away from you on a mission because he craves you that much. Does absence make the heart grow fonder or will it make him snap?
Horny!Bucky who leaves marks all over you. You joke that he’s marking his territory, and you leave little marks on him in return.
Horny!Bucky who can’t have you in the kitchen without putting you on the counter. You’re basically a pre-meal before the food.
Horny!Bucky who humps you in his sleep and holds your breast like a security blanket. Cockwarming happens often, too, right before you fall asleep.
Horny!Bucky who thinks your mouth is just as perfect as your pussy. He knows your ass will be the same.
Horny!Bucky who has a list of things he wants to try with you. He has the order listed alphabetically.
Horny!Bucky who eventually has photos, videos, and audio so he can jerk off when he’s alone. He doesn’t need to fantasize about anyone else since he has you.
Horny!Bucky who constantly touches or kisses you because he needs the connection. It makes him feel needy, but you don’t seem to mind.
Horny!Bucky who loves when you tease him and grind on his lap or shove your chest in his face. You look so innocent when you do it, but you both know better.
Horny!Bucky who loves when you initiate sex. He’s yours just as much as you’re his.
Horny!Bucky who follows you around like a puppy because he adores you and doesn’t care if the gang teases him. They’d do the same if they had you, which they never will.
Horny!Bucky who isn’t afraid to beg for it. He’ll get on his knees for you any day of the week.
Horny!Bucky who will have you anytime, any place. He doesn’t need a reason.
Horny!Bucky who doesn’t stop even if someone walks in. He’ll shield you for your dignity, but he isn’t stopping unless you say so.
Horny!Bucky who is all about consent. You each have safewords and make sure to communicate.
Horny!Bucky who worries he’s too much and doesn’t want to push you away. But you’re just as crazy for him as he is for you.
Horny!Bucky who loves you and can’t get enough of you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business. ❤️
summary: After another exhausting day working as Congressman Barnes' assistant, all you want is a cup of tea and a quiet evening with your grandfather's old radio. What you don't expect is a love confession hidden between the static and the music.
warnings: tooth rotting fluff, mutual pining, Bucky navigating modern dating with old-fashioned courtship, soft Bucky.
a/n: I've been dealing with a terrible writer's block lately, but this idea came to me after listening to one particular song from my childhood about someone calling the radio to dedicate a song to the girl they're in love with, this is a very common courtship method in Mexico, or at least it used to be before YouTube and Spotify came to us lol | thank you @kileyking for clarifying some questions I had regarding that and thank you @herejustforbuckybarnes & @buckysdecaflove for beta reading this. ᝰ.ᐟ dividers by @sister-lucifer
read on AO3
You let out a long, weary sigh as you finally pushed open the door to your apartment, kicking off your heels. Another sixteen-hour day as Congressman Barnes' assistant had left you thoroughly drained. Your brain was still spinning with draft speeches, policy briefs and scheduling conflicts.
But it was a good kind of tired. The kind that came from working for someone who actually wanted to make a change, someone who definitely made the long hours feel worthwhile… someone who made your heart do ridiculous little flips every time he smiled at you.
You shook your head, trying to banish the image of Bucky's soft blue eyes and the way his voice dropped to that low, warm register when he spoke to you after everyone else had gone home. It was hopeless, really. You'd had a crush on him for months now, ever since you started working for him. You convinced yourself it was just professional admiration, but late nights alone in the office had a way of making feelings impossible to ignore.
You padded into your small kitchen, filling the kettle for tea. Your apartment was cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and stacks of books, but your favorite thing was the vintage radio sitting on the windowsill. It had been your grandfather's and you've grown up listening to it with him, learning to love the crackle and hiss, the way the music seemed to surprise you with every new song.
You reached over and turned the dial, letting the familiar static fill your quiet apartment. It was your nightly ritual, a small comfort after long days. You hummed along as a commercial for a local diner played, then another for a car dealership.
You were about to head to the bathroom to change when the smooth voice of the DJ, Frankie, cut through the air.
"Alright, folks, we've got a very special dedication coming up tonight. I'm telling you, this one's a real old-school romance, the kind that will make you believe in love letters and slow dances."
You paused, a smile tugging at your lips. You loved dedications. There was something so wonderfully old-fashioned about them, so personal in an increasingly impersonal world.
The crackle of a record filled the air, and then the voice of Louis Armstrong began to sing. You recognized it immediately, your breath catching in your throat.
"I'm confessing that I love you, babe.
Tell me, do you love me too?"
It was your favorite song. The one your grandfather used to play on Sunday mornings, the one you'd secretly always imagined a future love might dedicate to you someday.
You leaned against the kitchen counter, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. The saxophone, the gentle piano, Louis' velvet voice wrapping around every word like a warm embrace.
"Am I guessing that you love me? Mm
Dreaming dreams of you in vain? Oh
I'm confessing that I love you over again."
The song faded out, and you sighed ready to head to the bathroom. But then Frankie's voice returned.
"That was the one and only Louis Armstrong, a classic for a classic request. And that request came from a gentleman who wanted to send a little message to a very special lady."
Your heart skipped. You didn't know why, it was just a dedication, probably for someone else entirely.
"He says," Frankie continued, clearing his throat. "To my favorite person, who stays late, works hard and has a smile that makes the long nights a little shorter. This one's for you. Hope you like it as much as I do. And signs as J.B."
Your knees felt weak, and you had to grab the counter to steady yourself.
No. It couldn't be.
Your favorite song? A message signed with "J.B."?
Your mind raced, flashing through every late night in the office, every time Bucky had brought you coffee, every lingering glance, every soft smile. The way he always asked about your day, the way he remembered little details you've mentioned weeks ago. The way he told you to call him Bucky when it was just the two of you, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
Your phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up. The name on your screen made your heart stutter.
Congressman Barnes.
You answered on the second ring, your voice was barely a whisper. "Hello?"
"Hey." His voice was that same low, warm rumble you heard every day, but there was something different now. "By any chance, were you listening to the radio?"
You could hear the nervousness in his voice and it made your chest ache in the most wonderful way.
"I… yes," you breathed, sinking onto your small couch. "Bucky, that was… did you really…"
"Did I really dedicate a song to you on the radio?" he finished, a soft laugh escaping him. "Yeah, yeah, I did."
"But how did you… how did you know it was my favorite song? How did you even know I listen to that station?"
"I pay attention," he said simply. "I pay attention to you, I notice the little things, like the way you hum along when you think no one's listening, or how you always turn on your radio when you think I'm not watching. I notice everything about you."
You felt tears prick at your eyes, hot and unexpected. "Bucky…"
"Look, I know it's old-fashioned," he continued, and you could picture him running his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you've noticed a hundred times. "I know I should've just said something in person, but… I wanted to do it right, and make it special. You deserve special."
"It is special," you whispered. "It's the most special thing anyone's ever done for me."
"Really?"
"Really." You laughed, a wet happy sound. "You dedicated my favorite song to me on the radio. That's… that's like something out of a movie."
"Good." You could hear the smile in his voice now. "Because I meant every word of it, you know. Every single word."
There was a pause, and you could hear him take a breath.
"So," he said softly, "did you like the song?"
You smiled, curling up on your couch, the radio still playing softly in the background. "I loved it," you admitted. "But I think I loved the message even more."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
There was another pause. Then, "Can I see you? I mean, not right now, it's late, but… tomorrow? Maybe for coffee? Or dinner? Whatever you want, I just…"
"I'd love that," you interrupted, your heart soaring. "I'd love to see you. I'd love to do anything with you."
You heard him exhale, a breath of pure relief. "Good. That's… real good."
You talked for another hour, the conversation flowing easily, filled with soft laughter. When you finally hung up, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your heart felt so full it might burst.
You lay back on your couch, listening to the radio, and let yourself daydream about the next day. About Bucky and the beautiful thing that was finally beginning… and somewhere across the city, Bucky was doing the exact same thing, a smile on his face that hadn't been there in years.
summary: a wave of nausea hits you in the middle of your shower, causing you to collapse on the spot and bucky can't bear to see his sweet baby like that.
warnings: FLUFFILINGUS AMOUNTS OF FLUFF, established relationship (they're married sorry I js love husband!bucky ugh), whipped!bucky, extra doting!bucky, slightly paranoid!bucky, descriptions of nausea and vomiting so it might be a lil disgusting, reader described to be naked (ion think anyone showers w clothes on), nicknames (sweetie, angel, babydoll, doll, sugar, baby, sweets), not rly proofread (what's new)
word count: ~1.8k words
note: before tumblr decided to betray me, i was saying that im back w another lil drabble cus the clark and bucky fics are taking me ages and i need some happiness in my life.
The room is quiet, the only sound being the gentle hum of the air conditioner running. The room smells like sea salt and cinnamon from the candle kept on the bedside table. Bucky is sat on the bed, holding a book in his hands.
But his attention is not on the book, it's on you and how adorable you look right now.
