Summary: You only asked for something light—just a little teasing, some rope, a blindfold. But Bucky Barnes never did anything halfway. Not when it came to you.
Disclaimer: SMUT 18+ (mdni!), rope bondage, sensory play (edging, overstimulation, blindfold), soft Dom! Bucky, established relationship, some tender aftercare...
Word Count: 7k
Author's Note: I am very inexperienced for this kind of play... 😔 and yes I am going to milk the gifs from this very scene for 89374748 more times tysm. I wrote this during hours of crying at work and struggling to stay awake from being overworked 🤫
“Are you sure you want this, hon?” His voice was low, hesitant—but so heartbreakingly tender it made your chest ache.
You looked up from the bed, where the soft cotton ropes lay coiled between you like quiet promises. “Very sure,” you said, with a breathless kind of smile.
You watched him wrestle with it. With the part of him that never quite let go of the fear he might hurt someone again. That part always hovered, shadowed behind his love, like a ghost that didn’t know how to rest. He stood near the bed, arms folded, jaw tight. But his eyes—God, his eyes—searched yours like they were trying to read the truth written in the lines of your face.
“I just…” He exhaled hard through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You won’t.” You reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist, anchoring him to the present. “This is just for fun. Just something soft. I trust you.”
“But the ties… you won’t be able to move. And the blindfold…”
“We’ll go slow,” you promised. “And if anything doesn’t feel right, I’ll tell you. That’s what the safe word’s for.”
That got a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“What’d you pick again?”
You grinned. “Dim sum.”
A short laugh slipped from him, barely a breath. “Jesus. You couldn’t pick, I don’t know, red or pineapple?”
“It’s cute,” you said, pressing your forehead against his chest. “And you’ll remember it. Right, Sergeant?”
His hands, warm and callused, came to rest on your hips. You felt him sigh, deeply, the exhale pushing against your skin. He leaned down and kissed your temple.
“You’re a menace,” he murmured.
“But your menace,” you whispered back.
—
He took a step back.
Even in the soft glow of your bedroom, he looked devastating—broad-shouldered, tension coiled in every line of his frame. He was dressed down for once: just a white ribbed tank clinging to his chest and black sweatpants slung low on his hips. His metal arm gleamed faintly in the light.
And then his voice dropped.
“Take it off, sweetheart.”
You blinked.
“Clothes. Off. All of it—except the lace.” His tone wasn’t rough or harsh—it was smooth. Firm. Intentional. It made something low in your belly twist and flutter.
You swallowed and obeyed, fingers moving to lift the hem of your shirt first. The cotton slipped over your head, baring your skin to the room. You held his gaze as you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sleep shorts and slowly pushed them down your thighs, heart hammering in your chest.
The air hit your skin, cool and immediate. You stood in your black lace bra and matching panties—the set you knew he liked. The set he’d once said made you look like “something too good to touch.”
He let his eyes roam, slow and reverent. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
Then, quieter: “Lie back for me.”
You did.
—
He was quiet as he guided your arms above your head, positioning you with deliberate care. His fingers brushed against the skin of your inner wrists, soft and steady.
The rope was pale and worn, the kind that didn’t bite—just held. It moved through his fingers like second nature. He started slow. One loop. A second. A gentle tug.
His eyes flicked to your face, checking. Always checking.
“You doing okay?” His voice had dropped into something darker. Not cold. Just… heavier. Quieter.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He tied your wrists together, then anchored them to the headboard. It was snug, but not cruel. Just enough tension to remind you of who held the control tonight. Your breath caught—not from fear, but from the vulnerability of it. The surrender. The trust.
“Good girl,” he said under his breath, and you swore your pulse skipped.
Then he moved lower.
Bucky sat at the foot of the bed, large hands easing one ankle toward the bedpost. He kissed your shin softly before looping the rope around, threading it through with care. The other ankle followed—bound, spread. You were exposed now, laid bare and open to him, and still, he looked at you like you were something sacred.
“Too much?”
“Not even close.”
A beat passed. Then his hand slid over your thigh, up, up—until it ghosted close to your center. He didn’t touch, not yet. Just let the heat of his palm hover.
“I’ve got one more thing,” he said, voice a little hoarse.
You nodded, already knowing.
The blindfold.
He brought it forward—dark silk, cool to the touch—and laid it gently over your eyes. The world blinked out.
Your chest rose and fell faster now. Your heartbeat seemed louder in the dark. Every sound sharpened—the soft rasp of rope when he adjusted it, the creak of the bed as he knelt closer, the catch of his breath.
You felt his mouth on your cheek. Then your throat. Then just beneath your ear.
“Still okay?”
“Yes,” you whispered, already breathless. “Please…”
The air shifted. The mattress dipped between your thighs as he settled there, knees brushing yours. You could feel the heat of him—radiating from his chest, his stomach, his breath ghosting along your skin like fog on glass.
His metal fingers traced the rope where it wrapped your wrists. Down your arms. Across your hips. The contrast was electric—cold glinting over warm flesh, all sensation amplified by the dark.
“You look like a fucking dream,” he whispered, almost reverent. “Tied up so pretty for me.”
Your back arched instinctively, pulling against the restraint just to feel it. The tension. The ache. The longing.
“Say it again,” you begged.
He kissed your inner thigh.
“My good girl,” he breathed. “My sweet, obedient little doll.”
You whimpered.
“I’m gonna take care of you now,” he said, voice just above a growl. “Gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me.”
And you did.
You surrendered.
To him. To the ropes. To the trust you knew would never be broken.
—
You could feel his breath against your inner thigh, just shy of your panties.
His hands—one warm, one cool—rested on your knees, keeping them spread just slightly wider. Just enough to remind you that you weren’t going anywhere.
Not with the knots he’d tied.
Not with how completely he had you.
He was quiet for a moment. Studying you.
You heard the soft shift of fabric as he adjusted on the bed, and then that voice—low, smooth, the one that always came right before he broke you down entirely—slipped into the dark:
“You do not give orders tonight, sweetheart.”
Your breath caught.
“You don’t ask me to touch you. You don’t tell me when. Or how.”
His hand moved—slowly, palm dragging up the inside of your thigh, not quite touching where you ached, but close enough to make you tremble.
“You lie there, and you take what I give you. Understood?”
“Yes, B—”
The hand stopped. Fingers dug in slightly.
You froze.
“Wanna try that again?” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t need to yell. He never did. That voice, low and deep and unrelenting, could split you open with a whisper.
Your mouth parted, dry.
“Yes… Sergeant Barnes.”
A beat of silence. Then he hummed, pleased. “Good girl.”
The words made heat coil in your belly. Your hips shifted on instinct, pulling against the ropes at your ankles. They held perfectly. His knots, tight and clean, didn’t give an inch. You were spread and exposed, but safe. Completely his.
“Hands okay?” he murmured, his voice briefly returning to that gentler shade.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Not too tight.”
“Good. They won’t loosen,” he said, almost to himself. “Not until I say so.”
Then his mouth pressed against your thigh—slow, warm kisses trailing upward, and the fabric of your panties barely brushed by his stubble. He paused right before your center, exhaling into the damp heat there.
You whimpered.
“Look at you. Dripping,” he said, voice like syrup over ice. “And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”
You squirmed in the ropes.
“Still,” he barked. Not loud. But sharp. Final.
Your muscles stilled instantly.
“Sergeant Barnes,” you breathed. “Please.”
“Oh, now you remember,” he said with a dark smile.
Then he moved—dragging his tongue slowly along the inner edge of your thigh, avoiding where you wanted him most. Your hips jerked involuntarily.
He pulled back.
“Tsk. That’s not staying still.”
“Please—”
“Please what?”
You swallowed. “Please touch me, Sergeant Barnes.”
There was silence. Delicious, torturous silence. Then:
“No.”
The word hit you like a jolt.
You whimpered, straining against the ropes again. You weren’t sure if the ache between your legs or the ache of denial was worse—but both of them burned.
“I think,” he said, slowly running a fingertip along the waistband of your panties, “you forgot your place for a second. Thought you were in charge.”
His thumb slipped beneath the fabric, teasing along the crease of your thigh. Not enough. Never enough.
“You’re gonna lie here, dripping and desperate, until I decide you’ve earned more.”
“James—” You whined.
“That’s two.”
You stiffened.
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, breath warm and full of promise. “Slip my name again, and I’ll keep you tied up, untouched, so long you’ll forget what it felt like to come.”
You gasped, back arching against the mattress.
“Y-Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”
“Good girl,” he murmured again, and this time, his hand did press between your legs. Palm down. Just pressure.
You moaned—long and low—as he rocked his hand slowly against you, over the lace. The friction made you twitch, legs trembling. Your wrists flexed instinctively—but the ropes held, unyielding.
“You look so fucking perfect like this,” he said. “Tied up. Helpless. Dripping.”
And then—finally—he slid your panties aside.
Cool air rushed across soaked skin.
Then his fingers—two of them, thick and warm—slid between your folds, slow, smooth, claiming.
Your entire body jerked.
He held your hip with his metal hand, keeping you down.
“No running,” he said softly. “You take what I give you.”
“Y-Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”
The teasing—this unbearable edge between worship and control—was everything. He stroked you lazily, never speeding up. Just circling your clit with infuriating precision, dipping into you and dragging slick back up to start again.
Your thighs trembled.
“Such a sweet little mess already,” he murmured. “How long d’you think you’ll last, baby?”
“I—I don’t know—”
“Think we should find out?”
You whimpered, nodding helplessly into the blindfold.
“Color?”
“Green,” you gasped.
And he smiled, dark and pleased, like the soldier inside him had been starving for this kind of surrender.
“Good,” he said.
And then his mouth was on you.
—
He ate you like he had all night.
Like he had something to prove.
Like he’d starve if he didn’t make you come with nothing but his mouth.
His lips, his tongue—deliberate, slow, devastating. He held your thighs open with firm hands, anchoring your hips down as he mouthed over your folds. You gasped, body arching—ropes straining as your ankles flexed against them. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t breathe.
You were shaking.
“Sergeant Barnes,” you cried, voice trembling.
He groaned against your pussy—deep, sending vibration through your core—but didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until your thighs were shaking and your stomach was coiling tight, that white-hot bloom already rising—
“Close,” you gasped. “I—please, I’m—!”
And then—he pulled back.
Completely.
You whimpered, the sound guttural. Desperate. Your body writhing under the ropes, the orgasm ripped away before it could crest.
“No—no, please—” You tugged helplessly at your restraints. “Why—?”
You felt the mattress shift, his weight rising. Then his mouth was near your ear again, warm and maddening.
“You don’t come until I say so,” he growled. “Understand?”
You whimpered. “Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“Yes, Sergeant Barnes,” you sobbed, breathless.
“Good girl.”
And then his lips were on your breast—dragging across lace. Teasing, hot, humid breaths making you arch beneath him. His metal hand slid under your back, lifting your chest toward his mouth as his teeth grazed your nipple through the bra.
“Pretty little tits,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Bet they’d look even better wrapped up for me.”
You trembled.
And that’s when he shifted again.
“On your feet.”
You blinked, confused, still half-dazed from denial. “Sergeant?”
He was already loosening your wrist ropes—but not untying them. He kept the knots intact, working them with speed and precision, metal fingers moving with masterful ease.
“You’re gonna stand for me,” he murmured. “Let me see you from every angle.”
Once your wrists were free, he helped guide you upright. You swayed on shaky legs, but he held you—one strong hand gripping your waist until you found balance.
You were still blindfolded. Still in your lace bra and panties. Still dripping and aching.
But then—his hands came to your back.
Not rough. Not rushed. Just a gentle graze of fingertips against the clasp of your bra.
“Off,” he said softly, but there was no mistaking the order.
You shivered as he undid the hooks one by one, letting the straps slip down your shoulders, fabric falling away. His hand swept the lace aside with reverence, baring your chest completely.
The cool air kissed your skin, and you inhaled sharply.
“Needed to see you properly,” he murmured. “Gonna tie you up real pretty now.”
Then Bucky guided your wrists above your head again, backing you up slowly until your shoulders bumped gently into the edge of the tall wardrobe at the corner of the room. You felt his hands lift yours—then the soft drag of rope over the wooden frame, threading expertly around the handles at the top.
He worked quickly, efficiently—looping and knotting in practiced silence.
“Hold still,” he murmured. “Almost there.”
The pull was firm. Your wrists were now secured above you, anchored to the wardrobe doors—just high enough to stretch your arms, just tight enough to make you feel owned.
He hadn’t planned this. But God, he made it look like he had.
He stepped back to admire you.
You couldn’t see him, but you felt his eyes like heat.
“Fucking beautiful.”
His fingers ghosted down your ribcage. Then across your stomach. Then up… and around.
The rope slid against your skin again, new coils this time. Smooth, strong, wrapping beneath and over your chest—circling your breasts in a criss-cross weave. Bucky moved deliberately, guiding the rope under your arms, then between the swells of your now-bare chest. You gasped as he pulled—not harsh, just enough to lift and frame you in knotted tension.
He tied it off with one last flourish: a perfect little bow nestled right beneath the valley of your breasts.
“For me,” he murmured. “My own personal present.”
You moaned softly.
“You alright?” he asked then, still checking. Always checking.
“Yes,” you breathed. “Still green.”
He kissed your jaw, then down to your shoulder. “Good.”
Then his hands cupped your breasts, gently, slowly squeezing—his thumbs brushing over your nipples through the lace and rope both. The dual sensation was electric. Your body shuddered against the bindings, held upright and helpless.
“You make the prettiest noises when I deny you,” he said softly, lips brushing your skin between words. “Might keep you like this a little longer.”
You gasped as he pinched gently, just enough to make you tremble.
“Sergeant Barnes—please—please…”
He chuckled darkly. “You’re gonna have to be real convincing, sweetheart. Because I could do this all night.”
And he meant it.
Because he didn’t get tired.
And because he wasn’t done yet.
—
His mouth was back on you.
Lapping, slow, relentless. Not building this time—but dragging you across the same raw nerve again and again. You were still tied to the wardrobe, blindfolded, trembling—hips twitching with every stroke of his tongue. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
Your body was beyond ready.
Too ready.
You were so sensitive, each touch from him felt like a jolt—sweet and sharp, pleasure braided with ache. Your thighs flexed with every pass of his tongue. His stubble scraped lightly against your inner thighs, grounding you in every moment.
“Can’t take—” you choked out. “Please, Sergeant—I can’t—”
He only hummed into you.
Your knees nearly buckled.
You moaned and twisted in the ropes, muscles locking, toes curling. You were so close—but the tension made it hurt. The pleasure came wrapped in a raw edge now. You gasped, head tilting back against the wardrobe, chest heaving in your lace and rope harness.
“Please,” you begged again—softer this time, fragile, your voice cracking. “Please—Sergeant—hurts—hurts—”
Everything went still.
Instantly.
You felt his hands—one metal, one flesh—on your hips. Holding you. Steadying you.
Then his mouth lifted, and he spoke—his voice low, soft, but still firm. Still him.
“You still with me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, panting. “Y-Yeah. Green. Just—sensitive. Too much.”
He kissed your hipbone. Then your lower belly.
“You’re doing so fucking well for me,” he murmured, gentler now. “Took everything like a goddamn angel.”
His hands slid between your thighs, this time with purpose.
“You want me to finish you, doll?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, Sergeant Barnes—need it so bad—need you.”
A pause. Then—
“Color?”
“Green,” you gasped. “Please... please—please.”
His metal hand slid between your legs, thick fingers spreading you open, cool and deliberate.
You barely had time to brace.
One finger pushed in—then two.
Then three.
You moaned, hands fisting uselessly in the rope above your head.
Then—four.
You cried out.
The stretch burned and bloomed at once. Cool steel filled you, deeper than you’d ever been touched. He curled his fingers just so, and you shattered—legs shaking, thighs clenching, cries slipping raw from your throat.
“That’s it,” he whispered, lips close to your temple. “Come for me, baby. Come on my hand. Let go.”
And you did.
It surged through you like fire—hot and wet and overwhelming. Your knees buckled, held only by the ropes and his grip. Your whole body convulsed against the bindings, and all you could do was moan.
He kissed your cheek, then dragged his fingers slowly from you.
“So beautiful,” he said, voice reverent. “So fucking beautiful like this.”
Then—he brought his hand to your lips.
“Open.”
You obeyed.
Cool metal touched your tongue—coated in slick, tasting of you. You moaned as he pressed his fingers against your lips, and he leaned in to kiss you at the same time, messy and deep. Your taste spread between you, sticky and intimate.
When he pulled back, you were breathless—barely clinging to the afterglow.
But he wasn’t done.
His hand returned to your chest—the rope harness still framing your breasts in neat, deliberate loops. You felt him tug.
Tighter.
The pressure surged, sudden and perfect.
You cried out again—a sharp, broken moan as your nipples stiffened, hypersensitive.
“God,” he breathed. “You take it so well. All tied up, chest heaving, face flushed—fuck, baby.”
He tightened the final knot just enough to send sparks dancing behind your eyes.
“Mine,” he whispered.
You whimpered. “Yours.”
Finally, finally—he touched your blindfold.
The silk slipped away, and the room returned in soft golden blur—warm light, and him in front of you.
Bucky, flushed and firm-jawed, eyes dark and aching with need. His white tank clung to his chest, damp with sweat, and the outline of his cock was straining thick and hard against his black sweatpants.
“Look at me,” he said, voice rough. “You’ve earned it.”
He reached up and loosened the rope from your wrists, guiding them down gently. Your arms ached. He held them in his hands, kissed your knuckles. You swayed against him.
“Now,” he growled, stepping back just slightly—eyes dropping to his waistband. “On your knees.”
You sank instantly, dizzy with obedience.
“Pull my pants down.”
Your fingers trembled, but you obeyed. You gripped the waistband, dragging his sweats and briefs down together—and there he was. Hard, flushed, thick and dripping at the tip.
“Stroke me, sweetheart,” he said, voice barely holding together. “Nice and slow. Look at me while you do.”
You wrapped your hand around him, fingers sliding over velvet skin and thick, aching weight. His cock pulsed in your grip. His head dropped back, and he moaned—low, strained, almost pained.
“Fuck, baby… just like that. So good. So perfect.”
And when his eyes met yours again—dark and molten, flickering with every last bit of restraint he had left—you knew:
He was yours.
And he was about to fall apart for you.
—
His cock pulsed in your hand.
You could barely close your fingers around him—thick and hot, swollen with need. A bead of precum slipped from the tip, and you swiped your thumb through it slowly, spreading it around the sensitive head. He hissed through clenched teeth.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You look so good like this. My sweet little civilian. On your knees for your Sergeant.”
You felt yourself clench, body still trembling from your own orgasm. The ropes around your chest still cradled your breasts—tight, lifted, your nipples flushed and swollen inside the lace.
“Open,” he ordered.
You did.
Lips parted, tongue out, eyes wide.
But just before you leaned in, his voice dropped—deeper, darker.
“No sounds.”
You blinked.
He brushed the back of his hand across your cheek. “You moan, whimper, even breathe too heavy, and I’ll tighten those sweet little nipples until you remember how to stay quiet.”
Your breath hitched.
But you nodded. “Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”
And then you wrapped your lips around him.
The taste—heady, salt-slick, impossibly good. Your tongue worked slowly over the underside, dragging against that sensitive ridge as you took him deeper. The weight of him on your tongue made your thighs press together instinctively.
He groaned. Loud. Rough. His hips rocked forward, just slightly.
And you couldn’t help it.
You moaned around him.
Soft. Just a breath.
But he noticed.
IIn an instant, you felt his hand reach down—fingers brushing the curve of your chest, then dipping beneath the taut rope harness. He cupped one breast firmly, then let his thumb and forefinger pinch your nipple through the lace—light at first. A warning.
You whimpered again.
The pinch tightened.
You gasped softly around his cock.
He didn’t stop.
Other hand now—metal fingers cold and precise, rolling the other nipple just a little tighter, tugging gently. Pain bloomed under the pleasure, sharp and hot.
You tried to focus. Tried to breathe through your nose. Tried not to moan when his cock twitched on your tongue, salty and slick.
But another sound slipped.
“Mm—”
The pinch intensified.
You cried out, pulling back with a small hiss—this one real. Not performative. Not playful.
It hurt.
Too much.
Instantly, his hands dropped.
His voice changed. “Hey—hey, hey. Baby—” Softer now. Gentle. “I’m sorry. Let me see.”
You looked up. His brows were drawn, mouth parted. He crouched down in front of you, hands already untying the bow at your chest, pulling the rope harness down gently so he could cradle your breasts in his palms.
His thumbs brushed your nipples carefully, inspecting.
“Shit, sweetheart—I didn’t mean—”
“I’m okay,” you whispered, heart still racing. “Just… too sensitive. Still coming down.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “I pushed too far. That’s on me.”
Your fingers lifted to his jaw. “It’s okay, Sergeant,” you said softly, voice full of mischief and invitation. “Stay in character.”
His eyes flickered—heat returning, but tempered by something softer. A slow exhale rolled through him. He nodded once.
You smiled, then leaned forward again.
You kissed the head of his cock—slow, delicate.
Your tongue swirled around it, featherlight, teasing. You kept your eyes on him, stroking him from base to tip while your mouth played at the crown. Not deep yet. Just wet, soft licks, and the steady glide of your palm along his thick shaft.
Bucky hissed. His abdomen tensed. “Fuck, baby…”
You dragged your tongue across the slit, tasting the salt of him.
Then down the underside—slow, deliberate—while your fist tightened slightly, twisting just enough to make him curse under his breath.
“Fucking hell, sweetheart. Look at you.”
You moaned quietly this time, not enough to break rules—but just enough to let him feel it.
Your tongue flattened again, mouth closing over the tip while you stroked him in rhythm. You could feel him twitching in your palm now, see the flush climbing his chest, his abs tensing with every breath.
His hand threaded into your hair—not to force you, but to feel you.
Your other hand came to rest on his hipbone for balance as you picked up speed—mouth wetter, strokes tighter, sucking him just to the edge and easing off.
You wanted him to fall apart.
You wanted to be the reason.
And from the way his jaw clenched, the way his thighs started to tremble, you were close.
So fucking close.
Your tongue circled the head of his cock again—slow, teasing. You stroked him tighter now, fist pumping in rhythm with your mouth. He was so close you could feel it—his hips twitching, his hand tightening in your hair.
“Fuck, sweetheart—fuck, I’m gonna—”
You didn’t stop.
