So Much Smut

Lauren She/They MDNI 18+

[spinningyarnsandshame]

Masterlist ✨✨✨

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Bucky x Reader

Whiskey, neat

Smut. MDNI 18+

Shrapnel and Silence: Series Complete. [Angst, Reader Injury, Slow Burn]

Shrapnel and Silence

Shrapnel and Silence Part 2

Shrapnel and Silence Part 3

Bucky x OC

Series:

Winter and the Wolf

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[beewritesthingssometimes]

Bite the pillow

Summary: When you can't calm Bucky down with love and care, you let him take his anger out fucking you stupid

TW: smut, porn without plot, rough sex, established relationship, spit kink, size kink, squirting, free use kink if you squint, slapping, slight pain kink

Word count: 1.5k

Authors note: just a short smut because I couldn't get the idea out of my horny brain so I wrote this on my phone

Bucky had a hard life. Perhaps the understatement of the year in your opinion. Between traumas of the past that haunted him nightly with visions of the winter solider plaguing his mind to the every day stress of putting himself in harms way to defend the Earth- he had a damn hard life. His one saving grace in the constant turmoil is you. You knew exactly how to calm him down, take away pieces of stress with each tender kiss you'd pepper his face with or melt the pain away under your light touches in all the right places. And when you couldn't calm his stress, you let him express it on you. Allowing him to take what he needed until the only thing that could cross his mind was your name.

Tonight was one of those nights he had no time for talk, all thoughts of sweet love were out the window. Tonight all he needed was to violently pound you into the mattress watching his huge cock split you open until he couldn't even grasp the memory of today.

He stormed into your bedroom, face stone and breath rugged. His lustful eyes once a bright blue now completely dark like blackened clouds before a storm. The door slamming behind him as he prowled over to the bed shot your gaze up from your phone interrupting the mindless hours of scrolling. When you see he's came home your face lights up "Hey baby!" you beam smiling up at him. Your smile falters quickly when your gaze meets his. You've seen this look worn on his face many times, he doesn't want to talk. He just needs you.

He clenches his jaw, the muscle twitching slightly as he speaks through gritted teeth "clothes. off. now" he demands, beginning to rip his own shirt from over his head. His defined chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat built up from his no doubt exhausting day, the warm glow from the bedside table lamp illuminating his body in all the right ways, orange rays catching each bulging muscle. You do as he instructs, starting to pull the oversized t-shirt over your head when you're caught off guard by a firm grip to your ankles, ripping your body closer to the edge of the bed where he stood.

"Too slow" he mumbled, digging his thick digits into the waistband of your panties and ripping them from your skin. The tearing sound echoing off the walls accompanied by the loud gasp leaving your lungs. "You're gonna shut the fuck up and take it all tonight" he grunted, staring you down with intensity, the look in his eyes telling you everything you need to know without him having to vocalise just how he wants you tonight.

His eyes linger over your naked body flat on your back with your legs around his waist, nipples perked up from the chill in the air. Between your legs there's already a glisten to your pussy, you've been wet from the second you saw the lustful expression on his face. Eyes glossed over with goosebumps visible all over your soft skin, shivering in anticipation for what's about to come.

This pulls a dark, sinister smirk across his lips. Thumb dragging roughly across your clit before lowering his head to spit on your needy hole. "Fuckkkkk" he moans watching the thin line of saliva drip down your cunt before ramming two thick fingers into you making you squeal out. "B-BUC-KY" you scream out only to be met with a harsh slap to your pussy with his metal hand, the cold hard contact sending a wave of pain and pleasure washing over your whole body. "Who said you could fuckin' speak, huh?" he growled withdrawing his fingers from you, you almost whine at the sudden emptiness but you know better than to make another noise without permission.

"Get that fuckin' ass up" he barked, manhandling you roughly onto all fours, gripping the strands of hair from your scalp in a large handful and tugging backwards forcing you to arch your back just the way he wanted. You felt him position himself behind you, expecting the usual slow stretching you're accustomed to. On a usual night, Bucky would spend hours preparing you to take his sheer size. He's long and thick, veins bulging from base to flushed red tip. Its always slightly painful to be stretched out by such a fat, throbbing cock but he always prepared you. Would always work you open nice and slow. But not tonight.

He slammed his whole length into you, a scream ripping from your lungs as he snapped his hips against you. You could hear him chuckle darkly from behind you when your body jolted forward instinctively trying to escape the aggressive pounding to your sensitive pussy, your walls struggling with the sudden stretch around him. He just gripped your hips firmly, pulling you back with a harsh tug driving himself even deeper than before. Your hand clasped against your mouth, a weak attempt to stifle your guttural moans. "I said. fucking. take it."

Tears begin rolling down your cheek as he started as he meant to continue, hard, deep and fast. He took his big palm to your face pushing it roughly against the pillow and watching the wet patch from from the waterfall of tears dripping from your eyes down your cheeks. "that hurt baby?" he cooed mockingly delivering a particularly harsh thrust that bullied up against your cervix. "y-yYES!" you yelped out a high pitch scream "h-hur-t-s Bu-ck-y". He chuckles darkly again, his pace not easing up in the slightest, his hand pushing your face to the pillow stroking his thumb lovingly across your cheek. "hurts yeah? I don't care. Fucking take it" he grunts low and sinister "bite down and tell the fuckin' pillow how much it hurts" he hissed.

You take the white cotton in between your teeth, biting down to stifle your screams but they're still punched from your lungs. Every thrust knocking another yelp from your spent body as Bucky just grips you, sliding you on his cock over and over again at a punishing pace. Using your pussy to release all his pent up rage, grunting animalistic and dripping sweat all over your back. Ignoring all your cries and screams into the pillow- in fact if anything they turned him on more.

"Such a good little fuck doll for me aren't you baby?" you can't even answer, your eyes rolling back into your skull and high pitched moans rolling off your tongue. "so fuckin' pretty when I've fucked you stupid, you know that?" His fingers find your clit rubbing harshly the sensitive nerve feeling you clench instantly at the sensation. "You gonna cum baby?" he spat as he rubbed "don't even care if you do just gonna use this tight fuckin' hole to get myself off, fill you up real fuckin' nice" You yelped out again, your stomach growing that familiar feeling of closeness, but somehow more intense than ever before.

"B-Buc-k I-I'm" a rough slap to your ass shuts you up "-fu-fuck I know baby" he stutters, his pace getting even harsher as he chased his own high. The fast drag of his pulsating cock in your pussy and his rough fingers tormenting your sensitive clit caused a sensation so intense to well up inside you, like a rubber band being stretched as far as it could possibly go. And then it snapped.

A quick gush of liquid raining out of your abused hole soaking the sheets below, every nerve in your body overstimulated and buzzing. Bucky stills for a moment, admiring the mess you've just created- a mess he'd never seen you make before. Then he flipped you over, hovering above you and squishing your cheeks in his big hand as his lips engulfed yours. "You just fuckin' squirted baby, you know how fuckin' hot that is, huh?" he grinned in between sloppy kisses "fuckkkk". He wasted no time sliding back into you, groaning out at how wet you were now, coating his cock in your squirt.

His pace was just as brutal as before but growing less precise as he grew close. Gripping your cheeks again he commanded "open", smirking as you looked back up at him with dazed eyes and a waiting mouth. He harshly spat down your throat, demanding you swallow and landing a stinging slap to the side of your face, hard enough you were sure you'd have a red handprint across your cheek in the aftermath. You feel like a ragdoll, completely fucked out as he snapped into you over and over again until you felt his fat cock pulsate, spilling hot cum deep into you dragging your final moan from your lips.

He rolls off you, sweating and gasping for breath. "Fuck baby, thank you I really needed that" he whispered, his tone a direct contrast to the punishing growl from his mouth less than a moment ago. "you okay baby?" he asked, kissing your forehead and pulling you into his strong arms. "More than okay" you smiled back at him, wrapping your arms around him and kissing him softly.

Regardless of the aftermath of bruises, a swollen, sore pussy and flashbacks to how it happened every time you sit down for the next three days- you will always take everything he gives you. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

[lunexiax]

crushed! (bucky barnes)

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

summary: Bucky does not trust you. And don't ask him whether it's just a shoddy attempt to grapple with a crush - because it's most certainly not.

cw: smut (handjob, oral - m receiving, spit, enthusiastic consent, brief masturbation, kinda sub!bucky), he is a meanie for a while bc poor baby can't process emotions, reader referenced as having hair that can be tied up, gonna be so real i didn't proofread this at all

a/n: this is for @artficlly's moodboard writing event. this was so so fun and i loved my moodboard - bonus points bc it took my least favourite part out of the writing process! thank you art :) also please nobody point out the fact that i have a problem when it comes to sexually repressed bucky. i been knowin

dividers by: @chateaubarnes (jewel toned dividers) word count: 13k

Bucky doesn’t trust you. He doesn’t necessarily have a reason for it - not yet - but all his years of spy-work have to count for something. It’s just an instinct. You put a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something that rattles him without knowing why.

He sees you and suddenly he’s antsy. He has the strange urge to fidget and avoid eye-contact, which he’s not sure he has felt even with the most violent of HYDRA doctors.

What really sets his teeth on edge, though, is how well you seem to get along with the rest of the team. If he has to watch Bob trail after you like some lost puppy one more time, picking up random contraptions and asking you what they do like some sort of toddler, he’s going to lose his shit. You put up with Alexei’s stories about his glory days with perfect patience and occasional interest and even manage to avoid the asshole treatment from Walker. It’s like you were born for the team, the way you slot right in.

But still. Something isn’t right.

It had felt like travelling between seasons rather than states, flying from frosty New York to some military base in the asshole of Arizona. Bucky wasn’t thrilled that you were going to be joining him for the mission, but it was nice to get a break from the cold. And from Walker.

“Remind me why she’s here,” Bucky grumbles to Yelena, gaze fixed on you where you stand scribbling nonsense on a whiteboard across lab. You’re wearing a lab coat which is pretty pretentious considering there are currently no chemicals in the room.

Yelena rolls her eyes like she always does when Bucky dares to say anything remotely negative about you. She and everyone else would much rather he blindly kiss your ass on the daily, just like they do.

“Wah wah, always bitching,” she drawls, accent thickening in her annoyance. “You want to go on mission without quartermaster? Fine. Do that alone. I do not want to get blown up in big fireball with no protection.”

Bucky grunts something about how she’s being dramatic, before he can realise that it’s a mistake.

“Dramatic? You are throwing tantrum like child over quartermaster coming with us on mission, but Bob coming with us for holiday is no problem.”

Bob seems to catch only his name. He looks up from the contraption he had been examining as if coming out of a daze. He waves hesitantly and grins when Yelena waves back, returning to whatever it was he was looking at.

Bucky can’t think of any way to dispute Yelena’s claims, so he just huffs and sits back in his chair. He’s doing nothing to help his case, he realises a little dumbly. 

You are still scribbling on the board, scrawling little graphs and symbols that he doesn’t recognise or understand. Bob pauses for a beat before bringing his contraption over to you, which Bucky can now see is a penknife with various latches and buttons on it. You stop what you’re doing with an infuriatingly pleasant look on your face, so damn pleased to show him what it is and how to use it. Bucky clenches his teeth.

He feels he’s made his feelings pretty clear to you; the way all traces of good humour are wiped from his face the second you walk in the room, the way he mutters under his breath whenever you speak. You shoot him a smile every time you see him, even despite this - as if none of it bothers you in the slightest, as if you’re happy to indulge him. He wonders if that’s your way of trying to make him feel guilty. It makes him distrust you all the more.

“I know what your problem is,” Yelena says eventually. He only now notices how eagerly her eyes are trained on him and he rips his gaze away from you with urgency. 

“And what’s that?”

“You are sexually frustrated. And taking it out on poor quartermaster because she is pretty girl.”

Bucky almost chokes on his spit while he attempts a scoff and he is forced to gasp air back into his lungs; loud and humiliatingly obvious. Yelena smiles coolly to herself, as if his reaction has proven some point.

“I am not… frustrated, not that it’s any of your damn business,” Bucky snaps. “And I’m definitely not- Taking anything out on her, or whatever you said.”

“You need to get laid. Then there will be much relief and you will be happy again and less…” She makes a vague gesture at his frowning face. “Like this.”

He lets out a sarcastic scoff of laughter, but it sounds strangled and uncomfortable even to his own ears. “You’ve lost your damn mind,” he says. 

Yelena just hums absently. It is abundantly clear that the conversation is over.

You’re scrawling again. Bucky wonders if you even notice he’s there with how focused you are on the clear board in front of you. Your neat, boxy handwriting litters the board in black marker; chemical symbols, graphs and clustered charts appearing at every corner, seemingly at random. 

Bucky identifies two figures with blank faces drawn to the right of the board with various lines and notes sprawling from them. One is a large, burly frame with a metal arm as its only defining feature and the other is a shorter, robust female figure. You are designing suits for himself and Yelena. There is another, smaller stick figure scribbled beside them that Bucky can only assume is supposed to be Bob. It puts him in a bad mood to think of him here with you, joking around.

“What’re these for?” Bucky grunts and you jump, your hand jerking up to ruin your little ‘Ti’ symbol. He almost rolls his eyes at your terrible sense of awareness. You should be more careful.

“Hi Bucky,” you chirp, ever-polite. He just blinks back. “I’m coming up with something fireproof for you guys.”

“Why?” Bucky doesn’t mean to be blunt. He just wishes you could get to the point a bit faster.

“I’m not really supposed to say. But you should find out in the next few days, I think- when is that meeting again?” Your expression is apologetic and sheepish. Bucky might actually have thought you were being genuine if that weird, nagging feeling in his gut wasn’t pestering him again as he takes in your smile.

“I’m going to be leading the mission,” he grumbles.

“I know.”

“It’s my mission.”

“Sorry, Bucky.”

He knows that this is just how it works. You need to know the details of the mission earlier than he does so you can prepare the materials, come up with the designs. Letting the agents know the details of the mission too soon can cause confusion if there are any changes. It’s a good process; it works. But he’s rearing for a fight today.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, watching your lips purse slightly. You’re finally getting irritated. Good.

“Maybe you should take it up with Mel.” You smile at him briefly, more strained than before, and go back to your scribbles, effectively dismissing him. He just about hits the roof. He stands for a moment longer, trying to find some way to win back control of the conversation, but nothing is coming to him.

“Actually, while you’re here-” you say, hand reaching out to grab his metal arm. You yank it up until it’s outstretched. “I left my diagram of your arm back in New York. You don’t mind if I take some notes while I have you, do you?”

It’s phrased like a question, but you’re already running your finger up his forearm, brows furrowed as you prod at the sheets of metal there. You are seemingly looking for something specific but he doesn’t care to find out what it is. 

It’s just sensory feedback from the arm - he knows you’re not really touching him, skin-on-skin, but it makes him uncomfortable regardless. His stomach tightens at the heat in your touch, breath stuttering a bit.

“Knock yourself out,” he says, sarcasm bleeding through his tone. 

Bucky watches you twist his arm around, feels your fingertips pad along his arms and fingers, clearly logging things in your head. You quietly hum every now and again, as if confirming something to yourself. He doesn’t like to admit that you look… cute, up close like this. You really are pretty - that’s one thing Yelena did get right. He likes towering over you like this, likes seeing your eyes flicker upwards at him like a little doe.

It doesn’t change how he feels about you, nor does it make the rest of Yelena’s hypothesis correct. In fact, Yelena couldn’t know just how wrong she was. Bucky hadn’t felt interest in anyone in that way since he’d escaped HYDRA’s clutches. 

There were many ways in which Bucky’s life had changed after falling from that train in Austria. His whole life and personality had changed so distinctly that he saw his life only in terms of before the fall and after. Before the fall, he had a fierce sense of optimism - after it, he was left a bored, old cynic. Before the fall, he had exhibited a naive carelessness for his own wellbeing - allowed himself to be flocked like a sheep into any situation that was exciting. Now, he is more careful. He doesn’t regret any of the decisions and sacrifices he made back then, being aware that they were ultimately necessary for the greater good. But the speed at which he made those decisions - the knowledge of all the things he hadn’t even considered - sometimes eats away at him.

Sex is just another one of those before and afters. He had it - a lot of it - before falling from that train. He has not had any since.

It isn’t that he’s a prude or that he can’t get it up, or any other reasons that one might imagine. He just isn’t interested anymore.

Maybe his wires were all crossed wrong in the cryostasis chamber, or maybe new priorities had taken precedence. Bucky isn’t sure. All he knows is that he has not felt the impulse to be with anyone in that way for years. He takes care of himself when he wakes up with a hard on he can no longer ignore, but it’s clinical. Functional, even. He experiences the relief without any of the rush. So no, he’s not sexually frustrated. Whatever the opposite of sexual frustration is - that’s what Bucky is experiencing.

You’re pulling away when he sees your eyes stop on his other bicep, the muscle bulging through a t-shirt he has outgrown. You look back and forth between his metal arm and his flesh one. Bucky likes how it feels when your eyes catch there; he’s not sure why, but he does.

“Have you gotten bigger?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, though he knows he has. You frown and suddenly he doesn’t like the feeling of your eyes on him very much anymore.

“I don’t have your new measurements. Did you get it taken by Sheila before we left?”

“No.”

Bucky can tell you’re suppressing a sigh when you purse your lips again, skin of your mouth stretching tight. “You’re going to have to get your measurements taken. This suit is mostly metal. If it doesn’t fit right, it’s going to hurt.”

Bucky scowls at you, hot irritation spiking through him at your bossiness. And this usually works to intimidate people, but you just watch him right back, not even flinching.

Your gaze eventually flickers over to where his figure is mapped out on the clear board in front of him. There are about a dozen materials labelled onto the suit; he only recognises the vibranium symbol tagged onto the shoulder pads. With an absent expression, you pick up your marker once again and draw a large speech bubble over his blank face. Inside, you scrawl ‘Ouch. Too small.’

It is so incredibly stupid that Bucky can only continue to glare at you in astounded irritation. You glance back at him once and add a basic frowny face to the figure’s previously blank face.

Bucky speaks, only to stop you from adding any further features. “How’m I supposed to get measured? Thought Sheila would be shipping the stuff in from New York.”

“I’ll do it,” you say casually, popping the cap back on your marker. Something inside of Bucky balks at that idea, chest seizing up.

“You’re not a tailor. Or an armourer,” he says, with a tad too much uncertainty for his liking.

“Yes, I know that,” you retort, and this time you don’t even attempt to suppress your sigh. “But I have a PhD in Engineering Physics. How different can it be? You’re just like a big, fleshy machine.”

You don’t wait for him to respond, just walk over to a cabinet and begin rooting through it. Bucky is left standing in the middle of the room, cold dread spilling over his head while a strange heat pools in his gut.

You find what you’re looking for eventually; a tape measure and a notepad. You examine him closely, looking him up and down.

“I think I just need to do your biceps, chest and thighs. The rest should have enough give to be ok.” 

Bucky nods curtly and watches you fumble around clumsily with the measuring tape. For the first time in this interaction, he sees hesitation creep over your features - like you’re finally feeling as unsure as Bucky always feels around you. But you pack it away and pull his flesh arm outwards, wrapping the tape measure around the large swell of skin there. Bucky tenses instinctively, muscles bulging against your fingertips, but one look from you makes him relax his arm.

You start scribbling - why are you always scribbling? - his measurements onto the sheet in front of you while Bucky tries not to feel your warmth. His stomach is tense and tight.

“Relax,” you breathe and Bucky tries. He really does. But then your hands are spreading across his chest, brushing past his nipples over his t-shirt in a way that makes his skin jump. And that nagging feeling is coming back but stronger, the one that makes him regard you with a little bit more caution. Something is off.

The feeling only grows when you drop down to your knees in front of him, damned doe eyes flicking up at him, regarding him carefully. You’re looking back and forth from his slacks to his face and Bucky wonders for one dreadful second whether you’re about to ask him to remove his pants. You seem to decide against it, rolling the fabric at the bottom of his leg between your fingers to test the thickness.

You slowly roll the tape around his right thigh and Bucky wonders if it’s really necessary for your hands to be splayed that close to his crotch. He can feel every inch of your skin on his, even through the slacks, and the heat in his stomach expands uncomfortably. He has to look away, think about some pointless story Bob told him to try to distract himself - to somehow make it better. But your touch keeps dragging him back to the feeling. He can do nothing other than watch. It’s no better when you move to the other leg, hands running up and down his thigh to find the largest part to measure - his breath feels like it’s stuck somewhere in his lungs.

He’s vaguely aware of how bad this would look if anyone were to walk by the glass wall between the lab and the hall. You must be aware of it too, though it’s hard to read you - that’s part of the reason he distrusts you so much. However, he can tell that you appear to be equally as ill at ease as Bucky is. You have no dumb jokes or little quips when you’re sitting pretty on your knees for him-

Shit.

He’s turned on.

He’s completely, utterly, stupidly turned on.

Bucky jerks his leg out of your grasp with an urgency before you can notice his rapidly rising cock, if you hadn’t already. He almost knocks you over in the process, but he doesn’t bother apologising, just turns his back to you. 

“I don’t have a metal leg. They’re both the same fuckin’ size, doll,” he grumbles, doing his best to think of anything at all to help his situation. He tries to picture the least sexy thing he can - that one time Alexei tried on his old suit for the team - but you keep flashing back, imprinting yourself behind his eyes.

“Actually, there is a…” You stand up and scribble a final figure to your notes. “0.85 centimetre difference in girth.”

Bucky wonders whether it was really necessary for you to use the term ‘girth’. His mind goes to foul places as you back away towards your whiteboard.

He’s almost convinced that you did this on purpose. He hasn’t popped a boner in a public setting like this in decades and he feels like a goddamn hormonal tween again. But it’s a fucking reflex. He’s got a girl touching him up like that for the first time in god only knows how long and his body hasn’t completely forgotten how it’s supposed to respond to that. You’re not exactly ugly, either.

He needs to go somewhere to deal with this. In a clinical, functional way. Same as always.

The orgasm Bucky gives himself is anything but clinical and functional. 

When he begins jerking himself, he expects to be solely focused on the sensation the way he usually is. He instead finds himself thinking of you - the feeling of your fingertips brushing across his chest, your gaze catching on his biceps, the image of you on your knees in front of him.

He shoots his cum against the shower wall in less than a minute. Watches it swirl down the drain with a dull sense of shame.

He’s just grateful Yelena didn’t happen to be present when you took his measurements in the lab. She would have used it as ammunition until the end of time.

For the first time, he admits to himself that her theory might have some credit to it. He must be sexually frustrated - it’s the only way you could have gotten to him the way you did. But it doesn’t change anything, because it won’t be happening again.

Bucky still doesn’t trust you. Trusts you even less now, if possible. 

And his instincts are pretty fucking exceptional so he knows there has to be some reason for it, even if he can’t immediately identify it. You might have the rest of the team deceived, but not him. 

He knew it the first time he looked at you. He took one look into your eyes and knew right off the bat; something’s not right. Now that desire has entered the equation, potent and unbidden, he’s even more convinced.

Rather than feeling any semblance of relief after coming with his hand on his dick and his mind on you, it puts Bucky in a bad mood. He carries that bad mood around with him for the rest of the week, until Bob is giving him skeptical sideways glances and Yelena is complaining about the fact that he is ‘grumpy like dog with chopped balls’.

When he sees you, it gets worse. Much worse.

There is a sort of dreadful anxiety now, along with the usual pit in his stomach. He feels like you’re somehow aware of the thoughts he has been having about you and he’s now starting to interpret those stupid casual smiles you shoot him as mocking. The only way he can think to react to this is by biting. 

He can admit that maybe he’s taken it a bit too far. He makes a show of glaring at you now, just to prove he’s not affected by you. Where previously he would grumble under his breath at your points in meetings, he has now started to scoff aloud so the rest of the room can hear. He almost feels bad when you look over at him, surprised but non-confrontational. As if he’s some ill-behaved child who doesn’t know any better.

Yelena, on the other hand, is most definitely confrontational about the whole thing. She scoffs right back whenever Bucky speaks just to prove that he’s being a dick and targets him after the meeting, demanding explanations and apologies that he will never give. Even Bob has become more distant, giving him wary eyes and wandering over to you immediately whenever you’re present. The way you smile at him, soft and sweet, makes Bucky want to throttle him.

So, yes - he can admit that maybe the whole thing has gotten away from him just a little bit. He’s aware he’s being childish, but there’s something about that nagging feeling in his stomach that tells him he’s not wrong. That there most certainly is just something strange about you. 

It’s all he can think of in the meeting he had waited a whole week for. Mel is briefing a room of about thirty people on the details of the mission and it seems dangerous. It seems complicated. It seems like something Bucky should be damn well paying attention to.

But you’re sitting beside him, twirling a pen around through your fingers. Every so often, you scribble something in your notebook - a mangy, dog-eared thing, bulging with pages and sheets and post-it notes. You keep it close to your chest so Bucky can’t see, even though he cranes his neck to try. You’re not even really trying to be subtle about it either, the way you twist it out of his eye-line. 

He’s trying to focus more on what you’re writing than how you look writing it. Because your brows are slightly scrunched together in concentration and you’re biting your lip and it looks soft - looks soft enough for Bucky to want to bite it himself-

He’s running off course.

He just needs to see what you’re writing.

“Weren’t you pestering me for these details last week?” you whisper, and Bucky doesn’t immediately register that you’re speaking to him because your eyes are still trained on Mel. But then your eyes flicker over to him - he had almost forgotten that he isn’t behind a one-sided mirror, that you can see him too - and all he can do is nod dumbly.

“So maybe you might want to listen? Rather than looking over this way?”

It’s not a bad point. He had bitched at you for not telling him these exact details just before you took his measurements. And now that he’s receiving them, he’s not paying attention. He knows how this must look - but he doesn’t particularly care in this moment.

“What are you writing?” he asks, instead of answering you.

You shoot him an unimpressed frown, lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m taking notes. Obviously.”

It looks like you’re getting fed up with his bad attitude towards you. You would have had much more patience for this sort of behaviour before last week. It’s almost a relief to Bucky - he is so sick of you brushing off all his suspicions and purposefully bad conduct towards you as if it’s insignificant. This is what he wanted from you.

“Can I see them?” he asks, knowing what your reaction will be.

“What are you, twelve? Are we in school right now? Come on, Barnes, you can take your own notes. Mine won’t be any help to you.”

He had known you would reject his request, but actually having it happen stokes a fire in him. The guys in the top two or three floors of the building of his brain - the ones that would usually concern themselves with things like the mission details and whether or not a third coffee would give him the jitters - have suddenly gone off to Martha’s Vineyard on vacation. They won’t be back for a while. The guys in the basement are unfortunately still reeling about how warm your body feels next to his, how pretty your eyes look in this light, how your body would look under his own. Bucky doesn’t want anything to do with those guys - nasty perverts.

Every other part of his brain, however, has focused its attention on how to get into the stupid little notebook. He’s aware it’s probably not likely that the key to understanding why he doesn’t trust you is held within it. It’s not like you would carry that around a military base with you in writing, easily accessible to spies and scientists. But it might give him a glimpse into how you think. He might just end up understanding you just a little better and that could help him work out what it is about you that is off.

You look back at Bucky which makes him realise he had been staring for quite a long time. He coughs and moves his gaze, but when he looks back (because he can’t quite help it), you’re smiling. The guys in the basement groan in ecstasy. Bucky tells them to quit jacking off and get back to work. He needs that notebook.

You head where you always do at the end of the day. To the lab.

Bob follows you just to talk and ask questions. It makes Bucky roll his eyes, but at least you’re distracted. You don’t seem to notice that he’s following quietly. He uses the other bodies as shields until they eventually patter off in different directions. He still follows, until you reach the lab and Bob says he will see you in the canteen for dinner.

What, you two are eating dinner together now? Like… like some sort of married couple? 

The thought makes Bucky want to retch, but he shoves it away quickly. Maybe once he’s done figuring you out, he can warn Bob away from you. He just needs to get to that notebook.

Bucky watches you through the glass wall of the lab. Sees you roll your shoulders and take a deep breath, entire body decompressing the same way Bucky’s does when he’s alone. Your hand reaches up to pull your hair out of its style and Bucky’s stomach lurches painfully as your hair falls loose. You put all the hair paraphernalia on your desk as Bucky grapples with an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach and his dick.

You tear through the room like a tornado. At first you go to your whiteboard again and pick up your marker. You twirl it around for a bit while you assess. Then you start scrawling again, wiping out symbols, replacing them with others. You make more adjustments to Yelena’s suit than Bucky’s, but you seem to be working on something else too. Their weapons, maybe.

Bucky is sure he is almost caught when you spin around. You don’t twist around very quickly, but he is distracted and it makes him move a bit slower. Luckily, your eyes are still buried in that ugly brown book, but he can’t shake off the sinking feeling. He is being sloppy.

Eventually, this time with a lot more stealth, he sees you unlock a cabinet in your desk and put the notebook in. You do it carefully, as if it’s something delicate even though it looks to Bucky as if it had been through more wars than him. You lock it again and Bucky is out of eyesight behind a corner by the time he hears your shoes clacking away in the direction of the communal areas.

He’s quick to punch in the code to the lab. You can easily go through the log and see that he entered soon after you left, but he doesn't think you will unless you have a reason to. He will come up with some story anyway. Just in case. 

It occurs to him that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the lab empty; neither this one nor the one in New York. You’re like a permanent fixture here. It genuinely unnerves him to not see you up at the board scribbling, or fiddling around with sheets of metal and blowtorches.

He’s strangely jumpy, considering he has every right to be in here. He paces the room for just a second with a panicked urgency, forgetting for the briefest of moments why he is in the lab in the first place. He’s even sweating just a little bit, picturing the look on your face if you were to come back and catch him in the act.

He’s walking straight over to your desk then, roughly tugging at the cabinet he saw you put the notebook into. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked - he saw you lock it, for god’s sake. Sloppy.

He could so easily yank it open, but what wouldn’t be so easy is to put it back together the way it was. He’s sure he could fix it, but it seems likely that you would be back down again to do more work before you go on your romantic date to the canteen with Bob.

Bucky hadn’t even brought anything with him, but he’s sure there must be something to pick a lock here. He roots around in your cabinets, digging through pencil cases and drawers stuffed with disorganised stationery. He stops, eyes shooting over to the spot where your hair tie and bobby pins are lying in a neat pile at the corner of your desk. Walking over and scarcely allowing himself to feel any sort of hope, he picks up two of the bobby pins carefully, balances them in his hands. He can still smell your shampoo on them. 

They will do.

Removing the rubber piece from the bobby pins, he shoves one low in the keyhole as his lever. He bends the other and roots around to try and find the seized pin, but whatever this desk is made of is not cheap. He finds it twice, but both times the bobby pin slips off before he can do much with it. He grunts with frustration, fighting to keep his cool, even though he can feel the bobby pin bending, waiting to break. He must have picked a thousand locks in his life - why is his flesh hand shaking?

Once he finds the first seized lever, he doesn’t have much trouble with the others. The bobby pin almost cracks on the final pin, but it doesn’t matter because he’s in.

He had thought that the book was bound in leather, but it’s not. Now that it’s in his hands, he can feel that the leather is fake. You’re probably too much of a bleeding heart to use real leather anything. His fingers pause over the spine of it for just a second, a seedy feeling of guilt nagging at him for just a second, before he opens it to a random page.

It’s… incomprehensible.

Sure, Bucky had known you would have some sciencey stuff in there, but the whole page is littered with random chemical symbols, graphs, charts. He flicks to another and finds only the same.

He turns over to the front of the book and takes it page by page from there. The more he flicks through the pages, the more frustrated he gets. He really stressed himself out about this? About some dumb blueprints? He eventually reaches the meeting notes which dive deep into detail about heat levels on the mission - you were right as it turns out, your notes really are useless to him.

He’s furious with you for making him think that this was such a big secret, but he’s also self-aware enough to know that he’s just using that to mask the dim shame and embarrassment he’s feeling at making such a big deal of this in his head. He thought he had you.

One of the many sheets stuffed in between the pages slips to the ground. Bucky’s not sure what he’s expecting when he leans down to pick it up - some grand moment of serendipity where the key to your secret finds him, maybe - but it’s just a diagram of his arm with all the measurements to boot. He sighs, folding it back up. He can’t remember where it might have slipped from, so he puts it in the back and hopes you won’t notice that it’s displaced.

But there’s Yelena’s name. Upside down, in a bullet point, alongside the names of the rest of the team. With furrowed eyebrows, Bucky turns the book around to look at the notes you had stuffed in the back. They are mostly unimportant notes on the Yelena and her missions. You have a couple notes about minor injuries she has sustained over the past few months, with little asides like ‘Left shoulder needs more protection - injured!’ and messy notes about her preference in weapons. But you also have little notes about Yelena herself, too. ‘Likes pastrami on rye for lunch’, ‘Always down after coming back from missions involving programmed / indoctrinated - especially kids’, ‘Would probably like Ray Bradbury - to loan her one when back in New York’.

Bucky is perplexed - he certainly is not experiencing a gotcha moment the way he thought he might with any of this information, but what the hell are you doing? Taking notes about Yelena like you’re her therapist? He flicks the page over and sees Walker’s name; the usual notes about injuries, strengths and weapon preferences, weaved in amongst things like ‘Wife’s birthday 17th Jan - gets upset around this date,’ and ‘Sees his kid Thursdays and Fridays’. How do you even know this? Bucky doesn’t and he’s the goddamn leader of the team.

Bob’s page is short, barren of any injuries or battle gear information but with a lot of information about his favourite street food in the city and how he prefers the bus over the subway because going underground makes him nervous. You have noted everything there is to know about Sentry (which is not much, admittedly). He is hit with something unfamiliar when he reads, ‘Needs a friend’.

Suddenly desperate to get to his own page and fuelled by a sort of morbid curiosity that he’s sure won’t end well for anyone, he skips past Ava and Alexei. 

Bucky’s notes are lengthy - they need two pages. It’s stacked with countless injury reports, some relevant information about his background as the Winter Soldier, little details about his arm. But it’s completely void of of the personal touch in the other pages. His is straight-to-the-point, strictly factual. Clinical and functional, even. Bucky doesn’t like that at all.

He understands it. He has never really given you anything to work with, and he’s sure you might think that he would consider it an invasion of privacy in any case. But his chest still seizes inexplicably. He turns back to Bob’s page, looks at the note that says; ‘Likes cats - wants to go to a cat café. Trip for birthday?’. Then he flicks back to his own and reads; ‘Tends to favour left side in fight - dominant arm’. 

He’s hit with a tidal wave of childish loneliness all at once and has to blink a few times to try to dampen the feeling clawing up his chest. Of course you’re not taking personal notes on him - he doesn’t even trust you, doesn’t even like you. 

But some part of him - a part that’s growing larger by the second - knows that it wouldn’t feel like this if he truly didn’t like you.

His mind is working a million miles a minute and he is just about ready to put the notebook back in the drawer and forget any of this ever happened when his eyes catch the last note on the page. The one and only personal bullet you had left on Bucky’s lengthy report.

‘Overly aggressive - has a crush?’

Bucky goes very still on reading the words in your notebook for just a second, and then he is clumsily shoving your notebook back into the desk, removing the bobby-pins from the cabinet in your desk with as much caution as he can afford and bucketing it out the door. His heart is racing and he’s climbing stairs three at a time to get to his room.

He’s not sure what he planned to do in his room - regroup, maybe - but all he can do now is pace. The words kee p flashing into his mind. A crush? Who do you think he is? Some sort of teenage girl? He’s a middle-aged man. He’s a war vet who also happens to be a reformed HYDRA assassin - and you think he has a crush? On you?

He’s not even preoccupied with the egoism of the whole affair. It’s a little conceited for you to assume he has a crush on you based on nothing, but what is taking up the most space in his brain is why you could think Bucky, of all people, is the person to have one. Why not Bob, who practically follows you around with his tongue out?

Because he’s ‘overly aggressive’, apparently. 

He stops mid-pace, shoulders sagging.

Okay - Bucky can admit he hasn’t always been the nicest to you. He doesn’t think it’s fair to say he’s been aggressive, but he can see why it’s something you picked up on. But surely, if anything, you should naturally come to the conclusion that he does not have a crush on you, based on his behaviour towards you. You should assume that he has anything but a crush on you.

He doesn’t even know why he’s panicking this much. His breath is gone and there are pangs of… something, prickling at his sides.

It has to be that day in the lab when you took his measurements. That’s what has you mixed up, he’s sure. You must have noticed him getting turned on before he even noticed himself. And he’s admitted to himself by now that you turn him on. It would be pointless to try to pretend otherwise with those creeps in the basement screaming it up at him ceaselessly. But being attracted to you and having a crush on you are two very different things.

What does a crush mean, anyway? You think he wants to go play fucking house with you? Hold your hand like some middle-schooler?

No - you don’t know him well, but you must know him better than that.

He must have missed something. Maybe you meant something else entirely. Maybe he read it wrong. He doesn’t see how he could have, since the image of those words are imprinted in his brain with permanent ink, but it’s possible. 

He’s starting to regret throwing the book back into the desk so hastily, before he had the chance to thoroughly survey it. Maybe he has the chance to go back down now, while everyone is in the canteen.

But no. He feels no urge to chance his luck any further today - that would be stupid. Sloppy. People will be milling about today. He needs to choose some other time.

He collapses down on his bed. The thud of his body hitting the mattress seems very loud to his ears.

It’s a while before Bucky gets the chance to enter the lab alone again, and he avoids you like a contagion every moment in between.

The timing is pretty inconvenient. The few days before a mission is when the team has most contact with you while they test out weapons and try on their suits. Bucky is considerably less confrontational with you during these assemblies which earns him strange looks from Yelena and Bob, but if you notice, you don’t make it obvious. The simple fact of the matter is that he has lost all interest in antagonising you or exposing whatever secret he had thought you might have - he would much rather avoid you altogether.

You’re not making it easy on him, either. You’re as pleasant as ever, as if his recent bout of bad behaviour is water under the bridge - wiped from your memory. You sound like you’re coaxing a kitten out of a corner when you speak to him. Your pretty eyes and pretty lips are making things hard for him too. He can’t get them out of his head. Can’t stop thinking about how you looked on your knees, head tilted upwards towards him.

‘Overly aggressive - has a crush?’

‘Has a crush? Has a crush?’

‘Has a crush?’

The words are still bleating in his brain days later. He hears you saying them, pictures you whispering them in his ear mockingly with that sweet smile playing on your lips. It puts an uncomfortable sensation in his chest.

He can eventually assess the situation with less indignation and more interest. He wonders what you see when you look at him, what thoughts you think about him when you’re alone. Do you think about him at all? He wants to see into your brain for just a few moments, dig up whatever in there relates to him.

Which, he reminds himself numbly, is insane and sounds exactly like the thoughts of somebody with a crush. 

You’re in the lab at every waking hour in the days leading up to the mission. Bucky glances through the glass wall when he walks by, pretending he’s on his way somewhere else even though there isn’t much else in this wing of the base. Most of the time you’re scribbling on the whiteboard, back to him. Sometimes you catch him and give him a friendly wave. Bucky averts his gaze quickly every time.

His mind is running amok and the mission pays dearly for it.

It’s still a success - Yelena guarantees that - but Bucky’s lack of preparation really shows. He’s bruised and bloody but Yelena gets it worse and she makes sure he hears about it. Both of her eyes are beginning to go yellow with the beginnings of a bruise and she has severe burn marks littered over her arms where even the suit was not enough to stave off the flames. She switches between English and Russian as she curses Bucky out to his face. For better or for worse, he understands every word.

Yeah - he was sloppy.

He’s beaten to a pulp and his adrenaline is still singing in his blood from more than one close call when they reach the base. Yelena is still jabbering on about how she will never be picking up the slack for him again, about how he’s supposed to be the team leader, about how bad she’s going to be hurting in the morning. He’s paying attention to her somewhat until they reach the hallway outside lab.

Because for the first time in days, it looks as if it’s empty.

Bucky comes to a halt and Yelena spins around. The total solid blackness of her stare almost scares him into submission.

“I swear I’m listening to you,” he says, before she can utter a word. “I know I fucked up badly and we can have a proper conversation about this soon. Just- give me a few minutes. I forgot to do something.”

He is fully expecting her to fight him on this, but she must be able to read the desperation in his tone at some level, because she simply gives him a bewildered frown. She looks at him like that for a few beats, then raises her eyebrows to communicate that she is severely unimpressed, and continues on her way to the nurse.

Bucky waits until he can no longer hear her steps echoing down the hall before he steals over to the door of the lab, punching in the code with a sense of determination he hasn’t felt in days. He knows exactly where he’s going this time. 

The cabinet is locked again, but this does not present much difficulty. Your bobby pins are in the same pile as before and he is not half-crazed with nerves this time. The adrenaline from the mission is doing its job. He jimmies the lock in a matter of seconds.

He’s scrambling to open the book on the same page as before, knowing he won’t see anything new but desperate to see those words (has a crush? has a crush? has a cru-) again.

Except he’s wrong, because there is definitely something new. It’s a folded page, tucked into the gutter where the two pages meet. Bucky picks it up and slowly, cautiously unfolds it.

‘Stop looking inside my desk’. Sprawled in big, square letters in the centre of the page.

It’s not addressed to him by name, but it’s been folded neatly into the notes that you wrote up about him which he supposes is enough of a message. He double-checks to see if you edited anything as you clearly knew that he would be looking this time but everything is exactly as he had left it, those dreaded words (has a crush? has a crush? has a-) still lingering at the bottom of the second page.

Humiliation and guilt flood him in no small measure. He is an expert assassin who just got caught out for snooping in a colleague’s journal. He must have tucked one of the papers back into your notebook wrong, or left the bobby pins out. The top floors of his brain are back from Martha’s Vineyard. They’re screaming at him that he’s sloppy. They sound just like Yelena, now that he thinks of it.

The guilt is probably the worst of it. Knowing that you carried around the knowledge that he violated your privacy, but said nothing. You could have gone straight to HR (if HR even exists in a place like this - he has never thought to look into it). But instead you didn’t even try to make him feel bad about it. You had just dealt with it the same way you deal with all the shit he throws at you; with patience, with gentleness, but without letting yourself be stood on. You had let him know that you see through him, but hadn’t backed him into a corner, because that’s not who you are. 