You're running all over the place, grabbing all sorts of products and your towels for your everything shower. Your hands are so full that you can't even lock the door of the en suite bathroom. You don't lock the door around him anyway. Because Bucky is extra paranoid when it comes to you. He wants to be able reach you as quickly as he can just in case something happens to you without anything in his way.
Bucky still doesn't quite understand what you even do in those everything showers, but he knows you look forward to them every weekend so he doesn't want to ruin your fun by asking stupid questions.
He smiles when he hears the water running and your soft, slightly off key hums with it. It calms him down. Bucky had trained himself to focus on you early on in the relationship and it really helped him shut off the voices in his head. Now, it's almost like second nature. His enhanced hearing is almost always focused on you and your sweet little sounds.
He opens his book, opening the page he'd last bookmarked by the bookmark you'd made for him last month. Even though it's only a simple piece of paper, he still cherishes it dearly because you've made it for him. You love making crafts and he's the one privileged enough who gets to keep all of them, whether it's a photo carousel or a simple bookmark.
Bucky is at peace. His eyes scan over the words on the page as he waits for you to get out.
But he immediately stiffens up when he hears a sound that's awfully a lot like you throwing up. His heart drops to his stomach at the thought of you being in any kind of danger. He immediately abandons the book and knocks on the door of the bathroom.
"Sweetie? You okay in there?"
When you don't answer, Bucky's concern increases even more. He pushes the door open, running towards the shower as fast as he can.
There, he finds you, sitting right there on the shower floor, slumped against the wall with your head lolled to the side. You're panting. There's drool dripping from the corner of your mouth as the shower sprays down water on you. He frowns at the sight and slides the shower door open.
When Bucky is inside, he shuts the water off and crouches down in front of you. He cups your face and his frown deepens. Your eyes are unfocused and dazed but at least you're concious.
"Talk to me, angel, tell me what's wrong," he coos, his thumbs running over your cheek. He hates seeing you like this. Usually, you're so energetic and cheerful, but right now, you can barely even manage to keep your eyes open.
"Don't know, Jamie, feel all dizzy, I can't stand. I also threw up," you feebly manage to stutter out, voice groggy from the acid in your throat. Your hands grasp his shoulders as he picks you up and you fully lean against him. There's still shampoo in your hair, suds of soap all over your arms and legs.
Bucky holds you against him as he grabs the showerhead with his vibranium arm, gently rinsing the soap off your body. You lean against him, pliant and trusting as he washes you. He presses a kiss to your forehead, which is burning up, your whole body is.
He doesn't understand. You were fine just thirty minutes ago before you went to shower and now you're looking so sick.
"Oh, babydoll, you're burnin' up," he mutters, holding you tighter. His clothes are getting wet, but he doesn't care about that. The only thing on his mind is that you're sick and he has to take care of you.
"Head hurts so bad, Buck," you mumble against his chest, your hands wrapping around his waist to keep yourself upright.
Once you're properly rinsed, Bucky carries you out of the shower. He presses kisses along your hairline, setting you down on the counter in the bathroom. He grabs a towel and wraps it around your frame.
"You'll be okay, doll, I'll take care of you, yeah?" he says as he stands in between your legs, patting your hair dry. Even in your sickness, you're still the prettiest thing he's ever seen.
"Bucky—" you try to warn him, but before you can complete your sentence, warm, yellow liquid spews out of your mouth, missing him by just an inch. You bend over to vomit properly and he places a hand on your back, running it up and down. Every lurch of your throat makes his heart squeeze with worry but he still stands there, patient and doting.
"It's okay, sugar, it's not your fault. I'll clean it up, don't worry," he coos at you and turns the tap in the sink on. He rinses your mouth with the water while mumbling soft reassurances to you. You can only look up at him with an apologetic frown, feeling guilty for making his job even harder.
Bucky discards his shirt, cursing under his breath as the wet fabric clings to his skin. You can't lie, the sight of his bare torso does make you feel a little better. He lets go of you and grabs a rag for the dirty floor.
You can't help but focus on his movements. Your eyes travel all over his body, dazedly studying the flex of his arm as he works. He looks up at you and heat rushes to your cheeks as your eyes meet his. He grins at your embarrassment before he focuses back on wiping the floor clean.
As he's done, he stands up, keeping the dirty rag to the side. He walks over to you, picking you up in his arms. Your hands rest on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you. Your eyes stay fixed on him, soft and tired, following every movement of his. Bucky smiles down at you and presses a gentle peck to your lips.
"Jamie, no! I have vomit breath!" you whine, giving him a half-hearted shove. He doesn't relent, instead, cups your face and connects your lips to his in a gentle kiss. You can't stay mad at him for longer after that.
"You think I care, angel?" he muses as he pulls away from your lips, connecting your forehead to his. Just to emphasise his point further, he pecks your lips again. Bucky wraps your legs around your waist, making sure you were secure in his arms.
He carries you out of the bathroom, keeping his grip on you tight the whole way. He sits down on the bed with you in his lap. You slump against his chest, the cool air of the room making you shiver. He mumbles and apology in your hair and turns the air conditioner off.
Bucky lets go of you with a kiss to your forehead, laying your back against the headboard. He takes medicine box out of the bedside drawer and rummages through it for a paracetamol.
Your heart warms at the sight of him being so attentive. With a brave attempt, you lean towards him laying your head on his shoulder. Your head is still violently spinning but you try your best to keep it upright.
A surprised smile spreads across Bucky's lips and he wraps an arm around your waist. You nuzzle into his side, the coolness of his cybernetic arm feeling oddly pleasant against your damp skin. The notes of cedar and oak from his aftershave swim around your nostrils, calming you down greatly.
"Be careful, angel," he says, trying not to jostle you too much.
When he finally finds the medicine, he pops a pill out on his hand. Reaching for the bottle of water, Bucky puts the pill in your mouth. You scrunch your nose at the bitter taste of the pill and he snickers.
"You're so cute, baby, y'know that?" he teases, pouring water inside your mouth. You swallow the pill, leaning against him. His eyes travel over the goosebumps on your skin and he gently pulls himself away from you. You whine at the loss of his body heat, looking up at him with a frown.
"Stay here, yeah? I'll be back in just a second," Bucky says, running towards the closet. He opens the door and pulls out one of his warmer henleys.
He rushes back to you with the shirt in his arms, sitting down on the bed. He pulls you in his lap and puts the shirt over your frame. Your body is practically swimming in the henley. You always look so adorable in his clothes, it makes his heart feel so full. He still finds it so hard to believe that he gets to experience this domesticity with you.
He lays down on the bed, still holding you. Your mouth opens into a yawn and tears collect at the corner of your eyes. Bucky wipes them away, pressing kisses along your hairline to comfort you.
"Wanna sleep," you mumble, snuggling yourself into his chest. He smiles and pulls the blanket over your tangled bodies. He lays your head on his human arm while the vibranium one runs over yours to warm you up.
You sigh in contentment, eyes fluttering shut. Your index finger draws little hearts on his abdomen, a gesture that always relaxes both you.
"Goodnight, babydoll," he coos, his hand going up to stroke your hair.
"Night, Buck. I love you."
"Love you too, sugar,"
And just like that, you're pulled into a deep, content slumber. While it is drug induced but part of it also has to do with the safety of being in Bucky's arms.
Bucky looks down at you adoringly, a smile spreading across his lips. You look so peaceful, so trusting. He still can't believe that he's the one at the receiving end of your affection, of your trust. He never thought that he'll ever be worthy of the life he has with you.
But now that he's experienced it, he can't ever think of going back.
"You're everythin' to me, angel."
i hope you liked reading ts one <3. also tysm for a hundred followers and all the love y'all have been showering on my blog. ydk how much it means to me :3 ilysmm ill try my best to write absolute bangers for you cuties 𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯
summary: After feeling like you aren’t enough for people to stay, your boyfriend reassures you that there is nothing wrong with you.
word count: 2.5k
warnings/tags: insecurities, reader feeling like she isn’t enough, bucky being an amazing boyfriend, just lots of fluff and comfort
author’s note: This is related to this request, I’m sorry that it took me so long! I really hope you like it and that it turned out like you imagined <3
Also to all the writers out there, I was wondering if I could ask you for some advice- I feel like my writing is very repetitive and that I am retelling what happens more than I am really letting the reader be a part of the story and I am not sure how to get away from that kind of writing. I’ve heard that it’s something a lot of new writers struggle with in the beginning, but some tips and tricks would really be appreciated!!
dividers by @cursed-carmine
Having friends had never been something you'd taken for granted.
You'd never been one of those people who seemed to be getting along with everyone without even trying, managing to have a place in all different kinds of friend groups or waking up to a load of notifications from friends who wanted to include you without having to think about it.
In high school, when you'd been at the age where teenagers saw every single thing about their looks and their character as a flaw that had to be fixed, you'd tried so desperately to fit in, there hadn't been much left of you when you'd finally accepted that this kind of world was never something you would be a part of.
And the older you got, the more you learned that it might not be as much of an issue as you always thought it was.
You had your friends, after all.