Didn’t slow.
You wanted it.
With a ragged groan, Bucky’s hips jerked—thick, hot ropes of cum spilling onto your tongue as you took him as deep as you could, your throat flexing around him. He groaned again, louder, head falling back, abs trembling.
You held it. Every drop.
He looked down at you, panting, voice still breathless but laced with command.
“Stand up.”
Your legs were shaky, your muscles still strung tight from before—but you obeyed. You rose slowly to your feet, lips still closed, his taste heavy on your tongue.
He reached for your waist to steady you—his touch both grounding and possessive. He tilted your chin up with two fingers.
“Don’t swallow,” he ordered, voice low, eyes locked on yours. “Not until you’re looking at me.”
Your eyes—half-lidded, dazed—met his.
He smirked, satisfied.
“Good girl.”
You swallowed.
He exhaled slowly, his palm brushing your jaw, then cupping your cheek like he couldn’t help it. The look in his eyes had shifted—less fire, more warmth. But he was still Sergeant Barnes. Still your sergeant.
Then something changed.
His gaze dropped.
His thumb brushed a faint, reddish bruise around your wrist where the rope had held you tight. He turned your arm slightly, inspecting the other one—same marks. His brow creased.
Then he crouched, fingers trailing down your leg to the flushed indentation circling your ankle—the place the rope had dug in while keeping you wide open for him. He pressed there gently, then looked up again, jaw tight.
Finally, his gaze moved to your chest.
He reached up, fingertips ghosting over the places where the rope harness had pressed into your skin—framing your breasts, pulled taut around your ribs. Even beneath the lace of your bra, the skin was marked: soft pink lines curving beneath each swell, rising along your sternum.
His touch lingered there. Slower now. Guilt ghosting behind his eyes.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
You nodded—but he still looked conflicted.
“I didn’t mean to mark you this much,” he said, quieter now. “I wasn’t thinking—I should’ve—”
“You did everything right,” you interrupted, stepping in closer. “I asked for it. I still want it.”
He looked at you, searching. Hesitant.
“I want you to fuck me.”
He blinked.
“In the ropes,” you added, voice barely a whisper. “Like… really tied. Not soft this time.”
He went completely still.
“Just this once,” you whispered. “Please.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening. That same battle behind his eyes—the one he always lost when it came to you.
He sighed.
Long. Heavy. Resigned.
“You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Then his eyes lifted again—and they’d changed.
Gone soft to steel in a breath.
“Alright,” he said, stepping toward you, voice low and sure. “You want tied, sweetheart?”
You nodded.
“You want to be used?”
Another nod. Breathless.
He moved behind you, and you felt the rope brush your skin again—familiar now, sacred. He kissed your shoulder, then bent down, whispering by your ear.
“Then Sergeant Barnes is gonna ruin you.”
And this time?
You welcomed it.
His breath lingered at your neck, warm and steady. His fingers skimmed your waist, then reached for the rope again—sliding it through his palm like it belonged there.
But then he paused.
You felt it—not hesitation, exactly, but calculation.
His voice came quieter now, still dark with command, but tinged with thought.
“…This’ll be easier if I anchor the rope under the bed.”
You blinked, breath hitching. “Sergeant?”
“I’ve never done a full-bed setup like this. Not properly. And if I’m gonna wreck you,” he said, tugging your body tighter against his, “we’re doing it right.”
He reached for his phone on the dresser—one hand still on your hip.
You turned, half-laughing, flushed. “Are we seriously—”
“Quiet,” he said, tapping the screen. “Sergeant Barnes is researching.”
You bit your lip.
He opened YouTube.
You watched, still half-naked, the breast harness now back in place—tied tighter than before, with that perfect little bow beneath your breasts—as he searched for a video like it was part of a mission briefing.
“…‘Ten-Minute Bed Bind Tutorial’?”
“I like to be thorough,” he muttered.
“Bucky—”
His head snapped toward you.
You froze.
He raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”
You swallowed, lips twitching. “Sergeant Barnes.”
His smirk returned.
He pressed play.
—
Two minutes and thirty seconds later:
Rope across the headboard. Ankles spread. Wrists retied. Rope loops secured under the mattress in perfect symmetry. He’d adjusted everything to fit the frame, then added two anchor points at your thighs—not to bind them, but to keep them open.
“Video said ten minutes,” he muttered, tugging the last knot into place. “Took me two.”
You swallowed. Hard.
He stepped back to admire you.
You were flat on your back, arms bound above your head, legs spread wide. The ropes pressed against your wrists, your ankles, even the bend of your thighs. Your chest was framed by the harness—tight, elevated, perfect.
You looked like a gift.
He looked like he wanted to unwrap you slowly, then ruin you completely.
His voice dropped. “Color?”
“Green,” you breathed.
And just like that, his gaze darkened.
He climbed onto the bed, straddling your thighs. One knee pressed between your legs, widening your bound position further.
He didn’t kiss you.
He marked you.
Teeth at your neck. A slow suck against your collarbone. A lingering bruise beneath your jawline. Every place he touched was not a kiss—it was a warning.
You whimpered.
He froze.
“You making noise already?” he asked, voice slow and dangerous. “I haven’t even touched your pussy yet.”
You bit your lip. “Sorry, Sergeant—”
His fingers grabbed the rope at your hips and gave it a sharp tug.
The restraint pulled tighter, forcing your thighs open, arching your spine. You gasped at the sudden tension, breath snagging in your chest.
“That’s what happens when you disobey,” he growled. “Tighter. Less movement. No friction.”
Then, cruelly—he slid his hand between your thighs.
But didn’t touch.
“Try grinding again,” he warned. “See how that ends for you.”
You whimpered again—couldn’t help it—and he dipped his head back down, lips dragging along your sternum, following the path of the rope.
He left another hickey between the curves of your breasts.
Then lower.
Then lower.
You bit your tongue to stay silent as his mouth worked downward, every kiss staking another claim. Every mark a punishment you craved.
“I’m gonna edge you until your voice breaks,” he whispered, breath hot against your panties. “And if I hear one sound—just one—I’ll pull these ropes so tight you’ll forget how to breathe.”
You nodded—eyes wide, breath locked in your throat.
“Good girl.”
Then his mouth pressed against your soaked lace.
Hot. Open. Slow.
And you were already trembling again.
—
You were already soaked.
Already trembling.
And he hadn’t even pulled your panties aside yet.
His breath coasted over the lace—hot, deliberate. You felt it more than heard it: the moment his mouth pressed flat against you. Open-lipped. A slow grind of heat and tongue that made your back arch involuntarily, ropes pulling at your wrists and ankles.
Still, you stayed quiet.
You had to.
His tongue slid along the edge of the lace, teasing the damp spot that had grown and spread—and when he pushed the fabric aside, he groaned low.
“Dripping.”
You whimpered.
He paused.
His lips brushed your thigh, then your hip. “That a sound of pain?”
You shook your head furiously, biting your lip.
“No, Sergeant,” you gasped, barely whispering. “Just… overwhelmed.”
“Good.”
And then he dove in again.
His mouth was sin itself—his tongue dragging slowly up your folds, circling your clit in perfect pressure, and then backing off again. Not enough. Never enough.
Your legs trembled, straining against the ropes. Every part of you ached for more, and still—you didn’t make a sound.
Until—
Your breath hitched.
A sharp, strangled inhale—not from pleasure, but something sharper.
He stopped instantly.
Pulled back.
“Sweetheart?” he said, and the voice wasn’t Sergeant anymore. It was Bucky. Gentle. Threadbare. “Too much?”
You shook your head, blinking back tears. “Just sensitive.”
He smoothed his hand over your thigh, kissing the inside of your knee.
“You still want to keep going?”
“Yes. Please.”
His gaze flicked over your body again. The rope marks. Your trembling. Your patience. Your trust.
“Gonna take care of you now,” he whispered. “Gonna go slow. Just feel me.”
He shifted on the bed, weight dipping between your thighs, and you felt the warm, heavy press of him lining up against your entrance—bare, thick, and aching to be inside you.
Still tied.
Still wide open.
Still his.
He pushed in slowly—inch by inch—watching you the entire time. His cock stretched you gradually, thick and hot, forcing your body to yield around him.
You moaned—not loud, just deep. Raw.
“You okay?”
“Y-Yeah.”
He kissed your forehead.
Then your lips.
Then stayed still.
“You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “So tight. So fucking perfect. I’m gonna move now, alright?”
You nodded.
And he did.
Gentle at first. Controlled. Like every thrust was a thank you for your trust. For the ropes. For the silence. For letting him ruin you.
He reached down, his metal thumb brushing over your clit in soft, slow circles, and you shattered around him—moaning against the rope, breath broken, body shaking beneath him.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “That’s it. That’s it.”
And when your body finally stilled—aftershocks pulsing through your thighs—he slowed again.
Paused.
His forehead rested against yours.
“…Can we let go of the ropes now?” he asked softly. “Just for the rest of it. I just wanna hold you.”
You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He kissed you.
Then gently—so gently—untied your wrists first, kissing the marks. Then your ankles. Then the breast harness, easing each loop free, his hands slow and reverent. He tossed the rope aside. You were bare again. Just you and him. No bindings. No roles. Just two bodies flushed with need, breathing in tandem.
And you were ready.
—
He flipped you onto your stomach, then lifted your hips slightly, easing a pillow beneath you. Your body melted against the sheets, pliant and warm.
He slid back in from behind—deeper now, unrestrained, hips pressing flush against your ass with every push. The thrusts were heavier, hungrier. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in—not to bruise, but to anchor.
Skin met skin. The sound of it echoed in the room, heady and obscene.
“God, baby,” he growled, voice ragged with heat. “You take me so well. You’re so fucking good for me.”
You moaned, louder now, gasping his name—no more ranks, no more games. Just Bucky.
He didn’t mind.
Not anymore.
One hand slid up your spine, palm warm against your back. He leaned over you, lips brushing your shoulder, and whispered, “I’ve got you. All of you.”
You whimpered—because you knew it was true.
Then he slowed, hips pulling back.
“Ride me,” he rasped. “Wanna watch you fall apart.”
You turned, breathless and trembling, and climbed over him—straddling his lap in reverse, thighs spread wide over his. His cock slid in again, thick and hot, your body molding to him like it had been made for it.
You rocked your hips.
He groaned, hands clenching at your waist. Then your ass. Then up to your breasts, cupping them from behind, lifting them, thumbs brushing your nipples.
“Just like that, baby. Fuck—just like that.”
You bounced. Slowly at first, then with rhythm. You were soaked. Sore. So blissfully full.
You felt another orgasm mounting—deep, dizzying, your core clenching tight. He felt it too—the way your walls fluttered, the way your thighs shook.
“Come for me,” he gasped. “I wanna feel it—wanna feel all of it.”
And you did.
Hard.
You cried out, the sound ragged and raw, your body convulsing around him as pleasure tore through you like a wave.
You collapsed forward, catching yourself on shaky hands. He followed—gripping your hips, thrusting up into you once, twice—then spilling inside with a low, broken groan.
But he wasn’t finished.
He pulled you down beside him, kissing you hard—tongue slow and sweet against yours.
Then he flipped you again, pulling your leg up over his shoulder. He pushed in from the side this time, deep and slow, hitting a new angle that made your whole body arch off the sheets.
You gasped. “Fuck—Bucky—”
He growled your name against your throat. “Can’t get enough of you. Need all of you.”
He rocked into you, fingers sliding to your clit—lazy circles while he moved inside, deeper with every stroke. You clenched around him again, tears pricking your eyes from the overload.
Then he pulled out again and laid back, breath shallow. “On top of me. Face me this time.”
You straddled him again, facing him now. You slid down onto him, and the look he gave you—the pure reverence in his eyes—made your chest ache.
You rode him slow. Intimate.
His hands found your hips, then your thighs, then cupped your jaw.
You held eye contact as your bodies moved together—raw, unfiltered, real.
“You’re everything,” he whispered. “You’re my fucking everything.”
You kissed him through another climax. Your body clenching, thighs shaking.
And then he came again—softer this time. Less control. Just need.
You stayed there, chest pressed to his, lips brushing his jaw as he caught his breath.
Then, tenderly, he tucked your hair behind your ear. “Still with me, baby?”
You nodded against his chest. “Always.”
His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.
And in the warmth of tangled sheets and exhausted bodies, you both finally found rest.
—
You weren’t even sure how long you’d laid there.
Your body hummed. Spent. Boneless. Covered in a thin sheen of sweat and kisses. Muscles aching in the best way. You were splayed across Bucky’s chest, barely able to breathe—heart still galloping in your ribs, pulse fluttering weakly against his throat.
He brushed your hair back with careful fingers. His other hand rubbed your lower back in slow, grounding circles.
You shifted, blinking blearily up at him.
“Jesus Christ,” you rasped, voice wrecked.
He smiled. One of those crooked, boyish ones that made your stomach flip.
“You okay, doll?”
“No,” you whispered. “I’m officially wrecked. I’m actually broken.”
That made him chuckle, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “Mission accomplished.”
He gently eased out of you—slow and apologetic—and you hissed slightly at the tenderness. He cupped your jaw immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek.
“Hey. Stay here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
You nodded weakly and collapsed back against the pillows.
A few moments passed. You heard water running in the ensuite. The soft rustle of a towel.
Then Bucky returned, naked, crouching at the edge of the bed with a warmth in his eyes that made your chest ache.
“Let me clean you up,” he murmured, voice low, coaxing.
He was so careful.
He wiped between your thighs gently, whispering soft praises as he went. You whimpered once—overstimulated—and he immediately paused, planting a kiss to your hipbone.
“Sorry, baby. I know,” he said. “Almost done.”
When he finished, he helped you back under the covers and climbed in beside you. You curled into him instinctively—head tucked under his jaw, leg draped over his hip, the afterglow still crackling between your skin.
Bucky exhaled, slow and content. His fingers traced idle shapes along your side.
“You know what?” you muttered, half-slurred with exhaustion. “I’m so jealous you never get tired.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You say that like I didn’t just have the best cardio session of my life.”
You giggled, half-asleep. “Still. Not fair. You’re super soldier. I’m mortal. You’ll be ready again in ten minutes.”
He smirked. “Perks of being me. Also means I can always satisfy that pretty little appetite of yours.”
You groaned. “God, cocky and correct.”
“I prefer efficient,” he said, kissing your forehead. “And wildly devoted.”
You chuckled again, sleep dragging at your limbs. He tugged the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking you against his chest.
A quiet settled over you both. The kind that only came after total trust. After surrender.
After love.
Your breathing slowed.
He watched it happen.
Watched you drift—lips parted, lashes fluttering faintly against your cheeks. You looked worn down in the most beautiful way. Glowing. Messy. Loved.
He waited until your breathing deepened.
Then—carefully—he slid out from under you.
He padded softly to the bathroom again. Pulled open the drawer. Found the small tin of petroleum jelly Wanda had insisted everyone carry for dry skin and weird mission rashes.
He returned quietly, crouching at the edge of the bed. You didn’t stir.
He kissed your shoulder first. Then your wrist.
He traced the faint red marks there—left by the ropes. A loop, a spiral. A memory.
He dabbed the jelly gently onto the skin. Then your ankles. Then the light indentation around your ribcage and chest, where the harness had held you snug and still. He rubbed it in slow, careful strokes.
When he finished, he just looked at you for a long moment.
Then he climbed in beside you again. Pulled you into his arms.
You murmured something in your sleep—nonsense and vowels—but leaned into his chest.
Bucky smiled.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ll still be here.”
Ahhhh omg I love gentleman Bucky. Like so chivalrous and respectful. But with him being feral and obsessed with you at the same time. Being obsessed with pleasuring you and treating pleasuring you like his life’s honour. NEED HIM
oh god, i do too. i wrote this in my hotel room and i'm thinking about how much i want bucky 😭.
here's a little something before i crash for the night ❤️
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni
Bucky's the kind of man who would open doors, carry your bags and kisses the back of your hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He is polite to a fault—chivalrous, old-school, the kind of gentleman who calls you baby, sweetheart, darling with a softness that could melt steel.
But underneath all that clean-shaven charm and quiet smiles is something much darker. A need that simmers just beneath the surface, sharp and hungry, and so intense it borders on obsession.
Because you know what they say—gentleman in the streets, freak in the sheets—and Bucky god damn lives it.
In public, he’s all warmth and patience, touching the small of your back, pulling out your chair, kissing your hand like you’re something fragile.
But behind closed doors? He’s anything but gentle.
Because when he has you alone, the gloves come off—figuratively and literally.
That pretty mouth, the one that whispered yes, sweetheart at dinner? It’s filthy now—groaning against your inner thigh, spitting on your pussy just to watch it drip down before he licks it clean.
He doesn’t just want to make you cum. He wants to break you with it. Wants to feel you scream his name, claw at his back, sob through your orgasms until your voice gives out.
He’ll have you shaking, begging, soaking the sheets—and he’ll still ask for more.
He eats you like he’s starving, like it’s the only thing that’s ever tasted good to him. Tongue buried deep, moaning into your cunt like your pleasure is air in his fucking lungs.
He keeps you spread for him, held down and worshipped, hands gripping your thighs like he owns them.
Like he owns you.
And maybe he does—at least in that moment, when you’re crying out his name and he’s murmuring, “That’s it, princess, just like that. Gimme another. I need it.”
He doesn't just want you to cum—he needs it. Treats your orgasms like they're sacred, like his purpose is to bring you to your edge, over and over, until you're trembling and slick and gasping into his shoulder, and even then, he doesn’t stop.
God, he can’t stop. Not until you’re spent and messy and ruined, soaked thighs draped over his shoulders and voice hoarse from your pretty cries.
Don't even get me started on the way he fucks you.
It’s brutal. Raw. Like he’s been starved of you for too damn long and now that he’s got you under him, he’s going to devour you from the inside out.
He slams into you, thick cock stretching you wide, splitting you open with every desperate, punishing stroke. He keeps one hand wrapped around your throat, anchoring you, to remind you exactly who you belong to.
His other hand is everywhere—gripping your ass, spreading your legs wider, shoving them up until your knees are almost hitting your chest so he can get deeper. Just so he can hit that spot that makes your vision blur.
“Listen to you,” he grits out, lips brushing your ear as your soaked cunt sucks him in again and again. “Dripping all over my cock. Fuckin’ obsessed with it, aren’t you?”
And you are. You can’t even deny it—not with the way you’re clenching around him, begging without words, just breathy little whimpers and moans that only make him fuck you harder.
His hips are relentless, slapping into you with wet, obscene sounds, his balls tight and heavy against your ass as he drives in so deep it feels like he’s fucking you right into the mattress.
He doesn’t stop when you cum.
Fuck, he barely slows down—just grins, wicked and dark, as you tremble beneath him, whining from the overstimulation.
“That’s one sweetheart,” he mutters, dragging his cock out just enough to watch your slick coat him before slamming back in. “You’ve got more in you. Gonna fuck you until you forget how to fucking breathe.”
✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.
✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader
✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences
✮ word count: 10.6k
✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo
The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.
He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.
"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"
The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.
"Need a hand?"
You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.
"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."
He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.
"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"
"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."
Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.
"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"
"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."
He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.
"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."
"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."
"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.
"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"
He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.
Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.
It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.
He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.
"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."
"No problem."
He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"
He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.
"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."
It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."
He's so fucked.
The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.
When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?
So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.
But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.
You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.
"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."
"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.
"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."
You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.
Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.
He should stay away.
He doesn't.
"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"
"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."
"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."
"I smile."
"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"
Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."
"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"
The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.
"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"
"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"
"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."
Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.
"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."
"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."
Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.
But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.
"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.
Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."
The faucet thing turns into a whole production.
You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—
"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."
The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.
"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.
"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."
He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.
"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"
"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.
Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.
"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.
"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."
He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.
"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."
"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.
Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."
It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.
"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.
"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."
"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"
"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."
"So don't go."
"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."
He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You were going to ask me to go with you."
"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."
"I really don't."
"There's an open bar."
"Still no."
"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."
That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...
"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."
The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.
He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.
The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.
"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."
"Did it work?"
"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."
He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."
"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"
"I said no dancing."
"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."
"That's not a law."
"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."
The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.
You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.
"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."
His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."
Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.
"Bucky—"
"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."
You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."
But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.
He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.
"I'm sorry if I—" you start.
"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"
"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."
"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."
You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.
You pull back after that.
It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.
"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.
"I don't mope."
"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"
Bucky's silence is damning.
"What'd you do?"
"Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."
Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."
"...okay?"
"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."
"Why?"
"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"
"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"
"Then she's naïve."
"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."
"It's worked so far."
"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."
Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?
He's already standing before he realizes it.
"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."
Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.
"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."
He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.
"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.
"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"
"Why are you apologizing?"
"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"
"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.
You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."
"You're a terrible liar."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.
"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.
"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."
Each observation feels like being flayed open.
"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."
"You can't know that."
"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."
"You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"
He kisses you.
It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.
The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.
You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—
Reality crashes back like ice water.
He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.
Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.
"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."
"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.
"I should go," he manages.
"Or," you say, "you could stay."
The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.
You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.
He leaves.
The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.
He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.
Now he wants to break his own.
You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.
It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.
"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"
He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."
Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."
Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.
It's fine. It's working. You're safe.
He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.
Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.
"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."
"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.
"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."
Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.
The mission goes sideways in minute three.
"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"
The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.
"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.
It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.
"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."
Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.
They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.
His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—
Your door is open.
Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—
The deadbolt is broken.
The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.
Bucky goes utterly still.
His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—
Blood.
Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.
"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—
Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.
Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.
He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.
His phone rings. Unknown number.
"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.
"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."
"Where is she?"
"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"
Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—
"What do you want?"
"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."
The line goes dead.
Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.
Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.
He's going to paint the city red for it.
"Buck, slow down—"
"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.
Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"
"Watch me."
"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"
"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."
Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"
That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.
"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."
"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."
"Buck—"
"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."
"So what, you're going in alone?"
Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.
"They touched her," he says simply.
"I know, man. I know. But—"
"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."
"Buck, come on. At least let me—"
"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"
"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that."
Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—
Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.
"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.
Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.
The trail goes cold in six hours.
Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.
"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"
Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."
"We'll find her."
We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.
He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.
Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.
"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."
"Get out."
"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"
"I said—"
"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."
The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."
"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."
"I know that."
"Then stop giving them what they want."
Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.
"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.
"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.
"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."
"I am focused."
"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."
He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.
"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"
Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.
His blood turns to ice, then flame.
"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."
She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.