You’re sweet. And Bucky knows it, even if he has always pretended he doesn't.

The realisation doesn’t hit him, doesn’t strike him like a lightning bolt or knock him on his ass. It’s more like something he falls into with overwhelming discomfort and more than a little defeat. Because he’s really known it all along, even if he never admitted it to himself.

(has a crush? has a crush? has a cr-?)

He has a crush.

He doesn’t want to look too far into the fact that he knows where your room is. He wasn’t even aware that he did know, until he started walking with the intention of tracking you down and suddenly found himself outside the door of your room. Had he made a mental note of where you were staying? He must have. He’s coming to an awful lot of awkward realisations today. 

His fist lingers over your door for a full minute before he can bring himself to knock. There’s a moment of silence where you are most likely trying to pretend that you’re not in, but Bucky can hear your shallow breaths, your steady, thumping heartbeat. He knocks again and hears you heave a sigh, followed by a rustling of fabric and your footsteps creeping to the door.

You open the door wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt - the logo for some band Bucky doesn’t recognise plastered over the front. It’s crumpled and looks like it badly needs to be ironed, but it looks so damn pretty anyway hanging over your delicate thighs - but then anything probably would. His mouth goes dry.

“Hi Bucky,” you say with a tired exhale and only then can he drag his eyes away from your legs and to your face. Your hair is askew, eyes bleary and dull, the soft imprint of bedsheets on your face.

He woke you up. It can hardly be 8pm yet, but you seem to have been out cold since the mission wrapped. Your eyes grow much more alert when they give him a proper once-over.

“Jesus, are you ok? What hap-” You frown, stop short. “Are you just back from the mission? Bucky, you need to go to the nurse. You look like shit.”

Bucky is new to this whole ‘crush’ thing, but he’s fairly sure that being told that you look like shit isn’t the best sign. He can’t look you in the eyes. “I will, I just- I need to talk to you. Please.”

You frown but step aside so he can walk in. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut and he really has no idea what he even wants to say to you - he just knows he has to say something. 

Your room is the exact same as his, from the white linen sheets to the grey cupboards in the small kitchenette, but something about it being yours makes it look different. Less empty.

He looks around, surveying the area as if there’s anything to survey. You’re standing in front of him with an expectant hand propped onto your hip. He tries not to look at it. It sinks into your t-shirt and he can suddenly see your form - the imprint of your side visible through the fabric. He swallows. “I, uh- I got your note.”

Your hand drops, as does your skeptical frown. Your lips twitch into a small smile instead, lips pursed as if you’re trying to stop it from forming. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You look at him. Bucky looks back. Blinks. Neither of you say anything for some time. He can hear agents returning to their rooms outside, distant tired voices murmuring. You gesture for him to take a seat on the bed and he does, taking off his shoes and leaning up against the headboard. You join him shortly after, warm thigh almost touching his. He’s glad you don’t have the super-hearing he does, or you would be able to hear his heart thundering under his ribs.

“How did you know?” is all he can manage after a long stretch.

“Know what? That you have a crush on me?” Hearing you say it out loud makes Bucky flinch. You don’t react, just let him settle. He nods. 

“I could tell. From your behaviour towards me.” You’re speaking about this so casually. It’s uncomfortable to hear you talk so upfront about a subject he has dodged, even within his own mind, for so long - but it does help to ease the embarrassment just a bit to hear you speak as if it’s something natural. Not something terrible or embarrassing. 

“But I’m awful to you,” he says. And that’s something that he has had to come to terms with in the last few days too.

“Exactly,” you say, shrugging. You’re not shrinking from his gaze. “You’re not an unreasonable or mean man, Bucky. That behaviour isn’t normal for you. And I have never given you any reason to distrust me - at least, I hope I haven’t - so it was one of my theories.”

“You had theories? Plural?” 

“Well I also thought for a while that it might be possible that you just didn’t like me for no reason in particular. But then your…” you pause, smiling sheepishly, as if you’re giving him an embarrassing diagnosis. “body language convinced me otherwise.”

Bucky’s faces flushes. His entire body flushes. His mind drifts back to when you measured him. He wonders how many other instances like that there were, without him even noticing.

“Why didn’t you-” he stammers, voice strained. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

You raise an eyebrow, lips lifting into a teasing grin. “That would have gone really well.”

He thinks about it. How he would have reacted, even a week ago, if you had brought this discovery to him. It certainly would not have gone down well. He physically grimaces, imagining the scenes that might have taken place.

“Why are you still so nice? If I were you, I would have hated myself.”

“I never hated you for it, Bucky,” you say, smiling kindly at him in a way he is so far from deserving that it sets his stomach alight. “I don’t know much about what was done to you before. I never wanted to know anything beyond what was strictly necessary for my job because I figured you wouldn't want me to. But I guess I figured that not everything would be easy after that. Especially not… relationships. Sex.”

Bucky shifts upon hearing you use the word ‘sex’. His mind is racing. “Wh- I don’t-”

You don’t rush him. He almost wishes you would so he could get something out, but instead you sit patiently, waiting for his response. He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening - how you could see right through him when he himself could not. How you could give him this much grace and patience.

Bucky hasn’t experienced much softness in his life. He’s always on the chopping block for things he did do and for things he didn’t. He’s never really taken too much issue with it. He accepted pretty early on in his life that he was dealt a shitty hand. And now he’s being handed softness on a plate - forgiveness, acceptance, kindness. He’s not sure what to do with it.

“I’m sorry,” he say eventually, because that’s really all there is to say. “I wish I didn’t put you through that.”

You roll your eyes, grin never leaving your lips. “I forgive you, Bucky,” you say, as if it’s just that easy. Maybe it is. Maybe it is with you. “It was kind of cute actually. Like when some kid starts tugging on your pigtails in kindergarten because he likes you.”

Bucky truly can’t think of a worse comparison. He is already humiliated at the fact that he’s a middle-aged man being schooled through a crush by his crush. Comparing him to a kid is only confirming to him how embarrassing the situation really is.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, taking in his horrified expression. “It is cute.”

You look so pretty when you’re laughing and smiling at him. He’s seen this expression on your face with the rest of the team, but he’s so rarely given you cause to give him more than a tight grin as he passes. Now that he has accepted his feelings for you, the guys in the basement of his brain have broken free. They’re running through all the corridors, whooping and hollering. He hadn’t realised how many of the buggers were down there until now. 

He’s overwhelmed with the intense urge to get close to you, to touch your face, your hair, your lips. He needs to go before he can do any of those things and freak you out any further.

“Whatever you say,” he murmurs, face still red. “Regardless, I really am sorry. I wish I could have directed this towards anyone else. You didn’t deserve it.”

He’s got his feet planted, ready to take his leave.

“I don’t,” you say, casually, just looking at him with a blank expression.

He freezes. “You don’t… what?”

“Don’t wish you felt this for someone else.”

He can’t move. Can hardly even breathe. He looks at you with a sort of astounded confusion and you just roll your eyes again, as if he’s taking a great deal of time to figure out something very obvious.

“It would be a pretty shitty situation for me. Y’know, since I have a crush on you too.”

Are you messing with him? Bucky isn’t sure exactly what expression crosses his face, but it must be whatever you were hoping for, because you’re tittering; a lovely, soft sound. And he can do nothing but watch. 

Something isn’t computing. You eventually stop giggling, but your grin doesn’t drop. You’re just smiling sweetly as if you hadn't just said something to tip his whole world on its axis.

It hadn’t ever occurred to Bucky that you could like him back. He had been so preoccupied with denying that he felt anything for you, he hadn’t even really thought about it. And even if he had, there’s no way he could ever expect you to actually reciprocate. Not with the way he has acted to you.

But, somehow, you do. 

And Bucky has that strange, nagging sensation again - the feeling that something isn’t right - but it’s not the same as before because it’s mingled with hope this time. Like he can’t quite believe that this might be true, he’s suspicious that perhaps it’s not, but god - he hopes it is.

“Why?” he chokes out. You don’t laugh at him when his voice cracks.

“Why what?”

“Why do you have a-” He can’t even say it. You don’t make him.

“Don’t fish for compliments, it’s unbecoming,” you say and you’re teasing him but he finds he doesn’t really mind it. 

“It’s just- It doesn’t make-” Bucky tries to stammer, before you finally take pity on him. You reach a hand over slowly and place it in Bucky’s. It’s small and warm and still soft despite the welts and cuts - tokens from your work. His heart flutters once in his chest, heat stirring in his stomach.

“I can’t explain why I like you, Bucky. I just do. I think you’re a good person and I knew that even when you didn't quite know how to act around me. And I love how much you protect the people you care about and you’re funny without trying to be, but it’s more than just that. I just like you.”

He thinks he gets what you mean. If you were to ask him, he would try to explain why he feels the way he does about you. But language is inadequate to express it. It’s uncomfortable and messy and it was almost impossible to understand, let alone communicate what has been happening inside of him - whether to himself or anyone else. He just likes you too. 

But, critically, he doesn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve you before he met you, didn’t deserve you when he took out his unresolved trauma on you and certainly doesn’t deserve you now, just because the tide has changed.

He knows you can see the cloud falling over his face, but you’re not perturbed. You lean forward with another one of your sweet smiles until your face is just inches from his, but you don’t move further. You’re letting him make the decision.

Bucky glances once at your lips, delicate and swollen from biting, and he accepts that he never really had a choice anyway. He leans down to kiss you as if in a daydream and feels the way he gives himself over to you in an almost absent way - he is spilling over the side of himself when your lips meet his.

Although you had leaned over for this reason alone, you still gasp against his lips - a high, breathy sound that makes his pulse jump. He’s feeling a bit outside himself.

His metal hand goes to the back of your neck to gentle pull you closer. The other goes to your thigh, just to feel his skin on yours. He rubs circles there and tries to fend off a spell of dizziness at how good it feels just to have you against him like this.

He’s thinking about those moments in the middle of the night when he takes a sip of water and suddenly realises that he’s completely parched. How just one sip of it makes him want to sink the whole glass. It’s been so long since he’s kissed someone like this - since he’s felt the desire to - and it almost physically hurts, how much he wants this. How much he wants you.

You’re squirming against him, moving up slowly to straddle him, perching yourself on his large lap. Your movements are careful and considered - like you’re giving him the time to say he doesn’t want this. He wishes he could tell you just how badly he does, but removing his lips from yours doesn’t seem worth it. He moves his hands to your hips instead. Gives them an encouraging squeeze.

The heat of your body is seeping onto his lap and through his chest. He kisses you just for the selfish pleasure of it; not for any design or purpose - just to feel it. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, clumsy and desperate and feels you sigh against him.

“Bucky,” you say, parting from him. He doesn’t realise that he is following your lips in a daze until you put a hand up to stop him.

“Hm?” he responds mindlessly. His head is swimming.

“Will you let me touch you?”

Through the confused haze of his scrambled brain, he can only think about the fact that you’re already touching him. You have one hand on his chest, the other behind his neck. This is more touch than he has felt in decades.

But gradually he comes to. He blinks the daze out of his eyes and sees that you are sitting still, looking to him for a response. He almost lets the guilt eat away at him again at the kind patience on your face. He nods instead.

You’re still watching him closely when you grab the ends of his t-shirt and peel it over his head. Bucky has almost forgotten that he’s injured. When he looks down, his chest is littered with purple bruises and deep burns. He suppresses the urge to grab his t-shirt back from you, only because you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his collarbone.

He watches as your hand on his chest slips slowly downwards. He shivers when you trail past his nipples, when you lighten your touch over his injuries. You trace the end of his stomach, before grazing his cock over his black tac pants. He can’t help the deep puff of breath he releases. His heart is thumping with equal doses of anxiety and exhilaration.

He’s breathing heavy and you look at him, eyes glassy and searching to see if he is okay with this. He doesn’t have the words for how okay he is, so he reaches a hand up to run through your hair and presses another ardent kiss to your lips.

When you part from him, you’re smiling. You unbutton his trousers and slowly pull them down along with his underwear, just far enough so his cock springs up against his bare, sweaty stomach. He’s mildly embarrassed by how clearly worked up he is already. He’s rock hard. Precum is smattered around the head of his cock and strings of it are stretching from his cock to his underwear as you peel it back.

You have a bashful look on your face as you take in his size, eyes falling to his lap and mouth parting. He almost feels shy for a moment. He was by no means small before the serum, but he knows his size is totally abnormal now. He has an irrational worry for just a moment that you’re about to pack the whole thing up and tell him to leave, but he can read excitement in your expression too. 

You trail your fingers lightly over the head and Bucky hisses, hips bucking up into your hand. Your eyes snap to his, astonished.

“You’re very sensitive.”

Bucky flushes. “I haven’t uh-” he stammers. “It’s been a while.”

“What’s a while?”

He wonders if it can get any more embarrassing than this. “Few decades. No big deal.”

He expects you to be astonished again, but you have no reaction at all. “I thought that might be the case.”

He wants to ask how you knew, but you clench your fist over his cock, giving him a soft pulse and he can no longer get any words out. He just grunts, watching you move your hand up and down, slowly massaging his length. His dick looks so much bigger in your small, soft hand than it does in his own rough grip. His hands shake as they move to grip your thighs in a futile attempt to find something with which to anchor himself.

“Does that feel good?” you ask. Your eyes are slightly clouded.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice coming out strained. 

You lean forward slightly and Bucky thinks you are about to kiss him. Just as he moves to meet your lips with his own, you open your mouth to purposely spit downwards. The warm liquid meets the tip of his cock and cascades downwards towards your cupped fist.

He can’t help the desperate moan that falls from his lips, his head falling back against the headboard. He thinks that image of you might possibly live in his brain forever.

You use the new lubrication to stripe across his length with your right hand, the other moving down to play with his balls. You keep your hand gentle but tight and his hips jerk forward unintentionally, even as he tries to still them. He’s groaning different versions of your name but he can hardly hear himself over the pulsing in his ears.

You’re not rushing it. There hardly even seems to be an intention with what you’re doing - the way you’re watching him makes him feel like you’re doing this for the simple pleasure of seeing him like this. It’s a far cry from how he does it when he’s alone - clinical, functional - whatever makes him cum the fastest. You’re taking your time and letting him feel what he had convinced himself he no longer wanted.

He can accept that he has been lying to himself about that too, as he watches you now. You can hardly move your eyes from where you’re stroking him, watching your hand move with an almost detached curiosity - as if you’re not in control of your own motions. He has been starved of this - of all physical touch - for the longest time, but it had never seemed in reach so he denied that he had any interest in it at all. It’s almost overwhelming his senses now.

You squeeze his cock and rub small, affectionate circles at the base. The intimacy of it - the tenderness - almost makes him blow his load early. A brief panic takes hold of him at the thought of it. He grips your wrist quickly and your movements halt. You look up at him with alarm. 

“I can’t-” he stammers. “I’m gonna-”

“Oh.” You smile. He flushes. 

You bring your hands to his bare chest and give him a soft, gentle kiss that makes his eyes flutter closed and his breath stutter.

“I want to make you come, Bucky,” you murmur against his lips. “But in my mouth. Is that okay with you?”

“God- fuck-” he breathes, just at the words alone. His face is pinched up with a barely contained restraint while he tries to bring his heart rate down. You wait patiently for his answer and he feels a rush of affection for you that is so strong it almost bowls him over. How could he have thought that he felt anything for you but deep, intense adoration? You know intuitively just by looking at him that this is a big moment and not something he can rush. He finds that he now trusts you so implicitly with this vulnerability, he can’t even imagine a time when he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he manages eventually. “Please. Wanna feel your mouth on me.”

You kiss him again, deep and slow. He chases your lips even as you manoeuvre yourself away and lower yourself so you are level with his cock. Your hand reaches up again to pump him a few times and his chest heaves.

You press a light kiss to the tip and a groan falls from his lips. His head falls back against the headboard but he fights the instinct to close his eyes. He’s too busy watching you.

A pink tongue lolls out of your mouth and then your lips are closing in on him, just wrapping around the tip. His hand reaches out to card through your hair and he doesn’t push you down any further but he is still fighting for control over his body. His body is trying to make him thrust into your mouth, which he’s sure will send him over the edge if he can’t get a grip on himself soon. 

You begin to bob your head, gradually taking more and more of him in each downswing. He feels a bit loose around the edges. The pleasure is bordering on too much, but he finds that he trusts you enough not to panic about it. He doesn't get caught up in how he looks or sounds or whether he’s about to embarrass himself; he just lets it happen because he knows that it’s what you want from him. He thinks he would do anything in the world if he thought you wanted it of him.

You look so pretty with his cock down your throat. You’re glancing up at him teary and doe-eyed while his tip nudges the back of your throat. He feels the ridges of your tight throat squeeze around him. He’s aware he probably looks desperate and needy, but it’s impossible not to while he’s feeding his cock down your throat.

“S-shit, feels good-” he whines. Actually whines. If he was any more lucid, he would be embarrassed. But he likes the way you look up at him afterwards. 

The way you’re reacting to him is sinful. He worries that you won’t be able to take it every time he nudges deeper, but your eyes just roll back, like you can’t get enough. You even whimper around him, as if he’s the one getting you off.

He can’t remember how this used to feel, but he doesn’t think it was ever this good. You do a sliding motion with your tongue, pressing it up against the veins of his dick. He grunts and grips your hair harder, hips giving jerky thrusts into your mouth every now and again when he can’t stop or control it.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” he strangles out. “Baby, I’m gonna come.”

Baby. That’s a new one. He’ll examine it later.

His voice - the sort of breathless desperation in it - feels foreign in his own mouth but it makes you moan. Bucky feels the vibration it makes against his cock and comes his brains out.

He lets out a strangled groan, spilling himself down your throat. He feels a certain awe as he watches you try to keep up with swallowing, eventually giving up and pulling off to jerk him. His spend spurts up across your face, soils his chest and his thighs. He wonders briefly if you will be annoyed.

“Fuck, thank you,” he sighs, only briefly aware of what he’s saying while he comes down from his high. Weak streams of cum are still spilling from him as your hand slows its pace. “Sorry.”

You level him with a quirked brow, as if he said something funny. “Sorry for what?”

He looks at you, all of his cum dripping from your cheeks and chin. You look so pretty like this - so his. “It’s everywhere,” he says, even as he can’t avert his gaze.

You smirk and dip your finger into a pool of cum gathered on his abdomen.

“It is everywhere,” you agree. He can do nothing but watch entranced as you bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the pearly liquid off it.

His cock has barely had a second of reprieve - he can feel it twitching to life again. Its way of telling him that it has been severely neglected for the last seventy years.

“Let me touch you.” He intends for it to come out sexy and demanding, but it hits his ears as more of a plea.

“Not today,” you say, picking up a corner of the duvet and wiping your face with the sheet. You pull his pants back up for him without much difficulty and hop off his lap. Bucky’s brows furrow with confusion and a hint of dread. Why don’t you want him touching you? Have you decided that you no longer want him? Has he fucked this all up already? He tries to hide the panic that’s hitting him like a semi-truck with a nod and a wavering smile.

You see it. Of course you do. You curl up next to him, popping one leg over his. His cum is spilling from his chest and onto your t-shirt, but you don’t seem to mind. 

“I don’t want you rushing this,” you say, brushing a gentle hand through his hair. He fights the urge to nuzzle into your hand. “I think what we did today is enough of a step.”

He considers your words. It makes him feel like a fucking child to have you talk to him this way, but… you might not be wrong. His heart is still racing uncomfortably in his chest from the novelty of it all and as much as he would kill to touch you, he’s not sure what he’s doing anymore. It’s one thing for him to sit back and let you take care of him. This would be another thing entirely.

You’re right, of course, and it is becoming blatantly obvious you can read him better than he can read himself. Still, he has to make a genuine effort not to mope at the idea of leaving you and your warmth to go back to his cold, empty room.

“Bucky,” you say firmly, using two fingers to nudge his face over to yours. He meets your eyes and finds it a little more difficult to sulk. “I like you and I want to do this right. I want you to touch me so bad, but only when you’re ready to. Will you trust me?”

His eyes go big and wide and an awkwardly vulnerable feeling passes through him. You like him. You want him to touch you.

You’re still waiting for him to answer. You always are. You never speak over him, never assume. Bucky has spent so much of his life being overpowered, his choices ignored or stifled. It’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable but not unpleasant. He nods.

“I like you too,” he stammers clumsily. “So much.”

You laugh. “I know.”

In a brief lapse of silence - your head on his chest, his hand stroking tentative circles on your thigh - he almost feels like the two of you are melting into one. He matches your breathing unconsciously, heart slowing while he holds you close, bodies melding together. You press a small kiss to his pec and he accepts it easily and gratefully. He is struck by the picture of you snuggling up to him - astounded by just how cute he finds it.

“I think you should go to the nurse.” You poke a bruise and he bites back a hiss. You look up at him with a raised eyebrow, like you know that he’s just pretending not to be hurt.

“Later,” he mumbles. Truthfully, the idea of leaving your room sounds awful to him. All that waits for him outside is cold, empty nothingness. He will delay it for as long as you’ll let him.

He tries not to spiral - tries not to think about the fact that telling him to go to the nurse might just be the least awkward way you can think of to get him to leave. 

You like him, he reminds himself with some conviction. You said so.

“Not later. Go take a quick shower and I’ll meet you in your room after you’ve been to the nurse.”

He gives you a surprised glance out of the corner of his eye.

You giggle. “We could stay here but my sheets might need a wash.”

He rolls his eyes but he is considerably less reluctant to leave your presence with the promise of seeing you later. You detach yourself from him. Smart move - he would never move as long as he has you pressed up against him.

He huffs a sigh in protest, but heaves himself up and makes his way into the ensuite and notches on the shower. To his surprise, you totter in after him and take a seat on the closed toilet lid.

With some of his typical confidence returning to him, he leans downward to kiss you while he yanks off his pants. He feels your cheeks round against his face.

“Y’just gonna sit here and watch?”

The way you smile up at him through your lashes almost makes him fall to his knees and beg for you to reconsider his request. You tilt your head innocently. “Well I need something to think about while you’re gone.”

He groans, pushing his forehead against yours - almost pained. He can feel the breath of your laugh against his lips. 

He knows that soon he will get a lecture soon for not reporting to medical immediately. He also knows that he’s well overdue a verbal beating from Yelena. His body is bruised and broken and tired. His nerves are frayed and his adrenaline is still dangerously high. None of it matters - all Bucky can see and hear is you. It’s not so bad, really, having a crush. 

a/n: fun fact i watched a youtube video about lock picking to write this and i think i can pick a lock now!! (i will definitely not be using this for nefarious purposes…)

bucky taglist: @dolcesaints @marina468 @avgdestitute @tw1sters @dxnsgrl @thegirlwhowaited5everok @pjo4life1939 @otheliesstuff @domitaylorsversion @simplemind-simplematter @love-stucky @queen-acdc @epiphanyrogers @monicasposh @daddysbitchybaby

everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle

°𓏲⋆🌿. Be added to my taglist! .🌿⋆𓏲°

[flowersforbucky]

don’t you ever end up anything but mine

bucky barnes x reader {soulmate au}

everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?

word count: 15.7k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni! smut, post thunderbolts, ex widow reader, angst, themes of fate vs choice, heavy mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, bucky is a level 84827282 yearner, mentions of trauma associated with the red room and hydra, pov switches, oral, reader is afab

author’s note: i haven’t posted anything for bucky in monthsss. this took me an embarrassing amount of time. i think i struggled with this more than anything else i’ve ever written but thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs continuous love and encouragement, i finally finished it after more than two months of writing.

i tried to keep physical descriptions to a minimum but this fic does feature soulmates being born with matching tattoos, birthmarks, scars, etc. also, this fic was inspired by “the prophecy” by taylor swift ♡ i highly recommend giving it a listen!

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Soulmate.

A word that fills most people with hope and peace.

Hope for those who have yet to find their other half, but know that it’s only a matter of time. Peace for those who have already found them, and fall asleep each night knowing that they’re exactly where they’re destined to be.

For others, it can be a word synonymous with grief. They found their soulmate and had to say goodbye to them too soon.

But for you, it means nothing. There’s no warmth, but also no ache. No hope, but no loss, either.

Because there’s no point in hoping for something that’s impossible, and you can’t lose what you weren’t allowed to have in the first place.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.

“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”

She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.

You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.

It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!

It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.

“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.

Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.

It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.

Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.

You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.

But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.

They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.

Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.

“Chocolate chip?”

A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.

“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.

“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”

“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”

“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”

Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.

No matter how much you may wish that was the case.

You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.

You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?

Or is he still searching, all these decades later?

As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.

You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”

There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”

“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”

“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”

“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”

You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.

“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”

He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.

You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”

He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”

“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”

“I think I can handle that.”

You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.

Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.

It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.

It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.

For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.

He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.

“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.

So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.

Well, partially lied.

Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.

But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.

What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.

No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.

You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.

Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.

He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.

Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?

But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.

He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.

Right where his soul mark used to be.

Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.

It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.

He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.

He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.

Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.

Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.

But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.

So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”

The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.

There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.

Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”

You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—

Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.

You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.

“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.

“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”

“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.

He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.

“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.

“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—

Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”

Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.

As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“I have a confession to make.”

You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”

“Nope.”

You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.

“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”

You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.

From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”

“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”

You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.

“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”

The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.

You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.

“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.

“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”

You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”

“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”

When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”

You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”

You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.

Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.

But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.

That was before Bucky.

“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”

She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”

“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”

“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”

As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?

No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.

Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.

He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.

You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.

You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.

It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.

Reality is never quite as sweet.

Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.

You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.

“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.

“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.

Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.

He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.

Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.

“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”

“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”

“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”

Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.

“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”

Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.

“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”

“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”

“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”

“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”

And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.

Bucky doesn’t move.

You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.

“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”

You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”

You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”

“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”

You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.

He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.

It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

You don’t go back to your room.

You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.

There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.

There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.

You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.

Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.

Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.

Archives with information about you.

You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.

It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.

And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?

You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.

You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.

Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.

Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?

If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?

Or would you still love him?

Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.

But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.

That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.

“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”

The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”

You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”

Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.

“Like I said. I know you well enough.”

You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.

Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.

He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”

You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.

“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”

He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”

You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.

“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”

For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”

We.

You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.

It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.

It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?

But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.

“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”

“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.

Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.

And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.

But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.

Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.

Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”

Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.

A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.

“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”

“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”

He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”

You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.

“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”

He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”

That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.

For better or for worse.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.

Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.

You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.

Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.

The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.

“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”

Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”

You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.

A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.

Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”

You swallow and nod once.

Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.

Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.

You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.

Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”

He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?

You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.

Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.

Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.

You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.

You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.

Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.

You grab one at random and flip it open.

Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?

“Any luck yet?”

Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.

“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”

You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.

Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—

Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.

“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.

You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.

Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.

But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.

You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.

“Wait.”

Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.

“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”

He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.

You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”

You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.

“Bucky—”

Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.

Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.

“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”

Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.

Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.

“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”

You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.

And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.

You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.

You do none of these things, of course.

Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.

You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.

“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”

You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.

But you don’t pull your hand away, either.

“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”

His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”

God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.

You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.

Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.

Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.

Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.

As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.

You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.

Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.

You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.

I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.

Say something. Anything.

But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.

Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.

The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.

Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.

The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.

The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.

He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.

And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.

Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.

You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.

And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.

He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.

He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.

He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.

Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.

And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.

That wasn’t fair.

He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.

A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.

He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.

“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.

He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.

“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.

Bucky swallows. “Hi.”

“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”

For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.

He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”

“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.

“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”

His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”

“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”

You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.

He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.

Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.

The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.

He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.

He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.

You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.

He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.

“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.

He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.

“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”

He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.

I love you, Bucky. I choose you.

Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.

It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.

Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.

“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.

Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.

You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”

“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”

You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”

“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”

You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”

He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”

You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.

His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.

You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.

He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.

“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.

His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.

A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.

“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.

The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.

His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.

Home.

“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.

He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.

The picture nearly falls out of his hands.

“дом.”

“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”

But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.

“Bucky?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.

He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.

In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.

He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—

There.

A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.

Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.

A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.

Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.

Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.

That you’re his soulmate.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.

You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.

He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”

He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.

“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.

“Home?”

You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.

Home.

It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.

You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.

“Does this really mean what I hope—”

“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”

You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”

They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.

“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”

You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.

He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.

He’s really yours.

“Come here,” you murmur.

He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.

“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.

His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.

“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.

“Yeah? You should do that now.”

Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.

This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.

You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.

He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.

There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.

You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.

With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.

He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”

“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”

He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.

You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.

His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.

Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.

“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.

He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.

Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.

He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.

“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”

Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.

“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.

“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”

His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.

He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.

The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.

Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.

When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”

Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”

“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.

“All of me.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”

Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.

It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.

But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.

Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.

Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.

Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.

“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”

Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.

“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”

You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”

You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.

“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.

“Dead serious.”

“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”

By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.

“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.

His soulmate.

“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”

“Okay.”

“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”

You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”

A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”

“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”

He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”

He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.

“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”

The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”

You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.

Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”

“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”

He was so hoping you would say that.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

if you read to the end of this, thank you so much. i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3

[sluterainterluder]

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Pushing It Down and Praying

summary: bucky’s your best friend. he can be clueless but he wants to try dating again and you try to help him. but his date isn’t what he anticipated.

warnings: female reader, use of the word girl in regards to the reader, kissing, (p in v) smut, protected sex, A LOT of emotions, emotional intimacy, not totally dirty it’s a mix of fluff and nastiness. no use of y/n. also some stuff goes wrong and he’s a sweetie about it

word count: 7.6k (sorry)

Bucky’s pacing. He’s got that look again, the nervous, overthinking one he gets whenever something involves emotions or, God forbid, romance. Tomorrow’s his first real date since 1946.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his couch, watching him try on his third shirt and fail to hide his panic behind a casual shrug.

“She’s just a person, Buck,” you say, grinning a little. “You’ve fought aliens and gods, I think you can handle dinner and a drink.”

He shoots you a look.

“Dinner and a drink don’t usually end with me wondering if I even remember how to…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How to what?” You raise an eyebrow.

“You know what.” He groans.

Oh.

You do know what.

And for a second, the room gets weirdly quiet. Not uncomfortable, just heavy. His voice drops when he continues.

“I haven’t- I mean, it’s been decades, doll. What if I’ve…forgotten how to be good at that? What if I mess it up? What if I freeze?”

You try to think for a second. There are a lot of things you could say, most of which are not very comforting. You don’t want to make his feelings worse but you also don’t understand where this is coming from. Especially from your best friend. The same one who’s never even said the word “sex” to you.

“Buck…” You start wearily. “I get what you’re saying, but also, I don’t think you can just forget how to have sex.”

And from the look on his face after that, you can tell he wasn’t expecting you to say it so bluntly.

“I- wait a second, I never said-“

“Wait, were you not talking about sex?”

“No, I was but…”

“But what?”

“Look, I never said I’d forget how, I said I’d forget how to be good at it. I mean, I know the actual…act is natural or whatever the hell type of evolutionary thing I can blame, but being good at it? It’s not a natural talent type of thing.” He grumbles.

You break eye contact and look at your hands. And it’s very obvious you’re struggling again to not make his concerns worse. He watches you and sighs. He knows that look. In any other situation, it might make him smile, proof that you care enough to search for the right answer. But tonight, it just reminds him how scared he is.

“Maybe it’s not natural talent in the traditional way but…you know, some people can move more easily.”

Bucky looks scandalized from the second you say ‘move’. He could almost start to mentally calculate the difference between your birth years but he chooses not to. He clears his throat and looks away, suddenly very interested in the floor.

“I didn’t mean-” he mutters. “You don’t gotta explain it like that.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” You snort despite yourself.

He risks a glance back at you, something vulnerable and searching in his eyes. All over his face.

“Yeah, well. You’re the only person I could.”

That lands heavier than anything else he’s said tonight. You soften, uncrossing your legs, leaning forward just a little.

“Buck. Being ‘good’ at it isn’t about moves or whatever you think you missed while you were…gone.”

He swallows.

“It’s about paying attention. And you’re kind of incredible at that. When you want to be, anyway.” You smile.

“You just had to throw that last part in there, didn’t you?” He shakes his head and finally, you see a smile.

“Your date is gonna be perfect.”

Your smile hits him then. You really do believe that. And it’s earnest and sincere. You want him to be happy. Bucky sees it all over your face. It makes his chest ache because he knows he has you. He’s always gonna have you no matter what.

“Yeah. And maybe we won’t even…do it, you know?” He tries.

“Yeah, maybe you won’t. You don’t have to either way it’s all up to you guys. And the energy.” You shrug.

He nods, like he believes you. Or wants to.

There’s a pause. A long one.

“You ever think,” he says carefully, “that maybe the energy’s the hardest part?”

“What do you mean?” You glance up at him.

“Like…you can do everything right. Say the right things. But if it’s not-” He shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

He stops himself.

“If it’s not what?”

“If it’s not with the right person.”

The room goes quiet again. Different this time.

“Who’s the lucky girl anyway?” You try to lighten the mood, smiling so he can feel more comfortable.

He sighs and rubs a hand down his face. For some reason unknown to him, he didn’t want to get into that with you. It’s weird. It feels like mixing two worlds that shouldn’t be exposed to each other. Not because he thinks you’d be unsupportive but it just feels wrong.

He’s potentially trying to date this girl. And you…you’re his lifeline. One of his only friends. You’re the only one who he feels like understands the way he is. He can let go around you. To you, he feels like this should be so minuscule and unimportant but it’s not.

“Her name is Alice. She’s the waitress from the diner by my house. The blonde one.” He shrugs.

You nod, like that explains something.

“She seems nice,” you say. And you mean it.

He studies you for a second, like he’s looking for something he doesn’t quite understand.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

Another pause.

“You’ll tell me how it goes, right?” you ask.

He hesitates. Just for a beat.

“Yeah,” he says again.

But the word doesn’t sound like a promise.

Later, when you leave, Bucky stands alone in his apartment, staring at the door long after it closes, trying to figure out why the thought of tomorrow feels less important than the way you smiled at him tonight.

The next morning is worse. He wakes up alone in his bed with impending doom about his date. He’s not necessarily scared but he’s unsure and…yeah, maybe a little scared.

As he looks in the mirror, he realizes he just wants your comfort. But he doesn’t want to beat a dead horse. There’s no point in calling you if you’re gonna say the same things you did last night. He doesn’t want to bother you again.

The steam is still slowly fading from the mirror so he can see himself. And he sighs. Shouldn’t he be hoping for sex? Should he be planning? He hasn’t bought condoms since the last century. Could he ask you what to buy? Would that be weird? Why does it always come back to you?

Bucky presses his palms to the sink and leans forward, head dipping.

Jesus.

He exhales slowly, fogging the mirror again. When he straightens, his reflection looks calmer but the ache in his chest hasn’t gone anywhere.

He checks his phone. Nothing from Alice yet. That shouldn’t disappoint him. It shouldn’t mean anything at all.

Instead, his thumb hovers over your name.

He doesn’t press it.

He tells himself it’s nerves. Habit. That you’re his comfort because you’ve always been there, because you make things feel steady and familiar.

But standing there in his quiet apartment, jacket laid out on the chair, future waiting politely at the door, Bucky finally lets himself think the thing he’s been avoiding.

Comfort isn’t supposed to feel like this.

To add insult to injury, Alice chose your favorite restaurant. The place downtown with the lighting and ambience you call whimsical.

He almost laughs when he realizes it.

The host leads them to their table, and Bucky nods politely, pulls out her chair, does everything right. Muscle memory. Courtesy drilled into him decades ago. Alice smiles at him like this is already going well.

He wonders if you’d tease him for how stiff he looks. If you’d cover your mouth and try to stop your laughter as if he couldn’t tell anyway.

They order drinks. She asks about his week. He answers. She talks about work, about a coworker he can’t remember the name of five seconds later. He listens, he really does, but it all feels like standing in the background of a conversation instead of inside it.

He keeps thinking about how you’d already know this part.

How you wouldn’t need the explanations. How you’d read the pause in his voice and fill in the gaps for him without making him feel stupid or slow.

Alice laughs at something she says. He smiles automatically, a second too late.

He tells himself to focus.

Three hours pass like that. Talking. Eating. Smiling at the right times. Every so often, something about the place catches his eye, the way the lights reflect off the glass, the song playing faintly overhead, and he thinks about the last time he was here. With you. How you’d leaned across the table and said something half-serious, half-joking, and made him laugh without trying.

He realizes, distantly, that Alice is still talking. And it’s not you across from him. With your bright eyes and soft smiles that make him feel like he’s doing something right.

He nods again.

He hates himself for the relief he feels when there’s a lull in the conversation. For the way his mind fills the silence with you instead, your voice, your expressions, the way you look at him when you’re trying to be gentle.

It isn’t that Alice is boring. She’s kind. She’s trying. It’s just that none of this feels…necessary.

When the check comes, he reaches for it immediately. Not because he’s eager to impress her, but because it means the night is ending.

Until it isn’t.

For some reason, he lets her smile and kiss him. He kisses her back. He kisses her deeply and tries to feel it out.

He lets her get into his car. Lets her tell him where the nearest empty parking lot is. Lets her climb into the backseat and pull him along.

But when she’s on his lap, kissing him, his head tilted back against the seat, he’s wishing it was you.

He hates himself for that.

Alice’s hands are warm, familiar in a way that should be comforting. Her mouth moves against his like she knows what she’s doing, like this is easy for her. Like this is what the night was always supposed to lead to.

He tries to respond. He really does.

He kisses her back, lets instinct take over, lets muscle memory guide him but it feels like he’s watching himself from somewhere far away. Like he’s doing all the right things without actually being there.

Your face keeps intruding. Not like a fantasy. Like a fact.

The way you’d look at him right now, soft, attentive, asking without words if he was okay. The way you’d slow down the second you felt the shift in him. The way you’d notice.

Alice shifts against him, murmurs something he doesn’t quite catch, and that’s when it hits him, sharp and undeniable.

This isn’t nerves.

This isn’t rust.

This isn’t fear of being bad at something.

It’s absence.

Because he’s picturing you. What you’d feel like. Your soft skin, your sweet perfume that comforts him now. The way your lips always look so soft and warm, like if he kissed you, he’d never be able to stop,

He gently stills her, hands firm but careful. She looks at him, confused but not upset.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “You okay?”

He swallows. The truth sits heavy on his tongue, too big, too messy to explain.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

He waits for her to be angry. For her to say something that will make this easier.

She doesn’t.

And as awful as it makes him feel, the only thing he can think is that she still isn’t you.

As soon as he’s alone in the car, he drives.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t hesitate. He just turns the wheel and lets instinct take over, like something deep in him already knows where he’s going.

It isn’t strange. Not really.

It’s you.

It’s the way your heart has been pulling at his without him realizing it. In this ache in his chest that hasn’t gone away all night, that won’t subside until he’s looking at you.

He wonders what you’re doing right now. Probably sitting on your couch, scrolling on your phone. Probably looking soft and warm in that way you always do when you’re comfortable.

You’d smile at him if he showed up. Ask how the date went.

And you’d genuinely want to know. You’d want him to have enjoyed it. Want him to be happy.

He grips the steering wheel tighter.

He couldn’t.

Not when his thoughts were full of you. Always full of you.

He parks outside your building and just sits there for a moment, engine ticking softly as it cools.

He doesn’t get out right away.

He thinks about how easy it would be to turn around. To go home. To pretend tonight didn’t mean what it clearly did.

But the ache in his chest doesn’t let him.

He shuts off the car and walks to your door. Knocks once, gentle, uncertain.

When you open it, surprise flickers across your face. Then concern.

“Buck?”

And that’s it.

Just his name, said the way you always say it, like it matters.

The words he practiced on the drive dissolve instantly. All he can do is look at you, standing there in soft light, real and solid and right.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. Everything, maybe.

You don’t push. Don’t ask questions. You just step aside and let him in.

And as the door closes behind him, Bucky finally understands the thing that’s been haunting him all along.

He didn’t forget how to be good at anything. He just forgot that the place he feels safest, is yours. That your smile lights up his world. That it’s always been you, you pull him out of his funks. You make him smile. You’re sweet and perfect and he’s never needed anything more.

And god, does he want to kiss you. He should be kissing you. Instead of her, instead of anyone else. Why should anyone else get this side of him? When he wants to give it to you. When you deserve it more than anyone. Because you’ve been bringing his heart back to life since he met you.

Since you started making him smile and taking him out of the house. Inviting him to do little things like get coffee or go to the store. Even if it’s just because you didn’t want to be alone or some other reason he doesn’t know about, it made him feel like a person again. You make him feel like a person again.

“I was trying. I promise, I was. I wanted to enjoy the date but I couldn’t.” He breathes out as he looks at you.

“Buck, that’s okay. It was your first date, don’t beat yourself up about it. What happened?” You ask as you cross your arms and look up at him.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He says suddenly with a shaky voice.

You go silent. You look up at him and his face- it’s so earnest, it hurts. He’s slightly shaky and his cheeks are pink. You’ve never seen him like this. His usually sharp blue eyes go soft as he looks you over.

“You…what?” You speak up.

“I was thinking about you the entire date. About how much easier everything feels with you. And you- you’re so pretty and warm and- fuck, I sound like such a sap.” He sighs.

He pushes a hand through his hair to try and settle himself. But it’s hard because you’re standing there, looking at him like a goddamn angel.

You don’t laugh. You don’t tease him. You don’t move away. You just stare at him for a second, like you’re trying to make sure he’s real.

“Buck…” you say softly, and the way his name sounds in your mouth almost makes him flinch. Not because it hurts but because it matters.

“I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just dumped that on you like that. I just didn’t know where else to go,” He winces a little, already bracing himself. “And I definitely didn’t mean to figure it out like this. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Especially you.”

“Hurt me how?”

His eyes flicker up to yours, terrified and hopeful all at once.

“By wanting you,” he admits. “By realizing I already do. God, I do.”

“But you…you just had your date and Alice and-“

“And the whole time I was wishing it was you. Wishing I was talking to you and laughing with you and you know what? Even when she was kissing me in my car, I was thinking about you. Wishing I was kissing you,” He steps closer and he breathes out, breaking eye contact to look away breathlessly. “The date was nothing. It was fine but I knew it wasn’t right when I felt more just hanging out with you like I do almost every day. You make me feel more even when you’re just on your phone not even paying attention to me. And maybe that sounds sad and desperate but you’re my best friend and I-“

He stops then and puts a hand on your couch, breathing again. He sighs like he can’t tell if he wants to kiss you or tell you even more how he feels. But he can’t choose or even think about anything.