Sure, you didn't have a dozen of people in your close circe, but if there was one thing that adulthood had taught you, itt was that with all the responsibilities it brought, you actually didn't have that much time to spend with your friends either way.
By now, you'd accepted that you could count the amount of people that were actually your friends off on one hand, that your plans always included the same few people and that Bucky knew all of them by now because there hadn't exactly been a lot to introduce him to.
You'd come to peace with it, mostly.
Still, you couldn't deny that there was still this part of you, the one that had developed when you’d been twelve years old and crying about everyone in your class going to a party you weren't invited to, which told you that your worth depended on what others might think of you.
Because if nobody liked you, what even was the point?
And even though you weren't that kid anymore, the desire to be liked had never really left.
It wasn't as intense anymore, sure, but deep down, you knew that it was as much a part of you as the heart beating in your chest, so you accepted it with the kind of resignation that people developed when their doubts took over and fighting them felt like a task too hard to manage.
When you had first started to receive even less messages than you usually did, you'd just thought your friends were busy. You knew damn well that with how hectic life could get, social contacts were hard to manage sometimes.
It was fine. Surely, it was just a phase that would pass again soon.
Except it didn't pass, not really. That's what made it so bad.
Whenever you reached out to your friends, whether it was texting them individually or sending the location of a new café into the group chat, the reactions were… sparse, to put it lightly.
At first, you'd thought that you had done something wrong and they were mad at you, but when you'd asked them about it, the only answer they gave you was that they were busy.
And they weren't lying.
That much you could see in their Instagram stories, the ones you went through more often than you would ever admit.
Pictures from a party on one account, a vacation dump on the other.
They were living their lives and you loved that your them, you really did, but you still couldn't help but notice that all the plans they made were with people you didn't know.
Friends they had, ones that had nothing to do with you because their social circle wasn't even close to as small as yours was.
You figured that with all the friends they had, having one person more or less in their life didn't really make a difference to them.
And all you could do was obsess over how them leaving was your fault.
Maybe, if you would've just managed to step out of your comfort zone a little more, this wouldn't have happened.
After all, interesting people were never the ones that got abandoned, right? That just happened to the ones who weren't entertaining enough to leave an impression.
Maybe, if you would've talked less and laughed at their jokes a little more, you would've been more likeable.
Maybe then you would still have friends.
Honestly, it probably wouldn't hurt so much if you hadn't tried so hard.
You had, though.
You'd tried so hard to be exactly the kind of friend they might want you to be, the one that was always available, the one that answered texts quickly and gave the right kind of advice no matter the situation.
But apparently, that still hadn't been enough.
You'd tried to hide how much this had been affecting you over the last weeks, but you could only do so much.
And with a boyfriend as perceptive as Bucky, you knew that it would only be a matter of time until he would pick up on your change of mood.
The two of you were currently sitting on the couch in his living room, eating dinner together whilst the soft thud if rain hitting the windows provided some comfortable background noise.
Honestly, the scenario would've been comforting in any other situation.
Bucky had spent the last two hours in the kitchen, cooking a warm and comforting meal that made up for the stormy weather outside perfectly, especially because you could enjoy it from the warm living room with the man you loved sitting right next to you.
He'd been so proud of dinner when he'd plated it up for the two of you, you couldn't help but feel guilty for the way you were just absentmindedly pushing it around on your plate.
It tasted good, that wasn't the issue. Bucky's cooking skills had improved so much since you'd first started to teach him how to navigate the kitchen again after he'd admitted that he didn't actually know how to do something so domestic anymore.
You really wanted to just enjoy it with him, to have a nice and cozy evening without letting your stupid insecurities destroy it.
But you couldn't.
The heaviness in your heart was even worse today than it usually was, not because anything in particular had happened but because you knew that it was only a matter of time until you wouldn't have anyone anymore.
It wouldn't take much longer until Bucky would realize that he could do so much better than what you had to offer, and then he would leave.
And with him, the Avengers would be gone too, which would leave you completely and utterly alone and there was nothing you could do about it.
You could try, sure, but there was nothing you could do to stop the inevitable.
You were so deeply lost in thought, you didn't even notice that Bucky had been staring at you for the last few minutes already.
"Do you not like it?"
Your head snapped towards your boyfriend, who was looking at you with an expression that usually meant he was trying to understand something he couldn't exactly figure out yet.
"What?"
"The food," Bucky clarified, gesturing to your full plate. "You barely ate anything. I figured there might not be enough salt in it for you but-"
"Buck, no. It's perfect. I'm just… not hungry, that's all."
The fact that he was now thinking that you didn't like his cooking only made you feel worse, because that wasn't it at all.
The knot in your stomach was just too tight for you to have any kind of appetite.
Unable to look at him any longer, you lowered your gaze to your plate again, forcing yourself to take a bite just for the sake of it.
Bucky really wasn't having it, though.
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see how he put his plate down on the table before he got up from where he was sitting, moving so he was kneeling in front of you, gently taking your plate away from you aswell.
"C'mon sweetheart, talk to me. What's going on?"
Sometimes, his attentiveness really was a curse more than it was a blessing. And with him sitting in front of you like that, his beautiful eyes so full of worry and concern, you couldn't keep this from him any longer.
"I just… I'm not really much of an interesting person, am I?"
Bucky's brows pulled together in confusion, his expression turning a little disbelieving now. "Of course you are, doll. Where is this coming from?"
You could already feel your throat tighten uncomfortably, the way he said it so convinced and certain, like he didn't even have to think about his answer twice whilst it was all you've been thinking about over the last few weeks.
"Well, I'm not exactly the person with the biggest amount of friends, am I? And the few friends I do have don't really hang out with me anymore, so there has to be something I'm doing wrong, right? I wouldn't be this unlikeable otherwise."
The words were all but tumbling out of your mouth now, the dam that had been holding every single one of your doubts and insecurities back finally breaking.
"Everyone's leaving, Bucky, and I really don't know what the hell I am supposed to do to stop it and-"
You couldn't help the way your voice broke, the hitch in your breath dangerously close to a sob as Bucky pulled you into his arms, properly sitting down on the floor so he could put you down in his lap, completely wrapping his arms around you like that was enough to top you from falling apart.
Unfortunately, it really wasn't.
Tears were streaming down your face now, shoulders shaking with the sobs that were ripping from your throat, your boyfriend's embrace giving you exactly the kind of comfort you needed.
And Bucky didn't try to stop you from crying, neither did he try to fix anything right now.
He just… held you. He gave you the oppurtunity to just let go for a moment, to share those ugly and raw thoughts with him and show you that he was there for you anyway.
The two of you just stayed like that for a very long time, how long exactly you couldn't tell, though. It was always like that with Bucky, like his embrace was more than enough to stop the concept of time from making sense anymore.
And Bucky didn't rush you. He just gently rocked you back and forth, his metal arm soothingly moving up and down your back as his other hand cradled your head to his chest.
When the tears finally slowed and you pulled back just enough to look at him again, he carefully brushed some hair out of your face, eyes running over your features like it would help him understand what exactly was going through your head right now. "I need you to listen to me now, alright sweetheart?"
Only when you nodded did he go on, his voice serious in a way you've never heard before.
It wasn't the kind of seriousness that you knew from when he talked about missions.
This felt more personal, like he was talking about something that meant way more too him than anything work related ever could.
"There is nothing wrong with you, and it kills me that you think there is. You are one of the most amazing and interesting people I know, and I love you. If your friends can't appreciate that, that's on them. But I won't let you make yourself small because other people can't see how much of a special person you are."
You knew that Bucky meant what he was saying, you really did, but words somehow still meant so little when words had failed you so often already.
"You're biased, though. Also, I'm your girlfriend. You have to say that kind of stuff."
That made him laugh a little now, a soft smile carefully pulling at his lips.
It wasn't the kind of laugh that was mocking or invalidating your feelings, though. Just the kind which showed that he meant what he said, and that the mere idea of it being a lie a little amusing to him.
"Pretty sure I don't have to do or say anything anymore, love. I'm telling you this because it's true. If you think that my love for you makes me unqualified too answer that question, though, I'm sure that the others would tell you the exact same thing."
You knew that he meant the Avengers by that, but honestly, you weren't sure if that was necessarily true.
"They are your friends, though, not mine."
It wasn't really much of a reasonable explanation, but it made sense to you. To them, you had to feel like an extension of Bucky, which meant that they couldn't exactly say anything bad about you.
Bucky didn't seem to think that at all, though. "Sam told me last week that he would personally kick my ass off the team if I ever managed to mess things up with you. I think it's safe to say that they like you more than they like me by now, sweetheart, and I can't even blame them."
He seemed to notice that you weren't entirely convinced yet, so he just kept going. "I get the feeling of thinking that you aren't enough for people to stay. Trust me, I do. But I also have a very smart and wonderful woman in my life who once told me that my worth doesn't depend on the amount of validation I get from others, because that would never manage to make me feel like I’m enough. And I feel like the things that count for me count for you too, don't they?"
Bucky wasn't wrong- you had told him that, but telling other people things like that was always easier than to believe them yourself. "Well, saying stuff is always easy, isn't it?"