"Just me," he says. "Let her go."
"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."
The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.
You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.
"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.
You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."
The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.
"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."
You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."
Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.
"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."
"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.
This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.
"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."
Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"
The video cuts.
Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.
"That bad?" Yelena asks.
He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.
Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.
"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."
"I know."
"You can't just walk in there like idiot."
"I know."
"So what's plan?"
He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."
"Barnes—"
"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."
The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.
"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."
"Rooftop," from Yelena.
"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."
"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.
The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.
"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."
"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."
"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"
Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.
"Where is she?"
"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."
"We?"
The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."
"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."
The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."
Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.
Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.
"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."
"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."
"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"
The knife moves toward you.
The world explodes.
Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.
Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.
Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.
"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"
He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.
When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.
"Come any closer and—"
Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.
"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."
But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.
"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."
"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.
He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.
"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.
Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.
After that? After that, everything changes.
But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:
Never again.
Never fucking again.
The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.
"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."
"I'm fine."
Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.
"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."
He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?
"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."
Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.
"When will she wake up?"
"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."
"Sam already made that joke."
"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."
She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.
Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.
"You're spiraling again."
Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.
"You're awake."
"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"
"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"
"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."
"It's fine."
You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.
"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"
"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."
Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"
"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."
"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."
"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."
"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"
"That's not—"
"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."
"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"
"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."
You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."
"Stop."
"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."
The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.
"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.
"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."
"How can you say that?"
"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."
"I should have protected you better."
"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."
"I should have never let them take you in the first place."
"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."
"You are—"
"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."
He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."
"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."
"I know."
"Like, incandescently furious."
"I know."
"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."
His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"
"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"
He kisses you.
There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.
His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.
The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.
When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.
Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.
"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"
"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."
You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."
"I'm already in therapy."
"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."
"...fine."
"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."
"Okay."
"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."
"Deal."
"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."
He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.
"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."
"I know."
"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."
"I can take it."
"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."
"Noted."
You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."
He freezes. You squeeze his hand.
"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."
His throat feels tight. "I can do that."
"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."
"It's not that bad."
"Bucky."
"Fine."
But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.
The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.
"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.
"Yeah."
"And stubborn."
"Definitely."
"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."
He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.
The least he can do is try to prove you right.
When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.
And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.
"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.
"Hey yourself."
You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.
How to create a character for an online or tabletop RPG (also a good guide on creating characters in general)
Royalty/nobility TV Tropes page
Basic character profile
OC masterpost
Random character generators - (1), (2), (3), (4)
D&D Character Building Tool
Character Design Ideas:
How clothing affects a character’s personality
Character Design Inspiration blog
Concept art, fan art, cool art to be inspired by
Character design references and inspiration
Sources for POC character design ideas and models
Create your own character model using HeroForge
For horned characters
Body and hair types guide
Random outfit generator
Naming Help:
Amazing site with an endless amount of naming resources
General advice on avoiding naming appropriation
Hispanic Surnames
Gothic Victorian names
Huge master list for character things in general
Masterlist of names of all types - including but not limited to ancient/old world names, Celtic, African, Northern European, Southern and Central American Native names, Japanese, Chinese, Mongolian, Polynesian, and more
Another name masterlist
How to pick a character name guide
Yet another names masterlist
Creating Background/backstory:
Character Sheet/Development Sheet
Another character development list
In-depth character personality, motivations and traits sheet
320 talents and passions for characters
On writing likes and dislikes that aren’t frivolous
Why you should write non-human characters non-conforming to the gender binary
Stereotypes, tropes, and archetypes
Random backstory generator
Assassin and thief character tropes to avoid
Character Interactions and putting your character into your world/story:
Comparing character height/height references
Characters who are scientists and writing about them doing science
Describing what different voices sound like
Describing skin tones
Writing friendship interactions that are platonic
Why having one character knock their friend unconscious to prevent them from doing something is a bad idea
Advice on shipping OCs with canon characters and what to avoid doing
Sweet Polly Oliver and Sweet on Polly Oliver situations (think of Disney’s Mulan for an example)
How to write multiple viewpoints/juggling a main cast of more than 4 to 6 characters
How to make readers care about your morally gray hero/anti-hero
On platonic OC and canon character relationships
How to avoid Godmodding in RPs
When it’s cheap to kill off a character
Writing dialogue
Things you shouldn’t do to canon characters
Avoiding purple prose in writing and RPs
Slang resources
Dialogue tips
Websites to chart your story/plot/character relationships
WARNING: SPOILERS FOR THE DARKVERSE, proceed cautiously.
I read it as soon as it released , and after the initial elation of reading something I've waited SO LONG for subsided, I realized a few things which I want to rant about.
This post is in NO WAY bashing/insulting/hating on the amazing Runyx. its just my review as a READER.
The book was TOO SHORT. WHY DID IT END SO EARLY???? I mean fucking Twisted Hate had 500+ pages and it was a ROMANCE??? This book was supposed to deal with some very complicated issues and tie many plots and subplots together. The pace was too rushed.
It felt like Lyla and Shadowman's book, I mean nobody else played any significant role in bringing down the Syndicate. Lyla asked him to save Morana and he did. THAT'S IT???? How was it THAT EASY to bring down and kill the syndicate? after all that build up???
THE BOOK BOILED DOWN TRISTAN AND MORANA'S DYNAMIC!!!! I mean this man was able to notice Morana flinching and getting uncomfortable in the Predator, AND HE HATED HER THEN. You're telling me that he didn't notice her left arm in the ENTIRE BOOK??? It was apparent to XANDERR, A CHILD??? There's no way this man who literally died when Morana was shot will be this callous.
THEY DIDN'T USE ALPHA??? AT ALL??? I mean all he did was make Zephyr pregnant and THAT'S IT. I was hoping that his memories would come back and fit like a missing puzzle piece but nope, nothing like that. The potential his character had was criminally wasted.
A lot of the book was rushed, most subplots were thrown in and out haphazardly. like Vin's death?? Zephyr's dad being in the Syndicate??? I think a lot more could've been done with these subplots than to be just mentioned in the passing.
THE CLIMAX! WTF WAS THAT? It was so ..... anti-climactic. A lot of what happened was underwhelming. and the last plot twist, of Tristan's mother not being his mom, was completely unnecessary.
Part Two
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
Themes: Heavy Mutual Pinining, Heavy Sexual Tension, Longing, Yearning, Right Person-Wrong Time. Friends to Lovers, a bit Angsty but Happy Ending. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky being obsessed with tiddies, unprotected piv, creampie.
Summary: Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.
A/N: This is a Two Shot, so another one will be coming soon.
tags: @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @classicrebound
The first time it really hits is when you see him with her.
It’s a crowded room, warm bodies pressed close together, the low hum of music barely louder than the thudding in your chest as you watch Bucky Barnes wrap his arm around the waist of a woman you don’t know.
She’s beautiful, of course—someone you'd expect to be by his side. Her laugh is soft, melting into his as he leans in close, whispering something that lights her face up, his lips brushing her ear like he can’t help himself.
You glance down at your drink, the sudden bitterness pooling in your throat harder to swallow than the wine. You tell yourself to look away, that it’s none of your business who he holds, but you can’t. Every time you look up, he’s there, still wrapped around her, laughing at something she’s said, his hand resting on her back in a way that feels too familiar, too tender. You know that look—the way his fingers splay protectively, pulling her close like she belongs to him. Like he’s finally let someone in.
It’s torture, standing there with a smile plastered on your face, pretending not to notice. Pretending that it doesn’t crush you.
Because when you’re alone—when you’re single—he’s taken. And when he’s got nobody, you do. Every single time. You’ve gotten used to seeing him across rooms, with someone else in his arms, with that look in his eyes that you wish, desperately, could be meant for you.
And he’s always looking at you that same way, that glance just a second too long, that warmth held back by a fragile thread of restraint. Just enough to keep the lines from blurring.
Tonight, he finally looks away.
When he glances up, catches sight of you, his smile falters. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and something soft flickers in his eyes—something like regret, the same regret you carry. But her hand tightens on his arm, and he turns back to her, his smile returning, wider than before. You hate how easily he can pull away from you, how quickly he can make you feel invisible.
“Hey, Bucky,” you manage, your voice steady though it feels like your chest is caving in.
He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Hey.” His gaze drops, and for a second, you think he might actually say something, that he might admit that this hurts him too. But then she shifts closer, and he wraps his arm around her more firmly, giving you a look that’s both a dare and a dismissal.
“This is Emily,” he says, and she gives you a polite, too-sweet smile.
“Oh.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “I didn’t know… I hadn’t realized you were…” You can’t finish, the words catching in your throat.
“Yeah.” Bucky’s tone is almost too casual, too final. “We’re together.”
The finality of it slices through you, sharp and clean. You nod, trying to hold onto whatever scraps of dignity you have left, but all you can manage is, “Well… congratulations. I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.”
There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—anger? Hurt? But his jaw tightens, and he nods, looking away as if to spare you.
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says, his voice steady, controlled.
Emily pulls him closer, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she glances at you.
“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” she says, and there’s a challenge in her tone, a silent declaration that she’s won, that whatever you think you had with him is nothing compared to this. She presses a kiss to his cheek, her fingers curling possessively around his shoulder as she tilts her head, catching his gaze.
“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice hollow. “Yeah, he is.”
And for a brief, desperate second, you think he might look at you—really look at you, see how much this is tearing you apart. But he doesn’t. His gaze is on her, soft and full of warmth, a look he’s given you a thousand times. And it feels like he’s choosing her, like he’s making the decision to let go of whatever fragile orbit kept you two circling each other all this time.
You turn away, trying to hold yourself together, but the ache in your chest is all-consuming, a raw, relentless reminder that he’s moved on. That he’s chosen her.
And as you walk away, you can still hear their laughter, the sound twisting like a knife in your chest, leaving you wondering if he was ever yours to lose.
And then one night, fate flips, and you’re the one with someone new by your side.
It’s been months since you last saw Bucky. You assumed he was out of your life for good, until tonight, when you walk into the cozy warmth of a private dining room in a restaurant, your hand firmly held by your boyfriend Andrew. It’s Steve’s dinner party, a small gathering of friends, and the lighthearted chatter fills the air, mixing with the warm glow from the dimmed overhead lights.
You’re laughing at something your boyfriend said as you step into the room, but your laughter dies in your throat when you see him.
Bucky is seated across the table, leaning back casually in his chair, but the moment his eyes meet yours, a spark flickers there—surprise, mingled with something darker, something that quickens your pulse. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight, and judging by the way his gaze lingers, he hadn’t expected you either.
Steve stands, grinning as he greets you and Andrew, and you introduce him to everyone. You smile, trying to seem natural as you move around the table, your hand still resting in your boyfriend’s. But it feels wrong, the warmth of your boyfriend’s fingers against yours suddenly strange, like it doesn’t quite belong.
When you reach Bucky, he stands, his jaw tense, his eyes unwavering as he offers a hand to shake. You almost expect him to make some dry remark, to cover up whatever unspoken tension lies between you. But he’s silent as he grips Andrew’s hand firmly, while looking at you. His fingers are steady, a touch too tight, like he’s barely holding something back.
“So, you’re the boyfriend,” Bucky says, his voice calm but laced with something you can’t quite place.
Your boyfriend laughs, unaware of the tension. “Yeah, I am. And you’re the famous Bucky I keep hearing about.”
Bucky’s lips twitch into a half-smile, but his eyes remain cold.
“I’m sure you have.” He releases your boyfriend’s hand, his gaze shifting back to you, lingering a second too long before he forces himself to look away.
It should feel like a victory—that, for once, you’re the one who’s found happiness while he’s left to watch. But the second you meet his eyes, the air shifts. You feel the weight of everything unspoken, of the years that have passed with both of you just out of reach, orbiting each other but never colliding.
You take your seat next to your boyfriend, aware of every brush of his arm against yours, every gentle squeeze of his hand on your knee under the table. He leans close, murmuring something soft and sweet, and you offer a small smile, but your focus is entirely on Bucky, sitting across the table, his gaze flickering between you and Andrew, his jaw set with that same restrained tension.
As the night wears on, Bucky remains quiet, only contributing here and there to the conversation, but each time he speaks, his words feel weighted, almost directed at you.
“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the chatter, “I’m guessing you’re happy?”
The question is simple enough, but there’s a challenge hidden beneath it, a question he doesn’t ask outright.
“Yes, I am,” you say, your voice firmer than you feel, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”
Your boyfriend glances over, squeezing your hand, unaware of the undercurrents in the room.
“She’s stuck with me now,” he jokes, nudging you. “No escape.”
You laugh softly, but the sound feels hollow, especially when you catch Bucky’s expression—something dark and raw flashing in his eyes before he schools his features again.
“Good for you both,” Bucky replies, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s about time.”
There’s a pause, the kind that seems to echo louder than any conversation, and you can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, filled with a thousand things he can’t say. Your chest tightens as the weight of everything unsaid settles heavily between you, filling the air with a tension you’re certain everyone can feel.
As people start to leave, you find yourself alone with Bucky by the door. Your boyfriend is across the room, saying goodbyes, and it’s just you and Bucky in the dimly lit entryway, a fragile bubble of space and time.
“So…” His voice is low, almost too soft, his eyes searching yours. “This is it, then?”
There’s a vulnerability in his words that pierces through you, a rawness you’ve never heard before. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to deny it.
You glance away, your voice barely a whisper. “Yep. This is it.”
A shadow crosses his face, and he just stands there, watching you, his gaze heavy. He doesn’t say anything for awhile, his hand lingering just inches from yours, as though he’s contemplating reaching out, breaking whatever boundary lies between you. The air feels thick, and you wonder if he can hear the frantic beat of your heart.
But he lets his hand fall back to his side.
“Guess there’s nothing left to say,” he murmurs, a bitter edge coloring his voice. His eyes linger on you, as if he’s memorizing every detail, every second of this final, silent goodbye.
You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips, caught between everything you want to say and everything you can’t. You reach out, almost instinctively, but Andrew calls your name from across the room, his voice shattering the fragile stillness.
Bucky’s gaze flickers, and he takes a step back, his expression falling into something guarded.
“Take care, doll,” he says softly, the words laced with both a goodbye and a promise. His eyes linger on you one last time, and then he’s gone, slipping out into the night.
He’d spent years replacing your lips with so many others, all in an attempt to forget the mark you left on him.
Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled her in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.
× × × ×
Present
It’s one of those nights, another dinner gathering among friends, the kind that’s almost become routine. You’re already seated in the cozy living room, surrounded by the familiar warmth of Steve’s place. The soft glow of lamps and low bable of conversation wrap around you like a comfortable blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you’re truly at ease.
Beside you, Sam nudges your shoulder.
“Hey Boo,” he says, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, “remember when you and Bucky were practically attached at the hip? What happened there?”
The question catches you off guard, and you feel warmth creeping up your neck as a few heads turn, curious eyes glancing your way. You roll your eyes, nudging him back.
“Leave it to you to bring that up, Sam.”
He chuckles, unrelenting. “C’mon, just saying. You two were tight. I mean, tight.”
You let out a small, nervous laugh, feeling the weight of a few more gazes on you, even if they aren’t pushing the question.
“It’s… complicated,” you finally say, giving him a look that tells him to drop it. But Sam just chuckles, clearly amused, like he knows something no one else does.
“Complicated.” He echoes with a slow nod, a knowing grin spreading. “Right. Complicated.”
“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, barely suppressing a smile, but you can’t deny the fondness in your tone. Sam just winks, nudging you again, and the others quickly move on, the brief moment of attention fading as conversation flows around you.
And that’s when the front door opens, and you hear his voice.
“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky calls out, his deep voice filling the space effortlessly as he steps in, slightly flushed from the cold outside. His eyes scan the room, and the moment they land on you, you swear the air shifts, that it crackles with something electric, something only the two of you seem to feel.
Your heart stumbles over itself as he walks further into the room, tugging off his jacket and offering smiles and nods to everyone. But it’s like a magnetic pull—his eyes keep flickering back to you, and each time it does, your stomach does a nervous, excited flip.
He looks good. Better than good, really. There’s a slight scruff along his jaw, and his hair falls just so, framing his face in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch it. When he finally reaches the empty chair directly across from you, he stops, fingers lingering on the back of it.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asks, his voice low, and there’s something almost hesitant in his eyes, like he’s waiting for permission to be close to you.
You shake your head, trying to keep your cool, even though every part of you is screaming, yes, sit, sit right here and don’t you dare move.
“No, go ahead,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steady.
He sits, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted, and the faint scent of his cologne drifts over, warm and familiar, making your head spin.
As he settles in, he leans slightly closer, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long time no see.”
“Feels that way, doesn’t it?” you murmur, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. Every subtle movement, every small smile he throws your way feels like it’s weaving a thread around you both, pulling you in.
The conversation around you resumes, but it’s like you’re in a bubble, the two of you orbiting each other again. Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, just enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you bite back a smile. His hand rests on the table between you, his fingers drumming absently, and you find yourself staring at them, remembering every time those hands had nearly, almost touched yours.
After a lull in conversation, he clears his throat, glancing at you sideways.
“So… where’s the boyfriend?” he asks, almost casually, but you catch the underlying question. His tone is light, but his eyes are cautious, searching yours, looking for an answer he can’t ask outright.
You raise a brow, unable to hide the grin pulling at your lips.
“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you meet his gaze, “the lack of presence should answer your question.”
For a second, Bucky just stares, and then a slow, dawning smile spreads across his face, his whole expression softening, the guardedness falling away. He looks like he’s holding back from saying something, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table, his knee pressing just a little more against yours as he leans in.
And before you can think twice, you match his question with your own, barely above a whisper. “And where’s your girlfriend, Bucky?”
“Nonexistent.” he said almost instantly.
His eyes hold yours, and something subtle shifts in them—a hint of a smile playing at his lips, but he doesn’t look away though he plays it off with a small, casual shrug. “Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person.”
You nod, feeling the smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
“Nice,” you say, trying to keep it casual, though your heart’s picking up a pace of its own.
“Yeah… nice.” He lets out a quiet chuckle, raising an eyebrow as if he’s catching onto your attempt at nonchalance.
Deafening silence settles between you, but it’s charged, a silent exchange that makes you feel more breathless than words ever could. Neither of you seems to move, his knee still brushing yours under the table, and it feels like he’s lingering in your space, right on that line between friend and something more.
You glance around, feeling the tension rise, and blow your bangs out of your eyes, hoping it might ease the knot in your stomach. But when you sneak a look at him, he’s still staring, his gaze solid, unblinking, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of every tiny shift in the air between you. Your cheeks warm, and you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, but it only makes your heart pound harder.
Your cheeks warm instantly, and you quickly look away, focusing hard on the table.
A small smile tugs at his lips, his voice soft. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
Your pulse quickens, and you swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.
“Maybe a little,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
A spark lights in his eyes, and his smile widens, soft but undeniably mischievous.
“Good,” he murmurs, his knee pressing just a fraction closer to yours, enough to send a thrill up your spine. “Because, for the record… you make me a little nervous too.”
Your heart does a flip, and you feel a grin tug at your lips despite yourself.
“I make you nervous?” You try to keep the surprise out of your voice, but he just nods, his gaze intense, that teasing warmth settling over his expression.
“Yeah, you do,” he says, his tone light but honest, like he’s been waiting to say it. “Especially when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?” you ask, barely breathing.
“Like you’re about to bolt… but part of you doesn’t want to.” His voice is low, and his eyes search yours, as if he’s daring you to deny it.
You feel the smile you’ve been holding back break through, your heart racing as the last of the distance between you seems to dissolve. Just as you’re about to respond, a voice calls from the dining room, breaking the tension as everyone calls you both to join.
“Guess we should go, huh?” Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, pulling back just slightly, though his gaze lingers on yours for a heartbeat longer.
“Yeah,” you manage, feeling a little breathless.
But as you both stand and head to the dining room, his hand brushes yours, just enough for his pinky to link with yours for a brief, secret moment. The warmth of that tiny touch lingers, and you can’t help but feel like something just shifted between you, something new and thrilling, waiting just under the surface.
× × × ×
As you both step into the dining room, Sam raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There they are,” he teases, his voice just loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “We were wondering what’s taking so long.”
Heat creeps up your cheeks, and you catch Bucky’s gaze, a subtle, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t say anything, slipping into the room to find only two empty seats—right beside each other.
Bucky gestures to the chair beside him, waiting until you sit before settling in next to you. He settles in beside you, his broad shoulders and steady presence enveloping the space, making you feel smaller.
Conversations swirl around the table, but you’re painfully aware of every tiny shift Bucky makes. The subtle brush of his arm against yours, the steady warmth radiating from his shoulder—it all has your heart racing. His hand rests on the table beside yours, fingers drumming lightly, and your pulse hammers as his knee presses just slightly against yours under the table, a connection so subtle yet electric that it makes your skin tingle.
Then he adjusts his position, angling himself more toward the group—and you. The small movement brings him even closer, and you’re immediately enveloped in his scent, something warm and cedar-like, filling the air around you until it feels almost overwhelming, in the best possible way. You take a slow breath, fighting the urge to close the distance even more, feeling trapped between wanting to be near him and feeling breathless because of it.
As Bucky joins the conversation, you find yourself watching him, captivated by the way he leans in, his voice low and steady, his easy confidence only pulling you in deeper. His lips curve as he speaks, and you can’t help but linger on every detail, the way his eyes light up, the rough timbre of his laugh, every tiny thing about him that’s impossibly distracting.
And then, in the middle of a sentence, his eyes flick back to you, catching you looking. You quickly look away, feeling your cheeks burn as you fixate on your plate, hoping he didn’t notice the way you’d been studying him.
But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His pinky grazes yours again, a gentle, teasing touch, sending a thrill up your spine as he continues his conversation, his presence unmistakable and impossible to ignore.
You try to focus on anything else, but his gaze keeps finding you, even when you’re not looking. And with every shared glance, every quiet brush of his fingers, the air grows thicker, charged with something unspoken, as if each tiny touch is daring you to lean in, to close that final distance.
You’re doing everything you can to keep your composure, to focus on the laughter and stories being shared. But Bucky’s presence beside you is inescapable, it’s a thrill that’s leaving you silent, lost in your own thoughts as the night goes on.
Sam’s voice suddenly cuts through, pulling you back to reality.
“Hey,” he says, smirking as he leans back in his chair, his gaze playful but sharp. “You’re unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on with you?”
Feeling everyone’s eyes on you, you force a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension simmering under your skin.