So you do it.

Everything feels hazy and slow motion as you step up to him, pulling him by his jacket to kiss you. He leans down into it and practically melts against your skin. You make a light hum noise into it as his arms wrap around your waist. He’s taller than you and practically bent over just to keep kissing you.

“I think I’ve been falling in love with you since we met.” He whispers against your lips.

You let out a shaky breath and cup his face and he looks at you, eyes impossibly soft. His eyes are deep and full of so much. So much that’s only meant for you, for your eyes only. He looks at you with a type of reverence you can only read about.

“Please tell me this means something to you.” He pleads as his eyes flutter shut, his forehead pressed to yours.

“It does. It means everything.” You nod and his eyes open again.

“Yeah?”

You give him a little ‘mhm’ before pushing your hands through his hair. It’s soft under your fingers, he’s soft for you. His heart aches as he watches every flicker of your eyes, every blink, every glance to him.

“I’ve wanted you for a while, Bucky.” You admit as you look him over.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I mean, I know I just fully realized it but if you said something- I swear, you would’ve had me on my knees.” He says as his fingers lightly travel across your waist.

“Because, I don’t know. You told me you wanted to try dating again, then you found someone, but I didn’t think you even noticed me that way. And clearly I was kinda right.” You laugh a little as you look at him.

“I’ve always noticed you that way. I just…I guess I don’t think that hard about stuff,” He gently teases himself to make you smile and you do. “Maybe I’m a brainless idiot. But I’m a brainless idiot who wants you. Only you. I’d do anything. Anything you want from me, it’s yours.”

“Anything?” You gently tease as you look up at him and suddenly he feels it. Heat in his body. A heat he hasn’t felt since the last century.

He takes a shaky breath and looks you over. Suddenly, filthy thoughts rush into his mind. Thoughts he’s pushed away in fear of wasting your honor or making you uncomfortable. But you feel perfect in his arms. And you kiss him like he’s never been kissed before.

He swallows hard and nods.

“Anything. My heart, my mind, my body…all yours.” He breathes out.

“Are you still scared to have sex?” You half-joke, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“No. Not scared, not with you. If you want it, anyway. If you want it from me, I…I’d give it to you,” He says quietly, his eyes searching yours in case he’s said too much. “Was that too nasty? I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it was good,” You smile and laugh a little, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “It was kinda hot.”

“Yeah? Well, then, I’m sorry. That’s probably the hottest I’ve got. And I wasted it two seconds in,” He smiles a you know instantly that he’s trying to make you smile. Because it’s you. “Can we…?”

“Yeah. Let’s go to my room.” You hum and slip your fingers through his.

“You’re so…” He breathes out as you begin to lead him to your room. He lets you pull him in and shut the door. He just looks at you in awe. “You’re so beautiful. And funny. And sweet. And I- I want to be good for you. I’ll do anything.”

“You don’t have to try to be good for me, Bucky. It’s you.” You tell him honestly as you sit on your bed. And his cheeks go pink, his heart flutters. Because fuck, how could it have ever been anyone but you? Not even a full-on date with a waitress had him feeling the way you do. Just looking at him.

He sits next to you and looks at you. He gently slides his hand over to your thigh, looking at you almost unsure. And you nod reassuringly. Then your hand slides to his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” He whispers in the darkness of your room.

“Yeah. Is it okay for you?”

He nods, body facing you already. Like he’s at your service, waiting to give you whatever you want from him. And not because of his old instincts, not because of any Winter Soldier bullshit. He does it because you are the one thing in his life he can’t lose.

You said he didn’t have to try and be good for you, to be himself. But you’re all he has left in this post-blip world. Other than Sam but he doesn’t count. Not when they barely get along or talk these days. But you, you are everything.

He leans down to kiss you this time, gently capturing your lips with his. It’s soft at first. Not at all like on his date. He gently kisses you like something worth worshipping. Then he gently sweeps his tongue across your lips, wanting to kiss you fully. You let his tongue slip past your lips, into your mouth and you sigh.

It feels good. Unlike any kiss you’ve ever had before. He gently explores your mouth with his, tilting your chin up. Your hands travel up his back, one resting on his upper spine and the other coming to the back of his neck.

“God, you feel good.” He breathes out shakily before he lowers you onto your mattress.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” He nods before he presses his lips to your jaw. You let out the prettiest sigh he’s ever heard as your head tilts back, giving him more access to your soft skin. “You feel better than anyone else and we aren’t even…doing anything yet.”

You spread your legs for his body to slot between and you feel it then. He’s half hard in his pants already, his pelvis pressed against your thigh.

“I’m sorry.” He pulls away for a moment.

“Don’t be sorry,” You hum and push the hair out of his face. “You feel good too.”

“I haven’t done this in a while. So please tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.” He whispers against your skin before kissing down to your neck. You lightly moan then, a moan that goes straight to his dick.

You sit up a little against his chest to begin to pull your baggy t-shirt off. With nothing underneath. And he stills as he looks at you, part of him feeling like a teenager again.

“Fuck,” He practically whines as he looks at you. “You…”

He can’t even finish, he drops to bring his lips to keep kissing all over you. And as his lips trail lower and lower, you raise your chest ever so slightly.

“Do you want me to…?” He asks softly and you nod.

“Please, Buck. I need it.” You respond breathlessly and he gently places his lips back to your collarbone.

Your body’s on fire now, his lips hot and soft as he kisses everywhere. He gently nibbles on the skin before placing his tongue over it. And then he goes where you want him. His lips trail down the valley of your chest, your legs wrapping around him tighter.

Your fingers then find their way back to his hair, tangling through his shorter hair. And then he does it, he lightly trails his tongue over the swell of your breast, bringing it to circle over your nipple. You lightly gasp and your chest rises a little.

“Bucky- god.” You moan out as he does and he gets harder by the minute.

“I want you. I need you, you feel so- so good. I want this. With you, I only want you to have me like this and I mean it.” He whispers.

“Please.” You tell him as your fingers trail down to his abs, your fingers slipping under his shirt.

He freezes up as your skin makes contact with his. Your fingers smooth their way over his abs then around to his lower back. Then, to his shock, you lift your hips a little at just the right spot to meet his. And as if you’re trying to kill him, you begin to grind your hips against his.

His eyes squeeze shut and his hands go straight to your hips as your core presses against where his pants grow tight.

“I- fuck, it’s you, it’s you. It’s only ever gonna be you.” He gasps lightly against your skin as he leans down to kiss you again as you grind against his bulge.

You can feel how big he is just from that. It’s enough to make your knees weak. Your panties are ruined already, wetness growing between you both. As he kisses your lips, one of his hands finds your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple as he feels you up.

“Take your shirt off- please.” You ask him and he doesn’t hesitate. Within two seconds, his shirt is off and on the floor of your bedroom.

“I’m gonna be so good for you. I promise. You’re gonna get all of me, pieces no one else has ever had. I swear. It’s only for you. You have my fucking heart too, not just…this, not just sex.” He says, completely breathless as he looks at you.

“Bucky?” You breathe out.

“Yeah?”

“Are we…like dating? Or do you want to try? Just more than this, anything more than this.” You ask.

He pauses for a second as he looks at you. The only person his heart is craving, begging for. Of course, he wants more with you. He wants everything with you. He’d be your boyfriend if you wanted him to be and he’d be so good for you. He’d remember every anniversary, every special event. He’d make you breakfast and dinner, bring you coffee just the way you like it, kiss you whenever you need it. He’d give you everything.

But how does he say that without scaring you off more than he probably already has? You aren’t even official yet and he’s basically told you he loves you.

“Yeah. Anything you want, anything,” He nods, trying to keep it simple. “Just tell me. If you want a boyfriend, you have one. If you want just friends with benefits or something…you have me. I’d take anything.”

His voice is soft, almost sad at that last part. And it could almost break your heart. Because even if you told him you only wanted one thing from him, he’d still give you that part of himself.

“I just want you. All of you. I want a boyfriend. I want you.” You breathe out and his chest tightens again.

“Then you have me. I’ll take you out after this, okay? On a real date. To show you that this isn’t nothing to me. You mean so much more to me than just quick sex in your apartment.” He tells you honestly.

You pull his body closer to yours then. It’s hot in the room now but it somehow still feels perfect. Like it’s just the two of you, no one else in the world. Like he’s yours and you’re his and everything else outside doesn’t even matter.

Just when his heartbeat starts to calm, you bring your fingers to the button of his pants. He freezes with both hands on the mattress on top of you as he looks up into your eyes. Your fingers work deftly to unbutton his pants then move to the zipper.

He reaches down to help you with his pants, fingers slipping into the waistband to pull his pants down to his knees before he starts kicking them off himself. You smile a little to yourself at how cute he is, how hard he’s trying to be good for you.

He notices it, looking up at you. You laugh a little. This light and beautiful laugh he’s been slowly falling in love with.

“What’s so funny?” He smiles.

“Just this. Me and you. It feels right. But it’s a little funny. I’m not used to seeing you in this context.” You hum as your fingers slide over his collarbones.

He huffs a laugh before he quickly grabs your thighs and hikes them higher up his hips in a way that makes you both laugh before the pleasure sinks in of his bulge pressed flat against your core.

It gets quieter for a moment as the feeling brings the heat back to your stomach. You look up at him, doe-eyed and seductive before you slip your fingers through the band of your panties.

“Can you help me get these off?” You ask him softly.

He nods quickly, hooking his fingers through the band before lightly dragging them over your hips and down to your thighs. He sits back a little to drag them down your knees and calves before tossing them away.

You slowly spread your legs again for him to see you. And his knees go weak. He comes back down on top of you to kiss your lips. So softly and sweetly.

“You’re everything.” He whispers before he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Can I take yours off?” You ask softly and he nods.

“Yeah. Anything for you.”

Your fingers slip into the band of his boxers and slowly drag them down past his hips. His dick slips out then and you look at it. It’s bigger than you thought it’d be in all your years of friendship. He looks at your eyes to make sure everything’s okay. You press your hand to his stomach and smile at him.

“Do you have-“

“Yeah. Yeah, I just bought some last night.” He quickly sits up and reaches for his pants, reaching into his pocket and grabbing a condom.

You look up at him as he tears open the wrapper. He looks focused as he looks at it. He pinches the tip and begins to roll it on. You just admire him. The way his hair falls perfectly. The way his eyes shine in the moonlight. His muscles are perfectly toned, his facial hair especially sexy tonight as if he knew you love looking at him when he has a little bit.

You’ve always kinda had a thing for Bucky. It started when he moved in with the other Avengers and the family dynamic was thrown off for you. Because to put it simply, you didn’t want Bucky to be your family. You wanted him in other ways. But then everything else happened and so much went wrong and well…he grew his hair out in a way you didn’t prefer. And he was a friend. A good friend.

And then everything shifted again and again and again. And you wanted him. But he meant so much to you, you didn’t think it was worth ruining because you knew he didn’t feel the same. Until now.

You get so lost in your trance looking at him that you don’t notice how long it’s taking. And then you see his face.

“Uh…”

“Hm?” You hum softly before you look down at his dick again.

“It, uh…doesn’t fit.”

Oh. You look down and see that yeah, it doesn’t. And then you burst out laughing despite yourself. Bucky stares at you in shock for a moment as you turn your head to the side and laugh into your pillow. And then he laughs too.

“It’s not funny.” He says while laughing and looking at you.

“What kind of condoms did you buy?” You laugh and look back up at him.

“I don’t know, none of them had sizes or anything so I just picked a box.” He shakes his head despite the growing smile.

He looks at you in the moonlight. His best friend. The girl he’s hoping is officially his girlfriend now. Just laughing and smiling despite being naked underneath him. And you look perfect. The prettiest he’s ever seen.

“I think I might have one.” You laugh and sit up, your hair already a mess from all the making out plus your laughing fit as you reach over into your bedside drawer:

“You? Have a condom? I thought you were just complaining about being celibate like two weeks ago.” He huffs another laugh.

“I walked into this bar and there was a bachelorette party and they were like ‘Oh my god it’s the Avenger girl, give her a bag’ so they gave me this-“ You pull out a little party favor bag from your nightstand and untie the thing again before pulling out a condom that says ‘Wrap it before you tap it’ in pink glittery writing. “Before I left and I was taking pictures and stuff with them.”

“Wrap it before you tap it?” He huffs before he tears it open and looks at it.

You lean back onto the mattress and look at him. He looks back at you with pink cheeks and the cutest smile. He seems a little nervous but happy nonetheless, a type of happy he only ever is with you.

He rolls this condom on more easily and looks at you. He gets lower with you and hikes your legs around his waist. But his eyes never leave yours. Your pretty bright eyes that leave him feeling defenseless.

“Are you sure you want this? With me? I haven’t had sex in so long and I…want you to feel good. I want you to enjoy it.” He says softly.

“I’m sure,” You nod. “I want it because it’s you. Bucky, you’re my best friend. I trust you.”

He leans down to kiss your cheek. His hands slide to your thighs as he looks into your eyes.

“If it doesn’t feel good, teach me how to touch you. Tell me how you like it. I’ll do it, I want you to finish too.” He whispers as he leans into you completely.

“Okay. I will.” You nod and he leans his head down to kiss your shoulder. He needs you to feel it. Even here, even when it’s so hot, that he’s been falling in love with you.

You hold onto his back as he lines himself up at your entrance. You gently scratch his back and keep one hand in his hair before he slowly presses inside of you. You both gasp quietly, the room suddenly so silent other than both of your little noises as you adjust to each other. He’s only halfway in, not wanting to rush it but you already feel so good. You’re warm and so wet for him. It drives him crazy. And the worst part?

You’re squeezing him. So much. So much so, his head falls to rest on your chest and he shuts his eyes.

“Fuck, that’s- that’s good.” He gasps again a little before he presses inside of you a little deeper. You moan as he does, his dick filling you. He presses a hand to your stomach to stabilize you both as he enters you all the way. His balls press against you and you sigh, leaning your head back.

He’s big. Not so big that you feel like you’re gonna die but big enough to feel overwhelmingly good. It’s a tight fit, him giving you this perfect stretch that makes your toes curl. You can’t help but squeeze around him.

“Bucky- That’s so good. You feel so good.” You whine and he ever so slightly rocks against you.

“I feel good? You feel…fuck, if you keep squeezing me like that, I’m not gonna last long.” He shuts his eyes again.

“Please move.”

He nods and begins to gently pulse his hips, rocking in and out. You moan again, tilting your head back and letting your arms rest against the mattress.

“Is that good, gorgeous?” He asks before gently nibbling on your ear.

“Mhm. Lift my legs a little higher.” You tell him and he does, changing the angle while holding your thighs.

It feels so good. He feels good. You bring your hands up to your chest, lightly pulling at your nipples as he fucks into you. He moves faster and makes sure to keep your legs where you like as he begins to gasp and groan into it. He’s impossibly sexy like this. His hair falls into his face as he fucks into you with his mouth slightly open.

He whispers your name over and over again like a plea. It’s the perfect sound.

“Bucky?” You breathe out through the waves of pleasure hitting you.

“Yeah, babydoll?” He lightly grunts before he slows a little to look at you.

“Can you touch me?” You breathe and he nods.

“Where?”

You gently take his hand and bring it between your legs. You bring his thumb where it feels good and sigh, taking shallower breaths the second he touches there. He begins to rock into you harder, groaning and calling out your name. He gently rubs his thumb around your most sensitive spot and he can tell it’s good for you.

He can see it in the way your muscles relax in certain areas and tense in others. He can see it in the way your eyes shut and you hold onto him so tightly. He can hear it in how you whisper his name and nod your head with little ‘yeah’ breaths and ‘right there’ comments you give him.

He’s never felt so good with anyone. He feels safe with you. Not just the safe you feel when you know your door is locked or you made sure the oven is off. But safe like knowing your heart is in the right person’s hands. Like knowing you’re naked for a girl who isn’t judging you and is just taking what you give, helping you make her feel good.

He drops his head and gasps the more you squeeze around his dick. He leans down to kiss anywhere he can reach as he pumps in you faster and faster, the feeling building up in him.

“Ah- I’m close, I’m so close. Are you? Are you almost…?” He breathes out. “I don’t want to finish unless you do.”

“I’m close,” You nod. “Don’t stop- please.”

He nods his head too and leans down to keep kissing you, pumping his dick so deep that you can feel him in your stomach. You’ve had sex before. But never like this. He’s so eager and knows how to touch you just from the look on your face. Bucky knows you better than anyone. He can read every look on your face and know what you’re liking the most. He pays attention to you. He wants you to feel good.

“You’re so gorgeous, baby,” He moans. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever- fuck, I’ve ever even looked at, let alone touched.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as he talks to you, kisses you, fucks you so good you can barely breathe.

“Are you sure it’s been a while?” You joke even though he’s pounding you into your mattress.

He laughs a little before he laces his fingers with yours and brings your hand up to kiss. You look up at him then as he readjusts himself inside of you before he pushes back in a little harder and faster, his other finger still working your clit. Your legs are shaking by now and he feels himself about to finish. He pumps his dick in faster and faster as he holds onto your stomach with his other hand.

That movement from him, not even on purpose, snaps the band in your stomach. You gasp and loudly moan, sitting up on your elbows as you cum around his dick while calling his name. He presses into you three more times before your squeezing gets to him and he starts to spill inside the condom, riding you both through your orgasms.

He slowly pumps in and out before he steps and lowers to his forearms on top of you. He’s breathless as he pushes the hair out of your face to look at you.

“Was that okay, beautiful? Are you okay?” He asks before his thumb brushes over your cheekbones.

You nod, still catching your breath. You tilt your head back and let your eyes flutter shut for a moment and his chest tightens. He’s never seen someone look so beautiful. Not as beautiful as you look. He leans down to press quick kisses around your face. He kisses your cheeks, your nose, under your eyes, and your forehead.

Once you fully ride out your orgasm, you pull him closer and hold him, pushing your fingers through his hair again.

“That was so good, Buck. I don’t know if I believe you being rusty.” You joke and smile at him. He looks at you with such soft lovestruck eyes and he laughs.

“I’m plenty rusty. You just make everything better. Easier. You make everything okay.” He says, his voice soft and gentle before he leans down to kiss your lips. He’s soft and so deep and tender.

“I want to be your girlfriend. For real.” You tell him and he nods.

“Then you are. I’m your boyfriend. And as your boyfriend, I’m gonna stay with you all night and take care of my girl. And tomorrow I’m gonna make you breakfast and kiss you as long as you want me to. I’ll give you anything you want from me.” He tells you, taking your hand and holding it by his heart.

You smile at him. He’s sweet. He looks so soft and happy with you right now. Because he is. You brush your hands through his hair and he melts into your touch. He leans down to rest his head by your neck and he gently kisses the skin there. It’s soft and warm and he wonders then why he ever thought he could be with someone who isn’t you. Why would he ever even try to kiss someone else?

Especially now that he knows what kissing you feels like, it’s ridiculous that he wanted to try and date a girl who wasn’t you.

“You did so well, baby.” You say softly and kiss his cheek. That validation is everything to him. It’s all he needs. Especially because it’s you.

“Yeah? You felt good? You finished and everything?” He asks just to make sure and you nod.

“Understatement. I came so well. I feel like my bones are just relaxed now.” You tell him.

“Me too. Everything in me is just calm. And completely obsessed with you, craving you,” He says softly. “I’ve had sex before but never like this. You made me feel like myself again.”

“Really?” You ask softly.

“Really. I mean, fuck, I was calling you gorgeous and babydoll, I felt like I had myself back from before everything went wrong. Before every ounce of charm and confidence I had was tortured out of me. I’m glad it was you. I’m glad it was you and not here. You’re the only one who gets to see every side of me. Even the soft sides that crumble for you.” He smiles.

Morning comes slowly.

You wake up tangled together, his arm heavy and warm around your waist, his breathing steady against your shoulder. For the first time in a long time, Bucky doesn’t wake up braced for the day.

He just wakes up with you. With the girl he wants to be good for in every aspect of life. He wants you. Wants you to feel as lovestruck and happy as he does just being next to you.

He presses a sleepy kiss to your temple when you stir, murmuring your name like it’s something precious. Like it’s real. And it is.

Later, when he’s standing in your kitchen, barefoot and soft and making coffee the wrong way, he glances over at you and smiles, easy, unguarded.

The ache is gone.

[ssvbse]

Handle Your Load

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader | 6.7k

Summary: You have never see Bucky cum before, and the reason why is more complicated than you initially thought. Not that you mind.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, hyperspermia, lotta porn with a little plot, slight breeding kink, p in v, oral (f receiving), misunderstanding, reader thinks Bucky can't cum—turns out he very much can, verbally mentioned Ava x John jumpscare, ik Yelena is ace but let her have some fun

Inspired by THIS POST by superbassbuck, kudos to you!

You'd had a hunch ever since you started going out with Bucky.

The dates were always wonderful, and he was nothing but a gentleman—never failing to hold the door open, always buying dinner full-fold, and incessantly insisting he walk you home after every encounter. He was the pinnacle of the chivalrous male figurehead, but your suspicions didn't stem from his public persona.

It was your interactions in private—specifically in bed.

And it wasn't the sex itself. The sex was great.

"Jesus Christ, Bucky," you breathed, sinking your nails into the fluttering delts of his shoulders as he pounded his hips into yours. Bucky held the headboard hostage under a white knuckled grip, his abuse of the bed evident by the repetitive sound of the wood striking the apartment wall. He hung his head, and his lips were forcefully parted by a shaky groan.

"You feel so good," he whispered, his voice strained as the muscles in his face tightened. "You're so good."

"Bucky, God—" you whimpered. "Please, don't stop—I'm so… close—"

You felt your stomach tighten, and your naked abdomen visibly constricted as your core squeezed his thrusting cock. Bucky’s pace stuttered at the sensation, a choked "Fuck—shit—" falling from his mouth as his eyes shot open. You thought you saw flash of distress cross his features as he slapped one of his large hands down on your stomach to steady his movements. His body seemed to crumple in on itself as he hunched over, heavy, knitted brows stacked on top of squeezed-shut eyes, and he pistoned his hips into your just enough more times to feel the fluttery sensation of your finish before he quickly removed himself.

You laid out on the bed, spread and satisfied as you slowly managed to catch your breath.

"Buck," you whispered, blurry eyes looking down the expanse of your shiny chest to see his back to you at the edge of the bed, still hunched over. You attempted to sit up, but your core wheezed in disapproval, sending you flat-backed back down onto the mess of sheets. "Bucky?" you asked again, exhaling slowly. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just—" he began, but he seemed to bite his words, "—just give me a second."

"Okay," you murmured, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the dots to clear from your eyes.

A few minutes of only the sound of your own weighted breathing stretched on before the mattress eventually shifted, and you watched Bucky's large frame crawl back to the top of the bed.

"You're sure you're okay?" you asked as he settled beside you. The cool metal of his artificial fingers bit into your side as he pulled you closer to him before he lounged the metallic arm lazily across your stomach.

"I'm fine," he whispered, his voice hoarse. The warmth of his breath engulfed your shoulder as he peppered soft kisses to your flushed skin in an attempt to reassure you. "I promise."

"You'd tell me if there wasn't something wrong, right?"

A mechanism in his arm whirled, and Bucky hesitated.

"Of course," he finally murmured. "What's my secret is your secret, too."

You nodded, momentarily satisfied by his answer.

"Good," you murmured, overlapping his metal forearm where it rested on your belly and sleepily tracing the grooves.

It should have been a red flag, but you decided to put the situation on the backburner. Maybe he was just having a bad day—maybe it was a cramp or even just a sudden sense of discomfort that had put him off.

Or maybe you were just overthinking it.

You hoped that sentiment would help you sleep that night, and it did. That was, until the following evening.

Perched at the end of the bed, work pants down to your ankles, and his face buried between your thighs, you were, once again, overwhelmed by pleasure. Your sheets were held hostage within your own bloodless knuckles as you leaned back on shaking arms, feeling as though you were about to see the light of God with how his tongue was working beneath your panties.

"Oh my God, Buck—" you moaned, a particularly sharp thrust of his tongue sending one of your arms out of commission as it collapsed. The change in stability had you wrapping a leg around his neck to steady yourself, and you felt a deep chuckle vibrate the entirety of your quivering frame. “You smug little—"

Your voice was cut off by a dirty suck, and that was the last of your second arm. You tangled your free hands into his grown out hair as you hips began to match the rhythm of his mouth, rising and falling from the mattress despite how terribly your core ached from the previous night's antics. Your clit nudged the notch of his nose, and the friction was almost enough to send you over the edge as your whole body twitched.

"Bucky, please, wait—I'm going to make a fucking mess—" you begged, raking your nails across his scalp and giving his forehead a push of warning. However, he didn't let up, his grip on your ass unrelenting as he only insisted you tighter against his face. He nuzzled his nose deep within your folds as his tongue worked your button raw. You felt your legs quake around his shoulders as you bit your wrist and came all over his face with a pathetic, stuttering whimper.

Words were difficult as you slowly came down from your high, a wheeze leaving your chest.

"Shit, Barnes," you huffed, your ears ringing as your hips twitched against the slowing movements of his tongue. You slid your fingers through his hair in a more soothing manner as he finally emerged from between your thighs, his idiotic grin glistening in the dim lamp light. "Don't look so proud."

"Why not?" he asked, placing a sticky kiss over the top of your mound before using the edge of the mattress to hoist himself up from his knees. "I can't be proud of pleasing my woman?"

"You can be pleased," you said, core crying out for help as you managed to sit up, eyeing the obvious bulge in his pants, "but I know what would please you more," you murmured, taking him by the belt and tugging him between your legs. You flicked your eyes up to his. "Let me please you, Bucky."

And yet, despite your infamously persuasive doe eyes, he seemed to completely shut down at the request.

"I can do it," he quickly said, taking your wandering hand by the wrist before you could even think about touching the zipper to his trousers. "Don't worry about it."

You narrowed your eyes at his sudden discomfort, cocking your head as you did your best to mask your disappointment.

"Are you sure?" you asked. "I think you might like it if I—"

"I don't want to make you do that," he said, tugging your prying fingers away from his fly. "You don't have to."

"But I want to, Bucky," you said, a confused chuckle leaving your lips before you could stop it. "I promise it doesn't make me uncomfortable."

"I just—I don't want you to think that you need to return the favor," he said as he strategically stepped away. His intentional distancing only caused your confusion to swell.

"I'm offering to help you, Bucky—to make you feel good. I don't—" you said, moving to stand and following him only for your weakened legs to insist you back onto the bed. You swallowed, looking up from your shaking muscles to where he had retreated to the bathroom doorway. "What's going on? I've never heard of a guy giving up the opportunity to get blown."

Bucky took the comment as an accusation, and his response was sharp.

"I just don't want you to, alright?" he snapped, his voice easily filling the room. Caught off guard by his serrated tone, you snapped your jaw shut and quickly looked down at your feet as embarrassment burned your cheeks.

After a moment of silence, he audibly exhaled like he was about to say something, but instead he simply closed the bathroom door. The cruel chorus of the inner fan extinguished any chance you had at potentially hearing what he was hiding.

"Shit," you grumbled into the suddenly cold room. You managed to finally get to your feet in the style of a newborn deer and grasped your ruined panties from around your ankles. You tossed them into the hamper and found a clean pair, muttering to yourself as you began cleaning up for bed.

By the time Bucky came out of the bathroom, you were already in bed, lights out, pretending to be asleep.

Unfortunately, he knew you better than that.

After fumbling around in the dark and attempting to keep his heavy footsteps quiet, the other side of the mattress dipped. You were briefly exposed to the cool air as the sheets lifted before a warm body settled itself behind you, heating the underside of the covers like a built-in sauna.

By his stuttering breath, you could tell Bucky wanted to say something. You could feel him ghost his hand over the curves of your side, but his hesitation was brief as he finally clamped his metal hand over your waist and tugged you back against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, breath hot on your ear. But you shook your head, repositioning yourself as he hiked one of his big, burly legs over your pair of already overlapping ones.

"Don't be sorry," you said. "I pushed you, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

"I wasn't—" he began, but sighed. "It isn't you," he mumbled, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "It's nothing you did—nothing you ever do. I don't want you to ever think that," he said. "It's all me."

You let those cryptic words hang in the air and felt the corners of your mouth sink deep into your face when you realized you didn't feel any relief after being declared innocent.

"You..." you began, inhaling sharply as you overlapped his metal hand on your stomach and squeezed. "You would... tell me if there was something wrong, right? If there was something bothering you, or something that made you uncomfortable—"

"Nothing's wrong," he promised, but the hollow words traveled in one of your ears and out the other. Your head lulled, and you hoped he couldn't sense your disbelief in his attempt to reassure you. "Nothing made me uncomfortable, I just..."

The pregnant pause that followed did not aid his credibility.

"I get it, Bucky," you eventually found yourself saying, cutting off his silence. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

His sigh of relief seemed artificial, as if it's purpose was to soothe you more than himself.

"Thank you," he murmured, offering you a kiss to the junction of your jaw, to your neck, and to your shoulder.

You tried to let it go.

You really did.

But God it bothered you.

And, with a more observative eye in the following countless bedroom encounters, with all your proceeding attempts at a blowjob continuing to be rejected, and with the notable lack of even the sight of his dick, you found yourself realizing you had never witnessed Bucky finishing.

Sure, he claimed to, but you never found evidence of such an act.

And you looked—you looked desperately and disgustingly.

But no, the mess of the deed was entirely your own; Not one speck of semen to be found.

You weren't sure if it was his clear dissatisfaction with you or the presence of an unyielding secret between the two of you that hurt the most.

"Men are disgusting," Yelena grumbled.

Ava hummed in agreement as she took a swig of her drink.

"I do not know how you two do it," she murmured, waving between you and Ava. "How do you live with such a creature? They are more like pet than partner," she said, sipping from her glass of hard liquor. "You clean up after them, you cook for them, you keep them entertained; What do they do for you, eh? Get you off?"

"Not even that sometimes," Ava mumbled into her glass.

"When me and Kate are together," Yelena went on, setting her cup down on the counter of the bar and raising her hands, "we are equal; do you see?" she asked, demonstrating. "I make Mac & Cheese one evening, she makes spaghetti next evening," she said, raising both her hands in a staggered fashion—one after the other. "When she cleans table, I clean dishes. When I get her off, she gets me—"

"We get it, Yelena," you grumbled. "Being gay is more fun."

"What's got your panties in a twist tonight?" Ava asked, noticing your sluggish attitude. "Trouble in paradise with Congressman Barnes?"

Your eyes followed the circular motion of your drink as it swirled in your glass, subtly bobbing your head from side to side as you decided how to answer the question.

"When you have sex with Walker, Ava," you began, meeting her eyes, "he cums, doesn't he?"

Ava coughed in surprise. "Jesus," she muttered, throwing back the rest of her drink and immediately gesturing for another as she glanced down in your direction. "Where did all that filth come from?"

You glared at her. "Just answer the question."

"Well," she said, sitting up a bit straighter. "He does—a lot," she murmured, tapping her fingers repetitively across the bartop. "He's actually very selfish about it now that you mention it."

"And you guys just hook up, right? It's nothing serious?"

She nodded, and her and Yelena's brows cocked simultaneously.

"What's this about? 'Barnes not satisfying you?"

You frowned, laying your head in your folded arms as your frustration began to overcome your confusion.

"No," you murmured. "It's the other way around."

Ava scoffed, and thanked the bartender for the beverage as he passed.

"That is joke, no?" Yelena asked. "What man would not be satisfied by you? You are very beautiful woman," she said, a teasing smile tugging at her painted lips. "I would know this."

"I have literally never seen him cum before," you said, voice breathy with exasperation as you glanced at them. You felt a worry line dig itself between your bunched brows. "I finally noticed it when he wouldn't let me suck him off, and I haven't been able to get—"

"Woah, wait a second," Ava cut in, face contorting in confusion. "Bucky wouldn't let you blow him?" she asked, appalled. "What kind of idiot is he? Did you bite his balls off the last time you gave him one?"

"And that's just the cherry on top," you groaned, slapping a hand to your face as you shook your head. "I haven't even done it to him before—he doesn't even know if I'm good at it!" you grumbled. "That's why I'm so fucking confused. He totally shut down the first time I offered, and I'm pretty sure I haven't seen his dick since."

"When was that?"

You felt your entire body sag as you sighed.

"Over a month ago."

Ava's entire face cringed, and Yelena shuddered.

"As in—no sex... or anything?" Ava asked.

You shook your head.

"Every time I initiate something, he gets me off with his mouth and then disappears into the bathroom where I assume he jacks himself off, but I can't even tell for sure because he turns the goddamn fan on. As far as I know he physically can't ejaculate."

The vulgar term earned you a strange look from the group of men a few seats down the bar.

"Maybe he cannot," Yelena agreed. "Man would be very embarrassed over inability to reproduce, no?"

You watched Ava slowly nod as she considered the idea.

"Yelena's probably right; he might be embarrassed," she said, throwing one leg over the other. "I know John would be. In fact, I'm pretty sure he would avoid sex all together if he couldn't—" She hesitated, "—perform up to normal standards."

You dug your palm into your forehead, closed your eyes as you tried to banish the guilt swelling in the pit of your stomach.

"Fuck," you grumbled, dragging your hand down your face as you shook your head. "How do I tell him he doesn't have to be embarrassed? I don't care if he can't cum, I just..." You felt your voice break. "I just want him," you said, looking away. "I miss him."

Ava and Yelena exchanged a look at your deflated posture, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

A warm hand settled on your shoulder, rubbing reassuring circles into a knot of tense muscles.

"Talk to him,” Yelena decided, leaning over the bar to better meet the low level of your eyes. "Bucky likes information straight; He does not like to dance around problems."

Ava nodded alongside the advice, gently squeezing the nape of your neck before pulling away.

"I have to agree. You're just going to have to face it head on," she said, taking another long swig of her drink.

"And if he doesn't respond well?"

The two women shared a look, but before the more sober of the two could answer, Yelena cut in, alcohol on her breath. "You come to Kate's place, and we celebrate freedom with strap!"

You managed to swallow your drink before you had the chance to choke on it, and Ava erupted into a mess of muffled laughter as the three of you received yet another glare from the men further down the bar.

Deciding to trust your friends and take their advice to heart, the next time you found yourself being undressed by Bucky, you probed the point of sensitivity.

"Bucky," you whispered against his lips, inhaling his exhale. Your lashes fluttered as you failed to capture the attention of his distracted eyes, his mouth continuing its tirade of affection across your jaw.

Hands under your shirt, roaming greedily across the naked skin underneath, Bucky pressed long, impassionating kiss to your neck. His teeth skimmed the junction of your throat, and his lips wandered lower, planting themselves across your chest as his hand tugged at the collar of your shirt.

"Bucky," you murmured as the suction of his lips relented from your sternum, "I wanted to talk to you about something," you tried, watching as he shifted to take the familiar position between your legs. Without thinking, you snapped your knees together, shyly meeting his eyes as he raised a brow.

"You talk, I continue," he said simply, grasping your legs and insisting them back open. He peppered the inside of your knees with sweet kisses, his hands smoothing themselves down your naked thighs as he melted into the sheets of the mattress.

"But this is about us—" you tried to argue only for your breath to hitch as he nipped at your inner thigh, "and I want you to actually listen."

"Do I need to prove to you that I can double task?" Bucky asked, but his threat was lost behind the booming beat of your heart against your eardrums. Your head fell back onto the pillow as you felt his fingers toy with your clothed slit, prodding over your twitching hole. "Because I will," he said, and you didn't miss the smirk on his lips as he pulled your ruined panties aside. And before you knew it, his fingers and tongue had teamed up against you, two digits sinking inside while his tongue prepped your clit.

"Jesus—" you gasped, arching into his tongue as you buried your hand into his hair. "Please, Buck, I need to—"

He only hummed in response, and the feeling caused your entire body to quake.

"I need—" you tried again, but your mouth fell open as he curled his fingers. Your grip tightened in his hair, pressing his face more insistently against your pussy as he forced a third finger inside and picked up his already brutal pace.

"What do you need?" he asked, your legs twitching at the sensation of his hot breath on your exposed slit. "Tell me."

"I need to talk—"

But he licked a long strip from your hole to your clit, shutting down that train of thought real quick. Your hips moved at their own accord, and you began desperately humping his fingers as your peak approached beneath the affectionate abuse of his thumb on your clit and his wet face against the inner fat of your thigh.

"God, fine!" you cried. "I need you, Bucky, please!" you whimpered, pulling at the root of his hair until the pressure elicited a grunt from him, and your entire body finally spasmed around his fingers.

He gently dipped his fingers in and out as you gasped for breath, and he pressed an all too sweet kiss to your twitching clit. You managed to get ahold of your exercised lungs, and you released a long, shaky exhale, the horny fog slowly clearing from your mind as you came down from your high.

Fuck, you needed to get a grip.

"'You alright?" he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to your kneecap as he pulled himself up to lay beside you. With you jaw hanging open, you continued to inhale ragged breaths, and your eyes slowly followed his movements until he settled on his back beside you, metal arm resting behind his head—pinned—and that familiar bulge pressing into the fly of his pants.

"Yeah," you breathed, flicking your gaze up to meet his. You could tell he almost immediately noticed the impish glint in your eyes.

"What are you planning?" he asked, offering you a lopsided smile as he cocked his head.

You moved before you could convince yourself otherwise, and, with your core stronger than ever, you threw your leg over his lap, successfully straddling him. The rough texture of his pants rubbed lusciously into your naked, sensitive clit, and the cool metal of the embedded zipper caused your body to arch into the sensation.

Bucky yelped at the sudden weight on the pressure in his pants, and his hands immediately grasped your waist. He desperately tried to bury his hips further into the bed in a poor attempt to flee.

"Hold on a second—" he grunted, every muscle in his face tensing in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"I told you we needed to talk," you said, "and you weren't listening."

"Well, I'm listening now!" he barked, the muscle in his jaw jumping as his fingers dug into your flesh, metal arm whirling.

You pressed your hips into his, relishing the groan Bucky couldn't manage to swallow as the tendons in his neck popped and his head fell back into the pillows. His cock twitched beneath you, pulsing with every roll of your hips.

"Please," Bucky pleaded, face scrunched and his hands flexing at your sides. "You don't understand—"

He twitched beneath you as you settled a hand on the tight muscles of his abdomen and grasped his shoulder to anchor yourself. You bit your lip and dragged your clit over the metal of his belt.

"Relax, Buck," you murmured into his ear, watching his nostrils flare with a restrained exhale as squeezed his eyes shut and audibly swallowed. "I know what's going on," you murmured, ghosting your lips over his flushed pulse point, "and it's okay, Bucky."

The information seemed to make him sputter.

"You..." he began, but his breath caught as you ground your hips down against him. "You know?"

"Yes," you murmured. "Now relax," you repeated, pulling away and planting a kiss on the center of his forehead, "and let me take care of you."

You maintained eye contact with him as you slipped your hand from his shoulder and followed the grooves of his swathed chest down to the buckle fastening his pants. Your eager fingers easily worked the mechanism open, and you pulled the belt free.

Almost instantaneously, panic flashed over his face at the relief of pressure, and before you knew it his metal hand had encompassed your wrist, stalling your movements. And, as had happened before, disappointment flooded your face, and you were sure Bucky saw it as you looked up from where his hand had clasped yours.

Upon meeting those usually so assured, fearless eyes, your lips pursed tightly to keep yourself from getting visibly upset, you realized the expression on his face was not one of embarrassment; Cheeks that should have been beet red were unusually pale, and the sheene of sensual sweat on his normally heat-flustered body had gone sickly cold.

He was afraid.

"Bucky," you whispered, realizing it had been your actions that had caused him to react in such a distressed way. "I'm sorry—"

"No," he quickly said, once again pausing your squirming as you moved to get off of him. "No—I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be normal for you, I just—"

He looked away, every worry line on his face digging deep enough to do damage. You watched his jaw flex.

"I need to explain to you what you're getting into because I just—" he tried, pivoting his chin back forward but failing to meet your eyes. "I don't want to hurt you."

You nodded out of instinct, but paused, and a significant silence stretched between the two of you.

"Bucky."

"...Yeah?"

"How would your anejaculation cause me bodily harm?"

Another pregnant pause, and you watched his face contort in confusion, eyes finally looking up.

"Anejaculation?" he asked. "What the hell is that?"

"It's when a guy can't ejaculate," you said slowly. "That's... not what you have?"

He blinked, and a sharp, uncontrollable chuckle rumbled through his body before he was entirely taken over by unrestrained laughter. You felt your face flush red at his hysterics, and you had to reach out and grab his jumping delt to stabilize yourself on his lap.

"Ane—" he tried but was immediately cut off by another impromptu chuckle. You hit his chest, and he finally managed to gather himself. "No, sweetheart, that's not what I have," he said, "but you're sweet for thinking it's that simple."

"Don't flatter me," you grunted, crossing your arms. "You haven't shown me your dick in weeks, and you refuse to tell me why. What was I supposed to think?"

He failed to keep that shit eating grin from tugging at his lips.

"Maybe I didn't want to have sex?"

You moved to hit him again, but he caught your hand this time. Bucky pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist before molding your palm around the curve of his cheek, overlapping it with his own.

"Don't be a smartass," you warned him, your face softening as he closed his eyes and leaned into the heat of your hand. "Buck, why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

He was clearly still reluctant to elaborate; that worry line nestled itself back between his brows as he absently swiped his thumb over the skin of your hip.

"I—" he murmured, narrowing his eyes. "I just don't want you to see me differently," he said, briefly meeting your eyes with a vulnerability you're not sure you'd ever seen from him before. "I like how you look at me now."

"Bucky," you whispered, leaning closer to encourage his fleeting eyes to look at you again. "I won't," you said firmly, "I promise, Buck. I won't look at you any differently than how I am now no matter what you tell me, I promise."

His eyes almost crossed as he stared at you, and they fell into a loose triangle pattern before he finally inhaled and slowly nodded.