"It is," he agreed. "But you got me and you got the others, doll, and i think it's safe to say that all of us would be more than happy to remind you of how much you mean to all of us as much as you need- especially me. Okay?"
Honestly, it wasn't really okay yet, but after what Bucky'd just said, maybe it was going to be. Sure, there were still going to be days where the feeling of not being enough swallowed you whole and the loneliness felt like a burden too heavy to carry.
But now you knew that you didn't have to carry it alone anymore.
Losing friends was never going to be easy, and honestly? You didn't even want it to be.
Friends were people that you carried close to your heart, which was exactly the reason why it hurt so much when the left.
But you weren't just going to stop caring to avoid the consequences, not when it was such a big part of you- a part that others appreciated, even though you couldn't always see it that way.
And losing yourself over other people leaving?
That sure as hell wasn't going to happen.
Especially not with your boyfriend still looking at you like that, convincing you that maybe, everything was going to work out just fine.
i might say something stupid. | bucky barnes (18+)
⤷ tfatws!bucky x therapist!reader
⭐︎ warnings: pre-tfatws canon compliant, fluff, angst, unrequited love, inaccurate depictions of therapy, bucky yearning barnes, touch starvation, mentions of nightmares, loneliness, and anxiety. exchanging music is their love language, bucky say "i love you" without actually saying "i love you" challenge
⭐︎ word count: 8.4k
⭐︎ a/n: oh tfatws!bucky how i miss you so. i am not a licensed therapist whatsoever so please beware of inaccuracies. this is my second post for the bwat summer collab, be sure to check out the other writings in that masterlist! not so fun fact but i made a tfatws bucky playlist while writing this and (other than writing) exchanging music is technically my love language for you guys too, so.
synopsis:
While Bucky Barnes is back in New York navigating his feelings, love unexpectedly becomes one of them. It’s a beautiful, natural emotion—something a man like him never thought he would get to experience again. But he can’t. Not when the person he’s falling for is his therapist.
← previous fic | main masterlist
When Bucky was told he had to go through government mandated therapy sessions, it might as well have felt like being put back into a sterile Hydra room.
He wanted to avoid it as best as he could—the mere idea of therapy didn’t sound pleasant at all. White walls and in an enclosed space, ostensibly designated to make him feel safe—a place to open up about his past and get “well” enough to prove to everyone that he was no longer a threat. No longer the Winter Soldier, but rather just a boy from Brooklyn. He almost laughed at the idea alone. As if therapy could help with that.
He had been trying to avoid several things lately. Text messages from Sam and these therapy sessions were at the top of the list. But if given the choice of which to face first, he’d actually choose the therapy.
Now, Bucky sat in the quiet waiting room, manspreading as his left knee bounced anxiously. He was hunched over, hands between his legs like a cat with its tail tucked.
He should get up and leave—go back to being a hermit in his small apartment on Union Street, and do his best to dodge these sessions until he got a call ordering him to try again. Then rinse and repeat.
The door in front of him clicked open, and you stepped out.
You wore a soft cardigan, and your hair was a little messy. Not totally unkempt, but he wouldn’t call it professional, either. You looked more like a regular, frazzled woman he’d bump into at a grocery store than a specialist meant to mend broken people and their emotions.
“James Barnes?” you called out, glancing around the small waiting room.
There were only two other people in the room—a man and a woman sitting just a few seats away—but you still looked right at the super soldier first.
Bucky lifted his head, meeting your eyes before pushing himself out of the chair with a huff. Here goes nothing.
“I’m here,” he said, raising a hand. He offered a tight-lipped smile meant to be friendly, but it fell flat.
You smiled warmly. It was inviting, but far too rehearsed for him to accept at face value.
Pushing the door open with your back pressed against the frame, you stepped aside to let him in. He gave another forced nod out of politeness as he entered the room.
Standing near the entryway, he paused and took in the surroundings. The room wasn’t what he expected at all. The walls were colorful, warm string lights hung across them. Several plants were arranged neatly around the space—more so near the windows. A large couch sat on one side while a simple lounge chair faced it. Against the wall stood a shelf lined with books tucked neatly inside— self-help, fiction, and biographies.
But what really caught his attention was the turntable sitting on top of it, with no record spinning.
“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, flipping the ‘THERAPY IN SESSION’ sign to face outward and shutting the door behind him. “Whether you want to take the couch, the chair, or even lie on the floor—it’s all fine by me!”
Bucky huffed out a short laugh, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “You have people who lie on the floor?”
You shrugged, removing your cardigan and draping it over the coat rack. “This is a judgment-free zone, James.”
You stood beside him with a smile, your hands folded neatly in front of you, and that’s when Bucky realized you were waiting for him to make a decision.
He eventually chose the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt, while you settled into the chair across from him.
“Have you ever been to therapy before?” you asked softly.
“No,” he replied—straightforward, honest, and flat.
You sifted through the papers attached to the clipboard in your lap, checking the records that were passed on by his psychiatrist. Bucky assumed the list of things wrong with him was longer than your weekly grocery list. You lifted your eyes back to him, noticing the obvious tension in his shoulders.
“It’s not as bad as they make it out to be,” you explained gently. “I won’t tire you out with the whole ‘what do you want to work on, why are you in therapy?’ nonsense,” you tried to say lightheartedly, waving your hand for emphasis. “I know that you’re only here out of a government mandate, but just know that I’m here to help you because there are people out there who care about you—”
A heavy, long sigh escaped Bucky’s nostrils before he could stop it.
You tilted your head with an innocent frown. “Is something the matter?”
Yes. There are a lot of things that matter—like how you’re saying your usual script for your other clients, claiming that you “care” when in reality, you care about dragging out the time until your pockets are full of green.
“No,” Bucky lied. “Nothing’s wrong. Go ahead.”
You knew he was lying, and you didn’t need to call him out on it to prove it.
After some awkward silence and being watched under your silent scrutiny, he eventually sighed and shifted awkwardly on the couch.
“It’s just… I doubt there are people out there who care about me, you know? Like…” he blew a raspberry, feeling like he was rambling now. “They couldn’t care less about what I do in a day.”
You set your clipboard aside. “And what did you do today?”
He blinked, not expecting that question at all.
“What did I do today?” he repeated with pinched brows. He shrugged. “I went for a walk at my nearby park, and then…”
He trailed off with a scrunch of his face.
Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t done much at all today.
“And then…?”
But for some reason, he didn’t want to seem as lame as he felt. So, he continued.
“I guess all my eventful stuff will be after this therapy session,” he explained. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with a friend.”
Your face lit up, and Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek. Your expectations for him were probably that low—you truly believed he didn’t have any friends to have lunch with.
“That’s great, James!”
Just wait until you find out that the person he was having lunch with is a man in his eighties with a son whom he had brutally murdered while he was the Winter Soldier.
“Yeah. His name’s Yori. We usually get sushi on Wednesdays.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m glad that you have a friend who’s close enough for you to find a routine with,” you said. Your eyes flickered to his gloved hand resting on his thigh. “Does he know?”
Bucky glanced down at his left glove. “I’m sorry?”
“Does he know about your arm, and about what you’ve done in your past?” you clarified in a gentle tone—well, as gentle as it could be given the subject.
Bucky flinched, and that action alone was enough to give you your answer. His eyes fell to the colorful patterns on your carpet, his left hand curling into a tight fist beneath his glove out of apprehension.
No. Of course Yori didn’t know.
He knew that being truthful to himself and to his therapist was the whole point of therapy—the whole point of getting better. But Bucky didn’t see the point in going into detail with the whole, “No, Yori doesn’t know, because then that’d mean I have to tell him I killed his son!” routine.
You frowned, leaning a bit closer. “If he doesn’t already know, you’re going to have to tell him.”
Bucky stayed quiet. The patterns on your carpet were stupid, but he couldn’t look away.
“Because if you don’t—if you continue to hide from someone who cares about you—you’re hiding a part of yourself,” you explained.
“It’s not that simple, doc.”
“Is it ever?” you asked with a small chuckle. “This is all about trust—not just for Yori, but for yourself, too. You have to trust yourself to find trust in others. And in order to trust yourself first, you can start with acceptance—accepting who you are and what you’ve done.”
“I can’t,” Bucky protested weakly. “If I tell him, everything will change. He’ll look at me differently and… and then we can’t have lunch—”
“—that’s the beauty of life, James. Change is a constant thing, and sometimes, it's completely outside of our control. Without change, there is no growth.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
You leaned back in your chair and suddenly asked, “Before everything that happened, what did you like to do?”
Bucky furrowed his brows. He had no idea where you were going with this, but he tagged along anyway—not like he had a choice in the matter, but just to get it over with.
“I liked listening to music.”
“Okay, okay,” you nodded, rubbing your chin. “What kind of music?”
“Forties music,” he replied.
“Has that ever changed?” you asked with genuine interest.
Bucky remembered the list of things Sam had told him to listen to before he ghosted him. Marvin Gaye was one of them. Had he listened to it at all?