“Just… food coma, I guess,” you say, waving a hand and attempting a casual smile.
Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
“Food coma? Really?” He drags out the words, as if he’s not buying it for a second, and you can see the teasing glint in his eyes. “Pasta’s got you this speechless?”
Beside you, Bucky’s lips twitch, and you can feel his gaze, that familiar, subtle amusement making it impossible not to blush. You risk a quick glance at him, only to find him looking back with that same knowing smirk, like he can see right through every excuse.
“Maybe she’s just tired of all your talking, Sam,” Bucky says smoothly, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he speaks. The movement is so casual, so effortless, that it almost seems like an afterthought. But the warmth of his arm behind you, his fingers just brushing the curve of your shoulder, makes your heart race in ways you can’t ignore. His tone stays casual, but there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes as he looks at Sam, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a subtle, grounding touch.
Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d check,” he says, throwing a playful wink in your direction.
You feel yourself sink back just slightly, leaning into the warmth of his arm, and it’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers stay near your shoulder, steady and unassuming but unmistakably there. The conversations resume around you, but the space between you and Bucky feels even smaller, the quiet thrill of his touch pulling you in.
He leans in slightly, his voice dropping so only you can hear.
“That food coma excuse was almost convincing,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with playful challenge as he watches your reaction.
× × × ×
As the night winds down, people start to gather their things, saying their goodbyes. You slip on your coat, waiting for Sam to finish up his goodbyes, but he suddenly turns to Steve with a grin.
“Hey, Rogers,” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “How about we hit that bar down the street? Just a quick nightcap.”
You raise an eyebrow, deadpanning as you fold your arms. “Seriously, Sam?”
He flashes you an unapologetic grin, shrugging. “What? You’re always saying you’re an independent woman. I figured a little alone time wouldn’t hurt.”
“Unbelievable.” You shake your head, muttering, “You’re an asshole.”
Sam just laughs, looking over his shoulder.
“Hey, maybe Bucky can give you a lift. It’ll be like old times.” He gives you a wink, completely ignoring the way your cheeks warm.
You glance at Bucky, trying to keep your expression neutral. “It’s fine, really,” you say quickly. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”
“Suit yourself,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket and heading out with Steve. “But you know Bucky’s free.” He gives you one last smirk before slipping out the door, leaving you standing there with Bucky, who’s leaning casually against the wall, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
“Need a ride?” he asks, his voice warm, that familiar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.
You open your mouth to decline, still feeling a bit of resistance. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll just grab an Uber.”
Bucky chuckles softly, tilting his head toward the door. “I’ll drop you off. It’s fine.”
You hold his gaze for a few seconds, trying to gauge his sincerity, but there’s that familiar steadiness in his eyes, a quiet patience that leaves you with no real reason to argue. Finally, you sigh, giving in with a reluctant nod.
The car ride starts in silence, the engine’s low hum filling the tense quiet between you, only occasionally interrupted by the soft rattle of snowflakes pelting against the windows as the blizzard starts to gather strength.
You shift in your seat, fidgeting, your hands smoothing over your coat, your fingers picking at invisible lint. Nothing feels comfortable. Every second, your eyes flick to the window, tracing the passing streetlights, trying to focus on anything but him.
But you can feel him there. The warmth of him beside you, the steady, calm presence that somehow has you on edge, unable to breathe fully. His familiar scent fills the car—a mix of cedar and something undeniably him—sharp and soothing all at once, making the small space feel even smaller.
You cross your arms, uncross them, uncross your legs, then cross them again, pressing your back firmly into the seat as if that might stop the quick, relentless beat of your heart. But each turn he makes, each slight shift of his shoulders, sends a fresh rush of awareness through you, and your mind is racing, trying to keep pace with the pulsing tension that seems to settle between you like a third presence.
Finally, desperate for a distraction, you reach over and flip on the radio, hoping for anything to ease the silence. But the first song is almost too on the nose, the lyrics hitting like they were made for this moment:
"All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation, my hands are shaking from holding back from you…”
A breath catches in your throat, and before the verse can continue, you reach over and quickly press the button again, changing the station, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.
The next station crackles to life, and it’s somehow worse.
“Cause when I got somebody, you don’t and when you got somebody, I don’t. I wish that the time would line up so we could just give in…”
Your pulse races, and you switch stations again, more urgently this time, and the next song fills the car with a familiar pop beat.
“You ain’t my boyfriend and I ain’t your girlfriend. But you don’t want me to see nobody else and I don’t want you to see nobody…”
You press the power button, cutting off the music entirely, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your coat, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him glancing your way, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
Bucky clears his throat, his voice a low murmur. “Trouble finding a station?”
You manage a quick, nervous laugh, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Yeah… something like that.”
He just nods, his gaze returning to the road, but you catch the lingering smile in his expression, like he’s perfectly aware of the tension simmering between you, the unspoken things filling the silence.
And as the quiet stretches, you can hear his breathing, steady and unhurried, and it only makes you more aware of your own. You try to breathe normally, in and out, but each breath feels too loud, too obvious, like you’re trying and failing to hide something you both already know.
× × × ×
Bucky pulls up in your driveway, and for a moment, the relief you thought you’d feel at reaching home is overshadowed by something else—something closer to disappointment. The quiet tension that’s been hanging between you feels almost unfinished, and you find yourself wishing the ride could somehow stretch on just a little longer.
He leaves the engine idling, the faint rumble filling the silence as you both sit there, neither moving to get out. After a few seconds, you clear your throat, glancing over at him with a small, reluctant smile.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say, voice softer than you intended.
Bucky nods, returning your smile, but you can see a similar reluctance flicker across his face as he glances toward the house.
“Anytime,” he murmurs.
Your eyes drift to the porch, and you remember the old habit the two of you shared, back when he’d drop by after a night out with everyone—those late nights with coffee and the dessert your mom always made, the one he loved and never turned down.
The memory brings a small smile to your lips, and before you can second-guess yourself, you look back at him.
“Actually… my mom made her chocolate tart. The one you like. If you’re up for coffee and dessert, that is,” you say, feeling a twinge of nerves despite the casual invitation.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard, but you catch the hint of warmth in his eyes.
“Chocolate tart, huh?” he echoes, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know I can’t say no to that.”
You shrug, playing it off, but your heart races as you nod toward the door.
“Figured it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Besides,” you add, trying to keep your tone light, “it’s been a while since we did coffee and dessert.”
Bucky’s smile widens, and he cuts the engine, pocketing his keys before glancing at you with that familiar spark in his eyes.
“Guess it’s tradition,” he says, opening his door. “Wouldn’t want to break it.”
You step out, leading him up the walkway, and as you unlock the door, the feeling of anticipation settles back over you, even stronger now. It’s like the tension from the car ride has followed you inside.
As you head into the kitchen, Bucky follows, his gaze drifting over the familiar space. He takes in the room, noticing what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. The same cozy lamp in the corner, casting a warm glow over the soft cushions on the couch, the same framed photos on the wall—but a few new things catch his attention.
A navy-blue jacket, draped over the armchair, too large to be yours. A set of keys on the counter with a small metal keychain that he doesn’t recognize. And a book on the coffee table, a spy thriller with a bookmark halfway through. He frowns slightly, his mind racing as he takes in these small, unfamiliar details, each one lighting a spark of jealousy that flares bright, unbidden.
He hadn’t asked about Andrew—hadn’t wanted to. But now, surrounded by small traces of him, the thought of someone else being part of this space, of sharing moments with you that once might have been his, digs into him with an unexpected force. The sight of it sparks something sharp and unbidden within him, jealousy flaring up like a match struck in the dark. He swallows, trying to ignore it, trying to remind himself that he has no right to feel this way, but the thought of Andrew’s things still lingering here sends his mind racing.
In the kitchen, you’re busy slicing the chocolate tart, setting two plates with practiced ease as you fill the silence with the familiar rhythm of preparing coffee. But every now and then, you feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching, like he’s taking in every detail of the room and of you.
Bucky clears his throat softly, his voice low as he leans against the doorway, watching you pour the coffee. “Things… feel different here,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, but there’s a roughness in his voice that betrays him.
Your eyes follow his gaze to the jacket, and a flicker of understanding crosses your face. You give a small, almost sheepish laugh.
“Oh, that. He left it here ages ago. I keep meaning to get rid of it, but it’s… just kind of stayed.” You shrug, looking away as if embarrassed by the attachment. “Guess I’m just lazy.”
He nods, the answer somehow not as satisfying as he’d hoped. His gaze shifts back to the room, trying to reconcile this familiar space with the small hints of someone else.
“Ah,” he says, his tone lighter. “I get it. Hard to let go of things sometimes.”
You nod, a knowing look in your eyes, as if you both understand the layers beneath his words. You hand him his plate, the rich scent of chocolate and coffee filling the room as he takes it, his fingers brushing yours for a brief, lingering moment.
Settling down at the table, he watches you from across the coffee cup, the quiet tension between you only growing thicker. And as he takes a bite of the chocolate tart, the flavors familiar and nostalgic, he can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at something he’s been missing for too long.
You try to focus on your coffee, but Bucky’s gaze is unwavering, fixed solely on you. He takes another slow bite of the chocolate tart, and the way his eyes soften, paired with the slight curve of his lips. It’s like he’s seeing something he missed, something he can’t look away from.
After a beat, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, unable to take it anymore.
“What?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, but your heart’s racing too fast.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, eyes dark, thoughtful, and a little teasing, as if he’s enjoying watching you squirm.
“Just… wondering why it took so long to get back here— it feels good to be here. With you.” His voice is low, quiet, but there’s a warmth behind it that makes your stomach flip.
You glance down, biting back a smile, but you can feel his gaze still on you, unrelenting, like he’s waiting for you to look back.
“It’s just dessert, Bucky,” you murmur, trying to keep the moment light, but your cheeks betray you, a blush blooming under his attention.
“Maybe,” he replies, his tone teasing, eyes glinting. “But it’s the best damn dessert I’ve had in a long time.” He takes a slow bite of the tart, watching you with that infuriatingly soft gaze that makes it impossible to breathe.
"Christ..." you mutter under your breath, barely aware you’ve said it aloud. His gaze is so intense, it feels like he’s peeling away every defense you’ve carefully built.
“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice, like he’s testing just how far he can push.
You let out a shaky laugh, glancing down at your coffee to avoid those piercing eyes.
“You’re not… it’s just—” You don’t know how to finish the thought, every word slipping away under his unwavering stare.
He lets the silence hang for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and heart-stopping. Then he leans forward, just a bit closer, his eyes still locked on you, the teasing glint in them intensifying.
“You sure about that?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. His fingers toy with the edge of his coffee cup, but his attention never wavers, every inch of him focused on you. “Because if I’m honest… I think I like watching you get flustered. Kind of makes me wonder what else I could do to make you look at me like that.”
Your breath catches, and you feel your pulse race, cheeks burning as his words sink in, every nerve suddenly buzzing. You’re caught, and he knows it, the challenge in his gaze daring you to look away—but you don’t, rooted to the spot, every nerve in your body humming.
But in that moment of stunned silence, something in your expression shifts, your eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not discomfort, but a soft vulnerability—an openness he wasn’t expecting.
He misreads it entirely.
Bucky straightens abruptly, his face softening as he lets out a quick, self-conscious laugh, breaking eye contact. “I—sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his smirk fading. “I’m just messing with you. Didn’t mean to… you know, make things weird.”
Your heart clenches at the quickness with which he pulls back, his retreat sudden, like he’s trying to undo the last few moments. You open your mouth, words rushing to the tip of your tongue to stop him, to explain, to tell him he hadn’t made you uncomfortable at all.
“Bucky…” you say softly, reaching out before you can think twice. The moment your fingers brush his hand, he glances up, eyes wide, almost searching yours for permission.
And before you can lose your nerve, you let the words slip, your voice barely a whisper. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable… I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
The tension between you flares back to life, sharper, deeper, as he studies you, realization dawning in his gaze, as if he’s daring himself to believe what you’re saying.
× × × ×
The blizzard outside has intensified, blanketing everything in a thick layer of snow that doesn’t look like it’ll be easing up anytime soon. By the time you both finish your coffee and dessert, the wind is howling against the windows, and the soft glow from the streetlights barely penetrates the wall of snow outside.
You walk to the window, peering out into the swirling white, and let out a small sigh.
“Looks like it’s getting worse,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Bucky, the words carrying a quiet invitation you don’t fully realize.
Behind you, he steps closer, joining you by the window, his hand resting on the edge of the sill as he gazes out into the storm.
“Guess I might have to wait it out,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice, though his eyes flicker with something warmer as they meet yours. His tone is casual, almost nonchalant, but the unspoken question lingers between you.
You turn to face him, folding your arms, trying to play it off casually.
“Yeah, probably not the best idea to be out there in this.” You pause, giving him a small smile. “I mean, I have a couch. Wouldn’t be the first time you crashed here.”
He chuckles softly, nodding.
“Right. Wouldn’t want to risk life and limb just to get home.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, like he’s just as reluctant as you are to let the night end.
You manage a laugh, a quiet, slightly nervous sound as you gesture towards the living room.
“The couch is all yours if you want it. I can grab a spare blanket.” The offer feels both genuine and like an excuse, a small plea for him to stay, if only a bit longer.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice soft, a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip. “Appreciate it.”
As you disappear down the hall to fetch a blanket and pillow, he lingers in the living room, glancing around the familiar space. He’s barely acknowledged how much he’s missed this—missed you—and now, surrounded by small remnants of your life, it all feels heavier than he expected, like he’s on the brink of something he’s not ready to let go of.
You return with a thick blanket and a pillow, handing them to him as he sets them down on the couch.
“Here you go. It’s not much, but… I think you’ll survive,” you say, though there’s something tentative in your voice, almost as if you’re testing the waters, hoping he’ll stay a little closer.
Bucky chuckles, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands settling over his knees as he looks up at you.
“Yeah, I’ve handled worse, I think,” he replies, his gaze lingering just a bit too long.
A quiet pause stretches between you, neither of you moving. Outside, the snow falls in thick, relentless waves, cocooning you both in this shared moment, and you feel the weight of what’s left unsaid, lingering like an invitation neither of you dares to speak aloud.
Finally, you clear your throat, offering a small smile.
“Well… goodnight, Bucky,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, and you find yourself hesitating, like you’re reluctant to leave.
He nods, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Goodnight, doll.”
× × × ×
Bucky was asleep on the couch. Your couch. Crashing at your place, as he had so many nights before.
The man you wanted more than you’d ever wanted anyone in your life.
You couldn't sleep, tossing and turning and thinking of him lying not thirty feet away from you on the other side of your bedroom wall. He had stayed over countless times, what was it about tonight that had you squirming beneath the sheets?
God, the subtle, masculine scent of him, the warmth of his body so close to yours—maybe he'd actually seen the little shiver of sexual awareness that had rippled through you during dinner.
Whatever it was, you were suffering now. His smile, his voice, his deep, infectious laugh...so what if he had been your friend since, so what if he could be a bit of a doofus at times—okay, a lot of the time—so what if you were both single now and feeling that familiar itch, that longing, that uncomfortable awareness of being without someone just a bit too long.
Fuck.
You both had talked about this. Once—a long time ago. You had agreed; getting involved wasn't the right thing to do—look how many friendships were ruined by relationships.
You threw back the duvet and swung your legs over the side of the bed, wiggling your toes nervously as you bit your lip.
You needed a drink, that's what you needed. Not that kind of drink—although God knew you weren't far from it. You needed a cool glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and maybe some splashed on your face for good measure.
Then you could come back to bed and read. Or listen to some music. Or... something. You had an early start in the morning, you had to find some way to get some sleep. If you were really quiet, you could slip right past him and he'd never even know you'd been out of your room.
You creaked open your bedroom door and listened for the sound of his quiet snoring. Sure enough, the soft sounds of sleep drifted towards you and you straightened, relaxing a little.
He was sleeping just fine. He wasn't tossing and turning thinking about you.
You slipped out into the chilly living room, and shivered involuntarily. You'd set the thermostat low in the living room to save energy, completely forgetting to turn it up for his sake, so while your bedroom was toasty warm, the living room was cold and still.
Guiltily you cast your eyes over his sleeping form, sprawled inelegantly over the couch with one hand thrown over his eyes and one leg up over the back of the sofa. He wore only a t-shirt and boxers, and lying with the blanket kicked to the floor instead to cover himself with, he looked vulnerable somehow, and uncomfortable.
And incredibly, almost achingly sexy.
Your eyes roamed over him in blatant appreciation. He was a powerhouse of strength, with thick, chiseled muscles that seemed almost carved from stone. Broad shoulders tapered down to a torso built from years of dedication, and his arms were thick with veins and ridges that caught the light.
Your gaze slid down his powerful legs, the defined muscle of his thighs flexing beneath the hem of his shorts. He was the embodiment of rugged masculinity, intense and undeniably commanding. His stubbled jaw caught your eye, and you let your gaze linger on his lips—the lips you’d dreamed of tasting so many times...too many times, in fact. So often that sometimes you imagined the fantasy as if it were a memory. So delicious, so sensual and hot.
Only he wasn't hot—you try to tell yourself. You dragged yourself back to reality, frowning as you looked down at him. He was cold.
You went back to the bedroom and pulled an extra blanket off the closet shelf, and carried it back to lay across his sleeping form. He stirred slightly as you draped it over him, and his eyelids fluttered open.
“Hmmm…” Bucky mumbled thickly, his voice hoarse and low. “Good morning.”
“It's not morning, it's two a.m,” you whispered. “I was just getting you another blanket. Go back to sleep.”
“Mmmmm…” he said, cuddling it around him.
He pulled his leg down off the couch and straightened himself out, stretching languidly, shuddering, like a cat. You loved watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed. You loved watching him do anything, in fact.
“It's so cold,” You said by way of an unasked-for explanation, and looked away from his body. His eyes were still closed so you could have looked a little longer, but didn't want to risk it.
“Cold?” he murmured. “Just a second.” He pushed aside the blanket and reached for you, tugging you down towards him.
You gasped and lost your footing, sitting down hard on the couch beside him. He pulled you down and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.
He flipped the blanket over top of both of you. “There. I'll keep you warm.”
A sleepy duskiness coloured his voice, and something in the intimacy of it, the familiarity of it, made your heart flutter rebelliously in your chest. He smelled so damn good, like a mixture of soap and the sweet warm and musky scent of cedar wood. He drew you in closer, molding his body against yours, and God help you, you allowed him. You settled in more comfortably beside him, your leg thrown over his, your arm stretched across his chest.
“I was saying you must be cold,” you whispered. “Not telling you I was.”
“I know.” Bucky said without missing a beat.
You lay there, entwined, quiet, saying nothing more. You rested your head against his chest and could feel more than hear the lazy beat of his heart, and the quiet, smooth passage of his breath. His hand languidly caressed your arm, the rhythm growing slower as he drifted back to sleep.
Sleep threatened to claim you, too, so you stirred, trying to disentangle from him. You'd have to be near your alarm clock or you'd never get up in time.
“No, don't go,” Bucky murmured as you tried to move. He held you tighter.
“I have to,” you whispered. “I have to get some sleep, I have to get up in a few hours.”
“Stay.”
“I can't.”
He was gradually coming awake, slowly becoming more oriented. He shifted position slightly so that he was more on his side, looking down at you as he rested his head on his bent elbow. He stretched his other arm across you and pulled you closer, gently caressing you back.
“Stay,” he said again. His voice was clearer now. He was fully awake. Still slightly dazed from sleep, but awake.
You hesitated, letting your gaze roam over his face. Finally you whispered, “We talked about this a long time ago, remember?”
“I know. I'm sorry. I just...I want you to stay.”
In the dim moonlight spilling in through the French doors his features were muted, but his eyes—his eyes were large and dark, taking you in with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Bucky moistened his lips, his pupils growing even larger as they roamed over your face and you could feel the pace of his heart pick up and his breathing increase.
His gaze moved down to your lips and his brow creased in an expression that could have been longing, or frustration, or both. He raised his eyes slowly to meet yours, the haze of desire stealing slowly into his gaze.
“You're not nothing to me,” he said, almost to himself. “That's precisely the problem.”
How on earth were you supposed to resist such a sensual, beautiful, soulful man? Stay? How could you not?
“Please,” he whispered. “Stay. . . I have something I need to get off my chest.”
Your resolve was crumbling as you felt your chest tighten. You looked into his eyes and barely managed to whisper the words.
“What’s that?”
“This.”
He lowered his head slowly and kissed you, brushing your lips softly, sensuously, as if in no particular hurry. As if he had all the time in the world to savor you, to taste you, to send pleasure rippling through you with every touch of his lips. He murmured softly as he gently nipped at your bottom lip, teasing your, biting and then kissing-better the lips he was bruising.
You could feel the pleasure he was taking in kissing you, the slow—tortuously slow—pleasure he was enjoying for himself and teasing out of you as he lingered in your mouth. Bucky’s hand slid along your jaw, tilting your face up to him, his thumb caressing your cheek as he kissed you. He broke the kiss and looked down at you in wonder, his eyes glittering in the dim light, then brought your face up to his and kissed you again.
You opened your mouth to him and his tongue slipped in to tangle sensuously with yours. He angled his head from one side to the other, exploring your mouth and pressing kisses along the edges of your lips. You kissed his cheeks, his chin, his light stubble gently razing your lips and making them all the more sensitive. When you found his lips again, their soft warmth was intoxicating and you deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with your own.
You kissed him back sensually, with equal possessiveness and enjoyment, and knew that your response was emboldening him.
Bucky tensed and pressed against you, his kiss growing firmer and more insistent. His mouth moved over yours expertly, wringing pleasure from you in breaths that came faster and little cries that escaped into the quiet of the room. Your soft moans made him tense even more, and you could feel his arousal along the length of your leg, hard and urgent like the rest of his body.
You were both warm now, and he threw back the blanket before settling back down on top of you, returning to the slow, rhythmic dance of kissing, teasing, and tasting that was just about driving you mad.
You slipped your hands up over your head, thinking to wrap them around him, but he found them and clasped your wrists together with his left hand and kept them there, holding you down with gentle pressure as he bent to kiss you more deeply.
The sensation of being held by him, of being pinned down, gently, but with no doubt as to his strength, rushed through you in unfamiliar torrents of excitement. He entwined his fingers in yours, easing up the pressure, dipping his head between your upraised arms to kiss you deeply, slowly, torturously.