"When I was with Hydra," he said, lowering his voice as he swallowed, "they injected me with an experimental serum. It was meant to be a replica of the one they gave Steve," he said, gesturing weakly to nothing in particular. "Most of their attempts at remaking it failed, so they made sure that if it did happen to work on a subject that its effects would undoubtedly be passed on to their offspring."

You stroked his cheek, slowly nodding along with the information.

"The serum makes my orgasms really overwhelming," he murmured, cheeks flushing. "It's... a lot, and it's always a mess, and I didn't want to..." He trailed off, and cringed as his eyes flicked up to you, "... fill you up... because... well... it can be uncomfortable."

You were quiet for a moment, and felt his chest rise and fall shakily beneath you.

"So... you don't have a problem ejaculating?" you asked. His chuckle was fragmented by lingering emotion, but he shook his head, squeezing your waist.

"No, I don't have a problem ejaculating," he confirmed. "The opposite really."

"And you kept this from me because you thought I couldn't... what? Handle your load?"

His entire face reddened, and he groaned at your filthy phrasing, shaking his head.

"That's not what I meant," he grumbled. "I was just... afraid you'd think it was gross and weird—think I am weird."

His nostrils flared, and he shifted under your focused attention. You noted his distressed expression as he awaited your reaction.

"Well now you've got me curious," you murmured, biting your teasing smile, and he finally let out a genuine sigh of relief. His demeanor softened as he chuckled again, and his hands squeezed your waist. "And I feel the sudden urge to prove you wrong," you murmured, tracing a finger across the fabric between his pecs.

"Jesus," he breathed as you leaned down and pressed another innocent kiss to his pulse, feeling it flutter beneath your lips. "What did I do to deserve you?" he whispered, every muscle in his body tightening as you resumed the gentle rocking of your hips.

"Not sure," you murmured, playfully biting the lobe of his ear. "You tell me, Barnes."

His hands hadn't eased their grip on your hips, not allowing you much leeway with your movements as you did your best to help him relax into your warm embrace.

"I must've prayed," he murmured, breathless as you slowly undid each button of his dress shirt, steam practically radiating off the revealed skin underneath. With the fabric fully undone, you slid your hands along the gummy sides of his lower torso and pressed your palms into his lower back, insisting his hips closer to yours. He inhaled through gritted teeth as the bulge in his pants slotted itself against your naked core, and you hummed, reaching back around to his front and grasping the waist of his pants in an attempt to lift them again.

"Pardon me for being blunt," you found yourself murmuring as his cock pulsed against you, "but you said the point of your super orgasm was to guarantee a baby, right?" you asked, reassuringly squeezing his side. Bucky's glittering gaze appeared almost far away as he stared up at you, but he managed a frantic nod as his nostrils flared with wilting restraint.

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes."

"Well," you murmured, barely able to contain a pleasurable hum as Bucky's hips inadvertently twitched, "do you think your serum can beat my IUD?"

The question finally seemed to snap the last of his restraint.

Before you knew it, you were being hoisted off of his lap, a squeal of surprise flying from your mouth as your stomach flipped, and your back hit the cushioned landing of the mattress. You blinked and had to scrub the surprise off your face as you looked over your parted knees to see Bucky looming over you, the holy sound of his pants zipper practically making you ascend.

"Only one way to find out," he grunted, and the tent of his pants fell flat as he finally let you lay eyes on his dick after weeks of separation. And oh how you missed the stunning sight; Already spouting with precum, his fully erect organ stared you down like it was making a promise.

Oh fuck.

You closed your legs out of instinct, but Bucky wasn't having your shy behavior. As he pumped himself to full height, he grasped both of your knees with his other big, broad hand and insisted your legs back open, revealing how pathetically wet you had became at just the simple sight of him.

He quirked a brow.

"Excited?"

"Shut your mouth, Barnes."

He grinned and settled himself over you, planting a stabilizing hand in the sheets beside your head as his heat filled the space between your chests. You found yourself panting beneath him, and your entire body flinched as he stroked the tip of his cock just above your twitching hole. You reached up and grabbed him by the shoulders as you mewled, head falling back at the sensation.

"Please, Bucky," you begged. "Please, I need you so bad—It's been so fucking long."

He let out a chuckle of amusement at your desperation, and gently teased his tip into your entrance a few times, the obscene suctioning sounds making you bite your tongue before he finally thrusted into your messy, swollen hole. You dug your fingertips deep into his traps, and your breath hitched as he sunk himself all the way inside, exhaling a hot breath over your chest.

"I forgot how good you feel," he murmured. "Too good."

You simply shook your head and raised your hips until they kissed his. He grunted, quickly pressing a hand to your stomach in an attempt to pin you down and stop your impatient movements before beginning long, slow thrusts into you. The coarse hair around his pelvis nuzzled against your stomach as he locked his hips into yours with every motion. His gentle, methodical pace enabled you to feel every ridge and vein of his cock, and eventually you even began to feel it's eager pulsing, already prepared to empty its seed inside your clamped walls.

As Bucky's pace began to quicken at the approaching ultimatum, you found yourself looking at him through hazy vision, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. That line between his brows was still prominently present, and his eyes were closed as he concentrated on restraining himself, his pace beginning to consciously falter. You watched a bead of sweat roll down his temple and noticed the way his arm was trembling beside your face.

He was still thinking—still worrying.

"I'm not going to last," he grunted, that tension in his face briefly wavering as he couldn't help but grind his hips into yours. You gasped, feeling the throbbing tip of his cock kiss your cervix.

"Good," you whispered. "Good, Bucky, that's good," you tried to reassure him, but he was shaking his head, his thrusts growing more shallow. You whined in complaint, hooking a leg around his hips to prevent his early exit.

"I can't do it—" he whispered.

"Yes, you can," you said. "You can—please! I want it—I need it so bad, Buck, please."

He bumped his hips back into yours, and you quickly trailed yours hands down his back until you could grip his ass, insisting him to pick up his hesitant pace.

"Jesus," he moaned into your ear, heavy headed as he rested his forehead on the bed. His lips ghosted your ear, and he mouthed your name. "It's—I can't—fuck," he groaned. "Where do you want it?"

You moaned at the question.

"Inside," you begged. "I want it inside, Bucky, please—"

An obscene noise left his lips at your request, and he began pounding into you, unraveling before your eyes. The wet slapping of skin filled the room as his hips crashed against yours, every hit of his pace pushing the burning tip of his dick harder against the entrance to your awaiting womb. You arched into his hand as he desperately palmed at your clit, and the simultaneous overstimulating pleasures had a stuttered cry falling from your loose jaw as your climax washed over you.

But Bucky wasn't finished.

"Are you sure?" he managed to ask you as you felt the muscles in his lower back tighten under the grip of your fingertips.

Barely coherent, a single word fell from your parted lips: "Yes."

"I shouldn't—" he tried, but the force of his remaining, stuttering thrusts indicated he was past the point of no return. He squeezed his eyes closed, and every muscle in his body seized as he made one last desperate attempt to pull out. Your second leg not only kept him buried inside you but pushed him deeper as he managed a panicked whine before you felt his hips jerk.

"Fuck," he bit, wrapping his arms around you as his pulsating dick fully emptied its load inside of you. Your eyes rolled back as the warmth spread deep within your stomach, and your walls devotedly clamped around his rocking cock, committed to keeping every speck of his finish within your pussy.

His seed burned your insides, and the victory felt glorious.

His heavy breaths fanned your neck, and the weight of his exhausted, ruined body rested on top of you. You gently gathered his overstimulated frame into your arms as his hips twitched, twining your arms around his neck and tangling your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

A warm smile slowly pulled at your lips as you pressed a kiss beneath his jaw, and a breathless giggle left your lips as he slowly drew his cock out.

"I think those Hydra people overestimated—"

Every muscle in Bucky’s body convulsed, and he rammed his dick back inside, a choked sound leaving his parted lips as his cock spasmed and dumped another load inside of you. The fluid squelched as he desperately humped at your hole, hips sticking to yours with every push of his inconsistent pattern.

"Jesus," was all you managed to mouth as the warmth inside you mushroomed, spreading through your belly as he worked his seed further inside—making sure it would take.

His hips ground leisurely against yours, brushing your clit as he seemed to relax again only for you to feel his ass clench and his heavy balls contract before he fucked his hips up into yours once more. The breath was knocked from your exhausted lungs, and you could only whimper as he insisted his dick as far inside as it could possibly go, sealing off any chance of escape for his load as he poured into you once more.

Bucky sunk his teeth into your shoulder as his back hunched, a choked groan falling from his fallen, glistening lips. You vaguely felt a shudder overwhelm the entirety of his body.

"Fuck," he whispered into your skin, his eyes fluttering as he finally managed to open them. "Shit," he murmured, struggling to sit up from your ruined body as he cringed and slowly withdrew his wrecking ball of a dick.

You weren't sure you could move—you had never felt so heavy.

Vision still murky, your eyes weakly fell to look down your stammering chest at his blurry figure kneeling limply amidst your parted knees. Bucky's chin had fallen to rest on his collarbone, and his eyes were trained on what you were sure was a mess between your legs.

"Never mind," you found yourself mumbling, "they definitely didn't overestimate."

"Are you okay?" he asked, wincing as you huffed out an exhausted breath.

"Where does all that shit even come from?" you grunted, attempting to sit up only to immediately fall back down, stars clouding your vision. You zeroed in on the head of his dick from your fixed position, and your face contorted in exasperation. "And it's still fucking leaking!"

"Please, stop," Bucky groaned, running a hand down his face as he crawled up beside you. He rested on an elbow and met your drooping gaze. "Are you okay?"

You stared up at the ceiling.

"I feel defeated," you murmured, turning your head to look at him. "I couldn't handle it, which means you were fucking right."

Your playful disappointment had him cracking a smile, and he leaned over, pressing a kiss to your shoulder and your neck.

"'Think your IUD feels the same?"

You rolled your eyes and grinned, reaching up and poking his nose.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" you murmured, enjoying the confirming glint in his eyes. "We'll see; you might have a little super soldier running around in a year."

You followed his eyes to where he stared at your stomach, gently tickling the shiny, exposed skin.

"We'd have to get married then," he mumbled catching your attention. A fluttery sensation erupted in your belly.

"Maybe," you murmured, "on one condition."

He raised a brow.

"And what's that?"

You grinned and were unable to keep your eyes from flicking down to his still drooling dick.

"You have to do that in my mouth."

Bucky groaned, burying his red face into your shoulder.

[s-sh-ne]

foolishly wrong thunderbolts!roommate!bucky barnes x f!reader

You thought you’d felt his fingers twitch against your face, and for a second, you really thought he’d kiss you. And then the doorbell rang. And he dropped his hand, looking away from you. “It smells amazing, thank you so much for this, kid.” He had to be joking. 

warnings: age gap, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, badly written make-out session, reader is oblivious, bucky is a yearner in disguise, yelena is a menace, thunderbolts being chaos demons

w/c: 8.2k

a/n: this... i kid you not, took me almost six months to finish haha! It was one of my first one-shots I had planned and when I finished tawgtp i had no energy to write long things so this idea died along with the first 2 thousand words, but I decided to finish it for the new year! hope you enjoy it, i am so beyond rusty haha!

-> main masterlist

foolishly wrong, autoheart

Kid.

That word fucking haunted you. 

Mornin’ kid. 

Work givin’ you trouble kid? 

Won’t be home ‘til late kid. Buncha debriefs. 

He always called you kid. You hated it. You were barely younger than him — well, biologically. You doubted you’d look as good as him at 106. Every time his perfect lips would say that word, it seeped in your bones in the worst way possible. It’s not like you ever told him, but you’d come to despise that word. More than your boss. More than non-tippers. 

More than the stain you were angrily rubbing out of a table. The words he left you with this morning looped in your mind as you took out your anger on the poor table. 

Remember ‘bout tonight kid. 

As if you could forget. His entire workplace — which consisted of five deeply deranged heroes — was having dinner at your small Brooklyn apartment. And you stupidly volunteered to cook, to make a good impression. Absolutely not so maybe he’d look at you differently for once. You thought it was brilliant , especially when he thanked you with that half smile that made your brain buzz with adrenaline and your heart rate spike. 

Then you realized you had an opening shift that day at the buffet you worked at, and several papers due the day after. But you weren’t going to tell him that. He’d just insist on ordering takeout and you couldn’t have that. You’d researched for hours recipes from the 40s so that maybe he’d thank you without that damn nickname. 

How you — college student, waitress, up to neck in debt — ended up with Bucky fucking Barnes as a roommate, you’d never know.

It started with a text – hey is this unit still available? – when you’d posted your extra room online in the hopes of finding a roommate. You could barely believe that this ex-Congressman, current New Avenger, was texting you about a shitty Brooklyn apartment. 

Turns out he just needed a place that wasn’t the Tower to live in. And your unit just happened to be the same address his old place (from 1942 you’d learned quickly) used to be. So who were you to refuse him? If you were lucky, maybe he’d even pay off your student loans. 

Then he moved in. And you were faced with a tall broad-shouldered man whose arms should be (and probably were) illegal in most countries. And you knew you were fucked. So deeply fucked. You’d seen him on TV a few times but nothing could prepare you for having him tower over you. He was so damn handsome and never fucking smiled, which made him look like an ever brooding puppy with his big blue eyes. He’d just grunted a hi and made you coffee – in your own kitchen. Before even moving his boxes in. And just like that, you had a massive crush on your roommate who moonlighted as a superhero. 

One year later, that crush had dangerously grown into an all consuming love for this stupidly kind and grumpy man who constantly referred to you as a kid. You’d gone as far as a girl could go – listened almost exclusively to 40’s music, cooked his favourite dishes constantly (under the pretence that you liked them too – even the most bland ones from his childhood), you even did his damn laundry. You wore his hoodies and boxers around the house, for god’s sake. 

It’s not that he wasn’t thankful. It would be easier to forget him if he wasn’t. But he always complimented your cooking with those stupid blue eyes looking into yours. He always hummed along the old tunes echoing from your phone. He didn’t hug you often, but when he did, he’d hold you close, nose buried in your neck. And it was somehow so platonic it hurt. 

He never looked at you like you wanted him to. His eyes never lingered on you when you dressed up. You paraded around in his damn boxers and he didn’t even bat an eye. You could wear the tightest, most revealing dresses and he wouldn’t even flicker his eyes down to your cleavage. Not even your legs. 

Just.

You look good, kid. 

Anyone less delusional would have given up by now. You should’ve given up the day you’d walked into the kitchen in a bra because you didn’t think he was awake and the man didn’t so much as look at you twice. Just grunted a good morning and kept drinking his black coffee. You’d almost unhooked it, just for science. 

God, it made you want to scream. You still held onto hope – fragile and stupid hope – but you were starting to believe that your love was a lost cause. That you were a lost cause. 

You slammed the napkins on the table in frustration. The clattering of cutlery soon followed. Two hours. Two hours until your shift ended and you had to cook like a madwoman for a man who wouldn’t care if you walked in fully naked. 

“You alright?” One of your coworkers asked as you slammed three glasses down at your station, still half full with flat Pepsi. The brown liquid sloshed at the shock and a few eyes turned towards you. 

“Mhm. Just school,” You lied smoothly. They didn’t need to know just how little you cared about college since James Barnes came into your life. Maybe it was severely unhealthy but he consumed everything about you. You took a damn advanced World War II seminar last semester just to be able to talk to him about it. You had no previous interest and/or experience in that field. You’d barely passed the class, but it hadn’t mattered even when your GPA took a hit. The sparkle in Bucky’s eyes when you’d approached the subject quietly and respectfully had made it all worth it, especially when you’d lay on your living room floor listening to his low voice recounting his toughest times during the war. 

You blinked out of your thoughts when your coworker bumped your shoulder but Bucky’s blue eyes stayed in your mind. The rest of your shift was hell. Well, internally at least. Outside of your mind, the customers were kind, the tips were good and your boss had let you off early. Even as you went home, the sun was shining and your bus was early. But your brain was a storm of thoughts, from how the hell you were supposed to throw together a full dinner in three hours to what dress you should wear. You could go with the short red silk one, just to see if he’d drop the kid in front of his “coworkers’’. Or maybe your small black number. Could never go wrong with an LBD. 

By the time you were home, you’d gone through your entire closet mentally, wondering if you still had the rust coloured dress that you’d bought because it looked identical to a dress you’d seen in an old 1940’s magazine he was thumbing through. Jesus Christ, if you even stopped to think about it you’d realize you were turning yourself into a housewife for him. And he didn’t even so much as look at you like anything else but a friend. 

Hands on hips, you were staring at the mess that was your floor. Clothes were strewn across the floor, heels and sneakers sitting proudly on your bed. The silk dress was hanging from your desk chair – you’d decided against it. Too sexy for a dinner party with your roommate’s coworkers. 

Would it be too obvious to wear the orange shirtwaist dress? 

Before you could doll yourself up into a 1940’s daydream, you threw the dress away, deep back into your closet. Too obvious. Too desperate.

So you settled for a black silk blouse and jeans. Casual. Slightly sexy. You unbuttoned another button on the blouse for good measure. 

Your phone buzzed and your heart leaped. Maybe it was him, texting you about tonight. Checking up on you. Asking if you wanted something from the store. Wondering if you’d go on a date with him. God, a girl could dream. 

You grabbed your phone from the pile of bras on your bed and your heart drooped. Not Bucky. Your best friend. 

pamm | 3:27pm heyy you free tnt? me, tommy n carter were planning on going out if you wanna join You | 3:27pm noo sorryy, cooking for buck n his friends tnt pamm | 3:28pm booo, you always do that. you wearing that housewife dress too??  pamm | 3:28pm no but seriously, you need to stop putting so much effort into that guy 😭 You | 3:28pm oh stfu, like you're any better w tommy  pamm | 3:29pm hon tommy and i are together, you’re literally just busting your ass over a guy that treats you like a child

You rolled your eyes, though her words settled in your stomach. She was right, as much as you wanted to deny it. 

pamm | 3:29pm if you’d rather do that than go out w us, thats up to you but yk pamm | 3:30pm  he could at least have the decency to stare at your tits once in a while

You snorted, taking a look in the mirror. You’d worn your best bra, the one that made your chest look illegal. Maybe you’d get a glance. Even just a flicker down. God you were so thirsty for the slightest bit of attention from him.

You snapped a picture for Pam, posing so your boobs were front and centre, and sent it.

You | 3:30pm hopefully tonights the night then You | 3:31pm even put some of that shiny product you gave me on the girls  pamm | 3:31pm  UM SEXY?? If that man doesn’t make a move, I will 💋

You giggled, until your eyes flickered to the time. 3:31. Three thirty one. T-minus 2 hours and a half until the damn Avengers rocked up. And you still had an entire chicken pasta dish and a coconut cream pie you’d found online to make. 37 Best 1940’s Recipes, the website said, so you’d gotten all the ingredients and prayed he liked it. But just in case he didn’t, you’d prepped his favourite pie – a plum pie – that was sitting in the back of the fridge behind your inexhaustible stock of energy drinks. Bucky hated those, swore by good old fashioned black coffee and wouldn’t touch the cans with a ten foot pole, so your secret was safe. 

You | 3:32pm pam, babe, i have like barely three hours to get this shit done i gtg im so sorry have fun tnt <3

You almost ran to the kitchen, barefooted, your phone tucked in your back pocket haphazardly. Without a glance at your apron, you scoured the fridge for the ingredients you’d bought a few days before. Coconut shavings – check, eggs – check, whipped cream – check, vanilla that costs more than you could afford– check. But leftover pie dough from the plum pie? Nowhere to be found. You frantically pushed aside a tower of chicken legs, looking for your missing crust. Panic started to settle. You had zero time to buy a new one, much less make one from scratch. 

You couldn’t make a coconut cream pie without the pie part, now you could you? Fuck, you could shoot Bucky a text but you wanted it to be a surprise. But it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if you had nothing to serve. So you reluctantly fished your phone out of your pocket again, clicking on his contact. 

You | 3:46pm hey could you stop by the store for a premade pie dough  You | 3:46pm the one i had for tnt disappeared 

Disappeared was a ridiculous word but you’d sworn you’d prepared extra last night just to have enough. You’d left it sitting proudly in the fridge, not hidden –there were only so many things you could hide from a supersoldier with enhanced senses. As you paced the kitchen, gathering the seasoning for your chicken, your phone buzzed again. You almost dropped the garlic salt, diving for your phone. 

Bucky | 3:49pm Shit, I used it to make some meat pies this morning for our lunches. Thought it was just leftovers. B.

Exasperation should be settling in your gut but instead, amusement filled you at the perfect punctuation. He swore up and down he knew how to function in this century but still signed his texts. 

You decided to ignore the way ‘our lunches’ hit something in your chest you’d spend too long mulling over later that night. 

Bucky | 3:49pm I’ll get you some. The nice kind right? The one in the organic section? I’m sorry kid. B.

Your stomach fluttered then dropped. There it was again. That word. He could’ve said the most thoughtful, kind, most Bucky thing in the world, and then added that word. The one that tasted bitter in your tongue and seemed to flow from his like honey. There were times at the beginning of you living together where you almost thought he felt the same about you, like when he taught you how he used to dance in bars and clubs back before the war. It started friendly enough, going through various dances, like your poor attempt at the Charleston (You looked like a flailing chicken. A cute one, he’d said). You tripped over his feet during a foxtrot and he looked too graceful on his feet to be an ex-assassin. 

By the end of the night, the music had slowed, Vera Lynn’s voice filling the air. He’d quit trying to teach you but still danced with you, just slowly rocking side to side. His vibranium fingers were splayed across your lower back, his other hand in yours. You felt the callouses, the warmth of his fingers. His thumb was brushing your spine, holding you close to him. 

He’d looked down at you with his blue eyes and that’s when you knew. That your stupid crush wasn’t just something you could brush off anymore. You’d fallen in love with Bucky Barnes, and for a foolish moment, you’d thought he might’ve felt it too. 

And then, as the music flickered out and Vera Lynn returned to her box of memories, he pulled away from you, dropping your hand. 

You did good, kid.  

It was the first time that word broke your heart, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

Which led you here, in the middle of your kitchen, about to lose it over a three-lettered word and a missing pie crust. 

You | 3:51pm yeah, thank you! dinner might be just slightly late, but ill have cocktails done n those scallop things u like at 6 :) 

You remembered the first time you almost gave him an aneurysm trying to explain what the hell ,,:)’’ was. He was so damn confused when you’d sent it, and now he even sent you ,,<3’’ sometimes. He clearly thought nothing of it but every time you’d see that stupid less than sign and 3, something in your chest unraveled. 

Bucky | 3:52pm What would I do without you? B.

Sometimes you swore he knew how you felt and just fucked with you. Because those six words shook you so hard you almost dropped your phone. You felt tears prick your eyes, not out of sadness but out of frustration. Was he serious? If he didn’t know, he was the most oblivious man in the world and if he did, he was cruel. God you’d take an honest rejection over whatever the fuck he was playing at. 

You let out a thick breath, blinking back your tears angrily. You just slammed your phone face down on the counter, wiped your eyes and started mixing the seasonings with trembling hands. You prayed no tears would slip loose, your cheap drugstore “waterproof” mascara had failed you before and you had no time for a wardrobe mishap. But your vision blurred with unshed tears, and your bottom lip quivered so you took a deep breath, reached for your phone, closed the message app too quickly, and turned on your favourite playlist. Not the 1940s one. You’d crumple to your knees if you heard one more smooth jazz melody from your phone.

So with Jody Gadsden’s voice ringing out in your small kitchen, you tried your best to get through prepping the chicken. You usually liked making dinner. It made you happy, took your mind off work. But today, hands deep in chicken thighs and garlic salt? Your teeth were clenched, still blinking back tears that resurfaced every time you thought about Bucky (which was every two minutes). You threw the chicken in the oven, and glanced at its digital clock. 

4:24pm

You sighed, washing your hands. An hour and a half left. An hour and thirty-six minutes before you came face to face with his coworkers, like a girlfriend would. In your apartment full of memories the two of you made, his sweaters thrown over your side of the couch, your picture in his wallet. Except you slept in separate bedrooms and never once had you felt the press of his lips against yours. You weren’t sure you ever would. 

But you kept going. You grabbed the coconut, the cream, the sugar, the eggs and followed the website’s recipe carefully. There was no way you were going to mess this up. Even for a man that destabilized every crevice of your carefully crafted being. You were almost on autopilot for the next hour, Autoheart fading to Finger Eleven, followed by Eric Carmen accompanying you as you baked and cooked. 

At 5:30 on the dot, the doorknob turned and you wiped your trembling hands on your apron as Bucky stepped through. He had a bag slung over his shoulders, his stupidly attractive face turning to you to greet you with a sheepish smile. You tried, oh how you tried to stop the rush you felt in your veins at his presence. You tried to smile back. It probably came out as a twitch of your lips before your eyes darted back to the counter where the bacon-wrapped scallops sat, ready for the spicy honey you’d made. 

“Hey,” He said, closing the door behind him, shrugging off his jacket. He wore that red henley, the one you’d fantasized pulling off his body so often it hurt. “How was your shift?” He asked, carefully, like he was approaching a wounded animal. Maybe somewhere in your fantasies this is where you’d break down and admit how much you loved him, and he’d kiss you against the kitchen counter that had seen too many of your near-romantic moments. But this was real life, where the best you could do was croak a yes and where he simply handed you the pie crust. 

“Thanks,” Your fingers brushed against his tanned ones and you pulled them away fast, still avoiding his gaze. 

He stood next to the kitchen island, hovering like he wanted to say more, like if he left, something would not be quite right. Your shaky fingers grabbed the wooden honey dipper and drizzled the scallops, trying your best to act normal. As normal as you could with a highly perceptive supersoldier scanning your every move.  It was quiet as you turned to put the scallops in the oven. You were still facing away from him when he spoke. 

“I’m sorry about the pie,” Five words and your entire composure almost shattered. Here he was, in all his six-foot-something stature, one of the most powerful men in the world, apologizing to you for something as trivial as a pie crust. You turned around, and caught his eyes for the first time since he’d arrived. His blue eyes were riddled with guilt, his hair tousled. His usually confident, no-bullshit persona was gone, just a man drumming his fingers against the faux-marble counter next to his college student roommate. Fuck. 

“Don’t worry about it seriously.” You forced a laugh, unwrapping the expensive organic pie crust he’d bought just for you. “How much do I owe you?” 

His jaw clenched and you could tell he’d wanted to say more, maybe fight you on the nature of your quick shutdown of his apology. Instead, he just shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t worry about it. Fairly sure I can cover a pie crust.” He said, one of his fingers twitching against the counter. 

“Bucky, please, I can pay for my ow-”

“Says the college student with a shitty job,” 

That shut down the argument and with a laugh, your heart eased a bit. You shoved him away gently, trying to avoid the warmth of his bicep underneath your hand. 

“Alright, get out. I don’t have forever to finish this pie,” You unrolled the dough, setting it in the pan as Bucky chuckled, walking away. 

You were too deep in your thoughts, too wrapped up in getting this pie perfect to notice him lingering in the doorway. Too distracted to notice the way his eyes dragged down your body as you worked. Too distracted to see the clench of jaw as he lingered on your chest, your little frown, your lips. He left the moment your tongue darted out to lick your bottom lip. He never stayed long enough for you to notice the way his pupils dilated anytime you were in his space. 

When 6h30 hit, you were ready. A bit disheveled, a bit anxiety-ridden, but with a fully prepared coconut pie, scallops out on the counter, and chicken thighs warm and seasoned wrapped in foil. You had regained some sort of dignity after your mid-prep breakdown, and not a single lash was out of place as you took out the bottle of champagne Bucky had bought for tonight. 

Bucky stepped out of the hallway leading to your bedrooms and you tried not to drop the very expensive bottle. It wasn’t a fucking secret that Bucky Barnes looked illegal in formal wear, but it still caught you off guard every time. You were used to him in sweaters, Henleys and leather jackets when he was around you, so the moment he combed his hair back and wore something slightly more classy, it awakened something in you that had died about three exes ago. 

He was fiddling with the sleeves of his black button-up, mumbling under his breath as you stood there, apron long forgotten in your hands. Four buttons were undone, revealing the curve of his muscled chest, his dog tags glinting in the soft light of the kitchen. You couldn’t help the swoop of your stomach when he adjusted his watch and looked back up to you with a crooked smile.

“How do I look?” 

“Good!” You answered, a little bit breathy, trying your best not to knock over the bottle as you pushed it towards the seven glasses you’d set on the island. The scallops looked perfect, sitting prettily on the nicest plate you could spare, decorated with springs of thyme. The entire apartment smelled like heaven, and yet your stomach was in knots, stuck between vomiting your nerves up or stuffing down everything as fast as you could. 

Bucky walked over to you, his smile wrinkling the corner of his eyes. He looked like the first ray of sunshine after rain, beautiful, holding your aching heart between his calloused hands. You held your breath as he pushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingertips grazing your cheeks. You stood there, looking up at him, and he stared back, an unreadable look in his eyes.

You thought you’d felt his fingers twitch against your face, and for a second, you really thought he’d kiss you. And then the doorbell rang. And he dropped his hand, looking away from you. 

“It smells amazing, thank you so much for this, kid.” 

He had to be joking. 

Before you could even register, a swarm of people walked through the door, Bucky holding it open for them. You watched him smile, hug a few of them, shaking hands with the others, and shoving a blonde man with his metal arm. You stood there, frozen, unsure what to do. This was not your element. Talking down to some right-winged asshole at work, talking in front of a class about the literary repercussions of Dante’s Inferno on Italian literature, that you could do. Hosting six world famous superheroes in your safe space – who also happened to work very closely with the man you could not get out of your head? Yeah, you weren’t sure you could do this. 

But before you could melt in a puddle of anxiety and sulk back to your room, Bucky walked over to you, and leaned against the kitchen counter. He introduced you to each of them, and you prayed your hands weren’t too clammy as you shook the blond man, John Walker’s hand. A woman with long brown hair smiled at you, Ava. The towering large Russian man swopped you up in a bearhug, and you squeaked, your nerves loosening just a bit as Bucky laughed. 

The final two shook your hand, a nervous looking man with a twitchy smile, and a blonde woman who looked to be just a few years your senior. Bob and Yelena. 

“It’s nice to meet you finally,” Yelena spoke, her accented voice speaking over her (apparently) father’s booming voice as he talked to your roommate. “Bucky talks about you a lot.”

It was said so matter-of-factly that you almost didn’t fully catch the full intent of her words. She raised an eyebrow at you, her eyes darting to Bucky. Bob stifled his smile, and you felt your face flush as you stuttered a response. 

“Ah, well, nice to know he appreciates me,” You laughed awkwardly, “Y’know how it is, I try to be a good roommate.” You kicked yourself in the shins in your mind at your nervous tone. 

Yelena simply hummed and you felt an arm wrap itself around your shoulders. It was warm and strong but you knew in a second it wasn’t Bucky. It was a different kind of strength, something that didn’t ignite your stomach with want, but with a spark of unknown and anxiety. 

“Barnes didn’t tell us he had such a pretty girlfriend!” 

You wished you could sink in the ground as Walker’s words echoed in the small kitchen. Alexei, Bucky and Ava paused their conversation as laughs slipped from the rest of the team. Bucky joined their laughter a second too late, sounding a little bit too forced.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” He said, and you could see his hands rip another tear in your carefully guarded heart. 

“Yeah, just a roommate,” You added, avoiding his eyes. Walker’s arm remained around your shoulder and he shrugged an apology, claiming a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be living with a hunk like him if you wanted to get laid. You face flushed for the millionth time tonight and Yelena shoved his arm away.

“You sure you don’t want to be his girlfriend, Walker?” She said, crossing her arms over her white button up. John lifted his hands in surrender, chuckling. “Asshole.” Yelena muttered her breath, and it was your turn to laugh. Maybe you could find some semblance of stability from the ex-Russian assassin. Yep, that was your life now. You’d done this to yourself. 

“Alright, go on and eat, I don’t want this food to waste, scallops are expensive,” You announced, pushing the plate towards Alexei, who’d been eyeing them since he walked in. You ignored Bucky’s frown, and popped open the bottle of champagne, pouring a glass for everyone. 

Bucky’s coworkers all crowded around the island, tasting the scallops you’d spent years perfecting. Between praises and sips of sparkling wine, Bucky slipped behind you, whispering your name with a tug on your arm. You excused yourself, heart beating out of your chest, before slipping from the group, joining Bucky in the doorway to the living room. 

“How much did you spend on tonight?” He asked, his voice low and the space between his eyebrows wrinkling. You almost laughed at his concerned look, as if he didn’t realize just how much life cost for a college student.

“Don’t worry about it,” You muttered back, adjusting the sleeve of your shirt he'd ruffled when he dragged you over. He let out an exasperated breath and pulled out his phone, his large fingers awkwardly typing away. “What are you-” You were interrupted by the buzz of your own phone and you pulled it out, knowing exactly what it was.

Venmo: Bucky Barnes sent you $300 (USD)

Before you could protest, or even express your surprise at his use of Venmo, he squeezed your arm hard. It took everything in your being to not pull away from him, and even more to not bridge the gap between your bodies. 

“I don’t wanna hear it. You spent the entire afternoon cookin’ f’me and my friends.” Then he leaned down, looking you straight in the eyes. “I’d be losing my mind without you,” And he walked back to the party, leaving you in the doorway, staring at the molding like it owed you money. You blinked once, twice, and then it hit you. 

He hadn’t called you kid. Not a single time since they’d arrived. And that small burst of hope spreading to your fingertips made you move back to the group with a large smile on your face. 

The coconut pie and the plum pie was long devoured by the time you’d eclipsed yourself to the kitchen to start cleaning up, replaying the moment you’d brought out both in your mind. Bucky looked stunned for a moment before his usual reserved face split into a large boyish grin. You’d almost collapsed right then and there, your hands shakily cutting a piece for each of you. 

You were wrapping up some chicken and rice for the New Avengers to take back to tower (their request – they’d loved your cooking) when the door to the kitchen was pushed open. You jumped a bit as Yelena walked in, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. 

“Oh hi,” She said, stalking over to you like a predator observing its prey. You tried not to squirm under her stare. She leaned against the counter next to you, observing your face as you kept packing food in the containers, hands albeit a little shakier. 

“Hey,” You replied. You’d quickly realized halfway through dinner that while Yelena was calm and offered you respite from Walker’s antics, she was just as observant. And she had not let a single detail escape her this entire evening. 

“You love him.” A simple statement, but it made you freeze. 

“W-What?” You stumbled through the phrase, turning your eyes to meet hers. They weren’t accusing, just intrigued. 

“You love him.” She repeated. “Bucky.” She added. 

You laughed nervously, wiping your hands on the cloth you’d thrown over your shoulder. If you couldn’t admit it to even your closest friends (except Pam, she was the exception) , why would you tell this near-stranger anything? “He’s a good friend, but it’s nothing more,” You lied through your teeth, and she cocked her head slightly. It was more menacing than curious now. 

“I am trained to kill a man with a hairpin, and to extract any information from anyone. I don’t think it is ‘nothing more’” 

Okay, no lying yourself out of this one it seemed. You turned to put the rest of the leftovers in the fridge. And to avoid eye contact as you admitted for the first time outside of your mind and Pam that you loved Bucky Barnes. 

“I, uh, yeah,” You said, slowly shutting the fridge door. “I have feelings for him.”

It was quiet for a second before you heard Yelena hum again. You faced her again, smoothing down the front of your jeans. She had a small smile on her face and before you could even try to backtrack, she spoke. 

“Good. He needs someone like you.” 

You scoffed. 

“I don’t think he knows I’m an adult, Yelena.” You were truly losing your mind. Not even Pam knew the extent of your delusions with him. 

She raised a sharp eyebrow, pushing herself up from the counter. 

“Just keep taking care of him. You’re good to him.” She left the room right after, not even sparing you a second look. Your heart was beating out of your chest, sweat beading on your forehead. You took a deep breath to steel yourself before you followed her to the living room where the rest of the guests were getting ready to leave.

“Ah there is best cook!” Alexei exclaimed, throwing both his large arms around you, “You cook again for us, yes? Barnes will bring us food or we return for more!”

You giggled, returning the hug. 

“Absolutely, you just let me know what you’d like!”

Ava gave you a nod, a small smile dancing across her lips. She thanked you, and elbowed Walker who was busy staring at your collection of vinyls. 

“Oh yeah, thanks.” He shrugged, before turning to observe the 1940s vinyls. You prayed he wouldn’t comment on them. 

Oh yeah, I’m just so desperately in love with James Barnes that I listen to them because it’s sometimes the only piece of him I can have. 

Bob followed suit, giving you a small side-hug, saying he’d never had such good pie. Yelena then embraced you in a tight hug, which took everyone in the room by surprise. You were frozen for a second before hugging her back. 

“I don’t think you know Barnes as well you think, малышка.” She whispered, before pulling away from the hug with a stern look. You averted your eyes, but the words echoed in your mind for long after they all left. Bucky told you he was going to take a shower before helping you clean. 

It was 10h45 and you were hands deep in hot water and dish soap when the floor creaked, announcing someone had entered the kitchen. You looked up and locked eyes with your roommate, just wearing a simple white shirt and shorts. His hair was damp and he was still halfway through towel-drying it, his feet bare as he joined you at the sink. 

“I know I said it a lot, but thanks. Seriously.” He said, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “I really couldn’t have survived tonight without you.” Your mouth went dry and you tried your best to not let just how much his comment affected you. You just nodded, not trusting your words. 

You stayed in silence for a while before he took a step forward, grabbed a dish towel, and started drying the plates. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but there was a tension that your usual quiet evenings did not have. Like something was looming over the both of you – namely, your massive fuck-off feelings. You just needed to not look at him. That would do the trick at least until tomorrow where you’d continue your game of treating everything like normal roommate things. 

Minutes passed and you cleared your throat, still avoiding his eyes.  “How was your day?” You asked, scrubbing down a dessert plate. 

“It was good, ran late to a meeting, then ran late here.” He chuckled a bit as you handed him the plate and your fingers brushed again. You tried not to flinch. “You?”

“Mh, not horrible. Got everything done kind of on time,” You laughed under your breath, mostly out of nerves. “Marjorie let me off work early and zero assholes today,” 

He stilled, before putting down the plate. 

“What do you mean ‘work’?” He asked, his voice low. It was your turn to pause, because fuck you had told yourself you would not mentioned you’d worked today. 

“I, uh, I just worked opening today, I ended early, I didn’t want to tell you! It’s not a big deal, I wanted to help you and I feel great honestly I’m-”

He interrupted you by saying your name in that low voice of his, and you looked up to him, still holding a glass under the bubbles.

“You… fuck, you’re amazing,” He almost whispered, his head slightly tilted. That look in his eyes, the one he got sometimes when it was just the two of you and the silence of late nights, almost made you believe, again, that there was something else. A spark. Something he’d finally acknowledge. You couldn’t breathe, your entire body warm and shivers running down your spine. He licked his lips, his finger twitching against his thigh. Shit, was this really happening?

And then he blinked, the look turning into something near stone. He abruptly turned back to the sink, grabbing the glass right out of your hands. You were still stunned, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. And then he spoke, and your entire composure crumbled. 

“Just, thanks kid.”

You snapped. 

“Why the fuck do you call me that?” You said, your voice trembling. 

“What?”

Your throat felt tight as you wiped your hands off, now not afraid to stare at him. He’d been yo-yoing with your feelings all day, and you had enough. 

“Fucking ‘kid’!” You couldn’t control your volume on that last word and he took a step back. He opened and closed his mouth a few times and before he could say anything you interrupted him. “I mean, it’s not like I’m a damn teenager.” 

You’d gotten closer to him, almost standing toe to toe with him. His eyebrows knit, crossing his large arms over his chest. 

“You are a college student in her fucking twenties, of course you’re a kid to me,” He said, carefully choosing each one of his words. And if you’d had a clearer mind, you’d have seen the obvious lie slip past his lips as he bit back what he truly wanted to say. 

You couldn’t help but gape at him and tears threatened to spill as you swallowed hard. 

“I hate that word,” Your voice was wobbly and you knew, oh you knew you were going to tell him tonight. You couldn’t do this anymore. This was torture for yourself, and you couldn’t spare yourself the imminent rejection. You needed to be free of this fucking torment that was loving Bucky Barnes. 

Before he could open his mouth to ask why, or add anything else, you took a deep breath and tears started rolling down your cheeks. 

“I’m in love with you, Bucky. And it’s fucking horrible, it kills me, because I try so hard to make you see me a different way. I try so damn hard everyday, and I get you calling me ‘kid’. It’s torture to wake up every day and see you in our kitchen, drinking coffee from my cup, making you dinner because I love you, and get treated like your little sister.” You were hiccuping through words now, dishes long forgotten. “And you wanna know the worst part? Sometimes I’m not even sure how you feel. And it would be so, so much easier if you could just put a stop to it. If you don’t feel the same, then stop dancing with me around our apartment. Stop looking at me with those damn eyes of yours and then call me kid. ‘Cause it fucking kills me and I don’t know what the hell to do anymore!”

The last words were a yell and you stood facing him, your chest heaving. He hadn’t moved a muscle and was just staring down at you, left hand tightly gripping the side of the counter. He wasn’t saying anything, just breathing just as heavily as you and you couldn’t handle it. You swallowed hard, smoothed your hair back, and pushed past him. He didn’t even try to follow you, just let you run to your bedroom, before you locked the door and collapsed on your bed. 

Arms tightly wrapped against your pillow, you cried, and cried, unable to stop the sobs wracking your body. You weren’t even sure why you were crying anymore. The weight of your feelings, his damn explanation for your “nickname”, your exhaustion – all weighed down on you as you sobbed into your pillow, mascara running down your face, staining the cotton. 

You stayed there, curled up on your blanket, crying until your eyes were dry but your body still shook with sobs. And you almost thought you’d fall asleep like that, but then a soft knock came from your door. 

You ignored it at first, still squeezing your poor pillow, but he knocked again. You heard your name, muffled against the door. So you got up. Not bothering to fix the mess your hair had become, not even caring that your perfectly selected outfit for tonight was all crooked and wrinkled. You reached the door, your fingers shaking as you hovered above the knob. 