“No,” Bucky answered.
It was like a light switch turned on in your head. You suddenly got up out of your chair, making him flinch, and walked over to where your record player sat. You crouched down, your fingers sifting through your large collection of records until they landed on one he didn’t recognize.
You pulled it out and revealed the record to him face-first with the brightest smile. It had four men walking across the street in flared jeans—and with hair too long for his liking.
“Abbey Road,” you announced, handing it to him. “The Beatles. Made thirty years after your time—but listen to it and tell me what you think.”
Bucky frowned, examining the cover. He wasn’t fond of your methods of getting accustomed to ‘change,’ but it could’ve been worse.
“Fine,” he sighed, pushing himself up from the couch as his session neared its end.
You led him out the door, holding it open for him. “I’ll see you again next week, and you can tell me what you think about it. And whether you like or don’t like it—just remember, change can be good, James.”
You pointed to the cover he held in his hands. “And personally, I think Abbey Road is very good,” you added with a grin.
Bucky, however, was surprisingly fond of how personal you were. He didn’t think that’d be possible with a therapist.
“Sure,” he said with a smile that felt just a tad less forced than the first one he had given you. “I’ll see you next week, doc.”
As he walked past your door and entered the waiting room, you also added with a shout that caught the other patient’s attention who were waiting, which could be seen as totally unprofessional:
“Oh, and if you’re grabbing sushi, order the fried tempura rolls!”
His back was already turned, and he made a face. Oddly enough, fried tempura rolls were something he’d never ordered before. Not only were you dictating his emotions, but now you were dictating his music choices and food as well?
He waved over his shoulder, letting you know he heard you, before disappearing around the corner with your vinyl in his hands.
Looking back down at it, he realized he didn’t even have a record player to put this on.
Shit.
Bucky had forced himself to do more things out of his comfort zone in the span of a week than he had ever since gaining his freedom in Wakanda.
Since his first session with you, he had gotten sushi with Yori and had tried the tempura roll. It was different from what he usually ordered—which was just nigiri and a beer—but surprisingly enough, he liked it. Even the waiter had raised an eyebrow when he pointed it out on the menu.
Then, after walking Yori home—who lived in the same complex, so it wasn’t much of a walk at all—he decided to stop by a music store just a couple of blocks away to listen to the vinyl you had given him.
The store had various music players that people could test, such as jukeboxes, CD players, radios, and record players.
Stepping inside, he was greeted by a friendly ding! from the door chimes. Bucky lifted Abbey Road in his hands. “Got any record players open?”
The boy behind the desk, who looked no older than twenty-two, pointed towards the back. “There’s one open, but it’s loud in here. Need headphones?”
Bucky furrowed his brows in confusion. “Headphones? For a turntable?”
The worker nodded with a shrug that was far too casual—it made Bucky feel stupid. “Yeah, we use headphone amplifiers for them.”
Bucky looked at the boy like he had grown a second head. The worker grabbed a pair of headphones from beneath the counter and nodded toward the other end of the store.
“Here, follow me.”
Bucky followed the boy’s lead to the turntable, which was far different than the ones he was used to back in the forties. Back then, turntables were usually in a small brown box, and the vinyls were never this size. The player in front of him was silver, sleek, and he didn’t even want to attempt to use it at the risk of making a fool of himself.
The boy, luckily, took charge. He grabbed Abbey Road from Bucky’s hands, popped it onto the platter, plugged in the headphones, and handed them to him.
“Enjoy,” he said, before walking back to his post behind the counter.
As Bucky slipped the headphones over his ears, he tried his best not to stare at the people around him. The customers in this store were young, with styles he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Piercings, colored hair, and tattoos.
It was different—but he liked it.
It was his next session with you.
Your hair was styled more neatly than it had been the last time he saw you, but your smile was still the same. Soft and welcoming.
“So,” you started with excitement. “What did you think of it?”
“It’s different from the music back in my day, but it was good,” Bucky said with a shrug that felt almost dismissive despite his honesty.
“What was your favorite song?” you pressed on.
His teeth caught his bottom lip as he tried to remember the one that stuck out to him the most. “The one with the sun, and how it’ll be alright?” he answered, though it sounded more like a question.
“Oh! Here Comes the Sun—that’s a popular one! One of my favorites, too!”
You sounded more excited over this than he felt. Your smile and enthusiastic energy were bouncing off the colorful walls and string lights—and Bucky couldn’t help but smile, too. It was contagious.
“Did you have a record player at home to play it on?”
Bucky shook his head. “No. I went to a music store down the block and played it on one of their players.”
Your smile grew wider and your eyes softened. You had planned for this to happen—for him to step out of his comfort zone and find a way to listen to the music.
“And how was it?” you asked.
“Not my kind of crowd, but it wasn’t terrible,” he explained. “It was loud in there. People were blaring all kinds of music I’ve never even heard of.” He made a face at the memory. “The kid who worked there had to give me headphones so I could listen.”
Your eyes widened in confusion. “Headphones? To listen to a turntable? That’s a thing?”
Bucky was caught off guard by your reaction. Even over something as small as headphones, he liked that he wasn’t the only one who felt out of the loop.
“Yeah, the kid was trying to explain it to me—something about disabling the phono preamp and using the input for an amp. I’ve got no clue. It’s all rocket science to me,” Bucky rambled.
You threw your head back with a laugh, and Bucky chuckled along. He hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling until then.
“I had no clue that was an option. I might have to try that one day.”
Bucky couldn’t stop staring at you.
Up until this point, he’d had to drag his feet just to get to your office. But now, sitting across from you, he felt like all the tension that had built up in his shoulders over the last week had finally eased. He was laughing and smiling more than he had in a long time—he probably looked stupid.
“Oh yeah, I also tried that thing you suggested I get for lunch yesterday,” he said, trying to remember the name. “The… fried tempura?”
You leaned closer, practically on the edge of your seat as you looked at him with wide-eyed anticipation.
“Did you now? How did you like it?”
He’d actually liked it a lot—but with the way you were looking at him, those sparkly irises fixed on him, he couldn’t help but want to tease you. Maybe it was just the playful instincts he had back in the forties kicking in again.
“Eh, it wasn’t really my cup of tea.” He shook his head, watching closely for your reaction.
Your expression shifted dramatically from delight to disappointment. The sparkles he loved seeing in your eyes dimmed just a little, and your lips pursed into a slight frown.
“Ouch,” you muttered, slumping in your chair. “Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”
Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. You were too easy, and he was having fun.
“I’m kidding. I did like it.”
You blinked at him. “Oh, so you’re playing with me now?” You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms and legs. “Whatever happened to my lesson about being truthful and honest?”
Bucky wore a boyish grin. He felt like he was talking to a friend rather than a therapist.
“Hey, I was being honest... eventually,” he added, which received an eye roll from you.
“Well, despite you pulling my leg, you did really well this week.” A proud smile spread across your face. “I’m so happy for you.”
His grin faltered for just a second. He knew that tone of yours. It meant this session was closing to an end, meaning he wouldn’t be able to talk to you again until another week. He hated how disappointed he suddenly felt about it.
You pushed yourself out of your chair and wandered over to your large collection of records. “Since we’re almost out of time, I want to send you home with another album to listen to.”
You pulled out another vinyl—a black and white cover featuring a woman who looked like a ballerina witch and a man with a beard and a ponytail.
“Rumours,” you said, handing it to him.
Your hands brushed over his just briefly, and his whole body shuddered. Despite wearing a leather jacket, he felt goosebumps prickling his skin after your touch.
“Fleetwood Mac. It’s lighthearted and catchy—kind of like Abbey Road, but… not really.”
You watched as Bucky took the record, examining the cover closely. A small smile lifting across your face.
“Let me know what you think about it next time.”
It was the first time in a long time that Bucky felt like he had something to look forward to.
Going to the same music store no longer felt like a chore. Rather, it had become another stepping stone that brought him a little closer to you. The kid behind the counter already knew why he was there, handing him the same pair of headphones and all.
He slipped on the headphones, put on Rumours, and let himself get lost in the music. There was something special about listening to your favorite albums. It felt like a closeness he wouldn’t ever get to experience any other way. Music said a lot about a person, and with every track, he felt like he was learning a little more about you.
Suddenly, a finger tapped his shoulder.
Bucky turned around, pulling the headphones down around his neck.
Standing behind him was a woman—and a remarkably pretty one at that—wearing a bright smile that instinctively put him on edge. She pointed to the silver turntable spinning in front of him.
“Fleetwood Mac?” she asked.
Bucky glanced from her to the album cover, his mind landing on the most logical conclusion. She must’ve been waiting for her turn.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping aside. “After this song, I’ll be right out of your way.”
The woman let out a soft laugh, taking a small step closer to him.
“No, no, you’re fine! Keep listening.” She smiled. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you know? A guy who looks like you listening to Rumours? That’s a rare find these days.”
Bucky frowned, looking down at his worn leather jacket.
What was wrong with the way he looked?
She leaned against the edge of the counter, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked at him. “And honestly,” she drawled with a honeyed tone, “I find it kind of hot.”