As his tongue tangled with yours the fingers of his right hand trailed up the side of your body, stopping at the swell of your breast. He ran his hand over you gently, tentatively, feeling the weight of it beneath him and groaning softly. He slipped his hand inside your robe and cupped you bare flesh, his warm hand gently squeezing, caressing, as he groaned again and grew even harder. His thumb circled over your nipple and you gasped, arching against him at the sudden sting of pleasure. He pushed aside the robe further, revealing your breast with its tight nipple, unbearably aroused by his touch.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, gazing at you breast. He lowered his lips to your nipple and gently kissed it, his tongue tasting and savoring it the way he had just been savoring your mouth.
The wet warmth of his mouth on your sensitive flesh made you ache with a tension and desire you had never felt before. When his tongue swirled around you nipple languidly, when he took the sensitive bud into his mouth and suckled softly, you felt the exquisite torture of it flow down through you body to you very core. How could this feel so damn good? Just the lightest brush of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on your nipple and you felt almost ready to climax.
His free hand slid around to the small of your back and he lifted you gently, sliding you further down the couch and farther under him. You were completely beneath him now, and completely held by him, one strong hand gently pressing your wrists into the sofa cushions and the other splayed across you back while he bent his head and kissed and sucked and teased you breast. You almost couldn't bear the sensation as your nipple grew harder, more tender, and the pleasure started liquifying between your legs.
"Yes..." you breathed. You arched again, wanting him to release you from his mouth and yet hoping that he never would. "Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good..."
Bucky lets go of your wrists and brings his hand down to your other breast, pushing aside your robe to free you completely. He caressed you, sensuously feeling the roundness of you, and trailed his lips across the rising swell, kissing and tasting and smiling at the way your soft flesh moved under his tongue. He gently grasped your breast and brought your nipple up to his mouth, which grew hard and exquisitely tender under his tongue. His fingers continued to tease your other nipple, the one still stinging from the feel of his mouth on it, still aching to feel it again.
You arched into him, sinking your hand into his hair and pressing him to your breast. The pleasure of his mouth and hands on you was making you weak, making you shiver with pleasure and need, all down the length of you and in between your legs. You could feel yourself growing wet and ready for him, the pleasure so intense, so unlike anything you'd ever felt before.
You heard yourself moaning softly, whimpering, making sounds you had never made before, all but dizzy with desire and sensation. With every little sound you made he groaned, or his erection surged against you, or he fell onto your breasts again with increased hunger. Your response to him was as intoxicating to him as his mouth was to you—you could feel it in his every movement, his every ragged breath.
“I need you, Bucky.” You pleaded softly. “Please.”
He rose over you, bracing his arms on either side of you. His eyes blazed with heat as he looked down at you, at you eyes, your mouth, your breasts. He took your mouth expertly, hungrily, kissing you fiercely with a dominance that thrilled you. He moved to trail hot kisses down your neck, licking the sensitive skin near your collarbone, barely skimming you with his tongue as if wanting the merest taste. You gripped his shoulders, and turned your head to the side, aching at the sensation of his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting.
You moaned at the feel of his tongue on your neck and the gentle pressure of his lips pressing kisses against your skin. You needed to feel him, to taste his salty sweet skin, his maleness, him.
As if he could read your thoughts he lifted up from you to pull his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. You reached up and ran your hands over his chest, and as he fell on you again his mouth found yours hungrily and his hand slid into your hair, gripping the top of your head possessively as you kissed.
You had never felt so possessed, so taken, so overwhelmed by a man. You broke the kiss and sought his neck, his shoulder, his tense muscles straining as he held himself above you. You branded your own hot trail of kisses into his skin, felt him strain against you at the sensation. You loved the taste of him, so male and wonderful beneath your lips.
"Baby. . ." His voice was hoarse, breathless.
For one brief moment uncertainty flashed in his eyes and he looked as though he wanted to say something. But when your lips found his again he lost the thought and succumbed to the kiss, slanting over your mouth, teasing your tongue with his.
You ran your hands down his back to the waistband of his boxers, and dipped your hands beneath the elastic to roam over his flesh. He tensed at your touch and you felt him suck in a breath as you moved your hands around to the front.
He was very hard, and you curled your fingers—which couldn’t wrap around him fully—as you gripped his ass with your other hand. He groaned softly and kissed you even more deeply, surging against you with an almost desperate urgency. You began to stroke him, your fingers gently gliding up and down his smooth shaft until he suddenly let out a groan and broke away, stopping your hand with his own.
“Fuck,” he said breathlessly, heat blazing in his eyes. “I can't. . .”
Alarm flared in you. “What's wrong?”
“I won't last long. . .”
“Oh, is that all?” You gently pushed his hand away and began to tentatively stroke him again.
He moaned, closing his eyes briefly, enjoying the pleasure. “If you keep doing that. . .”
“What?” You prompted, nibbling on his lower lips as you stroked.
“I'll have to fuck you.”
“Good.” You took his lips again and you fell into a rhythmic kiss, as if you had been kissing each other forever. He moaned softly into your mouth as you stroked him, making soft noises of your own into his mouth.
Bucky broke the kiss, his breathing sharp and shallow, and gazed down at you, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, urgent, almost desperate.
“Yes,” you breathed, pushing his boxers down with your free hand. He lifted up his hips to help you and shrugged out of them, kicking them to the floor.
“I didn't mean for this to happen, at least not tonight,” he said, his breath jagged and quiet as you continued to stroke him. “I've wanted you for so long, but—”
“I know,” You murmured, kissing his neck as your hand slid over his thick length again and again. His body was rigid with tension and you tried to relax him with your mouth, your whispers, the feel of your body. But you knew he wouldn't relax as long as you were stroking him. You paused and he relaxed slightly, but his eyes still burning and his breath still came unevenly.
“Are you sure?” He asked again, his eyes showing fear through the haze of desire. Heat blazed between them, and you felt such a desperate need in him that you wanted to soothe him, comfort him. But doing so with words seemed the wrong thing to do.
"Mhmmm," You murmured instead, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He groaned softly as you ran your fingers over his shaft, teasing, tempting, letting you fingernails trail along the sensitive skin below. You cupped him and squeezed gently as he groaned louder, pleasure that sounded almost painful. you laughed softly, kissing along his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck.
“You know how I feel about you. . . ” he managed, his voice little more than a breath. “Don't you? That I—”
"Shhhh," You said, coming back to meet his eyes. He looked so afraid, so vulnerable, and yet so filled with desire. You knew, then, everything you needed to know. And every word he needed to hear. "Please. . . Baby. . .it's okay. We can talk later. Right now. . .please. . . just shut up and fuck me."
His fear melted into a smile so warm, so open, so full of relief that he almost looked ready to cry. He took your mouth again, arching over you as he claimed you. Before his kisses had been searching and sensuous, now they seemed driven by pure desire. He ground his lips on yours masterfully, taking what he wanted, what he needed.
You could feel the raw need in him, the need for acceptance, the need to let pure passion overcome his fear. Every meeting of your lips sent another jolt through you, every taste of his tongue made you desperate for more, and you knew he was reeling from the same powerful sensations that you were. You could feel him starting to let go, to abandon himself to you, to enjoy making you abandon yourself to him.
Here was the lust you had always hoped was there, the powerful sexuality always just below the surface, the desire you had hoped and prayed he felt for you. It was here, pressed against you, an urgent cock and a hard, warm body, roaming lips and soft, male moans of pleasure and need. A careful heart revealing itself to yours.
You moved beneath him, pressing your hips against him to ease the heat that radiated from between your legs. The ache was exquisite, your need growing more urgent as you felt his erection surge and strengthen.
You felt his hand on your knee and then slowly, so damn slowly, he began to trail his fingers up along the inside of your thighs, which parted so easily at his gentle persuasion. His touch was electric, yet soft and sensual, and wherever his fingers played you felt a fiery tingle that made you shiver. Finally his fingers trailed delicately over your sensitive cunt, teasing you, tantalizing you, until you cried softly, silently begging him to touch you most sensitive place.
With a smile that you could feel more than see, his fingers slipped into your slick warmth and you cried out, a spasm of pleasure overwhelming you. He silenced your cry with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours while his fingers slipped deeply inside you and stroked, as languidly and rhythmically as you were stroking him.
“Oh my g—” You cried, writhing at the pleasure of his fingers sliding slowly in and out of you, then pulling out to trail up higher and caress your folds. When his fingers danced over your clit you arched you back, your breath leaving you in a gasp. The electricity of his touch, so gentle and sensuous, sent spasms of pleasure rippling through you.
He didn't hurry the pace, just stroked you with an even, sensual rhythm as he kissed you. He was holding you, his arm surrounding you, pressing his body to yours, his mouth never far from your lips, your neck, your ear, his eyes never far from yours. You had never felt so close to someone, so protected in his arms, so cherished and adored.
His fingers dipped down to enter you again and his thumb continued the slow, exquisite torture above. Just when you thought you'd go over the edge he'd pull away, pause, caress a different part of you and send you on the upward spiral again and again, or slide his fingers into you over and over while his thumb swirled and caressed and rubbed, driving you mad with an aching desire.
He smiled down at you, nipped at your lips, pressed his forehead to yours and trailed kisses down your eyelids, your cheeks, until claiming your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the sweet, sensuous motion of his fingers and thumb.
He grew rock hard in your hand as you moaned with each breath, as you came closer and closer to the edge. You could feel him restraining himself, wanting only to pleasure you, anticipating your climax. But it wasn't what you wanted. On a ragged breath you stopped his hand.
"I want you," you said urgently. "Please, Bucky. . .fuck me."
He gazed at you, teetering on a moment of indecision. His chest rose and fell sharply with his labored breath, and he brought a trembling hand up to your hip and gripped you, holding you, moving to settle between your legs and pausing at your entrance.
"Please, I want you inside me." your voice dropped to a whisper so urgent you hardly recognized it yourself. "Please don't make me beg."
And whatever strength he had left vanished.
"Oh baby. . ." He moved forward and slid into you, a breathless throaty sound of pure male pleasure escaping his lips. "Oh my God. . ."
He paused for a moment, looking down at you with heavy-lidded desire, visibly enjoying the new sensation of being so deep inside you. You were slick and hot, more than ready for him, and as you body adjusted to him, to the exquisite, aching stretch he was causing, you squirmed beneath him on a moan of primal pleasure. He pulled out slowly, torturously, and slid himself in again, filling you completely.
You closed your eyes and moaned, gripping his ass as he lifted your hips up to him, angling you so he could fill you more deeply. He began to thrust, slowly, rhythmically, his hips moving sensuously, making you muscles tighten around him as he plunged into you again and again, your movements coming so easily, so naturally, so deliciously slowly.
You lifted your legs to wrap them around him, loving the way it tilted you back so that his every thrust felt deeper, felt like it was reaching new depths of pleasure in you.
“Yes, yes, yes. . .like that. . .oh my god, Bucky. . .you fill me up so good.”
He ran his hand possessively along your leg, pausing to look down at your joined bodies as he thrust into you. He raised himself up, his arms braced on the other side of you to keep his weight off you, and moved so he could thrust more freely, more quickly, building the tempo. He pressed his lips to your forehead gently as he drove into you, his breath ragged, panting, yours matching his intensity and need.
“Ugh—you drive me insane, I love hearing you moan my name—don’t stop.”
You could feel him getting close, nearing the edge of his own release, and he slowed, lowering his head to nuzzle your neck as the rhythm of his hips paused, and then resumed again, more slowly this time, building again, savoring you body the way his lips had savored you mouth, the way his tongue had devoured you breasts. His arm slid around you back again, holding you, lifting you up to him as he took your breast in his mouth and teased it with his tongue. His mouth was hungrier this time, sucking your nipple, flicking his tongue over it with such abandon that you felt it in your core. His passion was growing, and you could sense that his desire to be slow and tender with you was losing the battle against his raw primitive need.
You gripped him, lost in the dizzying sensations he was causing in you. His mouth on you, his hand roaming over you, gripping your ass as he thrust into you in a relentless rhythm. You were limp in his embrace, held in place for him to possess, to plunder, to pleasure. You had never been held like that before, and the primal intensity of it, the feeling of being so completely owned by his desire, overwhelmed you. You were his, completely, your body as loose as a rag doll in his arms. You gripped his straining arms as he sent pleasure coursing through you, gripping you as he thrust and withdrew, plunged and pulled out, drove into you over and over again in breathless ecstasy.
“Keep fucking me like that—Yes! Oh my God, harder, please. . . B-Bucky!”
Waves of pleasure grew stronger and stronger in you, pushing you towards the ultimate pleasure, building with increasing urgency as his rhythm grew faster and harder.
“Oh—like that? You like that?”
He groaned as he kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breast, and drove himself into you with such exquisite need. You gripped his buttocks, feeling the powerful muscles contracting with each thrust, drawing him deeper into you. When he tore away from your lips and looked down into your eyes you felt the waves rise, growing stronger and higher and faster until with a shattered cry you came, trembling as the pleasure spasmed through you.
His eyes never left yours as he thrust into you, groaning from the exquisite pleasure of your spasming pussy.
“Shit—fuck, you’re gonna make me come. Ohhhh—” Bucky moaned.
You were so incredibly tight, gripping his cock as you came, milking him as he struggled to last just a moment longer, lost in the heaven of you hot, wet heat. Your cries of pleasure echoed throughout the darkened room and when you whispered his name on a soft, sweet whimper he found his own release, jetting into you over and over again as he cried out in an agony of pleasure and a torrent, a chorus, of your name.
Finally, finally, his hips slowed and he lowered his head and kissed you gently, sensuously, as softly as he had when he had first pulled you down to him. Then he lowered his head to your neck and let himself rest there, lying against you, his heart thundering, his breath ragged and heavy. You lowered your legs from around his waist and wrapped your arms around him instead, cradling him to you. you rested your head against the top of his and felt your own breath slowing, your own heartbeat returning to normal. His cock was still hard inside you and he shuddered as you clenched around him.
"God, you're incredible." He exhaled a long, deep breath.
He rose up and kissed you, shuddering with each aftershock as his cock surged inside you. You could feel your inner muscles clenching around him, not releasing him yet, teasing the last drops of pleasure from him.
He lay his head down against you again, breathing out a sigh that was both release and contentment as the last tremors rippled through him. You loved this feeling, this sensation of his body trembling with the afterglow of pleasure, pleasure you had given him, just as your body was tingling from the intense pleasure he had given you.
He held you to him, sliding out of you slowly, and shifted slightly so that you fit against him perfectly, settling into the warmth and comfort of his arms encircling you.
“Holy shit,” he whispered again, pressing his lips to your temple and leaving them there for a long minute before letting go.
“I'm so glad you stayed over,” you said quietly, kissing the soft skin of his neck.
He stilled for a moment, and you looked up at him, trying to read whatever might be revealed in his eyes. In the darkness both of you were inscrutable, until he leaned closer and bumped your cheek with his nose before lightly pressing his lips to yours for a sweet, soulful kiss.
“So does this mean we're not friends anymore?” He asked, in between luscious nips at your lips.
“You tell me,” you said sleepily, unable to resist his slow, savoring kisses.
You felt his smile as he kissed you languidly, with deliberate slowness, each kiss deepening into something more intimate than the last. Finally his lips stilled and you felt him fall asleep beside you, his breathing soft and slow.
You wanted to stay awake, to freeze this moment in time, to make it last. you wished you could lay there forever, tucked in beside him, your bodies curled to get you. But even as you tried to stay awake, gently caressing the arm that draped over you protectively. you gradually succumbed to a peaceful, contented sleep.
10) finding their partner’s sex toy/toys and making them play with it in front of them
for bucky x reader PLZZZ
love, @flowersforbucky
Confessions of Mr. Grumpaholic
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x You
A/N: Initially, I started this for Essie’s Summer Lovin’ 300 Follower Celebration, but the Ask also inspired me to tune it to Smutty September Fest. Thanks to @bigtreefest it's a part of both the events now! <3 Yay! My first installment to the Smut Fest. I hope you like it @flowersforbucky Thank you so much for the Ask. Sorry for the super tiny fic ;) In all seriousness though, read at your comfort. I've also divided it into three parts for your convenience. This is a looooong one. I think I've outdone myself on the word count.
Word Count: 16k (Oops)
Warnings: Mature Content, Minors DNI, Allusions to sex, Masturbation, Overloaded fluff, Sassy Bucky, Slight Pining trope, Panic attack, Smidge of angst, Super happy happy ending, Steve doesn't gray his hair post endgame, Steve is a little shit too, lemme know if I'm missing anything.
Note: Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner credits to me and the phot credits to the internet.
Check out my other works: Masterlist
Read Away!
****
Cherish the chance encounters for you never know...
Meeting Bucky was disorienting. Nick Fury had assigned you to help Bucky after the government pardoned him. There was a catch, though; he needed to attend a few mandated therapy sessions and yada yada. You were part of that yada yada, a support system on paper until the government knew Bucky was safe to be in society. As a part of court-mandated therapy, you were given certain privileges that you never asked for, like visits to his therapist.
Not that you were someone extraordinary, you were merely one of the obvious choices for the task. Recovering from the injuries from a mission and not being assigned to any other missions until you healed, Fury coaxed you into helping Bucky out because the government needed someone enlisted who was not Steve Rogers or the high league posse.
When you think about it, it was utterly puerile to appoint you. You would have kicked the bucket if the Winter Soldier got unleashed. The term Fury used was 'handler.' You hated it. Bucky loathed it. And boy, did he show his contempt incessantly so.
For the first few days, Bucky stymied every effort you attempted to make the process smooth. Tracking him down was a nightmare. Despite being an agent yourself, it was impressive how such a six-foot tall, beefy man could be as stealthy as he was; one second, you see him, and the next, he's gone, but again, he was the Winter Soldier. You didn't accept defeat, though, because, with your broken arm in a sling, you really had no better things to do except play 'chase the assassin' as a pastime.
It may have been two weeks of you chasing him, but he eventually yielded. You wondered when he started pitying you because he let you catch him.
After three meetings with Dr. Raynor, Bucky's therapist, you realized she was a mean and passive-aggressive lady, according to you, of course, and you kept your opinions to yourself. On one such visit, Dr. Raynor walked out to the waiting area, still talking to Bucky as they came out of a session, 'You gotta explore, James. Do normal things.' Dr. Raynor stated, handing you the list.
Bucky stood at the far end of the room. You had rolled your eyes not so subtly when you went through the list, reading through the suggested places she had mentioned. She even told you how important it was to substantiate the visit with a photo. You remember that slight tilt of his lips vividly to this day when Bucky caught your gaze. Maybe that did crack those rigid walls he built to keep you out, or perhaps it was after that when you sat in the cold outside his apartment and waited for him so you could take him to the list of places Dr. Raynor had given him as a task.
"Next time, maybe forgo the coat; you'll freeze up quickly if that's what you were going for," Bucky's rough voice broke the sleepy delirium that evening. He was crouching before you, an unmistakable frown marring his features from underneath his cap. You snuggled into the warm blanket wrapped around you and picked up the dixie cup filled with hot coffee that he placed beside you on the steps that you made temporary abode in the cold. It was chillier than usual with a foreboding winter storm on the way, and you were a bit high on Hydrocodone, the painkiller that you were taking for your broken arm. So, you had no idea when you fell asleep. You looked up at him, letting out a tired chuckle, grateful for his thoughtfulness of not letting you freeze to death.
"Next time, maybe stick to the plan," you grumbled, sipping into the coffee instead of thanking him. After all, it was his fault.
~
It had been a long journey since then. Things with Bucky were less turbulent. He listened to you; it was very enlivening for a change. He would make subtle remarks at your expense, too.
Sticking to the task at hand and following Dr. Raynor's orders, you accompanied Bucky to Ellis Island. You both walked through the crowds, surrounded by tourists and the distant murmur of ferry horns. It was a pleasant day; the sun descended, casting beautiful hues in the sky. You had navigated the crowd for nearly an hour, and while Bucky tried to keep his focus, you felt the sudden shift in him. He visibly tensed up beside you, and you could see the pressure mounting in his expression as he rapidly looked around, breathing unevenly.
"Bucky," you looked at him, keeping aside your worry. "We can leave if you want to." Bucky nodded, but his eyes kept darting around. His breaths started coming faster, and you noticed the slight tremor in his hands and reached out, maintaining a calm and steady tone. "Bucky, hey, look at me."
But he couldn't, and you felt like he was drowning in his mind. His breathing grew more ragged, the sounds of the crowd merging into a deafening roar in his mind. You took your hand over his clutched fist, rubbing gently, and he loosened the grip, and you could feel the clammy, icy hand engulf yours.
You had moved closer to him. "Bucky, I need you to breathe with me, okay? Just focus on me," you said gently, hoping your voice anchored him back, and he blinked, trying to focus on your face. You helped him through a few sensory techniques you were aware of.
"You're okay. You're safe, Bucky," you told him repeatedly.
Bucky followed your lead, slowly regaining control of his breath, though the tension in his body lingered. You didn't rush him; you stayed close, blocking out the rest of the world, shielding him from the crowd. Once his breathing steadied, you gave him a soft smile, squeezing his arm.
"Let's get out of here, yeah? We can go somewhere quiet." You whispered gently.
Bucky nodded, unable to speak, but the relief was evident in his eyes. You had led him away from the bustling crowd, navigating through the ferry terminal and back onto the city streets, where the noise was less overwhelming. You walked silently, Bucky's hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tense, while you kept close, matching his pace without a word.
After a while, you found a secluded spot near Battery Park, away from the main paths. The area was quieter, with fewer people and the soft sound of the river lapping against the shore. The sky had darkened with cloud cover, engulfing in a bleak yet serene bubble. You settled onto a low wall overlooking the water, the cool breeze calming. You hoped it soothed Bucky, too.
Sitting there beside the tall man, your perception of him changed. Initially, you had felt pity for Bucky Barnes, but at that moment, you realized how inhuman you were being. He was mind-controlled for years. Years. You could probably never even come close to comprehending the extent of how he felt. You decided to stop working with him as a task and instead start working with what's best for him, even if you have to go against the ways of Dr. Raynor. You had to up your game. Maybe you'll never be Steve Rogers for Bucky, but you can come close to being a friend.