With a deep breath, you twisted it, opening the door with a creak. Bucky was on the other side, his eyes rimmed with red and his hands flexing. It was quiet as you both took in each other’s appearances, till he finally spoke. 

“I, uh, I’ve just been sittin’ there,” He nodded to the wall next to your door. “Trynna figure out what the hell I was doin’. What I was gonna say.”

You stayed silent, your arms wrapped around yourself, avoiding his gaze. 

“Can I come in? Just to talk? Please?” He added. You clenched your jaw, but logic got the better of you. You needed to face this, even if you would’ve rather anything else tonight. So you nodded, turning back to sit on your bed, clutching the pillow. 

He gulped, stepping into your space, and sat at the edge of your bed, and took a deep breath. And he said your name again, in the tone that always made you feel like you were floating. 

“I’m a moron. A massive fuckin’ idiot.” He said, his voice rough. He reached out for your fingers, still gripping the cotton like a vice. You let him tug you forward a bit, his large hand resting over yours. 

“It was self-preservation, the whole kid thing,” He confessed, his thumb tracing circles over your skin. “Just the easiest way I could protect both of us. And I see now, it was the stupidest thing I could've done.”

“Protect?” You croaked, still trying to wrap your tired mind over his words. He let a pitiful laugh out and licked his lips before speaking again. 

“Myself from falling even deeper in love than I already was. Evidently, it did not work out.” 

You froze. You couldn’t have heard him right. 

“Y-You what?” You stuttered out, head snapping up meeting his fond blue eyes. 

“I love you,” He repeated, inching closer to you. “I always fucking have, from the moment you opened that door and accepted me as all I am. I fell in love with you so quickly it terrified me, and I didn’t want you roped up in, well all of this,” He gestured at himself “, so I just… pushed you away. And I’m so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you.”

It took your mind a long time to comprehend just what he’d confessed to you, holding his expectant gaze for a long moment, mouth agape. Emotion flooded you, love, anger, confusion. 

This entire time?

You lifted a trembling hand, and his eyes softened, still rubbing circles on your other hand. He looked so bare and gentle that you almost felt guilty but with one strong push you shoved him off your plush bed, tears of fading anger and bubbling laughter filling your eyes. Bucky was clearly not expecting it because the supersoldier known for his strength slid right off, landing at the foot of your bed. You tried not to giggle as he looked at you shocked. You bit back your laugh, put on your most serious face and spoke. 

“You are an idiot,” You said, shifting to have your face at the same level as his. “I’ve been torturing myself for months and this entire time, you felt the same. And never once did you consider that in protecting yourself, you just hurt me more.” 

He lowered his head, brown hair falling over his eyes but before he could say anything, you slid your palm over his cheek, turning him towards you. Your eyes locked, and you found yourself drowning in his blue eyes once more. 

“Don’t ever do it again.” You whispered, before you finally closed the gap, kissing him with the passion of months of built-up desire. It took him a split second to respond, his hand flying to your face, greedily sliding his lips against yours like you were the only source of water in the desert of his emotions. He groaned when you deepened the kiss, your lips opening to let him in. He shifted to kneel in front of you and your bed. It was perfect, Bucky drinking you in, you responding with the same vigour, hands wandering to his hair, his perfect brown strands.  

You broke for air after what seemed like hours, but only to pull him up to the bed, and he obliged, standing to his full height. You shifted back, tugging him down to you, reattaching your lips as soon as possible. His weight was like a blanket to you as your legs wrapped around his strong thighs, tongue delving deep in his mouth. 

Fuck, this was real. 

Months of wishing he’d see you as more than just a roommate and here he was, arms bracketed on either side of your face as kissed you with more intent than half of your exes. Your arms snaked around his neck tugging him closer but the moment your hips started involuntarily bucking against his, he pulled away with a groan. 

His lips were kiss-swollen, pupils blown out wide, dark hair tousled by your hands and if he were to fuck you right here and now, you wouldn’t have complained. 

“I don’t, I don’t think we should go further,” He said, panting, though the insistent pressure you felt on your inner thigh told you his body had other plans. Yet, pulsing core aside, you knew he was right. You’d just upgraded your relationship from strictly roommates to… whatever you’d become. Maybe taking your time wasn’t the worst idea. 

“Okay,” You said, a content smile dancing across your lips. You leaned up to kiss him one final time before he rolled off of you, laying next to you. You both stared up at the ceiling of your bedroom, his pinkie wrapping itself around yours. It was silent for a long time, only your breaths synched together. 

“Bucky?” You asked, breaking the carefully crafted quiet. 

“Mh?” 

“If you loved me this entire time, did you notice when I would… dress up? Or down?” You hoped he knew what you hinted at. The dresses, the boxers, the bras. He let out a breathy laugh and moved to face you, elbow propped up. 

“Fuck, I did. I almost had an aneurysm when you were just in that damn red bra. Almost lost my damn mind.” He answered, pupils dilating as if the memory of you just in your bra reignited the fire that had dimmed during the silence. 

“I almost unhooked it,” You whispered, as if telling him your deepest darkest secret. He groaned, falling back on the pillows dramatically, hair fanning out around him. You rolled on top of him, laying flat against his muscled body. He was hard everywhere you weren’t and it fit so perfectly against you. You kissed him chastely on the lips. 

“And the dancing? Was that…” Your voice trailed off as you looked down at him, unable to stop the rush of warm emotion through your veins as he looked up at you with the most adoring eyes you’d ever seen in a man. 

“The moment I knew I was so, so fucked.” He replied, hands sliding on your hips, thumbs stroking your hipbones. “You looked up at me with those damn eyes of yours and I had to tell myself not to kiss you right then and there. Though I’m startin’ to think I should’ve.”

“Mhm, you should’ve. You had me convinced you thought I was a child.” You gave him the nastiest look, though your lips were still stretched in the smile that wouldn't leave your face. 

“I’m sorry,” He said, his grip on your hips tightening, before kissing you briefly, but deeply. You rolled off him, but stayed close, burying yourself into his side as his strong arm came to rest around you. 

“You looked amazing tonight, by the way.” Bucky’s fingers were tracing circles in your back, his lips pressed against the crown of your head. Pam was going to be so smug.

“You did too,” you echoed, hand resting on his abs, absentmindedly sliding up his shirt. It was nice. Quiet. And you stayed like this for hours, talking about everything and nothing, about the months you spent pining, about the months he spent pining. And eventually, you drifted off, cheek pressed to his strong chest. He stayed awake a little longer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, before closing his eyes peacefully. 

It was perfect. It was everything he’d ever wished for, hoped for, and he was so at peace. After years of running, of pain, he’d found his salvation. And it was you, with your kind smiles, your food, your love, that had mended him. And he was perfectly at peace.

Until with a gasp, you woke up and stared at him panicked.

“Oh my fucking god, my fucking essays!”

[earthsmightiestbenders]

all i want for christmas is you (in the closet)

pairing: avenger!bucky x avenger!reader

summary: two months have passed since you and Bucky went from not-so-subtle flirting to spending every spare moment with each other. so, dating? yes, but not to the rest of the tower. the team is under the impression that you both are too emotionally immature to admit your feelings for each other. until the night of the annual Stark holiday party. the sexual tension is heating up with each wink and “accidental” hand brush. will you make it to the end of the party without snapping?

warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, oral sex (f receiving) (pls lmk if there's anything else i'm missing, it's 1am)

wc: 6.3k (fuck i'm sorry)

a/n: this is part of the twelve days of christmas collab hosted by @chateaubarnes!! tysm for hosting this fun holiday treat 😋 read the rest of the masterlist here

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

5:06 PM metal armed idiot: just got back. gonna hop in the shower you: i told you to text me when you got back to the tower not when you got back to your room

The typing bubble bounces for ten full seconds before disappearing, then returning to spit out a message. 

metal armed idiot: i’ll leave the bathroom door unlocked

You roll your eyes at his reply and set your phone down on the dresser. Leave it to your boyfriend to piss you off with his stupidity. 

Boyfriend. The word still leaves an unfamiliar taste in your mouth even after two months of official dating. What started as shared glances across the debrief table turned into sneaking off the quinjet and holding your own type of debrief in the bedroom.

As the post-mission fornication continued, you both agreed that it wasn’t necessary for the team to know about your budding feelings. Bucky commented on how the teasing would be relentless, especially from Sam and Tony. While that was a lingering concern, it wasn’t the main one plaguing your thoughts. 

Before you joined the Avengers, you tried dating a coworker. Mistake number one. Agent Liam Harcourt was your partner on every op. Funnily enough, your relationship started with sexual tension on missions and relieving it on the quinjet, back at the base, or anywhere there was a flat surface. Maybe you do have a type. 

After you two broke up, you tried to continue going on missions together. Spoiler alert: it didn’t end well. Fury demanded that you two get new partners after you ended up in critical condition because Liam wouldn’t shut up about your lack of communication skills when he clearly lacked them more. 

But you couldn’t tell Bucky that. Not only is it embarrassing, but this feels different with him. He’s tooth rotting-ly sweet and kind and sees you as more than sex. The possibilty of tainting this relationship with your past is enough to keep your lips sealed and nodding along to Bucky’s reasoning.

Is it wishful thinking? Probably. If your connection continues to grow, Bucky will find out eventually. Just not now.

Now, you’re gathering your things so you can get to Bucky’s room as soon as possible. Almost three weeks have passed since you saw each other, with Bucky stuck on a mission the past two weeks and you posted up in Madrid the week before. 

The fact that he didn’t text you right when he arrived at the tower truly does have you mad, since you could be in his room by now. His fingers could be tangled in your hair, the smell of sweat and gunpowder invading your senses as he leads you to his bed. Your clothes could be strewn across the floor from the door to the bed, like a breadcrumb trail leading you home. 

Whatever his excuse is, it better be a damn good one. Or else he’ll wish you didn’t come over at all.

Phone, check. Room key—yours and Bucky’s—, check. Water bottle, check. 

When you open the door to leave, you’re not expecting to see Natasha with her knuckles poised to knock and two floor length gowns draped over her arm. It’s so unexepected that you almost run into her, stopping just in time to avoid sending her and the expensive-looking gowns to the floor. 

“Nat. Hey, what are you doing here?” you greet, realizing too late how blunt it sounded.

And, of course, it triggers her spy senses, alerting her that this isn’t how you normally act. “Hey. Where are you off to?”

“I’m, um…” Quick. Think of something! “I’m going to the gym.” You laugh. “The grind never stops, right?”

The grind never stops? Really? That’s the best you could come up with?

She looks you up and down and narrows her eyes slightly, not convinced by the jeans and t-shirt you’re wearing. “Right… Well, before you go, mind helping me choose a dress for the Stark party?”

“I would but—”

“Great, thanks! I knew I could count on you.” She winks and slips through the gap between you and the doorframe, then sets the dresses down on your armchair. “Please don’t tell me you’re actually going to work out before the party.” 

The door shuts behind you as you follow Natasha into your room. Now you’re losing even more time with Bucky. “What if I said I was?” 

“Then I would ask what happened to the real you, because I know for a fact that you don’t work out unless someone drags you there and that you’ve been looking forward to this party ever since Stark announced it.”

Damn, she really does know you well.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going—”

“Where’s your dress?”

“What does that—”

“Where’s. Your. Dress.”

You bite your lip and focus your gaze on the tan carpet below your feet, fearful that she’ll find out about you and Bucky just by looking into your eyes. 

“I don’t have one…” you mumble, knowing damn well that there’s one hanging in your closet right now, covered in the protective plastic and everything. So what if you’ve been planning your outfit, practicing how to style your hair, even buying a tie for Bucky that matches your dress? You’ve been going crazy without him, literally counting down the days until he’d climb into bed and pull you close to his chest. Even if you’d been planning this night month in advance, you couldn’t say no to him when he suggested you both skip the party to spend time together. 

“What? How?” Natasha asks, incredulous. “Honey, this is the most excited I’ve seen you in awhile. How do you not have a dress?”

You shrug. “I just don’t.”

She steps closer until the tips of her shoes come into your view. “Hey. Look at me.”

After a moment, you sigh and lift your head. Concern is etched on her face, and you almost, almost, tell her. The guilt of keeping this secret from your best friend is eating away at you. As fun as it is sneaking around with Bucky, it’s less fun hiding a huge part of your life from a literal spy.

“What’s going on? Something’s off with you.”

“Everything’s fine, Nat. I changed my mind about going. That’s all.”

“See, that’s what’s not adding up. You don’t just change your mind and not tell me. So what is it?”

“I…” Should you tell her? What’s the worst that could happen? Bucky would be mad, but he’ll get over it. You’ll swear her to secrecy. Just tell her.

Your lips part, ready to pour out all of the details of your relationship, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You whip it out, careful to angle it away from Natasha’s sight, and read the notifcation in a hurry.

5:12 PM metal armed idiot: did you get lost on the way here or something? i’m done with my shower

Fuck. How are you going to get Natasha out of here? 

Before she has the opportunity to grab it out of your grasp, you stuff your phone away. “That’s my cue. Gotta go!” you exclaim, turning on your heel and heading toward the door.

“Wait, what the hell was that?” She calls your name. “You can’t just leave!”

Your hand is on the doorknob. “Sorry, it’s an emergency!” The knob is turned, but before you make your exit, you look over your shoulder at Nat’s dresses. “Green. You should go with the green.”

With that, you hurry out the door and down to Bucky’s room. 

“Finally decided to show up?” Bucky taunts from the couch, not bothering to look up from the paperback in his hand when he hears the electronic lock open with a beep. “I didn’t take you as someone who gets lost in a hallway.”

When he doesn’t get a response, he sets down his book and watches as you kick off your shoes, still not sparing him a glance. “Did you hear me or are you going deaf?”

Silence. 

“Babe?”

Your eyes finally meet his as you walk toward him, an unreadable look on your face. 

“Okay, I’ll admit that the deaf comment was too far.” 

His worry continues to grow as nothing comes out of your mouth, not even a ‘shut up, Barnes’ uttered from your lips. 

You stop in front of him and stare at him like you’re observing a new piece of art at a museum. Studying the fullness of his beard, the new gash above his eybrow, the pronounced bags under his eyes from sleepless nights. 

Then, your fingers slide into the damp strands of his hair, causing him to lean into your touch as you lightly scratch his scalp. He groans, enveloping your waist with one arm and pulling you closer. “Sweetheart…”

His hand wanders to your ass and kneads the soft flesh, eliciting a moan from your mouth. “Are you gonna kiss me or what, James?”

He chuckles and peers up at you. “Full name, huh?”

A small smile. “I mean business.”

“Alright, come here.” With a flick of his wrist, he pulls you on top of him, his lips finding yours instantly. The kiss starts out slow, like he’s savoring the taste of your favorite mints, trying to memorize each individual tastebud on your tongue. Like he’s learning how you changed in his absence. 

The kiss is nice. Don’t get it twisted. But it’s too nice. It doesn’t match the fervor brewing in your belly. 

So you take matters into your own hands. You tug at the roots of Bucky’s hair, earning a gasp against your lips. His eyes snap open, the irises already engulfed by the endless black of his pupils. With a smirk, you grind over his lap, a delicious warmth pooling in your core as his cock hardens beneath you. 

In a flash, Bucky flips you onto your back, sucking at the pulsepoint on your neck. “Bucky!” you shriek, dissolving into a puddle of moans as his kisses trail down to your chest. 

“This is what you wanted, right?” he rasps, fingers tucking into the waistband of your jeans. “Let’s get these off you. I have a surprise.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, brows furrowing as he stands up from the couch. “Surprise?”

“Yup. Gimme one sec.” 

You’re not sure what’s important enough to stop him from soothing the ache between your legs, but it better be good. A new phone? Keys to a car? Jewelry?

Oh, shit. Did he get a ring? No, that’s too fast… Way too fast. You haven’t even told anyone and he might’ve gotten a ring? Dear lord, he better not have gotten a—

“Okay, you can look now,” he announces, bringing you out of your thoughts. 

Standing in front of you with the biggest grin is Bucky Barnes, a folded pair of red and black flannel pajama pants placed over his palms. Not a ring. Thank god it’s not a ring. That isn’t to say you would say no if he proposed; it’s just not the right time for that. 

You realize you haven’t responded to him yet and his smile is starting to fade. “I- Wow,” you start, the words freezing in your throat. He really stopped you for a pair of pajama pants?

“D-Do you like them? It was last minute, I know, but I got us matching ones…” he rambles, his cheeks turning pink as he continues. “I thought it would be nice to match even if we’re not by each other—”

You take the pants from him, running your fingertips over the smooth material. The dork got you matching pajamas. The thought of him seeing them in a store and thinking of you pulls at your heart, melting the previous resentment of him pausing your kissing. “I love them, Bucky.” 

“Y-You do?”

“Yes, of course.” You smile and take his hands. “Just unexpected, that’s all. A good unexpected.”

His smile returns. “Thank god. You scared me there for a second.” 

“You have to admit; it’s not your usual sentiment.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess. Sue me for trying to be romantic.”

“How about instead, I change into these so we can match right now?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He snaps his hand up in mock salute. God, he’s such a dork. But he’s your dork and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The pants fit perfectly, the fabric hugging your hips and thighs in all the right places. It’s a Christmas miracle that Bucky bought your size on the first try. 

Once you’re satisfied with your reflection in the mirror, you exit the bathroom and stride over to Bucky, giving him the full fashion show experience by showing him all the angles. He cracks a smile at your exaggerated poses and meets you where you’re stood. “What do we think?” you ask him, giggling as he runs his hands over your thighs. 

“I think…” he lowers his voice, bringing his lips to your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “That you look sexy as fuck.”

You hum out a response, the end of it turning breathless. “Is that so?”

“Mhm…” A nip at your earlobe has you gasping. 

“What’re gonna do about it?” you murmur, the warmth returning to your core and spreading farther down. 

His voice is barely a whisper. “I’m gonna fuck you until the only words you know are yes and more.”

In one swift motion, Bucky has you pinned against the wall, his mouth ravaging yours like a man starved. Your fingers find their place in his hair, the roots anchoring you as your senses go wild, overwhelmed with the hot drag of his tongue across the roof of your mouth, the firmness of his abs pressing you to the wall, and the poke of his cock against your stomach. 

You’re lost in a sea of Bucky until he stops abruptly, pulling away from you with wide eyes. He’s panting like a wild dog, his chest rising and falling in tandem with yours. “W-What is it?” you question, a small part of you wondering if you did something wrong.

He presses a finger against your lips and whips his head to the door, waiting a second before two raps sound throughout the room. 

Your eyes widen. “Bucky, who is it?”

“I’m not sure.” More knocks and a voice. “Bucky, open up! I know you’re in there!”

Sam. What the fuck could he want?

Bucky faces you again, a plan formulating quickly. “You need to hide.”

“Hide?” you gape, running through all of the possible places in his room. “Are you serious?”

He nods, steering you toward the corner of his room. “Closet. Quick.”

You stumble over your feet as your mind reels from the sudden flip of horny to high alert. It takes a moment, but you regain your footing and stumble into his closet, squeezing into the first open space you can find. How many pairs of combat boots does a man need?

Bucky waits until the thud of wood meeting wood to open the front door, revealing Sam with his phone pulled out and about to dial Bucky’s number. “Finally!” he exclaims, shoving his phone back into its pocket. “I was beginning to think you were ignoring me.”

An uneasy laugh escapes Bucky. “No, not ignoring. Just… I was in the bathroom. Couldn’t get up right away.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re up now. We have important business to attend to.”

“Business?”

“You going to the party?” Sam asks, pushing past Bucky and into his apartment. 

Bucky shuts the door and glances toward the closet doors where you just slid into. “Party?”

“Yeah, the Stark holiday party? You know, the talk of the tower the past month?”

“Right… Well, I just got back from that mission—“ 

Sam whips his head around in disbelief. “No way. Buck, you’re going. Everyone is going.”

“I’m tired and just got into my pajamas, Wilson.”

He gives Bucky a once over, taking in the red and black checkered flannel pants and lack of shirt. “There’s still time. Where’s your suit?” He starts heading toward the closet, but before he gets far, Bucky grabs his wrist. 

“Wait!” he practically yells, eyes widening at the thought of Sam opening the sliding doors and seeing you jammed between his tactical gear and shoe rack, clad in matching flannel pants. 

Suspicion draws Sam’s brows together. “What, you got something to hide in there?”

“N-No, I just, it’s a mess.”

“Ohh-kay. Well, get your suit.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Because you know who will be there.”

“You know who?”

Sam says your name, drawing it out teasingly like a middle schooler would on the playground. 

A flush spreads high on Bucky’s cheeks. “W-What about her?”

“What about her— Christ, Barnes, do you really think I’m that stupid? You’re constantly looking at her when you think no one notices. Practically undressing her with your eyes.”

The flush deepens to a cherry red. “I don’t— You’re imagining things.” Sam’s eyebrow cocks up. “I look at her a normal amount!”

“Right… Almost like how you always bring her coffee after your morning run.”

“She asks me before I leave—”

“—Or how you stare down Steve when he gets too close to her for your liking or smiles in her direction—”

“—I’m just trying to protect her—”

“—Speaking of smiling, I think I’ve seen you actually smile at her.” This shuts Bucky up. “Not one of your half-assed tight-lipped ones either. A genuine smile. Like you actually want to be around her.”

The tips of Bucky’s ears are dusted with pink at the accusation. Yes, he does want to be around you. He would be attached to your hip if it were humanly possible. “Well, she’s funny. I can appreciate someone with humor.”

“Hey, I’m funny and you don’t give me those reactions.”

“Exactly.”

“Fuck you.”

Bucky slaps Sam on the shoulder and starts leading him toward the door. “This has been fun, but you’ve got to get to that party, yeah? Wouldn’t want you to be late.”

“Buck, wait,” Sam protests, digging his heels into the carpet in an attempt to slow Bucky down. It’s no match against the bulldozer that is Bucky Barnes. “Hey, man, I’m serious.” He spins out of Bucky’s grasp to face him head on. “Put on the damn suit. Have fun. Enjoy yourself for once in your life.”

“I do have fun…”

A scoff. “Your definition of fun is bashing heads into a wall. I mean something that doesn’t involve violence.”

“Okay, now you’re just being mean.”

Sam smirks. “Is it working?” 

“If your definition of ‘working’ means you want me to punch you in the face, then yes.”

“See? Violence.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “If I don’t see you at the party after an hour, I’ll come back here and drag your ass kicking and screaming. There’s free alchohol for fuck’s sake. That should be enough of a reason.”

Time slows to a snail’s pace as Bucky stares at Sam, studying his expression for a twitch of lips or raised brow that would suggest foul play. It’s a habit; something he picked up to protect his peace, especially where Sam is involved. 

“Pretty please?” Sam bats his eyelashes and gives a fake pout. “Free alcohol? Pining over your not-so-secret crush from the bar? What more could you want?”

“It’s not—” A long sigh from Bucky. He knows that Sam won’t let up. “Fine, I’ll go.” Sam’s face lights up. “Only if you drop the whole crush thing. Because I don’t have a crush on her.”

“Right, right. Not a crush.” Sam shakes his head but a grin stays firmly on his face. “How dare I assume that the Winter Solider has a crush.”

“Not the Winter Soldier anymore.”

“Sorry, the former Winter Soldier.”

“Goodbye, Sam.”

He chuckles and opens the door. “See you soon, Barnes.”

“Goodbye, Sam.”

Once Sam is finally out the door and Bucky hears his footsteps echo down the hall, he runs over to the closet and slides open the door. “He’s gone,” he breathes in relief, holding out his hand to help you from the cramped space. 

You place your hand in his, your heart melting at how his fingers wrap around yours in a touch so delicate, it makes you feel like a precious jewel he’s covered in a cloth and vowed to protect for the rest of his life. With an equally as gentle tug, you’re finally released from the closet and into his arms. 

“Buck, that was too close,” you breathe into his chest, concentrating on the lavender and rosemary lingering on his skin to calm your racing heart. 

“Well, I didn’t know that Sam was gonna stop by,” he says, holding you close. 

Leave it to Bucky to help you calm down by being an idiot. “Really?” you deadpan, craning your neck to look up at him with mischief in your eyes. “You’re telling me you couldn’t see that with your newly developed ability to see into the future?” 

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” He pecks a kiss to the top of your head and pats your back. “C’mon, we have a party to get ready for.” 

You pull back to bring his face in view. “You mean you” you boop his nose, “have a party to get ready for. I’m not expected to show up.” It’s not a lie. At the same time, it’s not the entire truth either. Natasha heavily implied that you’d be there, but what Bucky doesn’t know won’t kill him.

“Not so fast, sweetheart. If I have to suffer through this, then I need you there to make it bearable.”

“Wow, is that all I am to you? Something to ease your suffering?”

He smirks. “You’re also easy on the eyes.”

The beginnings of a smile curl against your will as you roll your eyes.

“Fine. I’ll get my dress.” 

The party is in full swing by the time you arrive. Christmas-style jazz fills the room, mixing with the sparkling lights of the chandeliers and a large tree in the corner to create a feeling of warmth and togetherness for all the guests to enjoy. 

A smile blooms across your face; this is all you dreamed of and more. The only thing that was missing—

“Ooh!” you squeak as two fingers pinch your ass, a shock of pleasure running to your core as the culprit shows his face. “Bucky, you can’t do that,” you whisper yell at him. 

After a brief make out session in Bucky’s room, you staggered your entrances to the party, knowing it would be too obvious if you arrived together. 

“Why not?” he taunts with a smirk. “Scared we’ll get caught?”

“Yes, that’s exactly why! Are you really that dumb?”

“What if I just act like I’m dumb but I’m actually smart? What then?”

“Then I would be extremely surprised.”

He narrows his eyes. “Hey. That’s an insult.”

“Good job! Do you want a cookie?” You tease, giggling after his smirk flips to a frown. “Go mingle. Make sure that Sam sees you so he doesn’t rip you a new one. I’ll be around.” You squeeze his butt for good measure, smiling in satisfaction at the grunt that leaves his mouth. 

“You’ll be the death of me, sweetheart.” 

You wink. “Right back atcha, Barnes.”

You do your best to avoid Bucky for the rest of the party, but somehow your paths keep crossing. While talking with Nat, he brushes past you and squeezes your hip, causing you to choke on your wine. Later, he’s engaged in a game of pool with Steve. You watch from the sidelines, biting your lip at him when Steve’s back is to you. At one point, you throw a little tongue in there, licking your lips and arching an eyebrow. The next time Steve isn’t looking, he adjusts his pants in a subtle attempt to hide his growing boner. 

The tension continues to grow and so does the wetness of your panties.

“I’ll have what the lady’s having,” a familiar voice rumbles from behind you. 

“The lady, huh?” you smirk, skin growing hot as Bucky enters your orbit. “That’s not what you were calling me earlier…”

A boyish grin erupts across his face, sending the corners of his eyes crinkling like the wrapping paper of an opened present. “Remind me again?”

Warmth floods your core as you’re transported back to Bucky’s room. Back to hard muscle pinning you against the wall. Back to his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s hot and messy and has you gasping for air once he pulls away. 

“We’re in public, Buck…”

“That’s a shame,” he murmurs, leaning in closer. “Kinda wish we were somewhere a little more private.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Your body mirrors his, unable to fight the urge to be near him. 

“Hey, I didn’t want Sam interrupting us again.”

“More like you wanted to protect your ego.”

Your lips are about to meet when the clearing of someone’s throat snaps you out of the trance that is Bucky’s blue eyes and sends you flinching away from him. Bucky isn’t any more subtle; he stumbles back and practically knocks the barstool flying toward the tiled floor before his soldier reflexes save you both from drawing the attention of the entire party. 

“Your drink, sir,” the bartender says, eyeing you both before moving down to the opposite end of the bar. 

Your heart is practically beating out of your chest as you realize how close you came to kissing Bucky in a crowd of hundreds. How you’re willing to throw caution to the wind just to steal one kiss.

It scares you. What else would this relationship have you risk?

“We need to be more careful—”

“I need you right now—”

“You can’t be serious.”

“So serious.”

“Do I need to remind you again that we’re in public?”

“No, I remember.”

His smirk has you shaking your head and biting back your own smile. How could you stay mad at an idiot like him?

“Okay, then you understand that we can’t… you know…”

“Why not?”

Oh, now he’s testing you. With his smirk deepening and the glint in his eyes that says, Do you want to see how far I’ll go?

You cross your arms over your chest. “Alright, Barnes. If you’re so sure of this, tell me, where do you suggest we go to carry this out?”

“Hmm…” He taps his lips in thought until an idea hits him. “The coat check?”

“The coat check,” you deadpan. “That’s your best idea?” You click your tongue and shake your head like you’re scolding a child. “I expected better from you, I won’t lie.”

“Why isn’t that a good idea?” he gasps in mock offense. “There are literally hundreds of coats in there. So many hiding spots.”

Maybe he’s onto something. “When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound like such a bad idea…”

His face lights up. “Is that a yes?”

You shouldn’t. This sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. Someone is bound to find you. Someone from the team could find you and Bucky sucking face between the coats of random people. But how can you say no when Bucky is looking at you like you bought him a puppy for Christmas?

You can’t help but be a bit selfish at the same time. The interruption in Bucky’s room plus the way he his muscles fight against his suit? You wanted this as much as he did, minus the public indecency. 

“…Fine.” The look of absolute joy that floods his features sends a rush of love through your chest that has you forgetting you said yes to making out in a closet. Clearly, it throws Bucky into overdrive because his face is moving toward yours in an act of trying to kiss you. Out in the open. Where everyone can see. 

“Woah there, tiger,” you say, stopping his attempt with a hand to his face. “No kissing until we get elsewhere, remember?”

He nods, his lips still smooshed against your palm, which makes you giggle. “Okay, let’s see if you can last that long.”

By some stroke of luck, Bucky’s idea is nearly perfect. The chilly New York air forces many of the partygoers to don a coat, therefore nary a hanger is empty. And the cherry on top? The attendant is nowhere to be seen. It’s almost too easy sneaking through the side door and hiding amidst the rows upon rows of coats in the dim light.

“Bucky, oh my god, wait—” you moan, grabbing onto the lapels of his suit as he hikes the skirt of your dress up and wastes no time pressing two fingers against your clothed cunt. 

“Shh, baby, you gotta be quiet,” he coos, sucking the skin right below your earlobe. “We don’t want anyone to hear, right?”

You suck in a breath, the back of your head resting against the wall when he applies more pressure to your aching clit. “Sh-Shut up, Barnes.”

He chuckles between kisses to your neck. “D’you want me to stop?”

Your eyes shoot open. “No, don’t— Please don’t—!” Dual stimulation of Bucky sucking hard on your neck and drawing circles over your clit forces your hips to buck forward. It’s not your fault that he’s making you sing with pleasure. “B-Bucky, don’t leave a mark—”

“I’m not gonna. Promise,” he says, then promptly breaks his promise by biting the skin above your collarbone. 

“Buck!” you gasp, jerking away from him. “What did I just say?”

He shrugs, a sheepish smile disguised as a beg for forgiveness. 

“Hello?” A voice calls out. “Who’s there?”

You both straighten up like statues, looking at the other with wide eyes. There’s no way that this is happening. The one time that you do something for yourself and you’re about to get caught?

“I’m just here to get my coat,” the voice continues, its volume increasing with each step. Male. A bit timid. “Well, it’s actually my girlfriend’s, but don’t mind me.” 

With that last piece of information, your guess is confirmed. 

“It’s Bruce,” you whisper in Bucky’s ear. “I think.”

He nods and moves to press himself flat against the wall, when you grab his bicep, an idea popping into your head. 

His brows furrow in confusion as you position him with his back to the walkway between the racks and mouth a sorrybefore shoving him out into the open. Right into Bruce’s line of vision. 

“Barnes?” Bruce ask in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky’s mouth sits agape, betrayal etched across his face with his body still facing yours. You cover your mouth in order to stifle the laugh that’s threatening to burst from your lips. 

“I’m, uh…” He turns to Bruce. Think, Bucky, think. “Grabbing my coat. Obviously.”

“Didn’t you… You live in the tower.”

Great thinking, dumbass. “Right, how could I forget?” He chuckles and taps his forehead. “Silly me. I’m getting Sam’s suitcoat. He asked me to grab it for him.”

Bruce studies him for a moment, his head quirking up. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re hiding but,” he reaches for a coat that’s about ten hangers down from where you’re standing, which has Bucky instinctually moving to avoid any possibilty of Bruce seeing you, “I’m gonna leave you to it. Is it alright if I grab Darcy’s coat?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t—” he starts before realizing how close he’s gotten to Bruce in order to protect you. “Sorry, go ahead.” He steps back and scratches the side of his head to mask looking over his shoulder, ensuring that you’re still hidden. 

With Darcy’s coat finally secured, Bruce gives Bucky a once over, noticing the large bulge in his pants. He lifts up the coat and nods at Bucky. “Well, I’ve got what I need. You stay safe out there tonight, Barnes.”

Bucky returns the nod and watches Bruce’s receding figure. “Yes, sir.”

Right as Bruce gets to the side door, he turns around and yells back, “Don’t forget to wear a condom!”

“Did he say what I think he said?” you ask, stepping out of your hiding spot and next to Bucky. 

“Yeah, I think we’re missing the mark on the whole ‘subtlety’ thing.”

You pin him down with a glare. He’s just realizing this now? “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, I’m completely serious. I think he knows.”

“Bucky. In the most loving way possible, you’re an idiot. Of course we’re ‘missing the mark!’ You keep flirting with me out in the open!”

“You don’t have a clean record either! You flirt back just as hard!”

It’s no use fighting him—you could go back and forth for the rest of the night. “Whatever, just— Should we go back to your room? Maybe take out our… frustrations there?”

He shrugs. “Works for me.” 

“‘Works for me'? What is this, a business transaction? Do you wanna have sex or not?”

“What if sex is a business transaction for me?”

“Oh, shut up.”

You’re almost there. The end is in sight, just down the hallway.

You and Bucky managed to maneuver through the party without a single hitch. All that stands in your way is the hallway leading to the elevator. 

Would it be crazy to run? Perhaps. But freedom is so close you can almost taste it. And it’s impossible to keep up with Bucky’s long strides.

One hundred feet until you can pull him into a never ending kiss, not caring if your lipstick smears or he messes up your hair. One hundred feet—and counting—until he can bite and suck and pinch your skin as much as he wants. One hundred—

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, squashing your hope in an instant. What’s even worse is who walks out of the doors. 

Wanda and Vision. Who are thankfully engaged in conversation, but if Wanda were to take one look at the two of you, she’d clock your relationship instantly. 

Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you from the middle of the hallway into the nearest open door. He stops your momentum before you both crash into a shelf full of cleaning supplies and sets his hands on your shoulders. “Are you okay?”

You nod, taking in deep breaths to ease the pounding in your ears. 

“Good,” he sighs, rubbing the sides of your arms up and down to soothe you. “I think they’re—” He waits a moment. “Okay, now they’re gone.”

“Alright, let’s get back to your room—” you start, not getting far with Bucky’s grip holding you in place. Why won’t he let you through? “Buck, let’s leave. To you room? So we don’t get interrupted?”

He kneels in response, What the fuck is he doing? “Bucky, get off the floor.”

He shakes his head and lifts up the skirt of your dress, disappearing under the silky fabric. “Bucky, what the fuck are you— Oh!” you exclaim as his warm fingers roll your panties down your legs, helping you step out of them once he gets to your feet. 

Before you have the chance to ask him yet again what he’s doing, the scruff of his beard scratches your thighs, his tongue parts your folds, searching for the pearl within the shell. You moan, legs going weak as he finds your clit and applies a gentle pressure to the nub, flooding your belly with warmth. 

“Oh my god, Bucky…” Your hands grab onto the previously mentioned shelf, steadying yourself as his lips wrap around your clit and start sucking. You inhale a sharp breath—the band of pleasure building faster than you anticipated—and lean your head back against the shelf. 

Every nerve ending lights up when a finger enters your dripping hole, your walls accepting the intrusion as Bucky adds yet another finger. 

“Holy shit, Bucky, slow down, I can’t—” A loud moan errupts from your chest as he increases the speed of his sucking, your legs starting to shake from the overwhelming pleasure threatening to snap. “Babe, I’m— Fuck, I’m gonna…”

Just when you think he can’t make you moan any louder, his fingers push deep inside until they hit the spot that has you seeing stars, and he crooks them forward. You’re clenching around him, your hips bucking uncontrollably as the combination of his tongue and fingers and just him brings you closer and closer to your release. 

“Bucky, oh god, yes, like that! I’m— I’m so—!” White, hot pleasure crashes over you as you cum around Bucky’s fingers. He doesn’t stop until the bucking of your hips seize, not until he’s pulled every last moan, every last drop of decadence from your cunt. Only then does he reappear from under your dress.

You’re panting against the shelf, eyes still closed as he stands up and tilts your chin to meet his eyes. He smiles and kisses you, the salty taste of your release covering your tongue. “How was that, sweetheart?”

“Good,” you respond, his beard tickling your cheek as you nod. “Incredible…”

“Incredible, huh? That’s a new one.”

You shove him playfully. “Shush.”

He laughs and goes to unbuckle his belt, stopping when you plant a hand into the scruff of his beard and scratch gently. “You’re keeping this.”

“Am I now?”

You nod and replace his hands on his belt with your own. “You’ll keep it if you want to keep fucking me.”

A wide grin spreads across his lips. “I guess it’s staying.”

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[starling-in-the-sky]

Bookmarked

Roommate!Bucky X Reader

Summary: Take two roommates who drive each other up the wall, add one smutty book with a compelling premise, and watch them nearly kill each other. Or kiss. Or both, and then some.

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI) p in v, fingering, praise kink, use of a vibrator, softdom!bucky, a touch of perv!bucky because you know I can’t resist that man

A/N: Y’all, this was a bitch and a half to write, but the idea simply would not leave me alone. It took so many days that I wanted to be spending on other projects, but I rather like how this turned out. Proofread by only me and my human eyes. 

Your book is just starting to get good when Bucky walks into the apartment.

You let out a long-suffering sigh and lean forward, laying the book in your lap and doing your best to focus on the page. Not on the six-foot super soldier you share a wall with, who is currently wrapped like a present in one of those infuriatingly tight compression shirts, his hair still sweaty from his workout. 

“Morning, doll,” he greets you as he tosses his gym bag in the middle of the floor (where it certainly doesn’t belong) and moseys over to the kitchen.

“Morning. You lift those heavy things real good?” you ask, feigning disinterest as you turn a page. “Lift heavier things than the other guy?”

“Something like that,” he replies with a smirk before opening the fridge. “What’re you reading?”

You should have known he would ask. His favorite activity seemed to be bothering you with a million questions while you attempted to read in peace. But you’re sorely unprepared to field questions about this particular book. You already know he’ll give you endless shit if he gets wind of the… scandalous subject matter.

It certainly doesn’t help that you’ve been trying to picture anyone but your annoyingly hot roommate as you read it.

So you evade. “A critically acclaimed novel titled None of Your Business.”

Bucky snorts. “Let me guess. The protagonist is a real smartass.” His attention drifts back to the fridge, and he sighs in frustration. “Who forgot to buy more milk, again.”

You scold yourself internally and shoot him a remorseful look over the edge of the couch. “Oops?”

He rolls his eyes, sauntering into the living room to lean on the back of the couch. “Maybe if you didn’t have your head buried in a book all the time, you’d occasionally observe the things that need doing around our real-world apartment,” he chides.

Childishly, you roll your eyes right back. It keeps them from lingering on the way the veins stand out from his forearm, or how his biceps (flesh and metal) strain against the sleeves of his shirt, or how he’s looking down at you like you’re his favorite problem in the world.

And then he leans closer, peering over your shoulder to get a look at what you’re reading. 

Nope. You snap the book shut, tuck it under your arm, and head in the direction of your room. “I’ll leave the observing to the bionic staring machine, thank you very much.”

“Where you going?” he asks.

“To read in peace,” you say over your shoulder. “You talk too much.”

“Try not to miss me,” he calls after you as you shut the door. You can hear the smirk in it even if you don’t see it. Annoyance, followed by a heat that you don’t dare to examine, crawls under your skin, itchy and uncomfortable.

So much for peace, you think as you flop onto the bed and crack open your book again.

Bucky can tell when you’re hiding something from him. It’s really not hard - you’re a terrible liar, worse at keeping secrets. It's actually sort of adorable - almost as adorable as how mad you get when he finds you out.

And it would be a waste of his training in intelligence work if he didn’t try to figure out what you’re keeping from him.

The first step is to get your defenses down, so Bucky makes a stop on the way home from his briefing with Sam. 

When he unlocks the door and steps through the threshold, he finds you reclined on the couch, book in hand, the cover surreptitiously hidden behind your propped up knees. Bucky feigns innocence and places the bag from Din Soup on the counter with a flourish. “I got takeout.”

You groan in relief, pry yourself out of the you-shaped dent in the couch, and tuck your book under your arm. “Thank god, I'm starving.”

Bucky unpacks the order, and you both begin to fill your plates from the various containers. Unable to resist, he pokes you with a pair of chopsticks and asks, “Still reading your secret book?”

“It's not secret,” you reply, your tone suspiciously even. You have a terrible poker face.

“Oh yeah? What’s it about?” he prods, dropping a stray lo mein noodle into his mouth.

You shoot him a withering look. “It’s about the world’s most annoying roommate.”

“Sounds dumb,” he retorts with his mouth full. “Who’d write a book about you?”

“Hilarious. Pass the soup dumplings, idiot,” you demand, shoving his shoulder with all the strength of a malnourished chihuahua.

How can he not smile at that, when you call him ‘idiot’ like it’s a term of endearment? Still, he doesn’t allow it to distract him. “You didn’t answer my question,” he presses after handing you the requested container.

“Didn’t i?” Your eyes are on the takeout again, avoiding his.

“You don’t want me to know what you’re reading.” He says it less like an accusation and more like a statement of fact.

You let out that frustrated little huff he adores, the one you save for the special brand of exasperation only he can bring out in you. “God, you are just allergic to minding your own business, aren’t you?”

“Is it a romance?” he teases, looking for a reaction.