Now, Bucky was just confused.
His brows furrowed into a tight knot as the words failed him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hit on, and it was just another one of those moments where he had no idea what to say.
“The, uh…” He cleared his throat. “The record doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my therapist. I’m only listening to it out of recommendation.”
He figured mentioning the word therapist would be enough to lose her interest, but the woman only smiled wider, and somehow that scared him.
“And you care about your mental health?” she said. “Gosh, you’re like a man straight out of every girl’s dream!”
He had no idea what to make of that. If this random woman thought he was hot, he wondered what you would think of his appearance.
She ran a hand through her hair and looked him up and down, making Bucky stiffen. Did his hair look weird?
“But hey, if you’re looking for other recommendations… I know a really great bar that makes the greatest cocktails just down the street. They have an open-play turntable with fancy speakers on Thursdays. I’d love to show you sometime.”
He knew he should accept the offer. He was being given the opportunity to put himself out there and make friends. This was what you would want him to do. This was good for him.
“I can’t,” he mumbled weakly. You idiot. “Sorry. I usually have… a, uh, thing on Thursdays with a friend, so—”
He started to scratch the back of his head, and she took the hint to back off.
Well, not entirely.
She pulled a notepad and a pencil out from her tote bag. Bucky had assumed that everyone did everything electronically these days. She started to jot down something, then tore the page off and handed it to him with a grin.
“If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach me.”
She turned and walked away before he got another word, and Bucky stood there with the headphones wrapped loosely around his neck with a dumbfounded expression. He glanced down at the piece of paper.
It was her phone number.
“You managed to get her phone number? That’s incredible!” You beamed in your chair, clasping your hands together with excitement. “How does that make you feel?”
You were more excited over this than he was, and he found himself smiling. It wasn't because the memory of getting that girl’s number was a huge boost to his ego, but because he liked seeing you smile. He always missed it during his week away from you.
“I felt flattered,” he answered truthfully. “I was surprised that any woman in this day and age would be interested in a guy like me.” He leaned back on the couch. “Though, it’s usually the men who pursue the women… not the other way around.”
“Well, times are changing, Bucky!”
Earlier in the session, he had encouraged you to use the nickname he was fond of—the one he reserved for the people closest to him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t suggested it sooner, because he was already in love with the way it rolled off your pretty lips.
Bucky made a face that made you chuckle. “Is that why she gave me her number on a piece of paper instead of making me hand my phone over?”
You grinned. “I guess some ladies like to keep it old-fashioned.”
He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his words from spilling out—words that were far too inappropriate to say as a patient to a therapist who was only there to keep his emotions in check.
“Do you like to keep it old-fashioned, too?”
And yet, the words spilled out anyway. If he wasn’t staying silent, then he was always saying something stupid instead.
The way you looked at him made him want to open up the couch and let it swallow him whole. You went from smiling to a flustered, awkward mess. You chuckled—trying to save face—as you scratched lightly at your cheek to ease the tension.
“Probably just like any other woman,” you managed. “I like to get wined and dined. There’s nothing more romantic than keeping it classy.”
Bucky’s eyes studied the way you sat so neatly in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, your skirt draping softly over your knees. Your nails were neatly manicured, and your makeup was light enough to let your natural beauty shine through, doing nothing more than enhancing what was already there.
He couldn’t help but think that someone like you deserved nothing less than a classic kind of love.
The kind that received flowers for no reason at all. The kind of man that held doors open for you, or put his palm respectfully over your waist during a slow waltz, and remembered every little thing you ever mentioned. The kind of love from a man that made you feel cherished every single day.
Bucky silently wondered if he could be that kind of man.
You cleared your throat, sitting up straight and dusting off your skirt. “Anyway, enough about me. This is about you.”
Bucky’s frown lines deepened. He didn’t want to change the subject—he wanted nothing more than to hear about you and your interests. But even then, a dark feeling began to stir deep in his gut over the thought of you being wined and dined by someone else.
You tilted your head, trying to engage him back into the conversation. “Have you spoken to her since?”
“No,” he answered, his gaze drifting down to check for a ring on your left hand.
“Why not?”
There was no ring.
Letting out a subtle breath of relief, he met your eyes again. “I just don’t see the need to.”
“Then open your eyes, Bucky. There are a lot of opportunities you miss out on if you continue to keep them closed.”
There was a selfish part of him that didn’t like the fact that you were trying to encourage him to talk to another girl. If he were to find out that a man had given you his phone number, Bucky would be entirely against it.
Fuck. What was wrong with him? He tried to push those thoughts aside—those silly, inappropriate thoughts about his own therapist.
He knew the session was nearing its end, so he thought he’d change the subject—but that was just his excuse to get you to stop encouraging him to go on a date with this random woman.
“What’s the album for this week, doc?” He asked.
You smiled. “Marvin Gaye.”
Bucky remembered the list of things his old friend Sam had told him to check out—though Sam probably wouldn’t consider him a friend anymore, given how Bucky had ghosted him. It was a long list, a couple of items even carried over from the notes Sam had given Steve years ago. Aside from emphasizing how great Thai food was, Sam had insisted that he absolutely needed to listen to Marvin Gaye.
Yet, despite all of Sam’s efforts, all it really took for Bucky to finally listen was a recommendation from you—the only woman he cared about.
Marvin Gaye’s voice filled his ears, and Bucky could finally understand why Sam had been so insistent about it.
If love was an emotion too complicated for him to grasp, the lyrics explained everything. The gentle beats danced in his ears, and sweet melodies about love, devotion, and longing wrapped around him. Before long, he found himself closing his eyes and picturing you.
He imagined the way you smiled, the way you laughed so easily around him, and the way you made him feel like living was a beautiful thing and not something you dread.
Whoever Marvin Gaye had been singing to in Let's Get It On must have been someone deeply cherished—someone longed for so intensely that the only way to express it was through music. It was everything Bucky wished he could say to you, if only he were allowed.
A soft smile tugged at his lips at the thought of you.
Of course you liked music like this. The kind you’d slow dance to in the middle of the living room, one hand intertwined with someone else’s. The kind that sounded like old-fashioned love brought to life.
His heart thrummed happily, his mind filled with giddy, hopeless thoughts.
He couldn’t wait until Wednesday morning, when he would see you again to talk all about it.
On Tuesday afternoon, his flip phone dinged with a notification from you.
Hi Bucky, I’m so sorry for the short notice, but something urgent has come up and I have to cancel our session tomorrow. I’ll reach out next week to reschedule. Take care!
Bucky stared at the message, his frown lines deepening.
Had something bad happened to you? Or had he scared you off with his question last week?
No. This is stupid, he told himself, trying to shake the sudden panic. There’s no point in dwelling on something like this. She’s just busy.
But as the hours ticked by, his mind began to spiral. He had nothing to look forward to for the rest of the week—just seven empty days without you. He stared at his phone, wondering how inappropriate it would be if he sent a simple, “Hey, how are you doing?” text to his own therapist.
He tried to push the thoughts away, but nothing he did could distract him. Frustrated and exhausted, Bucky decided to turn in early and end the day.
But as the sun went down and the moon rose, sleep brought him no peace. Instead of falling into a blissful rest, he was dragged straight back to his nightmares—except they weren’t like the ones before.
None of them were about his Hydra days or his past victims.
Every single nightmare was about you.
It was the most absolute terrifying fear of abandonment.
In the dream, he pushed open your office door, expecting to see the warm lights and your pretty smile. But the room was completely empty. The walls were cold, bare concrete, and your chair sat vacant in the center of the room. It didn’t look like the welcoming, colorful space with the warm string lights he knew—no, it looked more like the sterile Hydra rooms where he had been brainwashed over and over again.
He tried calling your name, but his words were stuck in his throat. He tried to scream, but it only strained his vocal cords, and nothing came out but a pathetic wheeze. He kept trying, over and over again, until he finally gasped hard enough to wake himself.
His eyes flew open as he bolted upright on the floor. His bare chest was drenched in sweat, his vibranium hand clutching the sheets so tightly the fabric threatened to tear.
He stared blindly into the dark corners of his empty apartment, his chest heaving. It took him a long time to realize it was just a dream, but the hollow feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away.
He just needed to see you.
“I think the saxophones were the best part,” Bucky praised Marvin Gaye with a gentle smile. “In Distant Lover, especially.”
“Excellent choice, Bucky. That one’s my favorite, too,” you returned the sentiment, leaning back in your chair. “So, tell me. Did you have any new, fun interactions at the music store again?”
Bucky shook his head. It hadn’t been interesting at all this past week—just seven days of solitude away from you.
“What about the girl who gave you her number?” You tilted your head. “Did you ever reach out to her?”
“God, no,” Bucky said with a huff of a laugh. “I actually ended up losing the paper. Pretty sure it went through the wash.”
You let out a soft gasp, placing a hand over your heart.