You slipped away briefly, giving him the space to compose after the panic attack and an opportunity to leave if he wanted to; you bought him your favorite milkshake and falafel from the nearby food truck. When you returned with the food, Bucky was still there. He didn't attempt to move to take his food, so you handed Bucky the milkshake without a word, letting him take the lead. Bucky stared at the food for a moment, his jaw tight, but after a beat, he accepted the shake, taking a slow sip. The familiar, comforting taste brought a faint smile to his lips. And seeing him smile made you grin like a fool.
You settled beside him, eating in silence. You sat there for hours, and it was dark.
It was quiet, just the two of you, with nothing but the sounds of the distant city and the occasional lapping of water against the rocks. You could feel the tension in his chest slowly start to ease, the cold grip of panic giving way to something softer. You finished the food in companionable silence, the kind that didn't need to be filled with words.
As you started walking back along the quiet sidewalk, you stumbled over a raised edge, your foot catching awkwardly on the pavement. You let out a surprised yelp and flailed with your one functioning hand to regain your balance. Bucky reached out swiftly, steadying you with a chuckle.
"Hey, it's dark! And that sidewalk definitely moved." You mumbled. Bucky let out a rarely-heard laugh. The tension of the evening seemed to melt away.
"Yeah, sure. We'll blame the sidewalk." He muttered. Though embarrassed by your clumsiness, you couldn't help but feel glad.
Things gradually changed after that point.
He insisted on walking you home that night. "It's totally fine, Barnes. I can walk home alone," You had said firmly. It was hilarious how you denied him walking you home when you wanted him to be okay with you loitering around him babysitting. If that thought crossed his mind, he was gentleman enough to keep it to himself.
"Oh, you're fine? That's great to hear. I'll be on standby with the first aid kit just in case," he retorted, casually leaning against the light pole and shrugging his shoulder.
It was then you realized Bucky Barnes was a cheeky little shit filled with sass. It was also when you realized he was ruggedly handsome, and he didn't even have to try hard. Not letting thoughts go astray on his gorgeousness, you sighed in defeat.
"Ugh," you grumbled.
You had kept the conversation running for both because Bucky was not much of a talker. That walk felt borderline romantic despite knowing he walked you home in danger you would trip yourself again or get mugged. You told him how you loved baking, reading, and a few other silly details of your life. He listened, maybe tuned you out a bit, but you liked to think he listened to your constant blabber.
~
You started connecting with him gradually, poking fun at his expense, unaffected by his constant grumpiness. You know you didn't take teasing too far, being careful not to trigger him in any way consciously.
Then came his birthday. It was a clear occasion to show him you considered him more than just a mission. So, you decided to surprise him with a birthday cake, a box of confectionaries with some gifts, and a silly little birthday balloon and knocked on his apartment.
When you brought him cake and gifts, you had only thought of dropping by his front door if he didn't open the door. But he did open the door, standing in his joggers and tiny blue shirt that fit him perfectly, looking shocked at you like you were an alien.
You caught a glimpse of his pillow on the floor, and your heart tugged at that. You guessed he had trouble sleeping, but this just confirmed it. Bucky didn't invite you into his apartment, and you didn't try asking either, knowing it was his safe space.
Clearing your throat, you intended to wish him Happy Birthday, but you muttered, "It's your birthday, Barnes," with a stupid grin.
"Why do you know my birthday?" He demanded with narrowed eyes.
"Uh... it's displayed in the Smithsonian, and I just am good with dates, Bucky," you scoffed, not disclosing to him the fact that you read the 97-page file Fury handed you about him. And Merlin's Beard! It was astronomically far from a light read.
Bucky let out an exasperated breath and looked down at the deserted hallway. The shock soon converted to a steady frown, a familiar expression you were used to for which you rolled your eyes as he folded his hands to his chest, looking at you like you just poisoned his food right under his nose. You tried to hand him the cake and the gifts, but he didn't budge.
When you warned him that you would sing Happy Birthday embarrassingly loud if he didn't take the gifts, he conceded with a huge frown and a grunt. It was the first time you realized Bucky had a car because, up until then, you thought his mode of transportation mainly was riding a bike or Floo powder; after all, he seems to appear and disappear into thin air randomly. He drove you home that night, irked by the fact you took a taxi at that hour.
You took that as a win, although a bit envious that you missed his reaction when he opened the gift wrapper and found the gag gift you snuck in: the bright pink kitty key holder. Surely, he must have shunned that into the bin quite as fast, but you hoped he liked the leather jacket you got him. The next day, he wore it, and all things holy, he looked so hot in it, and your eyes nearly popped off their socket. He didn't acknowledge it, nor did you; you felt exhilarated despite that.
~
When you sought shelter at a small bookshop because it was pouring outside and you forgot your umbrella, you realized that Bucky shared your interest in reading. You sat there for hours discussing tons of books and theories. It was the most Bucky talked to you since you first met. You would share your books and, sometimes, your latest cooking repertoire with him, and you liked to think he started enjoying your shared time, which was most of the time every day.
Soon, Bucky started adapting to things. He was sent on small missions, led some missions, and even asked to oversee recruit training. You met his friends, the Avengers cohort. They were an odd bunch just like you but with a shit ton more skills, and you liked them.
You met Captain Rogers more often, 'Call me Steve,' he would say rather stubbornly, and you kept calling him Captain Rogers. Sam Wilson became a regular in your meetings, too. Bucky seemed to like that you annoyed his friends.
As per the task at hand, you were quickly becoming insignificant alongside him: so, no more roaming around in the pretense of Dr. Raynor's list, no more photoshopping Bucky in all the busy crowded, touristy spots of New York City to substantiate—a hobby you were too proud about and Bucky, though secretly grateful for your photo editing skills, still frowned at you—and no more hanging out with Bucky in general because it was not like he chose to hang out with you. You were thrust into his life by the requirement of the government.
One warm evening, Fury called to confirm your thoughts. You were officially off babysitting Barnes. Bucky was clear. You felt exuberant for him. You didn't have the guts to say goodbye to Bucky, so you texted him with a few cat gifs wishing him congratulations. He left you on read for two days. Then, he texted you a 'Thanks.' It was hilarious how excited you got to read his text.
A week passed, and you slowly retreated into your life, focusing more on catching up on your life and other household stuff that you otherwise ignored due to lack of time. You remember that it was a week filled with so much binge-watching. You caught up on The Great British Baking Show's latest season and a ton of cheesy old movies you watched as guilty pleasure that your eyes almost started hurting. It was a pretty unhealthy week for your body but a needed week for your mind.
Your hand was out of the cast, and you had PT left. The day you were set to go to physio, Bucky was waiting outside your apartment. You looked taken aback. He was in his jeans and a pale blue t-shirt with a jacket, looking handsome. He was no more hiding his face underneath caps, and the bright sunny day reflected his cerulean blues, and your breath hitched looking at him. You sighed, clearing your thoughts.
"What are you doing here?" you asked him. He shrugged, opening the car door for you to sit.
"Bucky, that's not needed. I can go alone just fine," you told him.
His expression was unreadable, but a familiar stubbornness in his eyes made you pause.
He leaned onto the car, clutching the door open. "Thought I'd tag along. Figured you might want some company." Bucky shrugged, avoiding eye contact.
It wasn't a question or an offer; it was simply Bucky's way. He wasn't giving you the option to refuse, not because he was overbearing, but because he knew you'd probably never ask for the company outright. You stared at him momentarily, surprised but touched, and finally conceded, sliding into the passenger seat.
"Okay, but don't blame me if you get bored out of your mind," you told him.
He didn't retort and handed you a coffee and croissant wordlessly, and it filled your heart with warmth. "Thank you, Bucky."
You were out of your depth as to how you could confront him, but Bucky seemed to be everywhere. Everywhere.
As you had to go to physical therapy more, Bucky accompanied you regularly. Though it itched you to ask him how he knew your schedule, you never asked him, fearing he would stop hanging out with you. And in those moments, you told yourself he was not just a regular guy but an Avenger/ex-Winter Soldier.
You checked in at the front desk, glancing over your shoulder to see Bucky already settled into one of the waiting room chairs, flipping through an old, dog-eared magazine. Occasionally, he'd swipe at his phone, deeply engrossed in a game of Fruit Ninja, the faint sounds of slashing fruit and upbeat game music filtering through the air. You wonder if he played it for the sound of knife slashing; you indeed played just for that.
You moved to the exercise room, where your therapist guided you through stretches and strengthening exercises, pushing just to the point of discomfort. Every so often, you'd glance back toward the waiting area and see Bucky still there, his presence grounding you in a way you hadn't expected. He never looked impatient, didn't check his watch, or fidgeted like he wanted to leave. It was as if he had nowhere else he'd rather be, and that made your tummy flutter.
Troy, one of the guys who worked at the center, had been closely monitoring you since your first visit. He was nice, with a charming smile and an easygoing demeanor that made him popular with nearly everyone who came in. You'd noticed how his eyes lingered a little too long when you walked in, how he'd always find a reason to come over during your sessions, adjusting your form with a light touch or cracking jokes to make you laugh.
Today was no different. As you finished a harrowing stretch, Troy wandered over, his smile bright and confident.
He leaned against the nearby equipment, casually tossing a towel over his shoulder. "You're really getting the hang of this. Won't be long before you're back to one hundred percent."
"Thanks," you smiled.
Troy grinned, leaning in slightly. "You know, maybe we could celebrate once you're fully healed. I know this great little café by the waterfront. Best coffee in town."
It was an almost-invitation, a clear hint that he was interested, and you'd noticed these subtle gestures from him before—lingering compliments, casual touches, and comments that hinted at something more than just professional interest. But today, as you glanced over your shoulder, you saw Bucky still sitting there, his attention momentarily shifted from his phone to the scene unfolding. His presence was imposing calm, yet undeniably watchful, even from across the room.
Bucky's eyes met Troy's briefly, calm and unwavering. It wasn't a glare, but something about Bucky's demeanor seemed to set Troy on edge. It was as if the room suddenly felt smaller, the air a little heavier. Troy hesitated, his previous confidence faltering as he glanced back at Bucky, then at you.
Troy cleared his throat, his smile slightly strained. "But, you know, no rush. Whenever you're ready."
You nodded, keeping your tone light but non-committal. "Thanks, Troy. I'll think about it."
As he walked away, you couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and awkwardness. Troy was nice, attractive, and charming, but you weren't eager to encourage something that wasn't there for you. And Bucky's silent, unspoken presence only made that realization sharper. You didn't have the energy to navigate flirtations or the complications that came with them. Not when Bucky was around, his quiet, protective nature making everything else seem unimportant.
When your session ended, you grabbed your things and joined Bucky, who looked up from his game with a lazy smile. His countenance slightly surprised you.
Bucky, his tone teasing but with an edge of curiosity, remarked, "Looks like you've got an admirer."
You rolled your eyes, "Troy's just being nice. Besides, I think he's a little scared of you."
Bucky chuckled, standing up and stretching, the movement effortless and unbothered. "Me? I'm harmless."
You glanced up at him, your heart flipping at how his eyes softened as they met yours. "Sure, Barnes. You're about as harmless as a loaded gun."
He smirked but didn't deny it, and together, you made your way out of the center.
Truthfully, having a friend felt good. You have friends, but they are mostly from your job, and you never felt close to them. With Bucky, the friendship felt intimate; meeting him always felt warm and fuzzy.
Now and then, you wondered if Bucky saw this as friendship: he's comfortable with only a few people, and perhaps, despite any say in the matter, you were one of them. It didn't bother you. You liked the bond you shared with him. It was sweet borderline diabetic, too. You hung out almost every day except when he was off on missions.
When you went to Spencer's one day, you found another silly thing for him. A bright band that said, therapy buddy. It cracked you up so much you had to buy it for him.
"Seriously?" He exclaimed, rolling his eyes, frowning at you, and shoved it into his pocket. At least he didn't chuck it in a bin. He told you how insufferable Dr. Raynor was being.
Your friendship—what you liked to call it—stayed consistent for a few months. Bucky, too, started accepting you: he now talked more than one word or phrase and made jokes at your expense vehemently. They were subtle and sharp but made you smile, and your heart fluttered just a bit.
~
Things were settling down for him, and for you, not so much. The weight of the truth bludgeoned you when you went to Wilmington with Bucky. Bucky had a mission and the details you were not privy to. He had been going around 'making amends,' as he called them.
Never been to the coastal town, you asked if you could join him, and he not so reluctantly let you. It was a six-hour long drive, and it was beautiful. You did most of the talking, telling about your family, high school, college, and everything he never asked about. He dropped you off at the town and told you he would join you later.
It was one of those perfect evenings where the sky looked like a canvas of soft pinks, purples, and oranges painted by the sun's final rays. Ambling around the tiny shops on the River Walk, you shopped for some chocolate and a few fragrant soaps you know you will never use, and Bucky joined you there just before sunset. You both sat on the small wooden high stools, facing the water and watching the hues jutting out over the calm waters of the Cape Fear River. You shared a pizza that was a little too greasy and absolutely perfect.
"I don't think this is quite up to your 1940s pizza standards, but hey, times have changed," you tease him.
Bucky took a bite, chewing thoughtfully before shrugging. "You kidding? This is an upgrade. I could get used to this whole modern world thing." He says with a slight tilt of his lips. That statement carried so much weight, showing how far he had come. Bucky was a better human being than most, compassionate despite his constant grumpiness. For him to be a nice person, despite being through some dark shit, it was applause-worthy in your opinion.
The wind carried the faint scent of saltwater, and the water splashed gently against the wooden columns underneath. You leaned onto railings, legs dangling over the edge. There was a soft breeze coming off the river, the kind that was just enough to ruffle hair and carry the sounds of the water lapping at the posts. The sun had just set, leaving behind a brilliant watercolor sky reflected on the ripples below. It was one of those evenings that felt suspended in time, like the world had slowed down.
Bucky reached into the bag of sweet treats you'd picked up from a local bakery, pulling out a couple of chocolate-covered cannoli; you take a huge bite, smearing chocolate on your nose and mouth.
"You are such a messy eater," he laughs softly, pulling out a couple of tissues.
You wipe away your face vigorously and look at him with narrowed eyes.
"Good thing you're cute," he mutters, barely audible, but you hear it. A slight blush covers our cheeks, but thankfully, he looks away.
You watched him as he looked out over the water, his profile softened by the fading light, a serene expression you rarely saw on him. Bucky looked so at peace; the tension that usually sat on his shoulders was gone, replaced with something lighter and freer. He leaned front on his elbows, resting them on the railing, the sunset's glow highlighting the lines of his sharp jaw, and the way his lips curled in a half-smile made a jolt of warmth spread through you.
Though your mind ran with thousands of thoughts, you sat in comfortable silence; the only sounds were the occasional trilling of the birds and the distant hum of a boat motor. You realized how rare it was to see Bucky so relaxed, just being there in the moment, and you found yourself studying him more—how his eyes softened when he looked at the sky, the way his hair caught the last bit of daylight, and the ease of his laughter that you had grown to love.
And that's when it hit you, like a sudden and unrelenting wave crashing against the shore. You were in love with him, the way the feeling wrapped around your heart and squeezed tight. It shook you to the core, this realization that Bucky Barnes wasn't just a mission, a friend, or your favorite person to argue with; he was everything. And sitting here, with Bucky beside you, his knee casually touching yours, the breeze whispering through his hair, there was no denying it anymore.
You turned your gaze back to the horizon, trying to hide the slight tremble in your hands as you drummed your fingers on the railing. The vibrant hues of the sunset mirrored the whirlpool of emotions inside you—beautiful but overwhelming. More inclining towards overwhelming because James Bucky Barnes couldn't possibly feel anything towards you.
And it terrified you to no end.
After that, it was a downward spiral for you. Every little thing about Bucky became hyperfocused. You started noticing little things he did for you, like how he hovered his hand on your back when in the crowd, how he deliberately stepped around on the side of the road if you were walking on the sidewalk, how he opened doors, how he walked you to your apartment and tagged around you for general work, how he met your eyes and gestured or conveyed little things without as much as opening his mouth. It was sheer torture.
~
Then December came along. You had gone home for Thanksgiving and came more relaxed and carrying a lot of food. You needed that time to get your bearings straight. Since your parents were going to Australia to visit your brother for Christmas, you would be home alone for Christmas.
One cold December morning, Bucky knocked on your door as you were both attending the book festival you told him about a few months ago. It had been almost a week since you last saw him. It took you a hot minute to recognize him through the peephole. He looked so entirely different; you stood shocked. He cut his hair short, and boy, it suited him so much. He looked like a male model who just walked down the ramp. Drop dead gorgeous. You were taken aback, rushing to your tiny kitchen as you gulped down some water to calm your nerves and heated cheeks. You greeted him with a practiced smile when you opened the door and gestured to his hair. He shrugged with a bloody grin, and you felt your heart skyrocket.
You blamed the cold weather for your blushing cheeks for the rest of the day.
You often invited Bucky to your general outings. His therapy sessions were sporadic, what with Dr. Raynor's holiday schedule. Bucky seemed more peaceful because of it.
When Captain America invited you to the Christmas Eve party, you denied it. But you were almost bullied into attending. So, you did and bought everyone some gifts, hoping they liked them. The party was intimate; only a few joined, and you had much fun.
On Christmas morning Bucky came by your home, shocking you out of your wits as he gave you a beautiful pendant, which you wore every damn day. It probably was an obligatory gesture because you loved gifting things and you didn't want him to feel pressured into giving you things. Though you felt more than happy by his gesture, you told him clearly he didn't have to.
You were really juicing up the time Bucky and you shared; somewhere deep in your rational mind, you feared you would soon become too insignificant in his magnificent life. So, you cherished as much of the time as you got with him because it was bound to end eventually anyway. Right?
You asked him if he wanted to hang out and watch some old movies one evening. He told you he was tired and wanted to sleep. You respected that and walked around the city; Christmas in New York was otherworldly. Deciding to do everything cheesy, you walked around the square, sipping hot chocolate, and that's when you spotted Bucky, accompanied by Steve, Sam, and Nat. You felt a tug at your heart and it pained you because he lied instead of telling you he had other plans. You escaped from there, not wanting to run into them.
It took a mere few steps walking down the block for your insecurities to catch up. You started feeling guilty and absolutely horrified by your overbearing nature. So, you had returned home with a ton of candy, a few doughnuts, and binge-watched movies alternating from cheesy Christmas movies to psycho thrillers. It eased your aching heart and gave you some perspective that you were enforcing your personal affections on him when he must have expected a trusting acquaintance.
Becoming reserved with fear of heartbreak, you avoid him for a bit, and that didn't mostly go according to your plan because he sought you out if you didn't respond to his one-phrase texts. Wherever you were, he'd appear out of nowhere as if you conjured him up.
Bucky Barnes was causing you trouble, viciously grabbing your senses, and you realized you were teetering to the edge of no return. Maybe you did cross that edge and fell deep. If not for that, there was no good reason why you were standing in your simple tracks and a t-shirt, with your backpack hung on one shoulder in the sea of glittering fancy crowd to give him his birthday present.
~~~~~
Funny how you delude yourself just by knowing half-truths
Fourteen months ago, you were apprehensive about working with James Buchanan Barnes. Yet here you were, battered and a bit bruised, dragging yourself in the vibrant sea of the hustle and bustle of the lounging area, carrying the present you wanted to give him for his birthday tomorrow instead of being halfway to your home and taking care of those minor bruises.
It's strange how times change, indeed.
Your reasons were simple. You knew Bucky had a mission in a couple of days and wanted to give his gift before he left, wondering when he would return. Also, you put a lot of work into acquiring the gift, and you were excited for him to open it. So, when you came back from the mission, you headed straight to the party after Sam had told you where Bucky was without a thought in mind.
Though the party was not for his birthday per se, it was a charity gala night, conveniently scheduled for today just in time for Bucky's birthday. You can guess it had to do something with Captain Rogers and others getting involved.
"Didn't know it was a costume party," you heard the familiar voice and turned around to see Maria Hill, dressed perfectly in a short black dress.
Unfortunately, Bucky Barnes means enough for you to be this excited to give him his gift, looking like roadkill. You laugh gently. Shit, your back hurts.
"You look gorgeous," you compliment, and she winks at you, not missing the way you wince.
"I know, but what are you doing here? Thought you'd be resting your ass up after the mission," she says, her gaze scrutinizing.
"Just heading home...wanted to say hi," you state lamely, fiddling with the backpack straps hanging by your sides.
"Leave you to it then," she walks away, leaving you to shuffle around. It was unlike Bucky to be at a party. He detests these things, and you are quite aware, but perhaps he was convinced, warned, or bullied into attending. In your opinion, it was good for him to socialize.
The party was lavish, and you really looked very out of place. Needing to get out of here as soon as possible, your hurried gaze settled on the one person you were here for, Bucky, the grumpy Barnes.
As soon as you felt the involuntary smile appear on you, it disappeared quicker than that. A gorgeous girl in a long blue dress was talking to Bucky animatedly, leaning closer to him, and the worst thing was that he was smiling, too. The dirty insecurities you locked up in the corner of your mind swam to the forefront.
Imagination is the worst enemy sometimes because it knows your dirty secrets and plays the field like a champ. You were not one to feel terrible about yourself; you were pretty confident, too. But lately, things have been messed up in the upstairs department thanks to the feelings you festered for a blue-eyed man, which you were pretty sure was one-sided.
~
"Why are you frowning?" Bucky's voice startled you from behind. Shit, when did he walk all across from there and creep behind you. Were you staring at her that long?
"I'm not." You defend, turning around to face him. He wore a beautiful black jacket, and his metal arm glinted underneath the expensive golden ambiance. He looked rugged, the slight confusion drawing your eyes to his beautiful blues. He was breathtakingly gorgeous and hot. He looked you up and down slowly and then held your gaze, spreading heat over your face so quickly that it was quite embarrassing.
"Why are you all dolled up?" He asks, his head tilted to the side, with a gentle twinkle in his eyes. You roll your eyes dramatically. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the same pretty girl interrupted his teasing, and you mentally groaned but gave her a gentle smile. She smiled at you, introducing herself. She's sweet; maybe they will be a good pair, and she would be good for him, your rational mind offered, but your heart clenched at your thoughts.
So, you were glad your phone rang at that point despite it being a spam commercial. You didn't give Bucky or the girl another chance to talk as you rushed out of there, mumbling, 'I gotta take this,' with a good fake smile.
When you find an empty couch in the lobby, you collapse into it unceremoniously, overcome by your emotions. You take a few deep breaths and pull the gift-wrapped book from your bag. Looking down at it, the dark gift wrapper with the golden pattern mocked you.