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

It’s not a denial, and you still won’t look at him, so Bucky suspects that he’s on the trail. “It is, isn’t it? That’s why you don’t wanna tell me.” 

He leans on the counter and gives you a devilish grin. “Let me guess, it’s some Pride and Prejudice-style romance with lots of yearning and accidental hand touching and quivering.”

You cock an eyebrow in response. “Quivering?”

“Lots.”

Again, you roll your eyes so hard, Bucky's surprised they don’t pop right out of your skull. “You know what? You got me. I'm a huge fan of the quiver genre.” 

You turn to carry your plate to the couch, and Bucky sees an opening. A metal hand flashes out and plucks the book from underneath your arm before you have time to react.

There’s a loud clatter as you drop your plate on the counter and whirl around to face him. “Hey!” you protest, reaching out to snatch it back, but it’s already too late. He jerks it away from you and examines the cover with curiosity.

And it’s not what he expected at all.

It’s better.

Emblazoned on the cover is an artist’s rendering of an attractive man with piercing blue eyes, his shirt unbuttoned scandalously low to reveal a muscular chest. The title is equally as interesting.

“Praise?” he reads off the cover, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

Your cheeks flush scarlet as you try again to grab the book out of his hands. “Bucky, give that back or I swear-“

Fortunately, Bucky is much faster and much taller than you, and he keeps the book out of your reach easily. “Oh my god, you’ve been reading smut. Right in the middle of our apartment.” 

The mere idea makes his cock twitch with interest - he’s only a man after all. And to think of all those times you sat in the same room as him while you read literary porn, trying to keep a straight face, maybe trying to keep from pressing your thighs together-

As compelling as that mental image is, the reality of you in front of him is even more entertaining. “Please stop,” you beg, covering your burning face with your hands.

But Bucky is having far too much fun to stop. 

“Is it any good?” he asks playfully, making a show of leafing through the pages.

“I- I haven’t formed an opinion yet,” you stammer, your blush turning impossibly deeper. You jump in an attempt to steal back the book. “Now give it back!”

Still he holds it out of your reach, then plants a palm on your head like a child to keep you away, laughing as you struggle uselessly against him. He squints to read the blurb on the back. The first line is so incriminating that he just has to read it aloud. 

“‘She's a good girl, but she’s falling for the wrong man’?” 

Vibrating with rage, you break free from his grip. “I will fucking kill you, I swear to god!” You lunge for the book, essentially climbing him like a furious monkey to get to it.

“Jesus, will you relax? I’m trying to read.” He plays nonchalant even as he tries to shake you off, enjoying himself immensely.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I will stab you with a pair of chopsticks!” You grab a pair off the counter, and you look so enraged that for a moment, Bucky believes you might actually try to use them.

“Okay, okay!” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. You make a move for the book, and he once again jerks it away. “Put down the utensils, take a breath, and I'll give it back.”

After a moment of consideration, you drop the chopsticks on the counter with a scowl. Bucky takes an exaggerated breath in, gesturing for you to follow. Even though the anger radiating off you is palpable, you take a deep breath anyway.

Bucky holds out the book in front of you, flashes his most disarming smile, and says, “Good girl.”

Your eyes widen, your face flushing all over again. You snatch the book, grab your plate from the counter, and hiss, “You are insufferable.” Then you turn on your heel and stomp off to your room, slamming the door like a teenager.

Bucky snickers under his breath.

You know that won’t be the end of it, before you even slam your door.

Bucky loves to torment you, and the bigger a reaction he gets, the more likely he is to continue. You shouldn’t have let yourself be so angry, so obviously embarrassed, but no one could get under your skin like him. In the months you’d been living together, he’d successfully located almost every single button you had and pressed them at will. Now that he’d found a new button, there was no way he’d leave it untouched.

By some stroke of luck, you manage to avoid him the following morning until you leave for work. Nothing to distract you like an absolutely punishing eight hour shift of work. When quitting time comes around, you feel dead on your feet, and probably look worse.

Your reward for a hard day’s work? Bucky, splayed out on the couch like an Epicurean figure in an Italian painting, eyes sparkling with mischief as soon as you walk in the door.

“The prodigal roommate returns.” 

“I’m not in the mood,” you deadpan as you drop your keys in the dish.

“In the mood for what?” he asks innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

You suppress a sigh and open the fridge. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Bucky sits up, eyeing the grocery store bag in your hand. “You bought milk?”

“Yes, Bucky.” Unable to keep the snipe out of your voice, you all but toss the jug into the fridge and push the door shut. “I do remember to do the things you ask me to every once in a while.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Good girl.”

You’d been preparing for it mentally, but when the words fall from his lips, it’s like the first time he said it all over again. Your face superheats in record time, shame mixing with something else in your stomach. Something like arousal.

Because, despite your annoyance and embarrassment, you’d liked it.

“I - you -” Sputtering and angry and annoyingly turned on, you make an incoherent noise of frustration and stalk off to your room again.

You don’t slam the door this time. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction. But the image of his smirk as you close the door burns into your eyelids.

————————————

Bucky hasn’t had this much fun in a while.

This little discovery he’d made is the gift that keeps on giving. It’s just too easy. All it takes is a compliment, deliberately worded, and you whip around with a flush in your cheeks and a storm in your eyes. He gets the best reaction with those two little words that have become his favorite in the whole dictionary. Two little syllables that light you up like a match every single time.

The only drawback is that he can’t stop thinking about what you’d look like if he said those words to you in more… compromising positions. These brief, fleeting fantasies were becoming distracting, borderline problematic. He's had to stop wearing sweatpants around the apartment. Even still, he has no intention of letting this go.

Bucky's reverie is broken by the opening of your door. Whatever teasing jibe he’d been thinking up in the last five minutes while washing the dishes dissolves in his brain like soap in hot water. You’re wearing that little skirt he likes, the one with the slight flare that swishes when you walk and the hem that rides the line between appropriate and decidedly inappropriate.

“I’ll be back late,” you inform him casually as you attempt to keep your balance while slipping on your heels. “Don’t wait up.”

The motion causes the hem of your skirt to ride up. Bucky doesn’t even pretend not to stare. “Where you headed?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a date.” You pull out your phone to check your appearance, fiddling with an earring and adjusting your lipstick.

Bucky raises an eyebrow as he dries a plate. “A date, huh?”

“Easy with the tone of surprise, Barnes," you return playfully, though your expression betrays a hint of nerves as you try to get your hair to fall just so.

Though he’d never admit it, the idea of you going out on a date with some guy is doing complicated things to Bucky's head and heart. Both of you had gone on your fair share of failed dates since you moved in together. But that was before… well, before.

The way you frown at your reflection in the phone makes something twist in Bucky's chest. He dries his hands and faces you. “Stop fussing, doll. You look beautiful.”

That gets you to look up from your phone, surprised, then wary. “Are - are you making fun of me again?”

“No, I mean it,” he replies earnestly. “You always look beautiful.”

The words seem to break past your defenses. Your eyes widen, and you swallow nervously, but you put your phone into your purse and you stop touching your hair so much.

As you hunt for your wallet and keys, Bucky asks, because he has to. “So, who’s the guy?”

“Liam. From the corner store.”

And Bucky's good mood is officially ruined.

Liam. The corner store manager who flirts shamelessly with you every chance he gets, who has been sniffing after you for months now. The one who had made you blush last week when he complimented your smile, and had Bucky seeing red all the way from the drinks aisle.

“Yeah, I know who Liam is,” he mumbles, wadding up the dishtowel and tossing it on the counter childishly.

“Why are you making that face?” you ask, hooking your purse over your shoulder. "He's nice.”

Bucky starts putting away the dishes with a little more force than necessary. "He's nice to you, because he’s been trying to get in your pants since you moved in. He's a sleaze.”

You plant your hands on your hips stubbornly. “He is not. He’s single, he’s cute, he’s employed-”

“You have got to get higher standards than that,” he snipes. He hates how jealous he sounds, how pathetic.

“Okay, what’s got your panties in a twist?” you demand, voice sharpening.

That’s when Bucky snaps. Determined to get the upper hand, he steps in towards you and says in a deceptively calm voice, “I don't wear panties, but I'll bet five dollars that you’re wearing your date night panties right now.”

He knows he’s probably gone too far, but it works, because your jaw drops, and your cheeks turn an alarming shade of red. “Excuse me?”

Bucky smirks. “Y’know, the lacy blue ones you wear when you’re trying to get laid.” The little gasp that escapes your mouth tells him he’s right on the money, which only makes him grin wider. 

“You are such a pervert!” You grab the wadded up dishtowel off the counter and throw it at him. “You’ve been scoping out my underwear?”

“Can’t exactly help it when you parade around in those short little skirts while you’re getting ready,” he retorts.

Indignant, you tug down the hem of your skirt self-consciously and snarl, “You’re an asshole.” The sound of your heels pounding the hardwood echoes off the walls as you angrily stride to the front door.

Bucky can’t resist one more dig. “Don't worry, I'm sure Liam will love them. Maybe he’ll give you some of that praise you want so bad.”

You grab your coat and shoot one last fiery glance back at him. “Fuck. You.”

“You should let him borrow your book,” he calls after you, just to get the last word. “Have him take notes!”

But the door has already slammed, and he’s shouting at the coatrack. Bucky sighs and drags a frustrated hand over his face.

Pathetic.

You’re so angry you could spit.

Getting asked on a date was the one non-humiliating thing that happened to you all week, and Bucky managed to sour your mood before it even started. And now you are sitting across from a perfectly nice guy who is buying you dinner, and all you can think about is your goddamn roommate.

It's so completely unfair, because Liam is great. He's good-looking, and charming, and even occasionally funny. This might have been a really nice date, if you weren’t so hot under the collar and humiliatingly damp between your legs thinking about the argument you’d had with Bucky.

By the time you both finish your meals, it’s clear to the both of you that your mind is elsewhere and your heart isn’t in it. You apologize, twisting your napkin in your lap. Liam offers you a wan smile and pays the bill, and says something about next time.

You already know there won’t be a next time.

Fueled by two glasses of wine and the fury of a woman mocked too many times, you stomp down the hallway and throw open the apartment door, violently wrestling off your coat.

Predictably, Bucky is reclined on the couch, looking at his phone until your entrance startles him back to the present. “Thought you said you’d be back late.”

You huff angrily, freeing yourself from your coat and tossing it in the direction of the coatrack, and then turn on Bucky. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Come again?” he asks, sitting up.

You kick off your heels and plant yourself firmly by the arm of the couch. “You know, what I read in the privacy of my own home is nobody’s business, especially not yours. It's perfectly healthy and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He opens his mouth to throw some asinine comment back at you, but you steamroll him. “And I don’t appreciate you trying to constantly humiliate me in my own fucking apartment!”

Silence hangs in the air a moment as he absorbs your words and you catch your breath. 

“Finished?” Bucky asks patiently, like he’s got all the time in the world.

You toss your hair out of your eyes and try to regain some composure. “For the moment.”

He sits forward, deeply amused. “Good for you, standing up for yourself. Wasn’t sure you had it in you. I'm proud of you, sweetheart.”

That turns you nuclear. You rip your purse off your shoulder and huck it towards him. “Stop fucking praising me!”

He flinches back from the flying projectile. “Jesus, what’s gotten into you?” Bucky gets to his feet and walks towards you, that maddening smirk reappearing on his face. “I guess nothing, since you came home before ten p.m. just to scream at me. Is that the problem? Are we a little… frustrated?”

You refuse to take the bait. “Why are you fucking with me like this?” you demand.

His smirk turns wicked. “Because you’re cute when you’re so wound up.”

You will your cheeks not to flush. “I'm being serious, Bucky.”

“So am I,” he insists, walking even closer. You step back to try and put some space between you, but Bucky pursues you. “You scrunch up your nose and your eyes get all fiery. And you get this little crease between your eyebrows.” 

He reaches up a hand and gently strokes it across the space between your brows. “Right here. Drives me crazy.”

Your brain fully bluescreens for a moment. It occurs to you that you’ve been holding your breath, that your back is suddenly pressed to the wall. When had he backed you into the wall?

You swallow nervously. “You… what are you doing?” 

His eyes pin you to the spot. Everywhere you look, Bucky is there. He's so close he fills your vision, so close you can breathe in his cologne. What is happening right now? your brain practically screams.

His thumb moves, tracing along the edge of your jaw. “And the best part is watching you pretend you don’t like it,” he murmurs. “That it doesn’t turn you on when I tell you how good you’re being for me.”

That sends a wave of heat through your whole body, resolving in a demanding throb between your thighs. Half of you is sure that he’s still making fun of you, and the other half needs to hear him say it again.

“Tell me why you came home early from your date.” It's not a request, and the low rasp of his voice makes you want to do anything he tells you to.

“I… I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you admit, because it’s impossible to think of a lie when he’s standing so close, when he’s touching you like this.

He hums to himself, pleased, his thumb stroking thoughtfully across your lower lip now. “You think about me when you’re reading that filthy little book of yours?”

You try to look anywhere but his face. “I-”

Bucky takes hold of your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, angling you up to look at him. “Tell the truth, doll.”

“…Yes.” 

“Good girl.”

You’re embarrassingly wet now, thighs shifting against each other to try and ease the building need. And he knows - you can see in his eyes that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and it’s not a game to him anymore.

Bucky’s hand wanders lower, down your arm, down the slope of your waist. It lingers there, tracing lazy circles through the material of your shirt. He leans dangerously close, his face inches from yours. “You picture me when you turn on that vibrator, thinkin’ I can't hear all those little noises you make?”

Your eyes go wide. white-hot humiliation and even hotter arousal races through your veins. “You- you can hear that?”

“Super soldier hearing, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear. “I heard it every time. Surprised you couldn’t hear me fisting my cock on the other side of the wall just to the sound of you.” You can feel his lips against the shell of your ear, his breath against your neck as he purrs, “You sound so sweet when you come.”

Your knees might have given out if he didn’t have you pinned to the wall. “Oh my god,” you breathe, your head falling back against the wall.

You feel the ghost of his smile at your ear, even if you can’t see it. “It's not enough, is it? You need something real, don’t you?”

The slight shock of cold metal jolts you as his left hand brushes at the skin of your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt. Bucky pulls back just far enough to look you in the eye.

“Tell me what you want.”

You’re too far gone for denial or shame anymore. “Fuck, I- I want you,” you practically whimper. “Please.”

“Good girl,” he replies, and then his lips crash into yours.

It’s a claim, a promise, and a preview all rolled into one. His mouth is hot and commanding against yours, and his tongue easily parts your lips and slips between them like it was always meant to be there. Your hands fly to the back of his neck, to his hair, tugging at the nape without meaning to, just needing something to keep you upright. He doesn’t seem to mind - in fact, he groans into the kiss like he wants you to do it again.

His thigh slots between yours, easing your legs apart for him. You can feel him, rock hard and pressed against your hip. A gasp rips through your lungs, and you grind down onto his thigh on instinct. You cunt pulses gratefully, glad to finally have some semblance of contact. You rock against him again and again, the needy sounds you’re making swallowed by his mouth against yours.

Suddenly, Bucky breaks the kiss and his vibranium hand pins your hips to the wall. You whine, aching for more. You aren’t wanting for long, because his other hand slips beneath the hem of your skirt. When he strokes you through your damp underwear, he curses under his breath. You shudder and bite back a moan.

“Jesus, doll,” he mutters, forehead pressed against yours. “You've been like this since you walked in, haven’t you?”

“Since we fought,” you reply, breathless, trembling as he strokes you again.

Bucky lets out an almost pained groan and leans in, bypassing your lips to nip at your jaw. “You were on a date with another guy, soaked and thinking about me the whole time?” His fingers trace the edge of your panties.

“Yes,” you pant, your hips squirming uselessly against his grip. “Yes, please, Bucky, please just touch me.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs in your ear, then plants a kiss in the hollow just below it. “I’ll take care of you.”

He nudges the dampened fabric to the side and you feel a warm, calloused finger drag through your folds. Your hips try and fail to chase his hand, still pinned in place by metal and gentle force. 

The hand between your legs keeps moving, teasing, and Bucky pulls back to look at you again. “You gonna be good for me?”

“Yes, god, please, I’ll be good,” you whine desperately.

He smiles, cruel and beautiful and devastating. “I know you will.”

Then he pushes a finger inside of you, and your brain shuts down completely. Mercifully, the heel of his hand offers some friction against your clit as he pumps his finger in and out. You cling to his shoulders for stability, forehead falling forward against his collarbone.

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you. “Hold onto me. Christ, you’re tight. Can you take another one?”

“Please,” you whisper.

Another finger slides in along the first, and you gasp against his chest, the stretch delicious and consuming. Bucky keeps the same unhurried pace, but there’s a ragged quality to his breathing that tells you he’s not completely unaffected. 

“You feel like heaven,” he mumbles. “Can’t wait to be inside you, feel you squeeze my cock just like this.”

You hadn’t even thought that far ahead, and the prospect sends a thrill racing through you. He makes a come hither motion with his fingers that makes you cry out sharply.

“Close already?” he teases, and he does it again, humming his approval as your whole body tenses around it. “My sweet girl. So sensitive. So needy.”

His words draw a pathetic whimper from your throat. Bucky increases his pace, releases your hip in favor of placing his left hand at your throat. The cool metal only presses hard enough to ease you back against the wall, giving him room to look at you properly.

“Wanna see you fall apart on my fingers,” he rasps. “Wanna see if you look as pretty as you sound through the wall.”

Your hips buck into his hand, rolling with each stroke of his fingers inside you. He moves his thumb directly over your clit, circling it in time, and your orgasm burns through you, sudden and scorching.

Bucky’s hand keeps moving between you as you ride it out, the intensity of his gaze on your face warm like a heat lamp. Your incoherent cries of his name taper off to whimpers, and he carefully withdraws his fingers from you.

His lips find your temple. “Perfect. That was perfect, sweetheart.” He steadies you, since you can barely stand on your own, and kisses you tenderly, a stark contrast to everything that came before.

As infuriating as he can be sometimes, this is also a part of who Bucky is. He's the guy who cooks you dinner, who always lets you pick what movie to watch, who calls you beautiful and perfect like he really means it.

You melt against him, arms draping lazily around his neck as he kisses you. You'd be perfectly content to kiss him just like this for hours, but you can still feel his neglected erection between you, straining against the fabric of his jeans, and it sparks interest and want all over again.

Trailing a hand down his chest and abdomen, you grasp the waistband of his jeans, your fingers curling inside and brushing against his skin. Bucky responds enthusiastically, nipping at your bottom lip before locking eyes with you. “Your bed or mine?” he asks breathlessly.

“Don’t care,” you reply, leaning forward to drag your lips across his throat. 

“Yours is closer.” He scoops you up, hitching your legs around his waist. Unable to resist, he takes advantage of the position to press you into the wall again, rutting himself against your ruined panties.

“Bucky, bed,” you remind him, even as the friction threatens to pull another moan out of you.

His throat works as he fights for composure. “Right. Bed.”

Bucky carries you to your room, nudges the door open with his foot, and makes his way to the bed. With the way he’s kissing you, you expect to be laid down like something fragile. Instead, he drops you unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Bucky!” you yelp, getting a few inches of air as you bounce on the mattress.

He grins boyishly and settles over you. Clothes are peeled away - first his shirt, followed by yours. He finds the zipper on the side of your skirt and lowers it slowly like he’s unwrapping a gift, then tugs the skirt down your legs and tosses it onto the floor. Bucky runs a finger along the inside of the waistband of your panties, the lacy blue ones, and playfully snaps the elastic. “I knew it.”

You huff in exasperation and reach for the button on his jeans. “Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

Bucky laughs out loud. “There she is.” He unzips his fly and shoves his jeans down and off. “First it’s ‘please touch me, Bucky, I’ll be good,’ and now it’s ‘shut up and fuck me’?”

He does shut up, finally, when you palm him through his boxers, a guttural groan falling from his lips.

“You talk too much,” you murmur, pulling him down to you.

Bucky makes short work of removing your bra, then runs his eyes over your chest in greedy appreciation. He palms both of your breasts, marveling at the way you arch up into his touch, the mewling sound that breaks out of your throat when he rolls a nipple between his fingers.

“Bucky, please hurry up,” you groan.

“So we’re back to ‘please’, then.” 

“I hate you.”

He presses his lips to the swell of your breast and begins to pull down your underwear. “No, you don’t.”

When your panties and his boxers are both removed, you finally get an eyeful of him. Truthfully (and irritatingly), it’s the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen. Fairly long, thick, with a well-groomed dusting of hair at the base. It’s flushed beautifully and beading with arousal. He catches you staring with your lower lip caught between your teeth and smirks. “See something you like?”

“Definitely.” You open your legs invitingly for him. “What about you?”

He stares, swallows, settles between your legs again and asks, “Condom?”

“Bedside table drawer,” you reply automatically, only realizing your error when he’s already pulling it open. “Wait-”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky gasps as he pulls out the little pink vibrator that’s nestled between the box of condoms and your body lotion. He examines it with unbridled interest. “So this is what makes that buzzing sound, huh?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Please stop.”

“Absolutely not. This little guy and I are gonna get acquainted. Now, how do you -” He finds the button, and the machine hums to life in his hands. His eyes flash with mischief. “Huh.”

“Okay, you’ve had your fun. Put it back.” You reach for it, and he yanks it away.

“Doll, I've barely even started.” Bucky takes the vibrator and pushes it right against your clit.

It’s too much pleasure, too fast. You gasp like you’ve been electrocuted, your hand flying to his wrist. “Holy shit!” you cry, torn between pushing his hand away and keeping it there.

“Interesting,” he mutters as he watches your face with rapt attention. Your breath starts to come heavier, your hips start to shift and move under the little object in his hand. You see a lightbulb go off behind his eyes, and he takes your hand off his wrist and moves it to the vibrator. “Be a good girl and hold that there for me, huh?”

Your jaw practically drops, but god help you, you obey. Bucky takes his time reaching into the drawer for a condom, rolling it onto his cock, giving himself a few lazy strokes as he watches you squirm.

“Bucky,” you pant, “please.”

He moves close, replaces your hand with his own, but doesn’t remove the vibrator. You can feel the tip of him pressing at your entrance. “You ready for me, baby?”

“Yes, please, yes.”

Bucky begins to push in.

Once again, he takes his time, and some distant part of your brain wonders where all the seemingly endless patience and self-control comes from. But most of your brain whites out, consumed with the feeling of Bucky’s cock stretching you, compounded with the steady hum of the vibrator against your clit.

When he’s halfway inside and your nails start digging into his back, you feel his breath at your ear. “Easy, sweetheart. Almost there. You’re doing so good for me.”

You moan in reply, and like he’s spoken some kind of secret password, your body opens up for him, relaxes around him, and allows him to slide home. 

Bucky groans into your neck as you helplessly clench around him. “God, you’re fucking unreal.” 

When he starts to move, you are absolutely done for. He snaps his hips against yours like he has something to prove, and maybe he does. He doesn’t let up with the vibrator, either - he starts moving it in little circles against you.

You get close embarrassingly fast, yet again. Your hips rock up to meet his on every thrust, your body bowing against his. 

“You have no idea how much I've thought about this,” he whispers. “How many times I imagined you coming apart on my cock just like this.” You feel cold vibranium grasping behind your thigh, lifting your leg to open you even further for him. Your eyes roll back when the angle changes and his cock drags against that spot that had you unraveling against the wall earlier.

“Oh my god, Bucky,” you keen, your nails scratching lines up his shoulder blades.

“Come on, good girl, let me feel it,” he growls against your neck.

The buzz, the feeling of him slamming into you, those two little words in your ear - all of it breaks you. A loud moan claws its way out of you, and you lose control of your muscles, thighs shaking, walls clamping around him as pleasure surges through you. 

Above you, Bucky loses his grip on the vibrator and it falls somewhere in the rumpled sheets, still buzzing faintly. His hips stutter, then surge forward as he tries to get as deep as he can. “Oh, fuck, fuck-”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, a groan bordering on a whimper in the shape of your name forcing itself from his lungs. He thrusts shallowly once, twice, and collapses against you, spent.

The two of you lay there for a moment, catching your breath, your bodies sweat-slick, Bucky softening inside you.

“Goddamn,” he mutters between breaths. “I didn't think I was gonna come that quick. I was planning to give you at least two more.”

You smile, giving him a condescending pat on the back. “Don't worry about it, champ. Happens to the best of us.”

“Says the girl who soaked my hand in the living room,” he retorts, scowling.

“Well, maybe next time, we’ll see if you can last longer, minuteman.”

Bucky picks his head up, eyes sparkling. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

Of course that’s the only part he heard. “Only if you’re very, very good.” You tap his nose affectionately, and he chuckles.

The denouement sets in as Bucky carefully pulls out of you and disposes of the condom, and you wobble to the bathroom to pee and throw on an oversized t-shirt. When you return, Bucky is sitting on the edge of your bed, looking a little pleased with himself, but mostly pleased with you.

“I think that’s my shirt,” he softly accuses you, his fingers toying with the hem.

“Super soldiers who don’t do their own laundry get their shirt rights revoked.” You stand between his knees and weave your fingers into his hair. “I'm sorry I threw my purse at you.”

“I’m sorry for teasing you,” he replies, hands brushing at the backs of your thighs.

“No, you’re not.”

Bucky grins. “No, I'm not. It got me into your bed, after all.”

You roll your eyes. “Speaking of my bed…” You flop down onto the mattress and stretch, a sleepy expression on your face. “I’m beat.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that my cue to go?”

“Doesn’t have to be.” You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Wanna have a sleepover?”

His grin widens, and he turns off the lamp before flopping down next to you. “Scoot over, doll, you’re hogging the whole mattress.”

It surprises you how easy, how playful things are between the two of you now. As he wraps his arms around you and draws you close, it occurs to you that you could have fucked him ages ago and saved the two of you a whole lot of arguing and frustration. The thought slips away from you as you drift off, bone-tired and satisfied and, for the first time all week, at peace.

Bucky feels the warmth of you next to him before he even opens his eyes, and he’s already smiling. Wrapped in sheets that smell of laundry soap and sex and you, he rolls over with a quiet groan and sees you in the morning light.

You’re reading your smutty little book, openly, without a care for the fact that he’s right beside you. You don’t look up at him yet, but the smallest of smiles tugs at the corner of your mouth, like you’ve been waiting for him to find you like this.

He shifts closer, snaking an arm around your waist and kissing your jaw. “Morning, good girl,” he rumbles.

You turn the page, pretending that it has no effect on you, but he watches your cheekbones tinge pink. “You gonna stop beating that dead horse any time soon?” 

“Only when it stops being funny,” he replies with a smirk. “Or when you stop liking it so much.”

“Stop talking. I'm reading.”

He sighs and lays his stubbled cheek against your shoulder, his eyes curiously scanning the page along with you. You decide to let him - there’s not exactly any harm in it now.

After about thirty seconds, he cringes. “Doll, this is awful.”

“I know. but it’s also really hot.” you elbow him playfully. “Kinda like you.”

Bucky hums thoughtfully, losing interest in the book and becoming much more interested in you. He begins to cover your neck in lazy, open-mouthed kisses, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your t-shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.

“Bucky,” you warn, “I said I'm reading.” The warning has no real conviction, and it’s even less believable when his hands begin to wander and your legs part on instinct,

He pulls back the covers and settles between your thighs. “So keep reading.” Bucky nudges up the hem of your t-shirt and kisses your navel, before trailing lower.

You chuckle breathlessly, but you don’t put the book down. Not yet.

[slutdier]

❝ 𝑴𝑰𝑪𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑪𝑶𝑷𝑰𝑪 ? 𝑻𝑹𝒀 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑽𝑬 ❞

You spent the night roasting Bucky’s dick like it was the size of a Tic Tac. He spent the night proving it’s a weapon of mass destruction. By morning, your throat’s wrecked, your legs won’t close, and the only word you can choke out is “big.”

bucky barnes x f!reader

word count : 2,7k

warnings 18+ : bickering, mocking, rough sex, oral (m recieving), face-fucking with gagging/tears, vaginal penetration, spanking, hair-pulling, manhandling, degrading dirty talk (slut, whore, brat, cunt), brat-taming, size kink/painful stretching, squirting, creampie

author’s note : pls this is literally just a crack fic 💀💀 the two weeks of being sick finally caught up to me, I’m fully blaming the antibiotics for whatever this is.

You’d been poking the bear all goddamn evening, ever since Bucky swaggered into the Avengers compound lounge like he was the king of the fucking world. Fresh off a brutal sparring session, sweat dripping down his neck in rivulets that soaked into his tight black shirt, clinging obscenely to every carved ridge of his abs, those broad shoulders, that chiseled chest heaving just enough to make your mouth water.

His metal arm gleamed under the lights as he flexed it casually, popping the cap off a beer with a flick of his vibranium fingers. And yeah, you were staring, couldn’t help it, your eyes tracing the bulge in his grey sweats that hinted at something dangerous.

He caught you, of course. That cocky, wolfish smirk spread slow across his stubbled face, blue eyes darkening with pure filth as he lounged back on the couch, legs spread wide like he was daring you to climb on and ride.

“See somethin’ you like, dollface?” he drawled, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over silk, taking a long swig of beer that made his throat bob. “Or you just window-shoppin’ ‘cause you know you can’t afford the ride?”

You snorted, crossing your arms under your tits on purpose, pushing them up until your cleavage spilled over the edge of your tank top, petty little mind games, but fuck, it felt good watching his gaze drop there for a split second.

“Please, Barnes. It’s all smoke and mirrors with you. That super-soldier serum pumped up the muscles, sure, made you all big and scary but down south? Bet it’s a pathetic little shrimp. Tiny. Micro-dick energy. I’d need a fuckin’ magnifying glass and a prayer just to spot it hiding in those pubes.”

His laugh was dark, sinful, rolling out slow and unhurried as he set the beer down with a deliberate clink, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.

“Oh yeah? Keep runnin’ that smart mouth, sweetheart, and I’ll haul your teasing ass over here, shove your pretty face right in my crotch, and make you get a real close-up inspection. Bet you’d be droolin’ and beggin’ to choke on it before you even finish your little measurement.”

You stepped closer, hips swaying slow and deliberate, chin tilted up in pure defiance, even as heat pooled hot and slick between your thighs.

“Drag me, huh? Big talk from a guy overcompensating so hard. Go ahead, Bucky, whip it out. I’ll squint real hard and be like, ‘Wait, is that it? Or just a wrinkle in your ballsack?’ Face it, tin man: massive ego, microscopic cock. Classic.”

That snapped it. His jaw clenched, eyes flashing like thunderclouds, and in a blur too fast for normal eyes, he surged up, towering over you like a goddamn predator. One massive hand, flesh and warm, clamped around your wrist in an iron grip, yanking you forward until you slammed against his hard chest.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish, brat? Or are you just that desperate to get your holes ruined by the ‘tiny’ dick you’re obsessing over?” He ground against you deliberately, that thick, hardening bulge in his sweats pressing insistently into your belly, hot, heavy, impossible to ignore, making your breath hitch and your pussy clench traitorously.

“Say the word, doll, and I’ll ruin that sassy little mouth first. Force you to choke on every veiny inch you’re pretending ain’t there. Bet you’d be gagging and crying pretty tears in seconds.”

You twisted in his hold, not really trying to escape just enough to feel the thrill of his superhuman strength pinning you. “Ruined? With what, your thumb? Come on soldier boy, prove me wrong. Show me the goods. I promise I won’t burst out laughing… much.”

“Fucking brat,” he snarled, voice dripping venom and lust, spinning you around like you weighed nothing and marching you backward until your ass smacked against the arm of the couch. His flesh hand fisted in your tank top, ripping it clean up and over your head with a savage yank, fabric tearing slightly for emphasis, leaving you in your skimpy sports bra, nipples already hard and poking through like needy little peaks.

Cool air hit your skin, goosebumps racing over you, but it was his gaze, hungry, feral, promising total destruction that had your core throbbing, slick dripping down your thighs already. “On your goddamn knees, now. Or I’ll flip you over first, spank that smart ass raw until you’re begging to suck me off just to make it stop.”

You dropped slow, teasingly slow, knees thudding into the carpet, the impact vibrating straight to your aching clit. Eyes locked on his, you hooked your fingers into his waistband, tugging those sweats down inch by torturous inch, savoring the way his breath hitched.

And then, holy fucking shit, it sprang free like a coiled beast unleashed. Heavy, throbbing, veined like ropes under velvet skin, the fat head flushed angry purple and already leaking a fat bead of pre-cum. Easily nine inches, maybe more of thick, girthy perfection, curving up with that wicked hook that screamed ruin, thick as your goddamn wrist, balls heavy and drawn up tight. Not small. Apocalyptic. Pussy-destroying.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you whispered, breath ghosting over it, making it twitch. Your fingers wrapped around the base, barely fucking meeting and gave a slow, experimental pump, thumb swiping that salty pre-cum to smear it down the shaft, watching it glisten obscenely.

Bucky’s hand, metal one this time, cool and unyielding tangled viciously in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough to sting, forcing you to crane up and meet his smug, triumphant grin.

“What was that, doll? Cat got your filthy tongue? Thought you needed a magnifying glass to find it. Go ahead, inspect the ‘little shrimp’ that’s gonna split your tight cunt wide open later. Open that cocky mouth and suck it. Show me how fuckin’ hilarious it is now.”

You glared up through watering eyes, pulse pounding in your ears, but goddamn, your mouth was flooding with saliva, pussy clenching empty and desperate.

“Arrogant asshole,” you muttered, but leaned in anyway, tongue flicking out to trace the thick vein underside from his heavy balls all the way to the slit, salty, musky, pure Bucky and he hissed sharp, hips bucking involuntarily.

“That’s it- lick it like the desperate slut you are. Tell me how ‘tiny’ it tastes while it’s leaking down your chin.” His voice was pure filth, mocking and low, flesh hand joining the metal to grip your skull as he guided you closer, the cool vibranium sending shivers down your spine.

You parted your swollen lips, sucking the fat head in with a wet, obscene slurp, tongue swirling the ridge, tasting that bitter pre-cum as you hollowed your cheeks. He groaned deep, guttural, fingers tightening.

But you weren’t surrendering easy. You sank down halfway, throat already protesting the girth then pulled off with a filthy pop, spit strings dangling from your chin to his glistening cock. “Mmm. Okay, bigger than expected. But hey- could still be a fluke. Maybe it’s all show, no go. Jury’s still out, Barnes.”

“You- fuckin’- insufferable- little- cunt,” he growled, words punctuated by thrusts as both hands clamped your head like a vice, flesh and metal, and he shoved forward, feeding you inch after thick inch until your throat spasmed, gagging wetly around him.

Tears sprung instant, mascara probably running, as you braced on his rock-hard thighs, nails digging crescents into muscle. He didn’t ease up, rolling his hips in shallow, merciless pumps, the gluck-gluck-gluck of your stuffed throat echoing lewdly, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth.

“Jury’s out? Look at you- drooling like a brainless whore, choking and crying on my fat cock, eyes all watery and desperate and you still got that smart mouth? Take it deeper, liar. Nose to my pubes or admit you’re full of shit.”

You gurgled something incoherent, probably “fuck you” but it vibrated down his shaft, pulling a ragged “Goddamn, yes, just like that” from him.

Saliva poured down your chin, soaking your bra, dripping onto your tits as you fought, relaxing your jaw, nose flaring for air until finally, lips stretched wide around the base, nose buried in coarse pubic hair, balls smushed against your chin, throat bulging visibly like a porn star.

You held it, defiant glare up at him through tears, throat convulsing in protest but begging for more with every flutter.

“Fuuuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked, holding you impaled a brutal second longer before yanking back only to slam in again, fucking your face raw now, hips snapping with super-soldier force. Wet slaps, gags, your muffled whimpers filling the room like a symphony of filth.

“Still think it’s small, huh? Can’t even breathe proper, tears streaming, pussy probably flooding your shorts and you’re humping the air like a needy bitch. Pathetic. Knew you’d crack the second I stuffed this ‘micro’ cock down your lying throat. Bet you’re soaked, aren’t you? Dripping for the dick you were mocking.”

You ripped off gasping, coughing up thick strings of spit that splattered his shaft as your hand jerked him furiously slick, obscene schlick-schlick sounds.

“Sh-shut the fuck up,” you wheezed, voice hoarse, but your free hand was already rubbing your clit through your shorts like a desperate slut. “It’s… it’s okay. Adequate. For a pity suck.”

His eyes went nuclear, dark, dangerous fire and he hauled you up by the hair, scalp burning deliciously, slamming you face-down over the couch arm. Your shorts and panties? Ripped down in one violent yank, fabric tearing, ass bared and jiggling as cool air hit your dripping, swollen pussy.

Smack, his palm landed hard on one cheek, sting exploding hot and sharp, jolting you forward with a yelp. “Adequate? You cock-drunk teasing whore.”

Smack, harder, other cheek, red handprint blooming instant. “I’ll show you fuckin’ adequate.”

“Bucky- fuck- you wouldn’t-” you cried out, arching back instinctively, pushing your ass higher like you were begging for more.

“Wouldn’t what? Shut that lying mouth for good?” He dragged the broad, leaking head through your soaked folds, teasing your throbbing clit with slow, torturous circles, up and down, coating himself in your slick until you were grinding back shamelessly, whining.

“Beg for it, doll. Get on your knees in your mind and beg for this ‘pathetic dick’ to wreck your greedy, lying cunt. Tell me how bad you need it stretching you out or I’ll edge this fat cock along your slit ‘til you’re a sobbing, humping mess.”

You bucked wildly, pride hanging by a thread, pussy clenching on nothing. “Make me, you overcompensating bastard. Bet you can’t even- oh fuck- God- Bucky!”

He didn’t wait, slammed in to the hilt in one brutal, balls-deep thrust that punched a scream from your lungs. Stretched impossibly, painfully full, walls burning around his girth, that hooked curve hitting spots you didn’t know existed, you clawed the cushions, toes curling, a broken wail escaping.

“Still small, brat?” he mocked viciously, pulling out slow, dragging every veiny inch only to ram back in, hips snapping with punishing force that shoved the couch forward. “Feelin’ that ‘nub’ splitting you open? Or you need me to fuck it deeper, rearrange your guts until you forget how to talk shit?”

The room filled with wet squelches your arousal coating him, dripping down your thighs the slap-slap-slap of his hips against your red ass, his grunts mixing with your babbling moans. “Asshole- it’s- huge- fuck, you’re too big- slow down, please!”

“Slow down? Fuck no- this is what mouthy little sluts get.” He draped over you, chest heaving against your back, teeth sinking hard into your shoulder, marking, rutting deeper, faster, metal hand pinning your wrists overhead while flesh fingers dove between your legs, pinching your clit rough, rolling it mercilessly.

“Look at you- creamin’ like a desperate whore, squirting already on my fat cock. Still microscopic? Huh? Lie again- say it’s tiny while I’m balls-deep and I’ll fuck you ‘til you pass out.”

Another brutal smack to your ass, and you shattered, orgasm ripping through you violent and vicious, walls spasming wildly, squirting messily around his pistoning shaft as you screamed his name, vision whiting out.

But he didn’t stop, fucked you through it, over it, dragging out every aftershock until you were sobbing, oversensitive, boneless, babbling nonsense. “Bucky- mercy- too much- it’s not small, fuck, it’s perfect- ruining me- please-”

“Damn fuckin’ right it is,” he grunted, thrusts erratic, voice strained. “Gonna flood this tight, greedy pussy, pump you full of cum ‘til it’s leaking down your thighs for days. So you never forget who owns this cunt.”

With a primal roar, he buried deep, cock pulsing hot and thick flooding you with rope after rope of cum, so much it overflowed instantly, filthy drips splattering the couch as he ground against your ass.

Finally he collapsed over you, both panting wrecks, his weight a grounding press as he nuzzled your neck tender now, in the afterglow. “Next time you wanna bicker,” he murmured, nipping your earlobe, “pick on my haircut. Safer.”

You laughed, hoarse and spent, twisting to nip his jaw. “Where’s the fun in safe, Barnes?”

He huffed a dark little chuckle against your skin, metal fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. “Big words from a girl who’s gonna wake up unable to talk tomorrow.”

You were both too wrecked to move after that. He pulled out slow, groaning at the mess he’d left behind, then tugged you into his chest, blankets tangling around your legs as you passed out tangled together, the room reeking of sex and satisfaction.

Morning came too soon.

Sunlight sliced through the blinds, hitting your face like a rude alarm clock. Your body felt like it had been through a war, thighs sticky and sore, pussy tender in the best and worst way, every muscle humming with aftermath.

But the real kicker was your throat. It felt demolished. Raw, swollen, like you’d deep-throated a goddamn baseball bat all night, which let’s be honest, wasn’t far off.

You tried to swallow. Instant regret. A pained little rasp escaped as you shifted, burrowing deeper into the pillow with a whimper.

Bucky, the bastard, was wide awake beside you, propped on an elbow, sheet barely covering the ridiculous outline of his body, that smug, shit-eating grin already in place as he watched you suffer.

“Mornin’, pretty,” he drawled, voice gravel-rough and way too cheerful. “How’s that pretty throat doin’? Still got any of that fire left, or did my ‘tiny’ dick finally win the war?”

You opened your mouth to snap back, something sharp, something biting but all that came out was a cracked, pathetic croak that sounded like a chain-smoking frog. Your hand flew to your neck instinctively, eyes watering at the burn.

Bucky’s laugh was pure evil, low, filthy, delighted. “Oh, sweetheart. Listen to you. Can’t even talk back now, huh? All that big talk last night, callin’ it microscopic, and look at you- throat fucked raw, voice gone, probably still tastin’ me every time you try to swallow.”

He leaned in closer, metal arm sliding cool and possessive across your waist, lips brushing your ear as he mocked in that dark, teasing rumble.

“Bet it hurts so good, doesn’t it? Every little ache remindin’ you how deep I shoved it, how you gagged and cried and begged for more anyway. Go on, doll- try to tell me it was small again. I dare you.”

You glared at him through half-lidded eyes, cheeks heating despite yourself. Tried to form words. Tried real hard.

All that came out was a weak, hoarse whisper: “…big…”

Bucky’s grin went full victory, triumphant, filthy, proud as hell. “What was that? Didn’t quite catch it, baby. Wanna try again? Tell me how big it was while you’re lyin’ there wrecked and speechless.”