“Bucky! You threw away her phone number? Do you know how hard it is to get someone’s number the old-fashioned way these days?” A smile crept onto your face, matching the teasing look in your eyes. His favorite. “I’m guessing Marvin Gaye couldn’t convince you to be a little romantic, huh?”
Bucky looked down at his hands, both flesh and vibranium. He had stopped wearing gloves to his appointments. He fiddled with his fingers over his lap, looking almost sheepish.
“Guess I just haven’t found the right person,” he mumbled shyly.
“Sometimes it’s not about finding the right or wrong person. Just spending a few hours with someone can help you grow,” you explained. “If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.”
Bucky rose a brow.
You grinned. “A quote from Marvin Gaye.”
“What a sap,” he joked, and you chuckled.
You adjusted yourself in your chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.
“You haven’t brought this up in recent sessions, but I’m curious to know—”
A ring. Nestled on your left ring finger.
“—are you still having nightmares?”
It was shiny. The diamond was a respectable size—as much as he hated to admit it.
“If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, we don’t have to.”
You had been proposed to?
Was that why you had to cancel on him?
“I just thought… as your therapist, it was important for me to ask, to see if you’re actually getting better—”
While he was having nightmares about losing you, you were out getting proposed to. He hadn’t even known you were being courted.
The warmth that he only felt inside your room turned to ice so fast it was hard to breathe.
Your lips were still moving, your voice as gentle and professional as could be as you continued to speak, but Bucky couldn’t hear a single word. There was a loud ringing in his ears, drowning out everything else.
His eyes were helplessly glued to your left hand. Every time you moved, the silver band caught the sunlight streaming through your office window, throwing a tiny, mocking rainbow light over his lap.
It was cruel. Someone else had asked you for forever, and you had given it to them. While he had spent his Tuesday night twisting in his sheets, choking on a nightmare about losing you, you were already out in the world, building a life that didn’t include him. A life where he was just an hour on your Wednesday schedule. A stupid, court-mandated file.
He wanted to pull his eyes away. His vibranium fingers were twitching to pull his gloves back on. He wanted to collect his things, and his feelings, and leave the room without looking back at you. But he knew he had no right.
All he was was your patient.
He was nothing to you.
“Bucky?” you asked softly, carrying such genuine worry that only made his feelings that much more complicated.
When he didn’t move, you leaned forward. Slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to, you reached across the small gap between your chair and the sofa and gently rested your hand over his. Your touch was light, full of professional respect, but the warmth of your skin seared right through him.
“Bucky? Are you okay?”
He flinched slightly, his eyes ripping away from the diamond to look up at your face. You looked so kind, so concerned for him. It nearly broke him right then and there.
He swallowed hard, forcing the massive lump down his throat as he tried to find his voice. He needed to lie. He needed to put the walls back up before he spilled every pathetic, selfish thought in his head.
“No,” he whispered, his voice rough and slightly cracked. He cleared his throat quickly, pulling his hand back just a little to break the contact, though his skin immediately missed your warmth.
“No. No nightmares, doc.”
Time had passed since he saw the ring, and every day felt like a countdown to the ticking time bomb in his heart, ready to explode.
The walls of his apartment felt lonelier and smaller than ever before. Night after night, he found himself sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands as he let himself drown in panic. He always had pent up grief and anger from his past to wrestle with. Now, he had to contend with something else entirely—the longing for you that clawed relentlessly at his heart.
It was the kind of emotional turmoil he was supposed to share with his therapist, but how the hell was he supposed to tell you everything when it was all about you?
He couldn’t go to his sessions and look at that ring anymore. He couldn’t sit there pretending to be the patient who was supposed to be honest about his feelings when he couldn’t even tell you a fraction of the truth.
Then came a bright Tuesday morning, the day before his weekly Wednesday session.
Bucky wandered aimlessly down a quiet street, his jacket collar pulled high against the breeze, when he saw you.
You were standing outside a local flower shop beneath a green awning, leaning over a vibrant display of fresh blooms. Your eyes were closed as you bent down to smell them, a soft, peaceful expression resting on your face.
You were probably looking for flowers for your wedding. The thought twisted painfully in his chest.
As if sensing his gaze, your eyes slowly fluttered open and found him across the sidewalk.
A warm, familiar smile spread across your face—the same smile he had grown to love, and the very one that haunted his dreams. But because you were his therapist, you kept your distance. You didn’t wave or approach him, preserving that professional boundary and leaving the choice entirely up to him: acknowledge you, or walk away.
He had every opportunity to turn around.
He should. He should walk away and never look back. But as he looked at you standing there among the flowers, so close yet completely out of his reach, he felt his resolve begin to crumble.
He couldn’t keep living like this.
If he was ever going to accept himself—if he was ever going to trust his own heart, just as you had spent these sessions trying to teach him—then he had to face the truth.
Sooner or later, his footsteps brought him closer to you.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, trying to force himself to sound cheerful, but the effort failed.
“Yeah,” you breathed with a smile, gesturing to the blooms. “I’m just looking at some flowers for the wedding.”
Another knife to his heart. He felt his face ache from how hard he was trying to maintain his smile.
“They’re beautiful,” he complimented the flowers, despite his eyes being stuck on you.
“I know! There’s so many to choose from. It’s kind of overwhelming,” you chuckled with a hand over your mouth.
Bucky’s heart was hurting so bad in his chest. The longer he stood in front of you, the less he trusted himself.
“Your fiancée is a lucky man,” he said. Fuck. “I’m happy for you.”
You blinked at him, processing his words. It confused you, but what confused you even more was the solemn expression he wore on his face despite saying he was happy.
He looked like a can of worms that were threatening to open and spill all over your hands, like a bomb that was ready to tick off with one wrong move or one wrong breath.
“Bucky,” you frowned, adjusting your bag strap. “Is everything okay—”
“I… I don’t know what to do,” he cut in, his voice trembling with pent up feelings he couldn’t contain for a single second longer. “I’m having the nightmares again. Every single night. But they aren’t about Hydra anymore. They’re about you.”
You stood there, stunned.
“Bucky, what—what are you saying?”
“I have… I have all these thoughts about you,” Bucky confessed, the words pouring out of him like a broken dam, his blue eyes left entirely vulnerable. “Stupid, selfish thoughts. It’s making me crazy. I know I’m your patient. I know I have no right to feel like this—”
He pressed his lips together. He should stop. No. He needs to stop—but he can’t.
“But you taught me to trust myself, and right now, the only truth I have is—”
“Bucky, slow down—”
“—that I’m in love with you.”
With the way you were looking at him, he might have believed he was in a nightmare already.
“I… I—” you stammered, clutching your bag so tightly.
You were usually so confident with your words, always knowing the right things to say in the perfect tone. But now, your words failed you completely.
A patient? Falling for his therapist?
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say—” you tried for a lighthearted laugh, but it came out painfully awkward. “I’m sorry—but you don’t love me. Y—you’re just confused—”
“I’ve had a lot of doubts in my life,” he insisted on adding salt to the wound, stepping closer in the small hopes of reaching you. “I struggle to navigate my feelings—I know that. But my feelings for you—that is the one thing I don't doubt.”
The look on your face was so solemn, so melancholy, yet you were still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
In no world would it ever be appropriate for a patient to fall in love with their therapist.
He knew what was coming next. He knew full well the consequences of confessing his feelings—of saying something stupid to the one woman he shouldn’t.
But he loved you so much, and as a result, he had to let you go.
“I’m so sorry, James.”
“Let’s hope you don’t fall in love with me next,” Dr. Raynor tried to joke in that flat, sarcastic tone of hers. Bucky didn’t even smile.
She jotted something down in her notebook, and the scratching of her pen made him deeply uncomfortable.
It was cruel, really. The moment the board found out he had fallen in love with his therapist, they stripped him away from the one person he actually cared about. Now, they had paired him up with a much older, entirely unenthusiastic replacement. It was a complete joke.
“Since then, have you tried reaching out to other people?” Dr. Raynor asked.
Bucky sat perfectly still on the sofa, his expression blank. “I… have.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “James, I’ve done this long enough to know when a person is lying. You hesitated.”
“You’re a cynic. I don’t know what you want me to do, doc—”
She clicked her pen with a sigh and started scribbling, making Bucky’s eyebrow twitch.
“Okay, fine. I haven’t reached out to anyone,” he admitted in defeat. “I know I should talk to Sam, but… I don’t know. It’s hard.”
“Have you tried reaching out to him?”
“No.”
“Has he tried reaching out to you?”
Bucky stayed quiet, and Dr. Raynor’s patience wore thin. “Let me see your phone.”
Bucky knew there was no point in fighting her on this. With a reluctant sigh, he shifted his weight to dig into the back pocket of his jeans and handed over his brick of a flip phone.
Dr. Raynor took it and began clicking through. “Several missed text messages from Sam, spanning back months. James, what are you doing?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched as he turned to stare out the window. Dr. Raynor’s office was completely different from yours. It lacked all the welcoming colors your walls had. There were no string lights, no carpet with silly designs he could get lost in, and most of all—there was no music.
Dr. Raynor tossed the flip phone back to him, and he caught it effortlessly.