When shopping at Target last week, you realized the gift cover resembled something similar to his Vibranium arm. You all but squealed as you picked it. The scribbles on the neatly folded card have been edited more than you can count. Ugh!
You felt pathetic being in this position. If Bucky had figured out the lengths you had gone to get that gift, he would cringe, probably get scared, and most likely never talk to you. Objectively, that sounded good, but your heart tugged with emotions.
This was such a fucking bad idea. Maybe you could give it to Bucky anonymously and leave it somewhere for him to find. That prospect sounded good, and you were resolute and decided to move away from the couch and slip out of the room unnoticed, but the damn timing of Sam Wilson almost made you bitchcry.
"Hey, there. Where have you been? We've been looking for you for so long." He said, settling beside you.
"Hey, Sam," you smile, not very enthusiastically.
"Why the long face?" He asks and then notices the gift in your hand.
"Oh, the gift, what did you get him? Honestly, I should take the gift. He's got about more than eight phone numbers already." Sam spoke curiously, looking at the gift. Sam was unaware he was just adding fuel to your agony. Yeah, this gift was a bad decision.
You even bet he would turn up his charm and start dating the pretty girl in the blue dress. Knowing your one-sided love story lacked any buttress was one thing, but the minute plausibility of Bucky Barnes dating someone was heart-wrenchingly painful.
You shrugged, giving Sam the same fake smile you have been mastering.
Now that Sam has seen the gift, you had to turn it in. "I'm super tired, and my bed is calling me. Give him this, will you?" You hand him the gift. Sam looked confused, wanting to say something, but you left hurriedly without another word.
In retrospect, you contemplated the gift as you drove to your apartment; it doesn't have to be so important. You could shrug and tell Bucky it's just a book you found in one of those random shops. And that thought process gave you the semblance of control, even momentarily.
~
When Sienna or Sierra—the woman's name he entirely missed—tried to get his attention, Bucky sighed in displeasure, rubbing his face with his metal arm, hoping that would be enough for her to leave him alone. She had been telling him about the rooftop Italian restaurant for about five minutes straight ever since he nodded at her politely when he mistakenly stood by her table, not knowing it was occupied.
Steve was suddenly called out on some mission, and Bucky would have gone, but he wanted to stay back. He didn't tell Steve why, but he bet Steve understood when he gave Bucky a shit-eating grin. Stupid punk. And Sam was annoying Bucky, so much so that Bucky asked him to fuck off, and Sam had listened to him maybe for the first time ever, and now he was fucking bored out of his mind. He was itching to go to the hangar knowing that you were back from the mission, as he was constantly checking with Agent Ryan, the one in charge of your mission, for updates.
But when he saw you near the lobby, Bucky's breath hitched. You were gone for three days. It's been three days too long since he saw you. Three insanely long days to bear. You haven't noticed him yet, and Bucky took his time scanning to see if you were injured. However, he had already checked if there had been any injuries with Agent Ryan, and thankfully you were fine.
Trouble, yep, that's what you were to him. How you managed to look so fucking pretty in that plain t-shirt and pants was beyond him. Bucky was in it too deep. He waited a minute too long, hoping stupidly that you were here for him. When he noticed you staring in his general direction, but with a frown, he excused himself, desperately wanting to know what happened. Were you hurt somewhere and did not report?
When he walked closer, he realized your frown only deepened, but you were unaware of his presence. Something was wrong with you, and you were not telling. You had been acting that way for some time now, shutting him off. Bucky abhorred feeling that way.
When he followed you out, you were already gone without a goodbye. He felt his throat tighten in anticipation. Were you tired, or was it something else? Bucky stood confused and slightly terrified. He wondered if you realized what he was up to, that he was keeping tabs on you. Did Ryan tell you about his talk? No, Ryan wouldn't do that.
Sam caught him halfway through, grinning wildly with a gift in his hands. Bucky rolled his eyes, not wanting to interact with him but needing to follow you.
"Not now, Sam," Bucky said, rushing out, irritated at being unable to run. It would startle the people, and he didn't want that kind of attention or fear in the people. Some are still edgy, like anticipating he would lose control and become the winter soldier. It pains him to no end.
"Okay then, I'm gonna keep this gift y/n wanted to give you," Sam chuckled.
Bucky stopped in his tracks. You brought him a gift. Of course you did. His heart thumped wildly as he turned, hoping that his face didn't give away too much because God knows Sam will figure it out and Steve would inadvertently know, and man, he can't handle two of them beating his ass to ask you out.
"I told her I should keep the gift. You got so many numbers anyway," Sam chuckled, handing him the neatly wrapped gift.
His heart tugged at that. Why did Sam say that to you? He wasn't even interested in any of them, and more importantly, it was Sam who had pulled the phone out of his hands and given it to those women to enter their numbers. He had deleted them right after, frowning at Sam as soon as they left. Did Sam reveal that part to you?
Bucky was livid, and he wanted to give Sam a piece of his mind. He was not really proud that sometimes Bucky wanted to see if you got jealous because, sure as hell, his blood boiled if someone as much came close to you. But he never tested his theory. It was hilarious to think that you could ever get jealous. To Bucky, you were the most beautiful person. You could walk out in rags, and his eyes would still gravitate to you. You were literally his grounding point, and he was so fucking in love, it would probably scare you if you ever came to realize.
"I'm tired," Bucky bid bye to Sam despite wanting to ask or beat it out of Sam what all you talked about, but he focused his attention on the gift in hand, eager to open it.
"Everyone's tired," Sam complains from behind. He didn't respond as he felt the insides of the gift.
He wondered if you got him another silly gift. He didn't mind if it was either, or the bright pink stupid keychain holder sitting on the kitchen aisle of his bleak apartment was the proof. He liked that you thought of him in whatever capacity. Also, it made him fucking joyful.
He wondered how you would react if you came to know that the neon green therapy buddy band you gave him, which he wore religiously to sleep every night, helped him sleep. Steve found it once and narrowed his eyes, fully knowing who had given the gift, but Bucky evaded the conversation since that incident.
You would surely be on your way home, and maybe a pit stop at Berno's for Pizza, Bucky wondered. When he sat on his motorbike and opened the gift carefully, he didn't know what to expect, but it was definitely not this: The first edition of the Hobbit. He was on the verge of tears.
Fucking hell, sweetheart! He groaned loudly, probably scaring the bird perched on the twig beside him.
All he truly wanted to do was kiss you and yell at you all the same. He knows it cost a fortune because he tried to enquire about it when you both went to that Book Fest a few months ago.
Tethered to his insecurities, all his doubts were peeling away slowly but surely, all thanks to you. However surreal it sounded, he hoped you felt for him in some way, though he prayed you did feel for him as much as he did.
Why would you constantly test his resolve like this otherwise?
The rational part of his brain provided another factually appropriate answer: You were the most kind-hearted woman he'd known in his entire life, and it's a long life. Last Christmas Eve, when Steve convinced you to come, Bucky loved and hated that you bought him and the others gifts. You were so kind and attentive. You met Steve and Sam only a few times, but you had gifted Steve a beautiful sketching set, which made Steve blush like a fool, an automated multipurpose tool for Sam's wings. You even got Nat and Wanda a scarf and Tony a digital greeting card that was projected from the tiny Iron Man figurine. Tony was shocked and elated and gave you permanent access to the lobby kitchen, which was a pretty big deal for Tony.
You got Bucky a sweater; it made him reminisce about Christmas when he was young, and he forgot how it felt. He forgot how home felt. But ever since Wakanda, Steve did ensure going annoyingly out of the way to celebrate Christmas. Bucky wanted to wear the sweater when you gave it to him, but he restrained himself. He even got you a small pendant with a tiny sun and a couple of sunflowers on either side, which truthfully, he got made in May for your birthday but didn't find the courage to give you then, so he held on to it and gifted it on the day of Christmas.
It was purely stupid how he kept you away from Sam and Steve after that because Steve blushed six ways from Sunday when he saw his Christmas present, and Sam had downright hugged you. Bucky had to reign in his growl and not peel Sam away from you. Bucky knows they're just friendly because they tease him with you, and Steve always had a shit-eating grin when you were around, but he couldn't simply take any chance. So, after that, he would say you were busy whenever they asked to invite you for an outing. Bucky knew that was lame, but he feared if you spent time with his friends, you might eventually like one of them, and he couldn't compete with an average person, let alone someone like Steve or Sam. So, he kept you at bay.
When Bucky first met you, he hated that you were babysitting him. He didn't like that idea. You always greeted him with a bright smile and kindness; he felt undeserving. He evaded you like the plague, but you were fucking persistent. He eventually gave up not liking you running around with a broken arm for him despite looking as adorable as you did.
You respected his boundaries and let him be himself, just pushing enough. You understood him without having to say a word. You discarded Dr. Raynor's list once you felt his unease. You realized how he felt about crowded places and started taking him to places in the less rush hour. You took him to your favorite stargazing spot when he had a meltdown one evening. Bucky cried, sitting under the stars, and you gave him space, walking back to the car, saying you needed some water.
You didn't press him to talk or ask him how he was feeling or if he wanted to discuss it. Every so often, you glanced over at him with a quiet reassurance that said he didn't have to be anything other than what he was at that moment. You simply let him be, and he never felt lonely.
When he was first asked to train the recruits, Bucky didn't know how to tell you he felt nervous, but you understood and accompanied him, sitting through the training.
What takes the cake was the day you punched that drunk asshole who passed some comments on him. Bucky was used to it, but you were livid, and he was too stunned to stop you. He felt so many mixed emotions that day that it shook him to no end. You stirred his senses in every fucking way deemed possible. With one prolonged eye lock, he would feel balmy all over. He was scared of the way his body was reacting to you.
Slowly but eventually, he realized you were a blessing to his tainted existence and loved you irrevocably. He didn't know how to go about it.
Bucky wondered if he could live a day when you loved him like he did. He hoped every damn day despite feeling selfish to even pray for someone like you. Pushing his thoughts aside before spiraling into an anxious mess, he quickly started his bike and followed the well-versed route to your home.
~
It was funny how helpless you felt sitting by your apartment door when, not even a few hours ago, you were hanging off buildings with your colleagues to save civilians. You lost your house keys and, most likely, left them back in your locker at the compound. Generally, your house keys were attached to your car keys, but you replaced the car key recently and forgot to put the spare apartment keys to it.
It was no big deal; all you had to do was call the emergency services or the building supervisor, and they would come with the master keys. But your phone was out of charge, and you really didn't want to wake your neighbors as your watch blinked at 1:20 AM, which was the last straw as you slid by your door, throwing your backpack beside you, and pulled your knees closer to feel a bit cozy. Despite the warm March weather, you felt cold.
Everything caught up to you, and you burst into tears, feeling the dull ache in your body from the mission, mentally exhausted from overwhelming, unrequited thoughts for Bucky. You felt terrified and troubled.
All you wished for at that moment was to cuddle up in your bed and forget about everything. You groaned loudly as you got up determined, telling yourself to get your shit together. You probably need to sleep in your car or return to the compound to get your keys. You wiped away your tears, fiercely picked up your backpack, and walked towards the elevator.
To your utter shock, the elevator doors opened to reveal none other than your resident mental occupant in all his tall handsomeness.
"Why are you crying?" Bucky demanded, in a tone you were very much used to, as he stepped out and looked at you keenly with concern. You stood there shocked, sniffing, unsure if you were dreaming or if he was really standing before you.
"What are you doing here?" You question him instead.
He doesn't answer as he takes another step closer, pulls your left forearm in his gloved palm, and looks up and down your modest hallway, estimating any potential dangers. He always does that, sometimes so subtly you wonder if he was consciously aware even.
"What happened?" He asked again, his tone a bit more authoritative, and you sighed, feeling the warmth from his gloved hand. It singes your skin with so many fucking feelings you pull away from him quickly.
"Lost my keys," you tell him, wiping away the tears, feeling embarrassed to be caught in your turmoil of irrationality.
"That's it?" Bucky asks, and there is no mocking in his tone. Despite trying to read into his every word, he was just asking out of concern and hoping there was no looming danger you were escaping from.
You shrugged. "Why didn't you call me?" He asks like you were absolutely stupid not to think about it.
"If my phone didn't die on me, I would be inside my home right now, James," you quip angrily.
A small, almost nonexistent grin appears on his face. You know how much he hates when you call him James in that mocking way Dr. Raynor calls him, but you do it anyway.
He snatches your bag, "Hey," you shout at him in disbelief.
"Let's go." He demands, and you stand confused. "Where?" you ask. But he doesn't answer as he walks to your front door, squats down with one knee on the ground, and removes something from his pocket.
All your earlier anger dies, and you look at him aghast.
"What the hell, Bucky?" You hiss.
He looks at you from where he is sitting with an eyebrow raised and chuckles, working on the knob with something small, obscured in his huge palm. Honestly, you know he is more than capable of just flicking his wrist and tearing down the damn door from its hinges. So, you were merely grateful he didn't do it.
You wondered what he was doing here. Wasn't he supposed to be at the party?
~~~~~
Becoming one with each other is only possible with a dollop of happy accidents.
But when he saw you behind those elevator doors, his heart dropped. He quickly caught onto your state, holding in the rage to inquire first what hurt you. He physically had to reign himself not to pull you into his arms. You looked so distressed it chipped his heart.
Bucky can almost see the questions swirling in your head. Truthfully, he hardly gave any thought to what he would accomplish when he saw you. He hopped on his bike and rode through the night air. It was purely instinctive. To ensure you made it home safe, and maybe just maybe, if he did muster up some courage and knocked on your door this late at night, he would demand answers to why you would gift him the book.
He was somewhat thankful you lost your keys because that delayed your questioning of his presence there.
When Bucky knelt before your door, you were beyond shocked. He held the doorknob with the Vibranium hand, and you rushed forward, fearing he would break the door.
"What the hell, Bucky?" You whisper-shout at him. Bucky looks over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at you. "We are not trespassing. This is your home," he states.
You roll your eyes exasperatedly as you bend over his shoulder, looking at what he is up to when he shuffles in his wallet and pulls a small plier with his right hand, and you sigh in relief.
"Don't break the knob," you warned him, crouching over his shoulder. One of your stray hairs escaped the clutches of the loose bun you tied, touching his right cheek and tickling his senses. Bucky gulped audibly.
"Do you mind?" He groans, his voice coming out more irritated than intended. You stand up, pouting slightly, stepping to the side, leaning onto the wall beside the door. He had another quip ready on his tongue as he followed your suit, standing up, his metal palm fisting the knob.
When he looked at you, you stared up into his eyes with scrunched brows and a slight pout, looking so fucking adorable he could damn well kiss you right there against your front door, and no one could stop him. But he held back, instead twisting the knob and opening the door wide. "You underestimate me, doll," he rasps, licking his lips and clearing his throat.
You looked sideways, feeling a shit ton of gratitude for Bucky's exemplary sneaking skills.
~
Your shoulders sag in relief, and you drag yourself inside. Bucky follows you inside without hesitation. This was probably the second time he was here. The familiar sense of home envelops him as he glances around. Hardly anything changed, and it was just like how he saw it initially, except maybe a few more plants were added to the hall.
You take a few more steps inside and turn around suddenly.
"What are you doing here, Bucky?" You ask him as you run a hand through your hair, adjusting the mess. You thought Bucky's seen you in worse as you let your hair be.
He doesn't say a word as he puts down your bag beside the coffee table and takes small steps toward you, looking at you with such intensity that it makes you shiver. He pulled the familiar wrapped book from inside his jacket pocket, and your eyes widened involuntarily.
'Act cool,' You chastise yourself.
Bucky's blue eyes hold your gaze as he steps closer, engulfing your senses. You feel your neck strain looking at him.
"Why?" his soft voice belies his stormy gaze. You step back, but his right-hand snakes your waist, stopping you from taking another step. He doesn't pull you close. No, but the hand remains softly and painstakingly still.
You realize how fucking gorgeous he looks even this closely. "Bucky," you start, licking your lips and clearing your throat to muster confidence.
"Are you drunk?" you ask as that's the first thing that pops into your head. His brows rise in surprise at your question before a small smile forms on his face.
"No, just wanted to make sure you are okay. You left the party before we finished talking," Bucks says, still not moving an inch. That party brought images of the blue-dress lady, and your insecurities swam back to the surface. You try to step away, and this time, he lets you.
"Thanks for checking in on me. I'm totally fine…umm…thanks for the door too if it wasn't for you…," you chuckle humorlessly, wondering how long it would have been for you to get back into your apartment. Bucky stares at you, listening to you intently, eyes searching your every expression. When you shut up, he leans on the backside of the couch, crossing his legs at his ankles. He runs his arm through his hair, messing it up more, before folding his arms on his chest and staring at you.
You focus on the snake plant on the other side of the hall, trying not to look at the handsome man casually taking up your literal and figurative space. How long had it been since you watered it? It looks fine and healthy, but maybe you should look closer.
"Hey," his voice inevitably pulls your focus back on him.
"Why did you give this?" he asks more affirmatively. You bite your lip from groaning out loud. What do you even say?
"It's your birthday, Barnes," you declare with a chuckle as if he's unaware of the occasion. He rolls his eyes, exasperated, and sighs.
"Is it? He scoffs. You nod innocently. After a whole minute, he straightens up, wary of your behavior, as you stare back at him and do not give him any quirky replies.
"I'll let you rest," he sighs and walks towards the door. You were slightly relieved but momentarily felt the need to stop him from leaving. It was almost like he heard your inner battle because he abruptly turned to you.
You gasp at the suddenness and let your well-practiced, impassive look slip. Bucky reads you: the vulnerability and the need. The next second, you were pressed on the wall near your kitchen entrance.
You let out an ungraceful squeak as he places his metal arm beside you and crouches down to your eye level.
"No," he says, and you look at him stunned.
"No?" you repeat. Bucky nods, licking his lips. Your eyes move to them inadvertently.
"We are going to talk," he states, pushing your hair behind your ear. Despite the gloves, his touch serenades your skin, and you gasp, breathing in sharply. His eyes darken, and he parts his lips, tracing his fingers underneath your chin. His intoxicating breath sweeps your senses.
"Bucky," you whimper.
"You are so fucking gorgeous, doll," he says almost in a throaty whisper, and you look at him, feeling the desperate need to close the gap between you.
A semblance of control takes over you, and you clear your throat, "You sure you're not high on something?" you whisper, your mind dizzy with sensation as he leans his forehead onto you. Your body loses ground, gravitating towards him. He holds you steady while his breath seems ragged.
"I'm sure as hell high on you, sweetheart," his fingers trace your cheek, running a hot trail onto your throat as he pushes his huge palm on your heart, teetering on engulfing your left boob almost. Almost. You let out a moan, feeling the ringing in your eyes and the heat spreading your cheeks.
"Shh... I like listening to this," he says softly.
Why was he doing this to you? You will combust into flames if he tortures you anymore. By the look of it, it seems like he is attracted to you, but your heart doesn't want to accept that fact just yet.
"James," you all but cry.
"You seriously gonna call me that, huh," he laughs, pushing his forehead an inch away, slightly rubbing his nose on yours.
You have a rational thought to push him away and protect yourself, but you were viciously woven with everything that was Bucky.
"Tell me," he demands, placing a soft peck on your cheek and leaning onto your right ear, lips dancing on your skin, making you slick with want and desperation for him.
"You feel this too, don't you? It would be more than enough for me if you even remotely like me. I love you so much, sweetheart," he whispers, with a tinge of sadness in his tone. It tugs at your heart. He loves you. Bucky loves you. Your heart might burst in joy. So, all this while you were living in a stupid bubble of self-loathing while you could have confessed your feelings for him. Frickin frack! Mother of Hallmark, stupid drama-loving life.
"Bucky…," your own eyes blur with emotions and frustration.
"No, tell me… 'coz sure as hell your job description didn't have you to punch that moron that day, to nurture me back to life, to save me from myself...that too for someone like me," he says, jaw clenched you could see he was holding back his tears.
You look at him sharply, shaking your head. "Don't say that, please," the tears escape your eyes freely now. He gives you a gentle smile, rubbing your tears away and kissing your forehead before looking into your eyes. His metal arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close to him gently.
It feels like he knew your answer already, but he was waiting for you to say it out loud, and you were marshaling everything in you to speak because, dear heavens, you were breathless.
"Come on, doll…put me out of this fucking misery," he groans, lips ghosting yours.
"I love you," you tell him. "Bucky, you have no idea how much, god you are so fucking annoying, but you are everything and more," you nod at him. He chuckles, his vision glassy just like yours as he gently rubs your lower back and his forehead on yours before looking into your eyes.
"I can be yours forever?" He asks with a hopeful, teary smile, and you laugh. Bucky Barnes was such a dork, and you were a simp for him. You nod eagerly, and he leans forward, cupping your jaw firmly and pecking your lips. The sensation was so overwhelming. It was like a fire was lit. Bucky growled, tightening his hold on you, and you leaned forward eagerly, engulfed by his senses and his smell, which was so intoxicatingly warm and nice. The next kiss was nothing gentle; it was so intense that you had to grip his short hair with one hand and the other, taking hold of his jacket lapel.
When you broke the kiss, you looked at him sharply.
He pulls away slightly. "You good, sweetheart? 'Coz, I really can't tell if you are going to yell at me or kiss me again," he whispers teasingly, a slight twinkle in his eyes. You groan, pulling him into another kiss, and he almost loses his balance as he has to hold one arm on the wall. When you broke away from the kiss, you grinned widely, watching his glass eyes fill with emotion.
"You're crying, Bucky? Was it that bad, or are you just overwhelmed by how irresistible I am?" You remark, still fully dazed from Bucky's intoxicating presence.
Bucky smacks his lips and rolls his eyes playfully, caressing your cheek. Your bottom lip quivers as his thumb runs over it.
"I love you," he tells you, and your heart flutters, listening to him confess again.
"You look a little stunned there, too, doll. Don't worry, it's mutual, "he chuckles, pecking your lips again; he tastes so addicting you can't help but moan, and when he squeezes your waist, you yelp a bit louder than intended.
He suddenly retreats, and you look at him surprised. A frown settles on his face. "You are hurt," he says and experimentally runs his hand over your back, and you clench your back in pain.
"Of course not," you lie through your teeth, not wanting the moment to end.
The sudden shift of his expression was comical. It gave you a whiplash.
"You are such a pain in my ass," he groans as he slowly lifts you up and takes you to the couch, you squeal holding his shoulders.