You swallowed again, winced hard and rasped out, barely audible, “…so… fucking… big…”

He laughed again, softer this time, pressing a mocking kiss to your forehead before trailing his lips down to your sore throat, ghosting over the tender skin like he was admiring his handiwork.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. “Finally admittin’ the truth. Now close those pretty eyes and get some more sleep. Save what’s left of that voice… you’re gonna need it later when I make you scream it.”

Exhaustion tugged at you hard, body too heavy, throat too ruined to fight. You let your eyes flutter shut, burrowing back into his chest with a final, faint mutter against his skin.

“…big…”

And then you drifted off again, his low, pleased chuckle the last thing you heard as he pulled you closer.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

taglist: @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni @fancypeacepersona @noirecherie @babygirlxos @vickynguyennn @avgdestitute @silveredpenumbrashark @latenightmatilda @thegirlfatherr @nonotwithoutu @sebastians-love @doelikedollz @wintersgirllost @ryswritingrecord @biggestfangirl @swansonnetts @herejustforbuckybarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @gilwm @bb-laufeyson @gibbsgirl7 @hnnhbananananana @metal-armed-muse

[nonotwithoutu]

˗ˏˋ boyfriend bucky with a breeding 'kink'. ˎˊ˗

this post is explicit / mdni / 18+ !

warnings: THIS IS A DARK BUCKY HC LIST !!! that includes themes of coercion, manipulation, and pregnancy as a result of those. purely self indulgent filth. it most definitely goes beyond just a breeding kink, though i’ve tagged for that too. please heed all tags and do not engage if any part of it makes you uncomfortable. this is all fictional. i am not responsible for your media consumption. <3

wc: 1,4k

tags: f!reader, established relationship, breeding kink, unsafe sex, p in v sex, romanticized pregnancy coercion, subtle (and then obvious) manipulation, birth control and ovulation, use of the word ‘tits’, mentions of fisting, mentions of belly bulging, mentions of cockwarming, mentions of oral sex, can be pictured as canon bucky or au, pregnancy/implied pregnancy, nothing graphic, fucked up happy ending? depending on how you look at it sjdghksjfg

notes: as per usual, depraved middle of the night thoughts: extra unhinged version because my period makes me insane so. have some dark!bucky.

if he's your thing, I hope you enjoy! if not, back to regularly scheduled programming soon :) not proofread.

👣 boyfriend!bucky who waits months, maybe years before bringing it up the first time. and when he does, it’s so casually you almost miss it. almost. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky whose control issues run deep. so deep, in fact, that the entry level for him falling for you is knowing that you're carrying a piece of him that can't ever be undone or erased. your independence caught his attention, but it's your dependence that he wants.

👣 boyfriend!bucky who introduces you to the idea slowly, making you more open to it without having to ever say a word. who fucks you with your hips tilted upwards. who introduces you to every new mother he meets because you’ve been trying to make more friends in the city. whose touch lingers on your hips and belly with a slightly more than appreciative touch. who asks you to grab the shampoo he forgot on the other side of the store when you go shopping together because he knows you’ll have to wander through the array of bassinets and baby clothes just to get to it. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who knows your body better than you do as a result of his careful planning, who keeps track of your cycles down to the hour sometimes to be able to pinpoint when your body and mind will be most receptive to the idea, even just as a hypothetical for now. sometimes even just knowing you’re ovulating makes him burn for you, even if you're being extra careful that time of the month so he can't act on anything.

not yet. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who suggests you should try the non-hormonal pills instead of the implant or the IUD that’ve been causing you so much pain and trouble—just because he cares, of course. not at all because the pills are significantly less effective and need to be taken at a precise time each day that could be easily missed if you were distracted. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who stops right in the middle of fucking you, pausing long enough that you’re writhing and whining and begging for more before he pulls out and strips off the condom and only agrees to slipping back inside of you if it’s bare — “Shh, shh, shh. S’gonna feel so much better like this, I promise. Just wanna feel all of you, sweetheart. Greedy for you. You know that.” 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who decides he doesn’t want to go back to using condoms after feeling you bare for the first time, which means having to get you so wrung out and pleasure-filled before he even fucks you that you’re trembling, his hands, his cock, every word from his mouth your only latch to reality when everything else feels so good. too good. bucky who spills so much filth in your ears while you’re coming apart that it begins to take hold of your subconscious like an ultimatum: if he’s fucking you bare, you’ve been good. if he’s not, you’ve failed. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who gets you so used to taking him like that that one day when he goes to fuck you normally again and reaches for the condoms, you tentatively tell him he doesn’t have to anymore.

bucky who lets you think it was your idea. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who’s deliberate about the kinks he brings into the bedroom after that. — “Look at that. Takin’ me so deep. Your belly’s bulging with my cock, sweetheart. Here, gimme your hand. Feel it.” — “I know we’re finished, but I just want y’to keep me warm for a little while. Doesn’t it feel nice, bein’ so full? Just let me keep it inside ‘til you fall asleep.” — “Tits’ve gotten so big, honey. Like they’re swollen. C’mere, let me get my mouth on ‘em for a while.” — “You feel that? That’s my whole hand inside you, baby. See what your body’s capable of?” — “Get so much wetter for me when you’re ovulating, sweetheart. Tighter, too. Doesn’t it feel better when we do it like this? So deep? Right up against your hips?” 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who, with a carefully subtle combination of edging and denial, starts training you to only ever be able to get off with his come inside of you. at first your mouth’ll do too, but eventually, you can only get there when it’s buried deep inside your cunt. you keep him warm afterward, of course, and then, if you’re good, he might just fuck you again and give you another.

the definition of failure and success shifts again without you even being aware of it, but that's okay. he is. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who knows it’s time for the next step when he catches you zoning out when he brings you to meet a friend’s new baby. when he spies you watching movies that have pregnant characters on the television you don’t think he pays attention to. when he doesn’t even have to ask you to go get his shampoo anymore to find you wandering in the maternity aisle, browsing aimlessly with a little frown tugging at your lips and your fingers drifting over your waist while you admire the cribs and pacifiers, when you’re quiet the whole ride home as if mourning something you’ve never even had. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who sweeps you away on a whirlwind vacation just before a winter storm hits, distracting you from your dwindling packet of pills up until you get home and get snowed in, making it impossible for you to get to the pharmacy to pick up another sheet. who knows that it only takes twenty-four hours, maybe even less than that, for any trace of the medication to be out of your system. who doesn’t think it’ll be that difficult to convince you to let him fuck you anyway—not when the power’s out, the apartment’s cold, and he’s got you bundled up in his lap by the fire. how else are you supposed to keep warm when even that begins to flicker out? 

👣 boyfriend!bucky who makes it special like a ritual as the storm rages outside and your ovulation window hits its peak without any pills to subdue it, who waits until you’re warm and sleepy and wanting to lay you out on a blanket by the hearth, to cover your body with his and give you what he knew you were meant for from the first time he saw you. who moves with aching gentleness, tears in your eyes and heat in your belly, gasping his name as he murmurs praise for you opening right up for him, taking him bare, letting him fuck you at your most vulnerable. 

👣 boyfriend!bucky whose meticulous control slips the moment he slips in deep and presses right up against your ripe, soft cervix, reveling in your little gasp and the twitch in your thighs locked around him, your nails in his shoulder—urging him on instead of pushing him away. who nearly loses himself completely when you start begging him for it — “Please, I’ve been good. I need it, Bucky, I need—need to feel you come inside me. Need to be full. I—I’ve been good, haven’t I? Don’t pull out, I can keep you warm, please—” 

bucky who watches in something like reverence as you unconsciously indulge in the culmination of everything he’s bred into you so far: wanting a pillow underneath your hips because you’re ‘more comfortable that way’. asking him to stay inside of you while you fall asleep because ‘the closeness is nice’. dragging his hand around to rest over your belly as you drift off, humming contentedly to yourself as you rub at the imperceptibly distended stretch between his splayed fingers until yours fall lax. 

bucky who, eyes drifting over your figure wrapped around him in the moonlight, already knows that it took without a doubt, because his plan hadn’t left any room for failure. 

[...]

👣 boyfriend!bucky who indulges in the wave of panic that rolls in after the storm leaves, if only because he knows it’s already too late. he drives you to the pharmacy, watches your lip tremble when the pharmacist tiredly confirms that the pills only work day to day, and if you couldn’t have waited to have unprotected sex in the slim forty-eight hours you didn’t take them, it could very well result in a pregnancy. bucky who gets to play dutiful, caring partner when you’re crying in the maternity aisle fretting about if you should buy a test or not, promising that he’ll stick by you no matter what, that your ovulation-induced misstep doesn’t change a thing for him. not when he loves you so much. 

(is that what this is?) 

[...]

👣 boyfriend!bucky who's softer and more romantic than he's ever been over the next nine months as your body grows and shifts and swells with the proof of his claim, his impenetrable walls finally beginning to come down the more he can merely glance at you for a reminder. who indulges your every sudden whim and late night craving, who demands nothing in exchange for his care; bucky who inadvertently continues to feed into the visage by making you associate being pregnant with being endlessly cared for, praised, and doted upon, making the not so pleasant symptoms the least likely thing you'll remember when you look back on this period.

[...]

👣 fiance!bucky who feels like he can finally exhale when he sees you holding his baby for the first time, who feels the first flickerings of real, deep emotion welling up inside of him as he watches you feed them and nurture them, every tiny act a reminder of the ways the two of you are now inextricably linked - not just through a title, but through blood, sweat, labor, tears. woven deep into the dna where it can't be clawed out. bucky who'd doubted himself in the beginning, but who starts to think that this might just be what fixes him after all.

bucky who feels a foreign twinge of guilt in equal measure for taking away your choice, but who could never ever bring himself to regret it.

[...]

👣 husband!bucky who can't even be surprised when you eventually come to him asking for another.

it was your idea to start letting him fuck you bare, after all.

.

.

.

[itskhali]

★ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 ★

↳ 𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙻 𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂: 𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙾𝚁𝚂 𝙳𝙾 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎, 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚢, 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝!

↳ 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

‣┆ᴏɴɢᴏɪɴɢ┆

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙽𝙴 -> 𝙷𝚢𝚍𝚛𝚊 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙾 -> 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 -> 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝙴𝚢𝚎𝚜

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁 -> 𝙰 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚊𝚗?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 -> 𝙰𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙸𝚇 -> 𝙴𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝙰𝚠𝚊𝚢

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 -> 𝚆𝚎 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙱𝚎 𝙴𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴 -> 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝙷𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙳𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙼𝚊𝚗 𝙸𝚗 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙻𝚅𝙴 -> 𝚂𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚁𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙶𝚒𝚛l

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙸𝙵𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝙾𝚕𝚍 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜' 𝚂𝚊𝚔𝚎

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙸𝚇𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚆𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙱𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙾𝚏

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙱𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙴𝙽 -> 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝙵𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈 -> 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙾𝙽𝙴 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝚆𝙾 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝚂𝙸𝚇 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙴𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈-𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙴 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝙾𝙽𝙴 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝚆𝙾 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁 -> ?

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚈-𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 -> ?

𝙴𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙾𝙶𝚄𝙴 -> ?

-----------------------------------------------------------------

↳ 𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁'𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴: 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘! 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: 𝙴𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚢. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠-𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 (𝚜𝚑𝚎/𝚑𝚎𝚛) 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙸'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢.

𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝙸 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘.

★

[spinningyarnsandshame]

Shrapnel and Silence: Part 3

Bucky Barnes x Enhanced Female!Reader

Summary: When another vision hits, will Bucky let you help save the day? What will it cost in the end?

Word Count: ~3.3k

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Emotional Tension | Soft Ending

Warnings: Violence, blood, mentions of death, human trafficking, explosives, knife... gonna hurt your feelings probably... it hurt mine...

A/N: Final part, i hope you enjoy. I spent too long perfecting this chapter.

Masterlist is here

Series Links: Part 1 | Part 2

-------------

After the kiss, neither of you knew what to do. Bucky sighed, stood, and left to brief the others for the next day’s mission—still refusing to let you come.

You eventually fell asleep, torn between anger and fear, clinging to the thin hope that you could change his mind tomorrow.

Your dreams were full of blood and screaming. The memory of your throat splitting open replayed on a loop until you woke up mid-scream, drenched in sweat, your hands trembling uncontrollably.

Driven by sheer resolve, you threw on clothes and stormed down the hall. Your fists pounded against Bucky’s door like thunder until it flew open.

He stood there, eyes shadowed, expression unreadable. That cold stoicism sent a chill straight through you.

“I’m going with you,” you said before he could speak.

“No.” His voice was low, final.

“Either take me with you, or I’ll find my own way,” you snapped, pushing past him into the room. He was already half-suited for the mission.

“I won’t risk the operation for your self-destruction.”

The words stopped you cold. They cut sharper than any blade.

“Then you better lock me up,” you hissed, “because I’m not letting that woman die like that.”

You turned to leave, but his hand caught your wrist, firm, unyielding.

“Let. Go.”

“Don’t force my hand.” His voice was a low growl, frustration bleeding through the edges.

“I need to be there. I can help. I feel it in my bones—”

You broke off as something warm and wet slid down your upper lip. Blood. Bucky’s expression shifted instantly from anger to horror.

“Doll…” he started, but before he could reach you, your knees gave out and the world tilted sideways.

—--------------------------------

Rust. Saltwater. Gunpowder.

Your wrists burned where the zip ties cut deep into your skin. The air inside the shipping container was thick and metallic, heavy with fear. Every muffled shout in Russian made your pulse spike.

Gunfire cracked in the distance. Someone screamed. Then the container doors were thrown open.

The leader stormed in, face half-hidden beneath the shadows of the floodlights.

“No—no, please!” you shouted as he seized your arm and dragged you toward the back of the container.

Bodies shifted out of the way. He kicked the second door open and hauled you through it, pressing a knife to your throat.

“Shut up, or I’ll make you,” he snarled through a thick accent.

“Put the knife down!” a voice commanded from the dark.

You knew that voice. Bucky.

The leader laughed, low and cruel. “You can’t save both of them. The girl—or the rest?”

“Drop it!” Bucky shouted again, closer this time.

The man muttered something in Russian—then shoved you forward.

You barely felt the fall. Only the sudden, searing pain and the choking warmth flooding your throat. You tried to breathe, but all that came was blood.

Then—nothing.

—--------------------------------

You were still shaking in his arms, sobs tearing through what little breath you had left. His heart hammered beneath your ear—steady, human, desperate.

“Easy,” Bucky whispered, the low rasp of his voice cracking at the edges. “You’re safe, doll. You’re here.”

“I’m not,” you gasped, clinging to his shirt. “It’s happening again. I saw it—he was there—he was smiling.”

His fingers brushed along your jaw, checking for blood, for damage. “It’s just another vision. You’re here. I’m right here.”

You shook your head, shaking so violently your teeth clattered. “No. No, this one was different. He said something—something in Russian. I didn’t understand before.”

“What did he say?” Bucky’s tone sharpened.

You stared at the floor, lips trembling as you whispered, “Подарок скоро откроется.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“The phrase—‘the gift will open soon,’” you said, voice breaking. “He said it right before… before the blade. Before the woman died.”

The words hung heavy between you, sinking into the air like smoke.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his soldier’s mind turning instantly. “A gift that will open soon… that’s not about a person, that’s a warning.”

Realization hit you both at the same time.

“A bomb,” he said flatly.

You nodded, shivering. “He wasn’t talking about killing the victims. He was talking about a detonation. Something hidden—something waiting to go off.”

Bucky swore under his breath, standing abruptly. “I’m calling it in. We move now.”

You scrambled after him, voice cracking. “Then take me with you.”

He froze. You could see the conflict flicker across his face—fear, frustration, calculation.

“No,” he said finally, quieter this time. “You stay here. You’ve been through enough.”

“I can help,” you pleaded. “Bucky, I know what I saw. The containers—the codes—they were marked differently. I think I know where it is!”

He turned back, jaw tight. “And I think you’re about two seconds from collapsing again. You’re not coming.”

“Then you’re wasting time arguing with me,” you shot back. “Because I’m going, with or without you.”

The air between you sizzled with tension. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose before muttering, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Maybe,” you said quietly. “But not tonight.”

He cursed under his breath. “Fine. But you stick with me. You do not leave my sight.”

You nodded, relief and dread tangling together. “Deal.”

—------------------------

The quinjet touched down in a roar of engines. The yard sprawled below—rows of rusted containers stacked like tombs. Inside one of them, someone was counting down.

“Timer’s running,” Yelena said over comms, scanning her tracker. “Two minutes difference between signals. One’s fake, one’s real.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “They wired decoys. They want us separated.”

You were already strapping your vest. “Then split. You take the bomb; I’ll clear the hostages.”

“Not happening.”

“Bucky—listen to me.” You stepped close enough that rain ran off both your hoods into the same line. “You’ve got Yelena. You can’t disarm and search at the same time. You need eyes on the civilians.”

He hesitated—every part of him resisting—but logic cut through his fear. “You stay in contact. You call if you see anything.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” You gave a ghost of a smile. “See you at exfil.”

He muttered something that sounded like a prayer. “God help me.”

—------------------------------

You moved north through the maze of containers, boots splashing through puddles that smelled of diesel and salt. Bucky’s voice filled your ear, a constant low rumble: Timer’s close. Forty meters east. Yelena’s got wires—watch your corners, doll.

“Copy,” you whispered. “Hostage heat signatures ahead.”

The first container you checked was empty. The second held terrified civilians—men, women, hands bound, duct tape over their mouths. You cut them loose, keeping your weapon trained on the shadows.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “We’re getting you out.”

One woman grabbed your sleeve, eyes wide. “He said you’d come,” she whispered.

The phrase chilled you. “Who?”

Before she could answer, static crackled through your comm.

Then you heard it—faint, echoing from somewhere close. A man’s voice, low and deliberate:

“Подарок скоро откроется.”

The gift will open soon.

Your blood went cold.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “I just heard the phrase again. He’s here—north corridor, row E.”

“On my way,” he answered instantly. “Don’t move until I—”

But the scream from the next container cut him off.

You sprinted before he could finish, weapon raised, heart hammering.

—---------------------

The door to TY2213 swung open with a metallic groan. Inside stood the trafficker from your visions—broad, calm, smiling. A woman knelt in front of him, trembling, a knife at her throat.

You aimed. “Let her go!”

He turned slightly, the blade glinting in the floodlight. “Ah… the prophet.”

“Drop it!”

His smile widened. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Behind you, Bucky’s voice barked over comms—I’m right behind you. Don’t engage!—but you couldn’t wait. The hostage’s eyes were wild with terror.

You took one step forward. “Take me instead.”

That made him pause. “You’d trade yourself?”

“She’s innocent.”

He chuckled darkly. “Everyone thinks they’re innocent.”

“Let her go,” you said again. “I’ll come quietly.”

His head tilted as if considering. “Alright.”

He shoved the hostage away—and in the same motion, swung the blade.

Bucky rounded the corner just in time to see it.

The knife drew a clean, bright line across your throat.

Your body jerked, hands flying to the wound as blood poured through your fingers. You staggered backward, eyes wide, disbelief flashing before they rolled upward.

“NO!”

Bucky’s roar shook the yard. His rifle dropped as he charged, slamming the trafficker into the steel wall hard enough to dent it. The man laughed even as Bucky’s metal hand crushed his throat.

“Bomb’s live!” Yelena’s voice screamed through the comm.

“Disarm it!” he bellowed back, dropping the body and diving to the ground beside you.

Your breaths were shallow, wet. Blood pooled under his knees. He ripped open his vest, pressing it against your neck. “Stay with me. Come on, doll—stay with me!”

Your fingers twitched against his wrist. You tried to speak, to warn him, but the only thing that came out was a wet gurgle.

Then you went still.

“Yelena! Med-kit, now!”

“Thirty seconds on the timer!”

“Then RUN IT!” he screamed.

He started chest compressions right there in the mud, his hands sliding on blood and rain. The world was just noise—alarms, shouting, thunder. He didn’t feel the explosion rock the southern end of the yard; he didn’t care. All he saw was you.

“Come on,” he whispered between breaths. “Come on, sweetheart, you’re not done yet.”

Yelena skidded beside him, slamming down the med-pack. “Move!”

They worked in tandem—adrenaline, training, desperation. Shock paddles. Syringe. Pressure. Still no pulse.

Then—faint movement. A cough. A choking gasp.

“She’s back!” Yelena shouted.

Bucky’s hands didn’t stop shaking. “Keep her breathing. Keep her breathing.”

—---------------------

Hours later, the quinjet vibrated under the weight of exhaustion and smoke. You were pale, wrapped in gauze, hooked to every monitor they had. You’d coded twice in transit. Both times Bucky had refused to leave your side.

Now he sat slumped beside the gurney, hands stained red, eyes hollow.

Yelena leaned against the bulkhead, watching quietly. “He’s dead, you know. The trafficker. You crushed his throat.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Not enough.”

She hesitated, then added softly, “They didn’t kill anyone. You both stopped them.”

He finally glanced at you—your chest rising in a shallow, steady rhythm beneath the oxygen mask—and exhaled a shaky breath.

“Barely,” he murmured.

Yelena nodded once, stepping away. “Barely still counts.”

Bucky leaned forward, brushing a blood-streaked strand of hair from your forehead. “You should’ve let me go alone,” he whispered. “You didn’t have to trade yourself.”

Your fingers twitched faintly against his hand, a reflex, a ghost of life.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the back of your palm. “You’re gonna be alright, doll. You hear me? You’ve got to be.”

The engines hummed on. Outside, dawn began to break over the ruined yard—quiet, cold, and alive.

—---------------------------------

The room was too white. Too clean. Too quiet.

You woke to the soft hiss of oxygen and the low beep of a monitor keeping time with your heartbeat. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were—just that you were alive, and that every breath hurt.

Your throat burned. Instinctively, your hand flew up, fingers brushing the bandages wrapped tight around your neck. You could feel the ridged line of the wound beneath—the place where the knife had opened you and the medics had stitched you back together.

“Easy.”

The voice made your chest seize. You turned your head slowly, eyes heavy and unfocused.

Bucky sat in the corner of the room, elbows on his knees, face shadowed with exhaustion. He looked like he hadn’t moved in hours.

When your eyes met, he exhaled—a long, shaky sound that broke halfway through.

“You’re awake.” he whispered, a sigh of relief.

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasp. The effort made your throat spasm in pain.

“Don’t,” he said quickly, standing to reach your bedside. “Don’t try to talk. The docs said your voice’ll come back, but not yet. They used some Stark-grade synthetic tissue. It’s healing faster than it should.”

He managed a small, unsteady smile. “Guess even near-death can’t stop you from running your mouth forever.”

You gave a faint eye roll that made him chuckle—then wince when you coughed. His hand hovered near your shoulder until the fit passed.

When you finally looked at him again, the humor was gone. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tense.

“You almost died,” he said quietly. “Three times.”

You blinked slowly, the memory washing over you in pieces—rain, the knife, his voice. The moment everything went black.

He swallowed hard, his voice rough. “I saw it happen. I saw him do it. And I couldn’t stop it.”

Your fingers twitched toward him, an instinct. He caught your hand gently, like it might break.

“You saved them,” you rasped, forcing the words through the ache. “The hostages… the bomb…”

“Don’t,” he cut in, shaking his head. “Don’t you dare try to make this noble.” His tone cracked on the edge of it. “You traded yourself, and I watched him take you from me.”

He looked away, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if the words themselves hurt to say. “You don’t know what that felt like. Seeing you hit the ground. Hearing the comm go dead.”

You squeezed his hand, weak but deliberate. He looked back at you, startled.

“I do,” you whispered. “Because I saw it before it happened.”

His breath hitched, but you kept going, voice barely audible. “In the vision. I felt it. And I went anyway. Because if I hadn’t, they’d all be dead. You’d still blame yourself. I—” your throat constricted, forcing you to stop.

He leaned closer, his eyes flickering between fury and grief. “You think that makes it okay? That dying in front of me was worth it?”

“I wasn’t supposed to die,” you whispered. “Not yet.”

The silence that followed was sharp. He stared at you, breathing hard, until finally—

“You’re insane,” he muttered, voice breaking.

A shaky smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe.”

Something in him cracked at that—his control, his restraint, all the walls he’d kept between you. He sank into the chair beside your bed, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.

“I can’t lose you like that again,” he said softly. “I can’t—” his voice faltered, trembling with the weight of it. “You mean too damn much to me.”

Your fingers threaded weakly through his hair, grounding him. “Then don’t lose me,” you managed to whisper. “Stay.”

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice low but certain. “Not this time.”

His thumb brushed over your wrist, tracing the faint pulse there. “You’re still shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you rasped.

That earned a ghost of a smile. “Fair point.”

He hesitated then, gaze flicking to your throat. “You’re gonna have a scar.”

You nodded faintly. “Souvenir.”

He swallowed. “I hate that it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” you said, firm despite your voice. “You can’t control what I see.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes glassy. “You saw your own death, and you went anyway. That’s not bravery, doll—that’s something else entirely.”

You met his gaze steadily. “Maybe it’s faith.”

He shook his head, a soft, incredulous laugh escaping him. “Faith. Right. You’ve got too much of that for both of us.”

You squeezed his hand again, the faintest whisper slipping out. “Then believe in me.”

He leaned forward, pressing a careful kiss against your bandaged temple. “I already do.”

—------------------

The med wing was quiet at night. Monitors hummed, lights dimmed to a low amber glow, and the only sound was the slow, steady rhythm of your own breathing.

Three days had passed since the surgery. Three days of painkillers, quiet visits, and Bucky never once leaving the floor.

He wasn’t supposed to be there now — the nurses had told him to rest hours ago — but you weren’t surprised when the door clicked softly open.

He looked rough. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, the tension in his shoulders still wound tight. But when he saw you awake, sitting up against the pillows, his breath caught like he hadn’t expected to find you real.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you whispered, voice still raw but stronger.

He let out a low laugh. “Not since that night.”

You tilted your head, half-smiling. “You’re supposed to rest, Sergeant Barnes.”

He moved closer, shaking his head. “Not while you’re still hooked up to half the damn med bay.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice soft but edged with something you’d never heard from him before — a kind of quiet desperation. “You don’t get to scare the hell out of me and then tell me to rest.”

You exhaled slowly, looking down at the IV in your arm. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s the problem,” he said. “You didn’t even think about it. You just went in.”

“Someone had to.”

He let out a rough sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You always say that like you’re the only one who can.”

You met his eyes, steady and unflinching. “Would you have done it any different?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

The silence between you thickened, stretching until you could feel it — that same pull that had been there before the mission, before the confession, before everything fell apart.

He finally moved closer, pulling a chair beside the bed. His metal hand rested lightly against the blanket near your knee, close enough to feel but not quite touching.

“You should hate me,” you said quietly. “I made you watch that.”

His eyes lifted to yours, dark and steady. “You think that’s what I remember?”

“What else is there to remember?”

He hesitated, then reached out — slow, deliberate — and brushed his fingers along the edge of the bandage at your throat. The touch was feather-light, reverent.

“I remember the way you looked at me before you fell,” he said quietly. “Like I was the last thing you trusted.”

The words hit harder than any wound. You swallowed, blinking against the sudden burn in your chest.

“I did trust you,” you said softly. “I still do.”

Something in him broke at that — a flicker of vulnerability that melted straight into resolve. He stood, leaning over the rail of the bed, the storm in his eyes close enough to feel on your skin.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You smiled faintly, breath trembling. “I think I do.”

And then the space between you disappeared.

He cupped your jaw, one hand warm and human, the other cool and unyielding, and kissed you. It wasn’t careful or tentative — it was desperate, fierce, full of everything both of you had been swallowing down for weeks.

You tasted salt and exhaustion and something you’d almost forgotten how to feel: alive.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath unsteady.

“You don’t get to do that again,” he whispered. “No more trading your life. No more walking into death because you think it’s the only way to save someone.”

You smiled weakly, voice rasping through the ache. “Guess we’ll just have to save each other next time.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound cracked and warm. “Next time, huh?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t believe there’ll be one.”

He sighed, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “God help me, I hope not.”

But he kissed you again anyway — slower this time, less desperate, more a promise than a plea — and when he pulled away, you could see it written all over him:

Bucky Barnes, soldier, survivor, man who had seen too much — finally had something worth fighting for that wasn’t just the mission.

[spinningyarnsandshame]

Whiskey, neat.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (female)

Genre: Smut / Slow Burn / Fluff / Emotional Tension / Cabin Fic

Rating: Explicit MDNI 18+

Warnings: alcohol, language, mutual pining, light teasing, emotional intimacy, smut, oral (f receiving) p in v sex, light Bdsm tones, use of pet names.

A/N: first proper smut fic, judge or don’t judge idgaf 🤣. Was drinking whiskey and listening to Hozier so, here ya go!

✨✨✨✨✨

The fireplace crackled quietly in front of you, the heat a nice contrast to the chilled rocks glass in your hand. The leather couch and scent of burning wood wrapped around you like a blanket. The warmth of the whiskey spread through your chest, and your blood thrummed in response.

You were taking full advantage of the comfort of this so-called cabin while Sam and Bucky were out trying to “live off the land.” They’d gone fishing early that morning, and you’d spent the day exactly how you wanted — lazy, wrapped in a sweater, and working on your half-finished knitting project. Now it sat abandoned on your lap in favor of the whiskey you’d been saving for almost a year.

The sun outside was dipping low, the sky melting into a watercolor of oranges and pinks.

You heard the familiar clatter of tackle boxes and the sound of boots on wood, and a smirk tugged at your mouth.

“You spent three hours on that boat and caught one fish,” Sam’s voice called from outside. “One!”

There was a pause. Then Bucky’s calm reply: “Quality over quantity.”

You could practically hear Sam’s face. “That ‘quality’ fish is the size of my hand.”

“You have small hands.”

That earned a loud laugh — the kind Sam gave right before he said something stupid. “Oh, you wanna start with hand jokes, Tin Man? ‘Cause last I checked, you scared off half the lake with all that metal clanking around.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the fish were terrified,” Bucky said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“They were! Probably thought Iron Man came back for round two.”

Something heavy thumped — the cooler, probably.

“Face it,” Sam said. “You’re not exactly one with nature.”

“Please,” Bucky shot back. “I spent years hiding in forests. I am nature.”

“Brooding in the woods doesn’t count as fishing.”

You had to bite your lip not to laugh as the door opened and the two of them walked in.

“You talk too much,” Bucky grumbled.

“And yet,” Sam said smugly, “you keep me around.”

“Are you gonna tell her we aren’t having fish for dinner, or shall I, Mister ‘I am Nature’?” Sam called.

“Dinner’s already in the oven, boys. Contingency plan’s my middle name,” you said.

The sound of boots got closer, then Sam’s soft “Ooo.” You didn’t even have to look. He’d found your whiskey.

“I hope you’re planning on asking, Wilson,” you said, voice sweet but dangerous.

“Come on, baby, sharing is caring,” he tried, all charm and no shame.

You didn’t even glance up. “I’ve got sharp needles and I’m not afraid to use them. Be a good boy and ask nicely.”

A quiet chuckle came from behind you — Bucky, of course.

“Oh, woman, you are evil,” Sam laughed. “Fine. May I please have some of your whiskey?”

“You’re lucky I don’t make you beg,” you teased, smirking.

Then you froze. A breath brushed the side of your neck, warm enough to make your pulse skip.

“May I have a glass of whiskey, doll?” Bucky’s voice was low, rough, and entirely too close.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. He knew what he was doing — he had to. Two years of lingering glances and near-misses had built up to this slow-burn kind of torture. You nodded, barely.

“Use your words,” he murmured, tone soft but commanding.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Good girl.”

The words hit low, and your breath caught. He chuckled quietly, dragging one finger down the back of your neck before walking away toward the bar.

You stayed frozen a moment longer, staring into your empty glass, until Sam’s smirk from the armchair finally broke your spell.

You rolled your eyes, stood, and walked over to join Bucky. Leaning against the bar next to him, you could feel the heat radiating off him like the fire.

You set your glass next to his, the faint clink swallowed by the crackle of the fire. He gave you a sideways look, lips curving slightly before he took a sip.

“You always this generous, doll?” he asked, topping off your glass before you could answer.

“Only with people who ask nicely.”

Sam let out a low whistle from his chair. “And here I was thinking this trip was about fishing, not flirting.”

You shot him a look. “You’re the one who caught one fish and an ego bruise.”

“At least my ego doesn’t purr when Barnes talks to it.”

You nearly choked, and Bucky’s mouth twitched into that half-smile that made your brain short-circuit.

“Keep talkin’, Wilson,” he said lazily. “I’ll make you gut your own dinner tomorrow.”

Sam smirked. “You couldn’t scare me if you tried, Snow White.”

You laughed, and Bucky’s gaze flicked to your mouth before shifting away.

“Careful,” he said, still watching you out of the corner of his eye. “You might talk yourself into another fishing trip.”

“I’m good,” Sam said, standing. “I’m gonna shower. You two can—whatever this is.”

You smiled. “Goodnight, Sam.”

The door shut behind him, and the silence that followed was thick, almost charged. You leaned back against the bar, your shoulder brushing Bucky’s arm.

“So,” you said quietly. “Was the one fish worth it?”

He smirked. “Depends who I get to share it with.”

You tried to hide your smile behind your glass, but he caught it anyway.

Dinner came and went — simple, warm, easy. Sam complained but still went back for seconds. Now the plates sat forgotten and the whiskey bottle had migrated back to the coffee table.

Sam sprawled in the armchair, scrolling his phone. You and Bucky shared the couch, angled toward the fire. His arm was slung along the back, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. Each touch sent a tiny spark crawling up your spine.

“This is the quietest I’ve ever seen you two,” Sam said suddenly. “Should I be concerned?”

“You should be grateful,” you replied, smirking.

Bucky chuckled under his breath. “She’s right. You talk enough for all three of us.”

Sam sighed dramatically. “If you two start making heart eyes, I’m finding another cabin.”

You bit your lip to hide your grin, but Bucky’s metal fingers brushed the back of your neck again, slow and teasing.

“Problem?” he asked quietly.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?” he said innocently, eyes glinting.

“Whatever that smug thing is.”

He tilted his head. “You’ll have to be more specific, doll.”

“See? That. That tone.”

He smiled. “I usually do know something you don’t.”

Sam groaned. “Oh my god, I can feel the flirting from here.”

You threw a pillow at him.

“Rude,” he said, standing. “I’m going to bed before you two combust.”

“Then stop watching,” Bucky said flatly.

Sam blinked. “You know what? I’m out.”

When the bedroom door finally clicked shut, the silence left behind was heavier — thicker.

You shifted slightly, your knee brushing his. His thumb found the back of your hand, tracing slow circles.

“Guess it’s just us,” you murmured.

“Guess so.”

The firelight flickered across his face, softer now. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up.

“Gonna threaten me with knitting needles if I ask for another drink?”

You smiled. “Maybe.”

He leaned closer, enough that you could feel his breath on your skin. “Worth it.”

⸻

The room was quiet except for the fire. You hadn’t let go of his hand. His thumb moved against your palm in lazy, slow strokes, almost thoughtless but sending your heartbeat climbing.

“Cold?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. “No. Just…”

“Warm,” he said, like he already knew.

You turned to him, and he was already watching you. Close now. Too close. The firelight made everything glow — his jaw, the glint of his arm, the softness that wasn’t usually there.

“You staring at me, Barnes?”

“Thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as this,” he said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers grazed your skin, warm and steady, and you felt your breath stutter.

“You always this charming when no one’s watching?”

He gave a faint smirk. “You just never noticed.”

You laughed quietly, nerves and warmth tangled together. “That right?”

He nodded once. “Been trying to get your attention for a while now.”

You froze, words caught in your throat. The fire popped softly in the background.

His hand found yours again, fingers twining, holding.

“I’m paying attention now,” you whispered.

“Good,” he murmured, thumb brushing your skin. “Don’t stop.”

⸻

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe you both did.

One second, you were breathing the same air. The next, his mouth was hovering just above yours.

“This is a bad idea,” you managed.

“Probably,” he said. “But you’re not stopping, are you?”

You shook your head once. “No.”

And then he kissed you.

The first touch was barely there — testing, careful. The second was real. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb skimming your cheek, and suddenly the world narrowed to firelight and heat and the taste of whiskey.

He kissed like he meant it, slow but hungry, like every near-miss between you had finally caught up. You fisted the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until the couch creaked beneath the weight of it all.

Bucky pulled back just far enough to breathe against your lips. “You sure about this?”

You nodded, eyes half-lidded. “Been sure for a long time.”

That broke something in him.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, one hand at your waist, the other tangled in your hair. The fire painted everything in molten light, flickering across the curve of his shoulder, the edge of your smile against his mouth.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, the air still crackling between you.

His thumb brushed your lip, slow, deliberate. “If we start this…”

“We already have,” you whispered.

He smiled, quiet and almost helpless, and kissed you one last time — softer this time, like a promise he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Then all sense of control vanished from between you both. With precision, Bucky hooked an arm around your knee and tugged you over to straddle his lap.

Your lips clashed now in hungry touches, and his hands gripped your hips firmly. Your left hand wove into his hair with a gentle tug, and your right hand cupped his neck and jaw. You didn’t even register how much you were pushing your hips into his until he pulled back from the kiss with a groan.

“You are going to drive me wild.” He growled at you and moved to kiss along your jaw and neck. His new course of action only made you rock your hips into his more.

Warm metal fingers traced from your hips firmly around to your ribcage, sliding up slowly over your thin shirt, glancing past your breast and aligning with your sternum. Soon it came to rest firmly against the base of your throat, not squeezing, just present. Your jaw trembled at the touch which sent shivers down your spine.

It wasn’t a secret amongst the team that you had a bit of a freaky side. Always happy to throw in veiled kink phrases into everyday conversation, enough to make Steve blush and Sam to jest at your brazen language. Bucky was more discreet about his tastes but they certainly aligned with yours.

You let his hand explore that sensitive location on his own for moment, reveling in his mouth’s attention to the tender spot behind your ear.

After a particularly delicious nip, you hum low and lean into his hand at your neck, increasing the pressure there.

Bucky’s hand flexes delicately in response, your hips buck, creating a devilish feedback loop of sensation and pleasure. You pull and his hair, leading him back to your mouth, need to taste him again.

He allows this modicum of control, but stops just before your lips meet.

“Impatient, are we?” He growls.

“Kiss me.”

His hand squeezes, firm around your neck, but not injurious. A breathy moan rushes out of you.

“I’ll do more than kiss you, doll. Say please.”

A wanton whine squeals from your throat now, if you had any shame you’d be embarrassed. But you don’t have shame, and you were so turned on right now that just his words could make you fall apart right now.

His eyes darken at all the little whimpers and whines falling from your lips.

You suck your bottom lip in and bite down, fighting against his command for a moment, always the brat.

His grip on your neck moves you back a touch so he could look directly into your eyes.

“Say. Please.” Bucky repeats. Your core tightens at his reign over your body.

“Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please kiss me, Bucky.”

His lips crash to yours once more. The fervor of the kiss was enough to make you dizzy. His hand at your neck trails down to cup your breast. His thumb circled around your nipple, sending the sensitive skin into a hard peak.

After a moment, his hand other hand joint in synchronic movement on the other side.

Losing your patience you pull back, smirking as his mouth chases yours for a second, then you rip your shirt over your head and off of your body.

Blue eyes turn into a stormy pool at the sight of you now shirtless, baring your naked breasts to him.

“Your turn.” You say, voice husky.

“I don’t take orders, doll. I give them.” Bucky’s voice sounded like sin.

Despite the wetness that pooled in the lace encompassing your core, you squinted your eyes at him. Defiantly, you move your hands to the collar of his flannel and with a tug, say, “Off, soldier.”

His hands fly to your wrists and maneuver them behind your back, adjusting to grip them in his vibranium hand. Your breasts were now on display right in front of his face. He wraps one nipple between his lips and gives a teasing scrape of his teeth and releases it with a pop.

“It’s ‘Sergeant.’” Bucky growled out with a calm yet dark look, staring deep into your eyes.

“I’ll fuck the brat out of you tonight.”

Your jaw dropped. You could feel your heart rate spike at his words and your eyes flare in arousal.

All of the building tension and snark between you two came to a head in this moment. As a proud brat, you reveled in riling up the boys on the team. But Bucky? He only turned the tables on you. Always finding the right way to shut down the brat in the most enticing ways despite your ample practice.

Now the payoff was looking you right in the face.

“If you want this to continue, kneel.” He said and quirked his head ever so slightly to the side and released your wrists from behind you.

This was the most delicious request for consent you’d ever been asked.

You stayed locked into his stare, feeling the swirling energy and tension between you.

Then the oddest thing happened. You, the trademark brat, complied.

Never breaking eye contact, you gracefully dismount his lap and kneel between his knees, cushioned by the sheepskin rug on the floor.

Even though you didn’t think it was possible, Bucky’s eyes darkened even more at the sight of your submissive position before him. He just stares for a moment, drinking the sight in.

Your breath hitches when he leans forward, lips just millimeters from yours, but he doesn’t kiss you, no. Instead, he leans back the bottle of whiskey now in hand. A huff releases through your nose at the tease.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually, even though his stormy eyes betray him. You nod once, not speaking.

He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a swig and your mouth waters.

When the bottle comes down, he sets it on the table behind you and leans forward. A hand weaves into your hair and he tugs your head back.

An open mouth whine is pulled from you and Bucky’s lips align with yours to release the now warm amber liquid into your mouth. It was sinful. Even more so when a drop of whiskey dripped onto your chest, contrasting the heat of your body. The decadents continued when Bucky tugged your hair even further, forcing you to arch your back to the perfect angle for him to lick the drop off your chest.

“Fuck…” you moan out. Your body felt on fire.

Using his grip in your hair and the vibranium hand now bracing your neck, he guides you to stand and his lips met yours. The kiss was all hunger and desire.

Your hands move to the buttons on Bucky’s shirt, but you don’t undo them yet.

“Please…” you whine into his lips, and tug lightly.

“Please what?”

“Please, let me take this off, Sergeant.”

“So obedient. Go ahead, doll.” He smirks. You make quick work of his buttons and yank the shirt down his shoulders, flinging it behind him. He breaks his contact with you and tugs the white t-shirt over his head and it falls to the floor. Then he grabs your hand and immediately takes off down the hall towards the bedrooms.