“You’re punishing yourself,” she pointed out blatantly.
Bucky didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes down to his phone, his gloved thumb swiping over the screen. “I’m not punishing myself, doc. I’m doing myself a favor.”
“Bullshit, James,” she snapped, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees to force him into her line of sight. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, his gaze lifted up to her.
“I know what happened with your previous therapist. I read the file,” Dr. Raynor said, using that same tough love of a tone that only made Bucky feel like a child being lectured. “And I know it hurts. I know it feels like the universe threw you a bone, let you feel something real, and then ripped it away just to remind you of who you used to be. But isolating yourself in this empty apartment, cutting off Sam, drowning in your own head—that is the worst goddamn punishment you could possibly inflict on yourself.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard, a muscle ached. “I cross lines when I feel things. I get confused. It feels safer like this.”
“No, you’re just a coward,” Raynor said, unfazed by the hardness in his eyes. “You allowed yourself to feel human for a minute, James. You fell in love. Was it appropriate given the circumstances? No. But it proved that the Winter Soldier didn’t kill the man inside. Now you're treating a normal, heartbreaking human experience like it’s a… a Hydra relapse.”
Bucky made a face.
For a therapist, Raynor was terrible with her allegories.
“Solitude isn’t keeping you safe. It’s just a slow suicide. You want to honor what she taught you? Stop. Hiding. In. The. Dark.”
Raynor checked her watch, clicked her pen one final time, and stood up.
“Our time is up. Call your friend.”
After his session, Bucky found himself walking through a nearby park just a few steps away from his apartment.
Children were running around together. Families were eating on picnic blankets. Couples walked hand in hand. And funny enough, there was even a couple getting engaged just a few feet away from him, surrounded by friends laughing and cheering.
He finally found an empty bench to sit on and pulled out his phone, desperate for a distraction.
Bucky couldn’t remember how many times he had brought Sam up to you in your previous sessions. Every single time, you had encouraged him to talk to him. At the time, Bucky had you—he hadn’t seen the need to reach out to anyone else for friendship when he already had you.
But now that you were gone…
With a sigh, he pressed the phone to his ear and let it ring.
“Sam Wilson. Who’s this?”
Bucky’s throat suddenly felt like it was coated in sand. “Sam.”
There was a dead silence on the other end. Bucky shut his eyes, waiting for Sam to hang up on him. He deserved it after having the audacity to call after nearly a year of silence.
“… Bucky?” Sam’s voice came out breathy and surprised. “Man, I—wow. Are you alright? Why are you calling?”
Bucky winced. He knew Sam probably didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory—or maybe he did. Either way, he had earned it.
Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes drifting up to the sky. He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air in. He thought of the warm string lights, the colorful walls, the beautiful laugh and the gentle advice of the woman he had been forced to leave behind.
Sam sounds like a wonderful person, you had told him once. You should talk to him. You need someone like that in your life.
He was going to try.
For you, he was going to try.
“Yeah. Uh. I just wanted to tell you, I finally listened to Marvin Gaye. Think you got some time this week to catch up?”
There was another pause, long enough to make Bucky’s anxiety spike. Until finally…
“Marvin Gaye, huh? You know, I thought you’d never ask.” Sam said with a light laugh that made Bucky feel a little less tense. “And I don’t want to hear a single thought about it unless we’re talking over a couple of beers. How does Friday sound?”
For the first time in what felt like ages, Bucky genuinely smiled.
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”
It still hurt, knowing that he didn’t have you to look forward to anymore. He had messed up the one good thing he’d had going for him since Hydra—but he had allowed himself to feel. To fall in love. To open his heart to someone else, even if it hadn’t been the right person.
He had to learn to move on. Marvin Gaye was a sap, a man who sang of fantasies entirely out of reach for someone like Bucky. But the man was right.
“It’s good to hear you again, Sam.”
If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.
“It’s good to hear you too, Buck.”
me when i might say something stupid (but the fic is actually buns so this entire fic is just me saying something stupid) i've always wanted to write a tfatws!bucky healing fic of some sort, and what better way to do that than by making the reader his therapist, someone he hopelessly falls in love with which actually plummets his mental health even further! thank you to @houseofhyde and @iamthatonefangirl for beta-reading ily guys
if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the rest of the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!
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Bucky, who is OBSESSED with biting the reader when they're having sex😩 like, this man is feral. Also he's never had this urge before, but the reader is chubby and squishy it's physically impossible for him to not dig his teeth into her soft skin. At first he is hesitant, he doesn't wanna scare her, but figures she likes it too after a few trials, and now it's mandatory when they have sex. Like anywhere. They both love it equally.
Bucky Barnes had always prided himself on control.
Even after the serum, after the decades of violence etched into his bones, he kept his edges sharp and leashed. Sex with you had been no different at first—intense, reverent, a careful worship of every curve and dip of your body.
You were soft in all the ways that made his mouth water, your thighs thick enough to bruise his hips when you wrapped them around him, your belly a warm, yielding pillow under his palm. He loved sinking his fingers into you. Loved the way your flesh gave and bounced back.
But biting?
That urge had never been there before.
Until it was.
The first time it happened, you were riding him slowly in the dim lamplight of your shared apartment, your hips rolling in that lazy rhythm that drove him insane. Sweat slicked your skin, making the soft underside of your breast glisten as you arched above him.
Bucky’s metal hand anchored your waist while his flesh fingers dug into the generous swell of your ass, guiding you down onto him again and again. You felt so good—tight, wet, perfect—and when you leaned forward, your breasts swaying heavy and full right in front of his face, something in him snapped.
He latched onto the side of one breast without thinking, teeth sinking into the give of you.
Not hard enough to break skin, but firm.
A low, guttural growl vibrated against your flesh as he bit down.
You gasped, hips stuttering.
For a split second, Bucky froze, horror flooding him.
What the fuck was that?
He pulled back immediately, eyes wide, lips already forming an apology.
“Shit—baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
But you were looking down at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, pupils blown wide. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, guiding him right back.
“Do it again,” you whispered.
“Harder.”
That was all it took.
---
Months later, biting wasn’t just a sometimes thing.
It was mandatory.
Foreplay. During. After.
Anywhere his mouth could reach, he marked you.
And you craved it just as fiercely.
Tonight was no exception.
You’d barely made it through the door after a long day before Bucky had you pinned against the hallway wall, his mouth crashing into yours in a messy, desperate kiss. His hands roamed greedily, squeezing the soft rolls at your sides, kneading your hips before sliding beneath your shirt.
“Missed you,” he growled against your lips.
“Missed this.”
He dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, tugging your leggings and underwear down in one rough motion. Your thighs jiggled with the movement, and Bucky groaned like a man starved.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered later, eyes dark and wild as they traveled over you. “You’re so fucking soft.”
By the time he carried you to the bedroom, your skin was already decorated with the evidence of his affection.
The mattress bounced beneath your weight when he set you down, stripping quickly before crawling over you.
He didn't rush.
Not really.
Because as much as Bucky loved having you beneath him, he loved worshipping you even more.
Every inch.
Every curve.
Every soft place he could touch.
Every place he could leave his mark.
“Bucky, please,” you breathed, legs wrapping around his waist.
His answering smile was dark.
“Gonna take care of you, doll.”
The rest of the night blurred into tangled sheets, breathless laughter, desperate kisses, and the familiar ache of being wanted so completely.
Not tolerated.
Not settled for.
Wanted.
Consumed.
Adored.
Bucky always looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and somehow that feeling never got old.
If anything, it only made you love him more.
---
Afterward, you both collapsed in a sweaty, satisfied heap beneath the blankets.
Bucky pulled you against his chest, his hands gentle now as they traced the constellation of marks scattered across your skin. Some were already darkening into bruises. Others were barely visible.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
The question always surprised you. Even after all this time, some part of him still worried.
You laughed softly and turned in his arms.
“Never.”
His expression immediately relaxed.
“I love it when you lose control like that,” you admitted, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Makes me feel wanted.”
His eyes softened.
“You are wanted.”
The words came without hesitation.
“I can’t get enough of you.”
Your heart squeexed because you could see he meant every word.
“Your body,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Perfect.”
You laughed.
“Perfect?”
“Perfect.”
“Even when I steal all the blankets?”
“Yes.”
“When I leave cups everywhere?”
“Yes.”
“When I—”
“Yes.”
He cut you off with a grin.
“Still perfect.”
You smiled and tucked yourself closer against him.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The apartment sat quiet around you, safe and warm.
Eventually, Bucky shifted lower against the mattress, burying his face against your chest with a satisfied sigh.
“Comfortable?” you teased.
“Very.”
“You planning on moving?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
You laughed and ran your fingers through his hair.
Within minutes, his breathing had evened out.
One arm wrapped around your waist. One hand resting possessively against your side.
You watched him for a moment before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Bucky Barnes had spent most of his life fighting.
Surviving.
Holding himself together through sheer force of will.
But here? With you?
He could finally let go.
And judging by the way he slept curled around you, he never intended to leave.
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