"Bucky, I'm not that hurt. Put me down," you shuffle, but he doesn't let go until you are seated on the couch.
"Show me," he demands as he squats before you.
"Geee... Ask me out on a coffee at least before you demand me to strip," you remark sassily, and the way he blushes makes you double down with laughter.
He rolls his eyes and looks at you sharply. "Always a grump," You grumble, turning to your side and lifting your shirt slightly, a bit high from whatever you shared.
He loves you. He loves you.
Your brain constantly chanted for you, and your joy knew no bounds.
"Does it hurt here?" Bucky asks, with one arm gently holding you on the shoulder.
You think of lying but sigh, "Just a bit."
"It's not swollen, so that's good," he says, pushing the shirt down. Such a gentleman. You smile, and he looks at you with a shy grin.
"Come here," you call and hug him to your heart's content, his broad shoulders and arms wrapping you in his big frame, making you feel all cozy and tiny.
"Best birthday present ever," he whispers, gently kissing your shoulder and enveloping you in his arms as he settles on the couch, pulling you onto his lap gently.
"Happy Birthday, Sergeant Barnes," you add, and he chuckles, placing another kiss on your hair.
~
Bucky never gave much thought to what he wore as long as his metal arm was covered, but right now, he felt out of depth as he stared at his closet. He had two formal shirts and three pairs of jeans. The other four were T-shirts. Deciding to go with the blue T-shirt and the leather jacket you got him, he rode to your place swiftly, wanting to be near you.
Last night, he didn't realize when he fell asleep in your arms, and it was the most peaceful he had slept in years. When he woke up in the morning, he was covered in a warm blanket that smelled like you, and he thought he was dreaming when you leaned down and placed a small peck on his cheek, wishing him good morning with a bright smile.
You made him coffee and breakfast, and he felt exhilarated; the sense of belongingness and home engulfed him. Ever since you first met, you always gave him boxes of food, and it became a habit at this point, but today, it felt different. It was different. When you looked at him with that smile as you sipped on your coffee, he couldn't help but pull you in for another kiss, knowing you were his. It was a supreme feeling, and he didn't want that feeling to end. He whispered 'I love you' against your lips for the third time as he left your place, promising to get dinner that night. "It's a date," he told you firmly, and you nodded eagerly.
When you opened the door, his eyes widened. You had worn a red dress that flowed around your waist and a denim jacket on your shoulders. You looked ethereal with your hair down. He sighed dreamily, and you chuckled shyly, a blush tinging your cheeks. "Alright, enough with that face, Bucky," you said, shutting your door. Everything felt new but familiar.
~
When you opened the door, Bucky stood there, dressed in a casual but perfectly fitted dark jacket you gifted for his birthday over a blue henley and jeans highlighting his broad shoulders and easy confidence. He looked effortlessly handsome.
At your awkwardness at his dreamy look, he let out a laugh and pulled you closer, giving you a deep and thorough kiss that made your tummy flutter, and your panties were wet and probably would have scarred Jenny on your floor if she lingered outside. "Fine," he says, pecking your lips once more.
Bucky was a sinful kisser.
"Oh, shit...forgot these...here," he hands a bouquet. Your eyes widen at the gesture. "You didn't have to, Bucky," you say dreamily, looking at the flowers and then at him. The last time you got flowers was probably when you graduated college and your parents gave them to you. It was funny you got all shy when he looked at you that way. He frowns at that. "Of course, I have to," he says. You roll your eyes at him. "I loved them," you say to him, kissing his cheek. "Hold on, lemme put them in the water," you said.
The setting sun cast a soft, golden light, hinting at the promise of a perfect night. The walk was filled with the quiet thrill of anticipation, the kind that makes your heart beat just a little faster. The two of you decided on a small, cozy restaurant tucked away from the bustling streets, where the lights were dim and the hum of conversation was soft and comforting. The space was intimate without being pretentious, and the scent of freshly baked bread filled the air as you were led to your table near a window overlooking the softly lit street.
You both ordered easily, your choices reflecting a shared fondness for simple, hearty food—pasta dishes, fresh salads, and a bottle of wine to share. The conversation flowed naturally as you talked about everything and nothing: childhood stories, awkward teenage moments, favorite movies, and the silliest fears. You laughed over embarrassing anecdotes of Steve Rogers. You swapped funny moments from the therapy sessions you'd both been reluctantly pulled into. He told you all about what he felt when he first met you.
There was a lightness to Bucky tonight, a soft glow you hadn't seen in him often. He was more relaxed, teasing you gently and smiling with that boyish charm that made your heart twitch in the best way. You noticed the small things: the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed and leaned in closer whenever you spoke, hanging onto your every word like they were treasures.
As you finished your meal, Bucky glanced outside, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the sidewalk.
Bucky, glancing at you with a playful glint in his eyes, "You up for a walk? It's too nice out to head home just yet."
"Yeah, let's go," you eagerly agreed.
You slipped out of the restaurant and onto the quiet street, the cool evening breeze brushing against your skin. The city was alive but not overwhelming, just a gentle hum of life as people strolled by or sat at outdoor cafés, lost in their own worlds. Bucky walked beside you, his hand brushing against yours now and then, each touch sending a small spark up your arm.
As you reached the waterfront, the city lights reflected off the gentle ripples of the river, creating a shimmering path that stretched into the distance. You walked slowly, the sound of water lapping softly against the pier and the faint chatter of distant conversations blending into a soothing symphony.
You found a bench nestled near the pier's edge and sat down side by side. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of saltwater and the occasional breeze that lifted the ends of your hair. For a moment, you were content to just sit there, enjoying the serene view and the quiet company.
Bucky pulled you impossibly closer, intertwining his fingers with you and pecking your forehead. For a while, you sat in comfortable silence, watching the city come alive with twinkling lights and the occasional sound of a passing boat.
Bucky glanced over at you, his expression soft and thoughtful.
He leaned forward, pulling your waist a bit, twisting you towards him. "You look so pretty," he whispers, leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. It was supposed to be sweet, but the look you shared had him pulling you onto his lap, and you willingly complied, your dress inching up slightly. You could feel his hardness underneath all your layers, and you rolled your hips. He grunted at the feeling, clenching his jaw. His hand lingered on your thigh, and when you kissed him more, carding your fingers through his hair, he didn't hesitate to move his hands inside your dress and cup your ass, helping you move on him. He let out a low growl, and you bit his lip. He gazed at you with a sly grin when you slowly opened your eyes.
"I should say sorry, but I'm really not," he winks at you, and you giggle, leaning to hide in the crook of his neck.
"But I think we will be arrested if we are caught. Plus, I don't want anyone to see you like this, and I think someone is coming," Bucky remarks, gently sitting you down beside him. You chuckle, licking your lips, and adjust your dress as he runs a hand over your hair.
You set his jacket lapel straight, which you clutched in a death grip not a moment ago.
~
Apt to say Bucky was touch starved and ever since you confessed your love, he didn't hesitate to pull you into long bear hugs or kiss you senselessly.
Being with Bucky Barnes was a dream, surely, but equally damn frustrating. Initially, it was a bit disorienting, and despite the heated make-out on your first date, he was still taking things slow, and you didn't want to hurry him. You reeled in the need to climb him up like a tree or push his hands a little further down when they lingered on your chest, but you were aware he was still working on things and pushing him too much would worsen things for him. You didn't want to rush him whatsoever and were willing to take whatever he gave. He's been through so much, and you want him to control the pace and not let your lust-hazed mind take the reins.
So, you were delighted when he pushed you back down on the couch and kissed you senselessly. Both of you were watching the TV, and one thing led to another, and you were dry-humping. He wound your leg around his back and breathed on you warmly. It sent a shiver down your spine the way he moaned. And you were on the precipice when his phone rang, spilling a cold bucket of water on the moment. So, Bucky left reluctantly, not before pressing you against the door and kissing you like you were the last meal, and then he smiled at you so softly, whispering I love you; it made you want to throw a fit. He's so fucking perfect despite testing every bit of your resolve.
All you could do was take care of yourself after that rough make-out session; the memory of his hardness, hips rolling with force, made you want to tear down his pants and put him into your mouth. You wondered if he took care of his huge problem when he was in the confines of his apartment. You groaned, imagining those callous hands running down his length and slowly inching inside your wet heat, stroking you the right way and the coil in your stomach built. "Oh, shit," you moan into the pillow, clutching the sheets in a death grip and feeling the tightness build in your belly.
Bucky Barnes was a walking sinful creature and dear God, you want to sin between those legs. Shit!
That image in your head brought your orgasm tumbling down. You let the vibrator fall away and sighed, turning on your back and normalizing your breath.
You heard a raspy chuckle, and you shrieked. Sitting up straight, covering your front with the blanket, thinking it was just a bad dream and Bucky was not really standing there at the door watching you like a hawk. He looks you up and down and takes a step closer. Your heart crescendos, on the verge of bursting. What the hell was he doing here? Didn't he leave? When did he come back? Shit! Humiliation was a bad color, and currently, you were coated to a T.
"Bucky," you whisper, grappling at the fact he was actually standing there, looking intensely at you, and you hoped you didn't conjure any image. He licks his lips, biting on the lower one, and your eyes inadvertently lock onto his stormy gaze. What you felt at that moment was incomprehensible. The shameful feeling has your tummy flutter, and your heart tugs as he doesn't say anything. Did you just lose respect in Bucky's eyes? Should you maybe say something or laugh it off? But he makes the decision for you, and your throat runs dry.
Bucky has a sinister look as he takes a few steps closer, still not saying a word. He discards his jacket and throws it to the side without care, which takes you by surprise because he looks so composed otherwise. You feel the heat spread across your face, and your ears ring slightly, the post-orgasmic haze long gone, replaced by a feeling of being on edge, which you were not sure whether you liked or not.
Bucky pulls the chair from your writing desk, lifts it with one hand, places it closer to the side of your queen bed, and picks up the lavender vibrator that you discarded not so long ago, all the while not breaking eye contact. His lips twisted in something that was a smug grin. You hold onto the blanket like your life depended on it, very well aware that you were stark naked underneath the covering. He sits back on the chair, almost dwarfing it. Your thighs clench the unapologetic way he checks you out from top to bottom slowly. Bucky leans forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, and curiously studies the vibrator.
You gulp, breaths coming out ragged, when you notice the tick in his jaw, and he lets out a dark chuckle.
"Thought you were in pain, sweetheart. I almost tore down the front door," he says, and a smirk adorns his face. You look at Bucky guiltily, "But you were just playing with yourself," he coos at you with hooded eyes, making your tummy flutter. You could feel the slick running down your thighs, "Bucky," you whisper, throat dry as he sits back comfortably, twirling the vibrator between his metal fingers. His thighs spread wide; his form engulfs the entire chair. He curls two fingers up and gestures forward. Obeying him without a word, you inch closer, still clutching the blanket, wanting, needing to straddle him and kiss him.
His look is unwavering as he picks you up, holding your bare ass and settles you on him with the blanket still covering your front. He lets out a deep growl that you felt resonating in his chest as you held him for support. You gasp at the feel of his bulging cock in his pants.
He pulls you impossibly closer, and you can literally feel the warmth of his entire body engulfing you. He rubs one of his hands on the bare skin of your back. His darkened eyes promised you dirty things. Your humiliation dripped away into arousal when he finally pulled you in for a kiss. It was just like the one he gave you before he left, intense with all tongue and teeth. He cards through your hair and pulls you by your nape; the slight, painful tug makes you moan without trepidation.
Breaking the kiss, he licks his lips, and they part as he breathes heavily. He places open-mouth kisses on your jaw and all the way to your throat, and you feel the need for his lips on yours again.
"My pretty girl," he rasps in your ear, nipping at your lobe, and you let out a loud cry at the sensation. He groans eagerly, pulling you into another kiss, and the way his tongue moved made you whine in need, wanting to feel his hands on you, in you. He lets out a grunt, pulling back and looking at you.
"Were you thinking of me when you played with yourself?" he demands, his voice a few octaves down, soft with a slight twinkle in his eyes and his demeanor a bit too intense. You bite your lip, hiding in the crook of his neck. "Yes," you whisper, unable to meet his intense gaze.
Bucky lets out a dark chuckle, kissing gently on your bare shoulder. His scruff felt delectable as he nipped your exposed skin. He tugged at the blanket gently, and you straightened in his lap. Bucky doesn't pull it out of your grasp but waits for you, and when you loosen the grip on the blanket, he smiles at you dreamily, letting it fall in your lap, covering just your upper thighs and pussy.
He looks down hungrily, licking his lips and looks up for permission. And if you were in a better mind, you would have rolled your eyes, but you simply nodded eagerly.
"These are mine," he says, looking up from your tits. You would have said, 'Everything is yours, Bucky,' but your throat was parched. You nod, agreeing enthusiastically, waiting for him to touch you in any way. His hand goes to your ass, and he lifts you slightly and attaches his mouth to one of them, and you let out a satisfied cry. He nuzzled your tit, running his sharp nose on the skin, applying a bit of pressure before he took your left boob into his mouth entirely and sucked, running his tongue on your nipple. You gasped pathetically as you fisted his hair and shirt in a strong vice.
"Umm," he moans, licking his lips, feeling far too lost as he keeps sucking and lapping at your tit. Holy shit, you could come just like this. You feel the hardness underneath his jeans as he rolls his hips upward slightly, and you feel the friction on you just the right way as you grind down on him, wanting to remove the blanket and tear his pants down and suck him. Your one hand travels down his chest experimentally, with nails running down his thin shirt, and he grunts loudly. You roll your hips once again, and he hisses in pleasure, throwing his head back and letting out a throaty moan. Bucky pushes your hips apart, and you whine in displeasure. He shakes his hand as one of his hand massages your tit, rubbing the pad of his thumb on your pebbled nipple.
You were perched on him, with his denim-covered thighs touching your undersides sensually.
"I will give you everything, doll, but before that...," he rasps, running his other hand down the length of your spine and squeezing your ass roughly, making you cry in pleasure.
"Show me," he orders, pulling you a bit away from him and handing you the vibrator. Mortification, that's what you felt at the sly way his eyes crinkled. He raises his brows and turns on the vibrator, and the faint buzz fills the silent room.
"Wanna see you make yourself cum," he breaths on your jaw, biting it gently, and you move closer to him, "From up close, doll, you will do that for me, won't you?" he asks quite innocently, toying with your tit running his Vibranium hand on your outer thigh and inching the pooled blanket upwards. What a dirty man!
You bite your lip in misery. Bucky Barnes was a fucking menace, and he was nowhere close to the innocent gentleman you thought he was. You knew he was charming, but how the fuck did he get to be an irresistible little shit? You have no idea.
He saw you concede and let out a sly grin. "This is obstructing my view," he says, pulling off the blanket, and you choke on your breath, gasping as you were now sitting on your fully dressed man while you were buck naked with a vibrator in your hand.
Your man, though. Your man!
You couldn't possibly conjure up such an erotic dream now, could you?
Holy shit! You were not going to last long.
He looks down at your bare pussy, and he moans needily, grasping your waist and squeezing it, licking his lips and looking at you.
"Fucking pretty and all mine, go on, show me, fuck yourself," he orders, adjusting you on his lap. Propriety was a long-lost dream at this point. So, when you shyly touch your clit with the vibrator, you whimper in delight. And Bucky holds you grounded on the spot. Before long, you were lost in the familiar haze, pushing the vibrator inside your slick channel and needing to close your legs for better friction, but his legs and the position he held you in were thwarting you from moving. His right palm stretched on your upper thigh, and he squeezed tightly, leaving red marks all over. He moved his hand to the inner thigh, massaging the skin with a bit more pressure, and you felt your pussy clench in delight, and you just wanted his rough fingers touching you.
He didn't move, though, "Please," you begged. Bucky nodded, pulling you in for another short kiss and looked at you intensely, the way the vibrator slips in and out, and the way your slick coats it. He groans, biting his lower lip and moves his hand to squeeze your hip while his metal palm rubs the underside of your tit before squeezing it.
The coldness of his palm, the sensual way he was rubbing your ass, and his presence in general surmounted your senses, and you careened to your orgasm. However, the vibrator died, and you gasped breathlessly, cursing your fate.
Your frustrated cry and his laughter resound in your hazy mind, and he tuts, almost condescendingly, "That's unfortunate," he says with a smug smile. You would have retorted, but your needy mind resigns to begging him instead.
"Touch me, please, Bucky… please," with tears running down your cheeks.
"Are you sure?" he asks. "I'll smack you if you don't touch me," your frustrated cry earns another chuckle. "You never have to beg me for anything, doll," he says, fingers inching closer and closer to your pussy, and you wait, tethered on the edge of pleasure. "Well, maybe sometimes…," he stops as an afterthought, and you grip his palm, trying to pull him closer to where you want, but he resists. "I would love for you to beg," he says, bringing your clutching palm to his mouth. He places a kiss on the inside of your palm and moves to kiss your fingers; his tongue peeks out slightly as he licks your tips.
"Bucky," you gasp as he looks at you with need, lets go of your hand, and runs his rough tips from the middle of your chest to the lower abdomen, halting slightly.
"You got somewhere to be?" he mocks, and you look at him surprised.
Smug son of a gun!
"So pretty," he says, finally, running his fingers across your slick heat and turning his hand to cup you, palming your aching mound, and his fingertips brush against your wet channel. He lets out a loud, filthy sound as you breathlessly arch your back. He slowly inches his middle finger inside your wet channel until his first knuckle, and you buck in his lap. "You are clenching me so tight." He hisses as he looks down dreamily. Bucky's look, the days and days of needing him and the first touch made you reel as your orgasm hit you embarrassingly fast.
Needing to feel him much closer, your hand moves down and lifts his shirt, and he helps you remove it.
"You're perfect," you run your palm down his chest, admiring him and feeling lucky to be his.
He gazes up at you and grins shyly.
"She's dripping for me, baby girl," he says, looking at you amazed. "All for you," you agree.
That made him snap. "Fucking right," he says, standing up and pushing the chair away with his foot and depositing you on the bed as he hovers over you with his metal arm beside your head and kisses you senseless, leaving you completely out of breath, his fingers running up and down your pussy lips, his thumb roughly circles the clit while his metal arm caresses your cheek softly, and you wail in pleasure, rolling your hips into his hand. He moves down to place kisses on your throat, and you mewl, feeling too sensitive.
He sits on his heels and pulls you up. You squeak at the way he manhandles you so effortlessly.
"Been dreaming of you for so long," he says, squeezing your thighs and pushing you to arch your back into the air. Bucky's eyes twinkle under the dim light from the lamp when he looks at you. "I love you," he says softly, kissing your chin and nipping it slightly.
He rubs his thumb on your clit, and you clench in need. "I know," he whispers, almost cooing as he gently bites your ear.
"Stop me if it's too much," he says and waits, and you realize he is asking for your consent. "Yes, Bucky… just fuck me." You cry in need. He pulls your chin, "Look at me," he orders, pushes his finger slightly and slowly fucks you with it, and it feels magical. "Fuck," you shout, gasping for air as he angles his finger dexterously exploring inside, and you arch off his lap.
"Should I stop?" he asks worriedly, and you look at him like he's crazy. "No," you wanted to say but cried in delight.
But when he stops moving and looks at you with concern, you muster up your sanity and shake your head. "Keep going, lover boy," you rasp, and he does, pushing a bit more, and he chuckles into your mouth, breathing heavily, lips parted. He looks like a fucking dream. He lowers you down on the bed and moves his finger inside you, angling around to test what makes you tick. When you feel the familiar twist in your lower belly, you wail out, moaning his name like a prayer.
"So tight. How will you take me, baby? We gotta stretch her nice for me," he grunts, his jaw clenched, still holding your gaze.
"I don't think you'll be able to walk for quite some time. I'll carry you around. I don't mind," Bucky muses thoughtfully, and your eyes roll back as the pleasure combusts in you again.
"Eyes on me," he orders, and you clench him hard.
You obey, staring into his almost darkened eyes and feeling the need to please him so badly it appalls you. You arch off the bed as he pushes another finger in completely. You feel his palm flatten on your clit, rubbing sensually. "Aww look how needy she is," he chuckles and fucks you with a renewed effort. You scrape your nails on his back, and he clenches his jaw. You tilt your face up and nip at his jaw gently.
He sets a languid pace, and before long, you were clutching his forearm as leverage with both your hands and rolling your hips forward and come with such a force that your breath hitches. He pecks your jaw softly.
When he massages your overstimulated clit, you pull away from him. He lets out a satisfied chuckle as he leans down on you, holding your jaw to look into your eyes, and pops the fingers that just fucked you into his mouth and groans in pleasure.
Your cheeks flush as you look at him, shocked, blushing at his action.
"You taste better than plums," Bucky nods to himself, picks you up, and gently settles you on the pillows like you weigh nothing.
"I need a proper taste," he declares, running his hand on the back of your thigh, bending at the knee and placing it on his right shoulder while holding down the other as he places his forearm on your stomach, holding you down. His metal palm runs on the inside of your thigh before you hear the whirring, and he looks at you slyly as he separates your pussy lips and licks his lips. He blows gently, and you clench on nothing, letting out unholy pornographic noises.
"You don't have to," you say, suddenly feeling shy. "It's funny you think I'm doing you a favor," Bucky states, kissing your clit, and you moan. He hovers back up to you, speaking against your mouth. "I've been dying to devour you for a long time, doll, so lie back and let me eat you in peace," he says, and you gasp as he kisses you once more before moving down.
"Fucking gorgeous," he whispers. "See for yourself. Keep those pretty eyes on me," he prompts as you close your eyes. Sitting back on his heels, Bucky unbuttons his jeans, pushing them down and discarding them somewhere behind. He leans down and rubs his nose on yours, "Say, stop, and I will," he promises softly, and you nod reverently, holding onto every little thing.
"But first," He straightens up, picks up your vibrator and chucks it away to a corner. The vibrator clinks to the corner of your desk and falls down somewhere you can't see. "You won't be needing it, I'm here…and that's nothing close to the real deal." He winks at your shocked face. You can't help but giggle, but as soon as his mouth descends on your aching and needy pussy, you ascend into your pleasure just as fast.
Bucky Barnes was a fucking handsome grumpy menace. And he's all yours.
****
Phew! I hope you enjoyed reading it! :)
If you wanna be tagged in my works, add yourself here. <3 Please send me a message if you wanna be removed from the Tag list. :)
Thanks for the wonderful support! Forever grateful!