Once past the threshold of his room, he closes the door and pins you against it.

“A little more privacy, but you think you can be quiet, beautiful?” He asks leaning into your ear. “We don’t want to wake up Sam, now do we?”

You shake your head fervently.

“Words, doll.”

“Yes , Sergent!”

“Perfect.” His knee slots between your thighs and delicious pressure of his muscled thigh presses against your core. Without thinking about it, you undulate your hips, grinding down onto him, seeking any kind of relief from the neediness of your arousal.

“Look at you, doll. You can’t even help yourself.” He lulls into your ear. His hands find purchase on your breasts, tweaking the rosy peaks and massaging the delicate flesh filling his palms.

“I bet you could make yourself come just like that, huh?” You nod in response.

In one swift motion his leg vanishes, along with the pleasure you were enjoying from it.

Growling seemed to be the most instinctive response in you, and he just smirked.

“As much as I’d love to watch you get yourself off riding my thigh, I’d rather taste the first time I make you come.”

“Fucking hell…” you whisper at his absolute sinful words. His hands move down your waist and wrap around your thighs, then he pulls you up to wrap your legs around his waist. Your lips lock with his and you feel him carry you to the bed.

With a gentle drop, you land on the soft mattress and duvet.

Bucky makes torturously slow work of peeling your pants and lace underwear down your hips and legs, kissing along the skin he slowly revealed.

You stared into each other’s eyes, heat crackling between you like lightning. Your elbows dug into the pillows as you watched his every predatory move.

Being fully exposed while he remained half-clothed sent a jolt of electric vulnerability through you that stole your breath and flooded your core with aching need. Your gaze raked down his sharp jaw with its rough stubble—already imagining the delicious burn it would leave branded between your thighs.

His chest wasn't just sculpted—it was forged in battle, each muscle a weapon you desperately wanted turned against you. Power rippled beneath his skin with every breath, promising both destruction and salvation.

The angry seam where vibranium fused with flesh wasn't just a scar—it was a testament to his indomitable will. Hydra tried to break him, but only made him more dangerous, more primal. And that primal energy was turning you into a wanton beast.

His knees slammed against the bed as he prowled between your legs. His teeth sank into your inner thigh without warning, making you gasp as his hot, open mouth devoured its way up your trembling skin. Your hips bucked wildly, desperate for more.

“Bucky—” The word barely left your lips before his teeth punished you with a sharp bite that made you cry out.

“Fuck! Sergeant... please, I need you now.” Your voice broke with desperation.

“Need me to what, doll?” His voice was gravel and sin.

A whimper tore from your throat, your mind fracturing with lust, struggling to form coherent thoughts as his hot breath teased your aching center.

“Please, I need your mouth on my cunt, Sergeant.” The words ripped from you in a ragged moan.

“There ya go, doll. Was that so hard?” He growled before his tongue plunged into you without mercy. Your body arched violently off the bed as he seized your hips in a bruising grip, forcing you open, exposing everything.

“There's my girl.” His dark laugh vibrated against your flesh as he devoured you like a starving man at his last meal. His tongue assaulted your clit with relentless precision, your hips grinding against his face as pleasure bordered on sweet agony.

He used that devilish mouth of his to build you up slowly, then pull back, holding you hostage on the edge of orgasm, without allowing you to fall over the edge. The cycle repeated over and over until you were damn close to begging him for release.

“Pl-please….Sergeant…let-let me come…”

“Not yet, doll. You’re not desperate enough for it yet.”

Your responding whimper made him smirk and return with added effort.

To make the sensations even more intense, he slowly pushes a warm finger into your soaking wet cunt. A whimper breaks through your lips and your head tips back in pleasure. You were so tight, and when you imagined how his cock was going to fit, you almost became nervous. Almost…

“Sergeant….” You whimper again, hips squirming against his hold. Another finger joins the first, both now pumping in and out, curling into the delicious little spongy spot inside you.

“Yes!” The word escaped as a broken cry. Your fingers clawed into his hair, gripping the dark strands like a lifeline as you spiraled toward oblivion. Your orgasm was swiftly approaching and your legs shook at the intensity cresting within you.

“Almost there, doll. I can feel you ready to burst.” He growls against your thigh.

“Please… please let me come. I need it, Sergeant!”

Your voice was pitched up and needy, hands clutching at his hair still, holding on for dear life.

“You wanna come, doll? Gonna come all over y mouth?”

“Yes, Sergeant, please…I need it. Need you to let me come!”

“Can feel you squeezin’ my fingers…so tight and trembling…come baby girl, come on face.” He growls, fervently sucking on your clit, and grants you the permission you desperately craved.

His mouth coupled with his fingers moving inside you make the tight coil in your core suddenly snap.

White hot lightening erupts from your core and your body arches up as your orgasm wrenches through you. Bucky’s eyes glinted as he watched and felt you spasm underneath him.

“That’s it, doll. My god, look at you fallin’ apart.”

His fingers continued to pump in you, his thumb replacing his lips with gentle swirls to prolong your orgasm. Breathless whimpers slip from your lips and you try your best to stay quiet so Sam doesn’t wake up.

“More…please… more. Want you inside me.” You utter as you come back down from your high.

His eyes darkened at your words, that dangerous smile spreading wider across his face as he crawled up your body, metal arm gleaming in the dim light of the bedroom. The cool plates pressed against your overheated skin, drawing goosebumps in their wake.

“What more do you want, doll?” He whispers into your ear. The weight of his body pressed down on you. His strong arms braced either side of your head , allowing his lips to meet yours.

His mouth was fostering with the result of your pleasure, the tang of your body passed from his mouth to yours when his tongue done between your lips to kiss you fully.

“I want all of you.”

"Everything?" he questioned, hovering above you now, his face inches from yours.

“Everything.” You reaffirmed and hooked your fingers into his waistband, although the sensation of his denim on your bare flesh was deliciously rough.

He just watches you with hooded eyes as your fingers dive into the minimal space between your bodies to unbutton his jeans. Instead of pushing them down, you slide your palm against the outside of his pants, rubbing against his hard cock. Bucky’s hips pulse into your hand once with a groan.

“Will you take these off for me, Sergeant?” You ask coyly. He complies quickly, sitting up for a moment to tug them down and off. The size of him, thick and hard, made your eyes darken and your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“One orgasm and you’ve turned into the perfect angel.” He teases as the weight of him settled between your thighs, his hardness pressing insistently against you. You gasped, still sensitive from his earlier attentions, but the need was building again already—a hunger that only he could satisfy.

“Only until my brain reboots.” You taunt back with a heady grin. Your hands trail down his back, nails scratching lightly. The resulting shiver the passes through him delights you.

"Tell me what you want now," he demanded, rolling his hips against yours in a teasing rhythm. "I want to hear those pretty words again."

Your fingers traced the ridges where metal met flesh at his shoulder, feeling him shudder under your touch. "I want you inside me," you whispered, emboldened by the raw desire in his eyes. "Please, Sergeant Barnes."

He groaned at the title, his forehead dropping to rest against yours then captures your lips against his.

While you had him distracted by your kiss, you hook a leg around his and thrust your hips to the side, sweeping him off of you and onto the mattress. He didn’t fight back, content with this change of position that placed you astride his hips, and his cock resting along the seam of your core.

Sliding back and forth, his cock brought delicate bites of pleasure to your clit. Your eyes drop closed.

“And what exactly do you plan to do up there, doll?” He asks with a rumble.

“I’m going to ride you, Sergeant Barnes.” You say and shift your hips to align your entrance with the leaking head of his cock.

His hands find your hips and he presses them down and agonizingly slowly, sheathing you around his manhood. You both release obscene moans at the ease from how wet you were. Once completely seated on him, you pause, adjusting to the fullness and stretch.

“Fuck, doll. You’re so goddamn tight. Can feel you fluttering around me, your cunt so hungry for me…” he says in awe. Your eyes drop closed for a moment , then you brace yourself on his chest. At last you lift your hips up and set to a steady rhythm. The head of his cock drummed against your g-spot over and over at this angle. Flesh and metal squeezed your hips and waist and breasts surely bound to leave bruises in the morning.

“James…” you whisper mindlessly as your eyes drop closed. A hand grips you by the jaw and tugs you down to meet his mouth.

“Say my name again, doll.” He growls into your lips.

“James…”

“Again.”

“James!”

Each time his name left your lips, his cock drove you closer and closer to your next orgasm. His eyes were almost completely blackened with pleasure and you continued a chant of his given name.

His powerful hips bucked up against you and then he swiftly reversed your positions.

A startled gasp was consumed by his kiss and he began to plow into you, the new angle quickly driving you to the edge.

“James, I’m gonna come… fuck please…don’t stop!” You cry against his lips.

“Almost there, doll.” He grunts out, his flesh hand finding purchase on your throat. His fingers squeeze gently, restricting blood flow in a heady show of control and power.

His pace becomes more erratic and then into your ear he whispers, “Let go, beautiful. Come for me.”

You both fall over the edge together, gasps of pleasure filling the air around you. The hand at your throat releases, blood rouses to your brain sending you into a dizzying high.

Your cunt contracts around his cock over and over, pulsing hot and wet. He buries himself deep and his come coats your inner walls in warmth. He continues to fuck you both through your joined orgasms, the sound of your mixing fluids obscenely resonates in the room.

Your thighs were shaking, his arms were trembling, and your mingled breathes were heavy and quick as you both ride out the high of your coupling.

“Fucking hell…” you whisper after you both come to an exhausted stillness. His responding chuckle was breathy as he collapses onto the mattress next to you. He draws your body into his as he does so, allowing him to stay buried inside you.

“That was…wow.” He says with a grin.

“Use your words, Sergeant.” You say with a smirk, despite your fucked-out face.

“I see your brain has rebooted, brat.” A pinch sparks a little jolt of pain on the globe of your ass, where Bucky’s hand had been resting. You respond by nipping at the delicate flesh of his ribs.

He playfully swats you away with a tap on your nose.

“I’m gonna have my hands full with you now, aren’t I?” He smiles at you with a devilish look.

“More like I’m gonna have my holes filled with you, Barnes.” You retort without missing a beat. You smirk feeling his cock twitch and begin to harden again inside you.

“You menace.” He says, and pulls you into a dominating kiss and on to a long night of no sleep.

[spinningyarnsandshame]

Shrapnel and Silence: Part 3

Bucky Barnes x Enhanced Female!Reader

Summary: When another vision hits, will Bucky let you help save the day? What will it cost in the end?

Word Count: ~3.3k

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Emotional Tension | Soft Ending

Warnings: Violence, blood, mentions of death, human trafficking, explosives, knife... gonna hurt your feelings probably... it hurt mine...

A/N: Final part, i hope you enjoy. I spent too long perfecting this chapter.

Masterlist is here

Series Links: Part 1 | Part 2

-------------

After the kiss, neither of you knew what to do. Bucky sighed, stood, and left to brief the others for the next day’s mission—still refusing to let you come.

You eventually fell asleep, torn between anger and fear, clinging to the thin hope that you could change his mind tomorrow.

Your dreams were full of blood and screaming. The memory of your throat splitting open replayed on a loop until you woke up mid-scream, drenched in sweat, your hands trembling uncontrollably.

Driven by sheer resolve, you threw on clothes and stormed down the hall. Your fists pounded against Bucky’s door like thunder until it flew open.

He stood there, eyes shadowed, expression unreadable. That cold stoicism sent a chill straight through you.

“I’m going with you,” you said before he could speak.

“No.” His voice was low, final.

“Either take me with you, or I’ll find my own way,” you snapped, pushing past him into the room. He was already half-suited for the mission.

“I won’t risk the operation for your self-destruction.”

The words stopped you cold. They cut sharper than any blade.

“Then you better lock me up,” you hissed, “because I’m not letting that woman die like that.”

You turned to leave, but his hand caught your wrist, firm, unyielding.

“Let. Go.”

“Don’t force my hand.” His voice was a low growl, frustration bleeding through the edges.

“I need to be there. I can help. I feel it in my bones—”

You broke off as something warm and wet slid down your upper lip. Blood. Bucky’s expression shifted instantly from anger to horror.

“Doll…” he started, but before he could reach you, your knees gave out and the world tilted sideways.

—--------------------------------

Rust. Saltwater. Gunpowder.

Your wrists burned where the zip ties cut deep into your skin. The air inside the shipping container was thick and metallic, heavy with fear. Every muffled shout in Russian made your pulse spike.

Gunfire cracked in the distance. Someone screamed. Then the container doors were thrown open.

The leader stormed in, face half-hidden beneath the shadows of the floodlights.

“No—no, please!” you shouted as he seized your arm and dragged you toward the back of the container.

Bodies shifted out of the way. He kicked the second door open and hauled you through it, pressing a knife to your throat.

“Shut up, or I’ll make you,” he snarled through a thick accent.

“Put the knife down!” a voice commanded from the dark.

You knew that voice. Bucky.

The leader laughed, low and cruel. “You can’t save both of them. The girl—or the rest?”

“Drop it!” Bucky shouted again, closer this time.

The man muttered something in Russian—then shoved you forward.

You barely felt the fall. Only the sudden, searing pain and the choking warmth flooding your throat. You tried to breathe, but all that came was blood.

Then—nothing.

—--------------------------------

You were still shaking in his arms, sobs tearing through what little breath you had left. His heart hammered beneath your ear—steady, human, desperate.

“Easy,” Bucky whispered, the low rasp of his voice cracking at the edges. “You’re safe, doll. You’re here.”

“I’m not,” you gasped, clinging to his shirt. “It’s happening again. I saw it—he was there—he was smiling.”

His fingers brushed along your jaw, checking for blood, for damage. “It’s just another vision. You’re here. I’m right here.”

You shook your head, shaking so violently your teeth clattered. “No. No, this one was different. He said something—something in Russian. I didn’t understand before.”

“What did he say?” Bucky’s tone sharpened.

You stared at the floor, lips trembling as you whispered, “Подарок скоро откроется.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“The phrase—‘the gift will open soon,’” you said, voice breaking. “He said it right before… before the blade. Before the woman died.”

The words hung heavy between you, sinking into the air like smoke.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his soldier’s mind turning instantly. “A gift that will open soon… that’s not about a person, that’s a warning.”

Realization hit you both at the same time.

“A bomb,” he said flatly.

You nodded, shivering. “He wasn’t talking about killing the victims. He was talking about a detonation. Something hidden—something waiting to go off.”

Bucky swore under his breath, standing abruptly. “I’m calling it in. We move now.”

You scrambled after him, voice cracking. “Then take me with you.”

He froze. You could see the conflict flicker across his face—fear, frustration, calculation.

“No,” he said finally, quieter this time. “You stay here. You’ve been through enough.”

“I can help,” you pleaded. “Bucky, I know what I saw. The containers—the codes—they were marked differently. I think I know where it is!”

He turned back, jaw tight. “And I think you’re about two seconds from collapsing again. You’re not coming.”

“Then you’re wasting time arguing with me,” you shot back. “Because I’m going, with or without you.”

The air between you sizzled with tension. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose before muttering, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Maybe,” you said quietly. “But not tonight.”

He cursed under his breath. “Fine. But you stick with me. You do not leave my sight.”

You nodded, relief and dread tangling together. “Deal.”

—------------------------

The quinjet touched down in a roar of engines. The yard sprawled below—rows of rusted containers stacked like tombs. Inside one of them, someone was counting down.

“Timer’s running,” Yelena said over comms, scanning her tracker. “Two minutes difference between signals. One’s fake, one’s real.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “They wired decoys. They want us separated.”

You were already strapping your vest. “Then split. You take the bomb; I’ll clear the hostages.”

“Not happening.”

“Bucky—listen to me.” You stepped close enough that rain ran off both your hoods into the same line. “You’ve got Yelena. You can’t disarm and search at the same time. You need eyes on the civilians.”

He hesitated—every part of him resisting—but logic cut through his fear. “You stay in contact. You call if you see anything.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” You gave a ghost of a smile. “See you at exfil.”

He muttered something that sounded like a prayer. “God help me.”

—------------------------------

You moved north through the maze of containers, boots splashing through puddles that smelled of diesel and salt. Bucky’s voice filled your ear, a constant low rumble: Timer’s close. Forty meters east. Yelena’s got wires—watch your corners, doll.

“Copy,” you whispered. “Hostage heat signatures ahead.”

The first container you checked was empty. The second held terrified civilians—men, women, hands bound, duct tape over their mouths. You cut them loose, keeping your weapon trained on the shadows.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “We’re getting you out.”

One woman grabbed your sleeve, eyes wide. “He said you’d come,” she whispered.

The phrase chilled you. “Who?”

Before she could answer, static crackled through your comm.

Then you heard it—faint, echoing from somewhere close. A man’s voice, low and deliberate:

“Подарок скоро откроется.”

The gift will open soon.

Your blood went cold.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “I just heard the phrase again. He’s here—north corridor, row E.”

“On my way,” he answered instantly. “Don’t move until I—”

But the scream from the next container cut him off.

You sprinted before he could finish, weapon raised, heart hammering.

—---------------------

The door to TY2213 swung open with a metallic groan. Inside stood the trafficker from your visions—broad, calm, smiling. A woman knelt in front of him, trembling, a knife at her throat.

You aimed. “Let her go!”

He turned slightly, the blade glinting in the floodlight. “Ah… the prophet.”

“Drop it!”

His smile widened. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Behind you, Bucky’s voice barked over comms—I’m right behind you. Don’t engage!—but you couldn’t wait. The hostage’s eyes were wild with terror.

You took one step forward. “Take me instead.”

That made him pause. “You’d trade yourself?”

“She’s innocent.”

He chuckled darkly. “Everyone thinks they’re innocent.”

“Let her go,” you said again. “I’ll come quietly.”

His head tilted as if considering. “Alright.”

He shoved the hostage away—and in the same motion, swung the blade.

Bucky rounded the corner just in time to see it.

The knife drew a clean, bright line across your throat.

Your body jerked, hands flying to the wound as blood poured through your fingers. You staggered backward, eyes wide, disbelief flashing before they rolled upward.

“NO!”

Bucky’s roar shook the yard. His rifle dropped as he charged, slamming the trafficker into the steel wall hard enough to dent it. The man laughed even as Bucky’s metal hand crushed his throat.

“Bomb’s live!” Yelena’s voice screamed through the comm.

“Disarm it!” he bellowed back, dropping the body and diving to the ground beside you.

Your breaths were shallow, wet. Blood pooled under his knees. He ripped open his vest, pressing it against your neck. “Stay with me. Come on, doll—stay with me!”

Your fingers twitched against his wrist. You tried to speak, to warn him, but the only thing that came out was a wet gurgle.

Then you went still.

“Yelena! Med-kit, now!”

“Thirty seconds on the timer!”

“Then RUN IT!” he screamed.

He started chest compressions right there in the mud, his hands sliding on blood and rain. The world was just noise—alarms, shouting, thunder. He didn’t feel the explosion rock the southern end of the yard; he didn’t care. All he saw was you.

“Come on,” he whispered between breaths. “Come on, sweetheart, you’re not done yet.”

Yelena skidded beside him, slamming down the med-pack. “Move!”

They worked in tandem—adrenaline, training, desperation. Shock paddles. Syringe. Pressure. Still no pulse.

Then—faint movement. A cough. A choking gasp.

“She’s back!” Yelena shouted.

Bucky’s hands didn’t stop shaking. “Keep her breathing. Keep her breathing.”

—---------------------

Hours later, the quinjet vibrated under the weight of exhaustion and smoke. You were pale, wrapped in gauze, hooked to every monitor they had. You’d coded twice in transit. Both times Bucky had refused to leave your side.

Now he sat slumped beside the gurney, hands stained red, eyes hollow.

Yelena leaned against the bulkhead, watching quietly. “He’s dead, you know. The trafficker. You crushed his throat.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Not enough.”

She hesitated, then added softly, “They didn’t kill anyone. You both stopped them.”

He finally glanced at you—your chest rising in a shallow, steady rhythm beneath the oxygen mask—and exhaled a shaky breath.

“Barely,” he murmured.

Yelena nodded once, stepping away. “Barely still counts.”

Bucky leaned forward, brushing a blood-streaked strand of hair from your forehead. “You should’ve let me go alone,” he whispered. “You didn’t have to trade yourself.”

Your fingers twitched faintly against his hand, a reflex, a ghost of life.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the back of your palm. “You’re gonna be alright, doll. You hear me? You’ve got to be.”

The engines hummed on. Outside, dawn began to break over the ruined yard—quiet, cold, and alive.

—---------------------------------

The room was too white. Too clean. Too quiet.

You woke to the soft hiss of oxygen and the low beep of a monitor keeping time with your heartbeat. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were—just that you were alive, and that every breath hurt.

Your throat burned. Instinctively, your hand flew up, fingers brushing the bandages wrapped tight around your neck. You could feel the ridged line of the wound beneath—the place where the knife had opened you and the medics had stitched you back together.

“Easy.”

The voice made your chest seize. You turned your head slowly, eyes heavy and unfocused.

Bucky sat in the corner of the room, elbows on his knees, face shadowed with exhaustion. He looked like he hadn’t moved in hours.

When your eyes met, he exhaled—a long, shaky sound that broke halfway through.

“You’re awake.” he whispered, a sigh of relief.

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasp. The effort made your throat spasm in pain.

“Don’t,” he said quickly, standing to reach your bedside. “Don’t try to talk. The docs said your voice’ll come back, but not yet. They used some Stark-grade synthetic tissue. It’s healing faster than it should.”

He managed a small, unsteady smile. “Guess even near-death can’t stop you from running your mouth forever.”

You gave a faint eye roll that made him chuckle—then wince when you coughed. His hand hovered near your shoulder until the fit passed.

When you finally looked at him again, the humor was gone. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tense.

“You almost died,” he said quietly. “Three times.”

You blinked slowly, the memory washing over you in pieces—rain, the knife, his voice. The moment everything went black.

He swallowed hard, his voice rough. “I saw it happen. I saw him do it. And I couldn’t stop it.”

Your fingers twitched toward him, an instinct. He caught your hand gently, like it might break.

“You saved them,” you rasped, forcing the words through the ache. “The hostages… the bomb…”

“Don’t,” he cut in, shaking his head. “Don’t you dare try to make this noble.” His tone cracked on the edge of it. “You traded yourself, and I watched him take you from me.”

He looked away, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if the words themselves hurt to say. “You don’t know what that felt like. Seeing you hit the ground. Hearing the comm go dead.”

You squeezed his hand, weak but deliberate. He looked back at you, startled.

“I do,” you whispered. “Because I saw it before it happened.”

His breath hitched, but you kept going, voice barely audible. “In the vision. I felt it. And I went anyway. Because if I hadn’t, they’d all be dead. You’d still blame yourself. I—” your throat constricted, forcing you to stop.

He leaned closer, his eyes flickering between fury and grief. “You think that makes it okay? That dying in front of me was worth it?”

“I wasn’t supposed to die,” you whispered. “Not yet.”

The silence that followed was sharp. He stared at you, breathing hard, until finally—

“You’re insane,” he muttered, voice breaking.

A shaky smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe.”

Something in him cracked at that—his control, his restraint, all the walls he’d kept between you. He sank into the chair beside your bed, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.

“I can’t lose you like that again,” he said softly. “I can’t—” his voice faltered, trembling with the weight of it. “You mean too damn much to me.”

Your fingers threaded weakly through his hair, grounding him. “Then don’t lose me,” you managed to whisper. “Stay.”

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice low but certain. “Not this time.”

His thumb brushed over your wrist, tracing the faint pulse there. “You’re still shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you rasped.

That earned a ghost of a smile. “Fair point.”

He hesitated then, gaze flicking to your throat. “You’re gonna have a scar.”

You nodded faintly. “Souvenir.”

He swallowed. “I hate that it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” you said, firm despite your voice. “You can’t control what I see.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes glassy. “You saw your own death, and you went anyway. That’s not bravery, doll—that’s something else entirely.”

You met his gaze steadily. “Maybe it’s faith.”

He shook his head, a soft, incredulous laugh escaping him. “Faith. Right. You’ve got too much of that for both of us.”

You squeezed his hand again, the faintest whisper slipping out. “Then believe in me.”

He leaned forward, pressing a careful kiss against your bandaged temple. “I already do.”

—------------------

The med wing was quiet at night. Monitors hummed, lights dimmed to a low amber glow, and the only sound was the slow, steady rhythm of your own breathing.

Three days had passed since the surgery. Three days of painkillers, quiet visits, and Bucky never once leaving the floor.

He wasn’t supposed to be there now — the nurses had told him to rest hours ago — but you weren’t surprised when the door clicked softly open.

He looked rough. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, the tension in his shoulders still wound tight. But when he saw you awake, sitting up against the pillows, his breath caught like he hadn’t expected to find you real.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you whispered, voice still raw but stronger.

He let out a low laugh. “Not since that night.”

You tilted your head, half-smiling. “You’re supposed to rest, Sergeant Barnes.”

He moved closer, shaking his head. “Not while you’re still hooked up to half the damn med bay.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice soft but edged with something you’d never heard from him before — a kind of quiet desperation. “You don’t get to scare the hell out of me and then tell me to rest.”

You exhaled slowly, looking down at the IV in your arm. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s the problem,” he said. “You didn’t even think about it. You just went in.”

“Someone had to.”

He let out a rough sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You always say that like you’re the only one who can.”

You met his eyes, steady and unflinching. “Would you have done it any different?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

The silence between you thickened, stretching until you could feel it — that same pull that had been there before the mission, before the confession, before everything fell apart.

He finally moved closer, pulling a chair beside the bed. His metal hand rested lightly against the blanket near your knee, close enough to feel but not quite touching.

“You should hate me,” you said quietly. “I made you watch that.”

His eyes lifted to yours, dark and steady. “You think that’s what I remember?”

“What else is there to remember?”

He hesitated, then reached out — slow, deliberate — and brushed his fingers along the edge of the bandage at your throat. The touch was feather-light, reverent.

“I remember the way you looked at me before you fell,” he said quietly. “Like I was the last thing you trusted.”

The words hit harder than any wound. You swallowed, blinking against the sudden burn in your chest.

“I did trust you,” you said softly. “I still do.”

Something in him broke at that — a flicker of vulnerability that melted straight into resolve. He stood, leaning over the rail of the bed, the storm in his eyes close enough to feel on your skin.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You smiled faintly, breath trembling. “I think I do.”

And then the space between you disappeared.

He cupped your jaw, one hand warm and human, the other cool and unyielding, and kissed you. It wasn’t careful or tentative — it was desperate, fierce, full of everything both of you had been swallowing down for weeks.

You tasted salt and exhaustion and something you’d almost forgotten how to feel: alive.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath unsteady.

“You don’t get to do that again,” he whispered. “No more trading your life. No more walking into death because you think it’s the only way to save someone.”

You smiled weakly, voice rasping through the ache. “Guess we’ll just have to save each other next time.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound cracked and warm. “Next time, huh?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t believe there’ll be one.”

He sighed, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “God help me, I hope not.”

But he kissed you again anyway — slower this time, less desperate, more a promise than a plea — and when he pulled away, you could see it written all over him:

Bucky Barnes, soldier, survivor, man who had seen too much — finally had something worth fighting for that wasn’t just the mission.

[spinningyarnsandshame]

Shrapnel and Silence: Part 3

Bucky Barnes x Enhanced Female!Reader

Summary: When another vision hits, will Bucky let you help save the day? What will it cost in the end?

Word Count: ~3.3k

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Emotional Tension | Soft Ending

Warnings: Violence, blood, mentions of death, human trafficking, explosives, knife... gonna hurt your feelings probably... it hurt mine...

A/N: Final part, i hope you enjoy. I spent too long perfecting this chapter.

Masterlist is here

Series Links: Part 1 | Part 2

-------------

After the kiss, neither of you knew what to do. Bucky sighed, stood, and left to brief the others for the next day’s mission—still refusing to let you come.

You eventually fell asleep, torn between anger and fear, clinging to the thin hope that you could change his mind tomorrow.

Your dreams were full of blood and screaming. The memory of your throat splitting open replayed on a loop until you woke up mid-scream, drenched in sweat, your hands trembling uncontrollably.

Driven by sheer resolve, you threw on clothes and stormed down the hall. Your fists pounded against Bucky’s door like thunder until it flew open.

He stood there, eyes shadowed, expression unreadable. That cold stoicism sent a chill straight through you.

“I’m going with you,” you said before he could speak.

“No.” His voice was low, final.

“Either take me with you, or I’ll find my own way,” you snapped, pushing past him into the room. He was already half-suited for the mission.

“I won’t risk the operation for your self-destruction.”

The words stopped you cold. They cut sharper than any blade.

“Then you better lock me up,” you hissed, “because I’m not letting that woman die like that.”

You turned to leave, but his hand caught your wrist, firm, unyielding.

“Let. Go.”

“Don’t force my hand.” His voice was a low growl, frustration bleeding through the edges.

“I need to be there. I can help. I feel it in my bones—”

You broke off as something warm and wet slid down your upper lip. Blood. Bucky’s expression shifted instantly from anger to horror.

“Doll…” he started, but before he could reach you, your knees gave out and the world tilted sideways.

—--------------------------------

Rust. Saltwater. Gunpowder.

Your wrists burned where the zip ties cut deep into your skin. The air inside the shipping container was thick and metallic, heavy with fear. Every muffled shout in Russian made your pulse spike.

Gunfire cracked in the distance. Someone screamed. Then the container doors were thrown open.

The leader stormed in, face half-hidden beneath the shadows of the floodlights.

“No—no, please!” you shouted as he seized your arm and dragged you toward the back of the container.

Bodies shifted out of the way. He kicked the second door open and hauled you through it, pressing a knife to your throat.

“Shut up, or I’ll make you,” he snarled through a thick accent.

“Put the knife down!” a voice commanded from the dark.

You knew that voice. Bucky.

The leader laughed, low and cruel. “You can’t save both of them. The girl—or the rest?”

“Drop it!” Bucky shouted again, closer this time.

The man muttered something in Russian—then shoved you forward.

You barely felt the fall. Only the sudden, searing pain and the choking warmth flooding your throat. You tried to breathe, but all that came was blood.

Then—nothing.

—--------------------------------

You were still shaking in his arms, sobs tearing through what little breath you had left. His heart hammered beneath your ear—steady, human, desperate.

“Easy,” Bucky whispered, the low rasp of his voice cracking at the edges. “You’re safe, doll. You’re here.”

“I’m not,” you gasped, clinging to his shirt. “It’s happening again. I saw it—he was there—he was smiling.”

His fingers brushed along your jaw, checking for blood, for damage. “It’s just another vision. You’re here. I’m right here.”

You shook your head, shaking so violently your teeth clattered. “No. No, this one was different. He said something—something in Russian. I didn’t understand before.”

“What did he say?” Bucky’s tone sharpened.

You stared at the floor, lips trembling as you whispered, “Подарок скоро откроется.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“The phrase—‘the gift will open soon,’” you said, voice breaking. “He said it right before… before the blade. Before the woman died.”

The words hung heavy between you, sinking into the air like smoke.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his soldier’s mind turning instantly. “A gift that will open soon… that’s not about a person, that’s a warning.”

Realization hit you both at the same time.

“A bomb,” he said flatly.

You nodded, shivering. “He wasn’t talking about killing the victims. He was talking about a detonation. Something hidden—something waiting to go off.”

Bucky swore under his breath, standing abruptly. “I’m calling it in. We move now.”

You scrambled after him, voice cracking. “Then take me with you.”

He froze. You could see the conflict flicker across his face—fear, frustration, calculation.

“No,” he said finally, quieter this time. “You stay here. You’ve been through enough.”

“I can help,” you pleaded. “Bucky, I know what I saw. The containers—the codes—they were marked differently. I think I know where it is!”

He turned back, jaw tight. “And I think you’re about two seconds from collapsing again. You’re not coming.”

“Then you’re wasting time arguing with me,” you shot back. “Because I’m going, with or without you.”

The air between you sizzled with tension. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling through his nose before muttering, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Maybe,” you said quietly. “But not tonight.”

He cursed under his breath. “Fine. But you stick with me. You do not leave my sight.”

You nodded, relief and dread tangling together. “Deal.”

—------------------------

The quinjet touched down in a roar of engines. The yard sprawled below—rows of rusted containers stacked like tombs. Inside one of them, someone was counting down.

“Timer’s running,” Yelena said over comms, scanning her tracker. “Two minutes difference between signals. One’s fake, one’s real.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “They wired decoys. They want us separated.”

You were already strapping your vest. “Then split. You take the bomb; I’ll clear the hostages.”

“Not happening.”

“Bucky—listen to me.” You stepped close enough that rain ran off both your hoods into the same line. “You’ve got Yelena. You can’t disarm and search at the same time. You need eyes on the civilians.”

He hesitated—every part of him resisting—but logic cut through his fear. “You stay in contact. You call if you see anything.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” You gave a ghost of a smile. “See you at exfil.”

He muttered something that sounded like a prayer. “God help me.”

—------------------------------

You moved north through the maze of containers, boots splashing through puddles that smelled of diesel and salt. Bucky’s voice filled your ear, a constant low rumble: Timer’s close. Forty meters east. Yelena’s got wires—watch your corners, doll.

“Copy,” you whispered. “Hostage heat signatures ahead.”

The first container you checked was empty. The second held terrified civilians—men, women, hands bound, duct tape over their mouths. You cut them loose, keeping your weapon trained on the shadows.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “We’re getting you out.”

One woman grabbed your sleeve, eyes wide. “He said you’d come,” she whispered.

The phrase chilled you. “Who?”

Before she could answer, static crackled through your comm.

Then you heard it—faint, echoing from somewhere close. A man’s voice, low and deliberate:

“Подарок скоро откроется.”

The gift will open soon.

Your blood went cold.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “I just heard the phrase again. He’s here—north corridor, row E.”

“On my way,” he answered instantly. “Don’t move until I—”

But the scream from the next container cut him off.

You sprinted before he could finish, weapon raised, heart hammering.

—---------------------

The door to TY2213 swung open with a metallic groan. Inside stood the trafficker from your visions—broad, calm, smiling. A woman knelt in front of him, trembling, a knife at her throat.

You aimed. “Let her go!”

He turned slightly, the blade glinting in the floodlight. “Ah… the prophet.”

“Drop it!”

His smile widened. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Behind you, Bucky’s voice barked over comms—I’m right behind you. Don’t engage!—but you couldn’t wait. The hostage’s eyes were wild with terror.

You took one step forward. “Take me instead.”

That made him pause. “You’d trade yourself?”

“She’s innocent.”

He chuckled darkly. “Everyone thinks they’re innocent.”

“Let her go,” you said again. “I’ll come quietly.”

His head tilted as if considering. “Alright.”

He shoved the hostage away—and in the same motion, swung the blade.

Bucky rounded the corner just in time to see it.

The knife drew a clean, bright line across your throat.

Your body jerked, hands flying to the wound as blood poured through your fingers. You staggered backward, eyes wide, disbelief flashing before they rolled upward.

“NO!”

Bucky’s roar shook the yard. His rifle dropped as he charged, slamming the trafficker into the steel wall hard enough to dent it. The man laughed even as Bucky’s metal hand crushed his throat.

“Bomb’s live!” Yelena’s voice screamed through the comm.

“Disarm it!” he bellowed back, dropping the body and diving to the ground beside you.

Your breaths were shallow, wet. Blood pooled under his knees. He ripped open his vest, pressing it against your neck. “Stay with me. Come on, doll—stay with me!”

Your fingers twitched against his wrist. You tried to speak, to warn him, but the only thing that came out was a wet gurgle.

Then you went still.

“Yelena! Med-kit, now!”

“Thirty seconds on the timer!”

“Then RUN IT!” he screamed.

He started chest compressions right there in the mud, his hands sliding on blood and rain. The world was just noise—alarms, shouting, thunder. He didn’t feel the explosion rock the southern end of the yard; he didn’t care. All he saw was you.

“Come on,” he whispered between breaths. “Come on, sweetheart, you’re not done yet.”

Yelena skidded beside him, slamming down the med-pack. “Move!”

They worked in tandem—adrenaline, training, desperation. Shock paddles. Syringe. Pressure. Still no pulse.

Then—faint movement. A cough. A choking gasp.

“She’s back!” Yelena shouted.

Bucky’s hands didn’t stop shaking. “Keep her breathing. Keep her breathing.”

—---------------------

Hours later, the quinjet vibrated under the weight of exhaustion and smoke. You were pale, wrapped in gauze, hooked to every monitor they had. You’d coded twice in transit. Both times Bucky had refused to leave your side.

Now he sat slumped beside the gurney, hands stained red, eyes hollow.

Yelena leaned against the bulkhead, watching quietly. “He’s dead, you know. The trafficker. You crushed his throat.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Not enough.”

She hesitated, then added softly, “They didn’t kill anyone. You both stopped them.”

He finally glanced at you—your chest rising in a shallow, steady rhythm beneath the oxygen mask—and exhaled a shaky breath.

“Barely,” he murmured.

Yelena nodded once, stepping away. “Barely still counts.”

Bucky leaned forward, brushing a blood-streaked strand of hair from your forehead. “You should’ve let me go alone,” he whispered. “You didn’t have to trade yourself.”

Your fingers twitched faintly against his hand, a reflex, a ghost of life.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the back of your palm. “You’re gonna be alright, doll. You hear me? You’ve got to be.”

The engines hummed on. Outside, dawn began to break over the ruined yard—quiet, cold, and alive.

—---------------------------------

The room was too white. Too clean. Too quiet.

You woke to the soft hiss of oxygen and the low beep of a monitor keeping time with your heartbeat. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were—just that you were alive, and that every breath hurt.

Your throat burned. Instinctively, your hand flew up, fingers brushing the bandages wrapped tight around your neck. You could feel the ridged line of the wound beneath—the place where the knife had opened you and the medics had stitched you back together.

“Easy.”

The voice made your chest seize. You turned your head slowly, eyes heavy and unfocused.

Bucky sat in the corner of the room, elbows on his knees, face shadowed with exhaustion. He looked like he hadn’t moved in hours.

When your eyes met, he exhaled—a long, shaky sound that broke halfway through.

“You’re awake.” he whispered, a sigh of relief.

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasp. The effort made your throat spasm in pain.

“Don’t,” he said quickly, standing to reach your bedside. “Don’t try to talk. The docs said your voice’ll come back, but not yet. They used some Stark-grade synthetic tissue. It’s healing faster than it should.”

He managed a small, unsteady smile. “Guess even near-death can’t stop you from running your mouth forever.”

You gave a faint eye roll that made him chuckle—then wince when you coughed. His hand hovered near your shoulder until the fit passed.

When you finally looked at him again, the humor was gone. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tense.

“You almost died,” he said quietly. “Three times.”

You blinked slowly, the memory washing over you in pieces—rain, the knife, his voice. The moment everything went black.

He swallowed hard, his voice rough. “I saw it happen. I saw him do it. And I couldn’t stop it.”

Your fingers twitched toward him, an instinct. He caught your hand gently, like it might break.

“You saved them,” you rasped, forcing the words through the ache. “The hostages… the bomb…”

“Don’t,” he cut in, shaking his head. “Don’t you dare try to make this noble.” His tone cracked on the edge of it. “You traded yourself, and I watched him take you from me.”

He looked away, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if the words themselves hurt to say. “You don’t know what that felt like. Seeing you hit the ground. Hearing the comm go dead.”

You squeezed his hand, weak but deliberate. He looked back at you, startled.

“I do,” you whispered. “Because I saw it before it happened.”

His breath hitched, but you kept going, voice barely audible. “In the vision. I felt it. And I went anyway. Because if I hadn’t, they’d all be dead. You’d still blame yourself. I—” your throat constricted, forcing you to stop.

He leaned closer, his eyes flickering between fury and grief. “You think that makes it okay? That dying in front of me was worth it?”

“I wasn’t supposed to die,” you whispered. “Not yet.”

The silence that followed was sharp. He stared at you, breathing hard, until finally—

“You’re insane,” he muttered, voice breaking.

A shaky smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe.”

Something in him cracked at that—his control, his restraint, all the walls he’d kept between you. He sank into the chair beside your bed, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.

“I can’t lose you like that again,” he said softly. “I can’t—” his voice faltered, trembling with the weight of it. “You mean too damn much to me.”

Your fingers threaded weakly through his hair, grounding him. “Then don’t lose me,” you managed to whisper. “Stay.”

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice low but certain. “Not this time.”

His thumb brushed over your wrist, tracing the faint pulse there. “You’re still shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you rasped.

That earned a ghost of a smile. “Fair point.”

He hesitated then, gaze flicking to your throat. “You’re gonna have a scar.”

You nodded faintly. “Souvenir.”

He swallowed. “I hate that it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” you said, firm despite your voice. “You can’t control what I see.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes glassy. “You saw your own death, and you went anyway. That’s not bravery, doll—that’s something else entirely.”

You met his gaze steadily. “Maybe it’s faith.”

He shook his head, a soft, incredulous laugh escaping him. “Faith. Right. You’ve got too much of that for both of us.”

You squeezed his hand again, the faintest whisper slipping out. “Then believe in me.”

He leaned forward, pressing a careful kiss against your bandaged temple. “I already do.”

—------------------

The med wing was quiet at night. Monitors hummed, lights dimmed to a low amber glow, and the only sound was the slow, steady rhythm of your own breathing.

Three days had passed since the surgery. Three days of painkillers, quiet visits, and Bucky never once leaving the floor.

He wasn’t supposed to be there now — the nurses had told him to rest hours ago — but you weren’t surprised when the door clicked softly open.

He looked rough. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, the tension in his shoulders still wound tight. But when he saw you awake, sitting up against the pillows, his breath caught like he hadn’t expected to find you real.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you whispered, voice still raw but stronger.

He let out a low laugh. “Not since that night.”

You tilted your head, half-smiling. “You’re supposed to rest, Sergeant Barnes.”

He moved closer, shaking his head. “Not while you’re still hooked up to half the damn med bay.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice soft but edged with something you’d never heard from him before — a kind of quiet desperation. “You don’t get to scare the hell out of me and then tell me to rest.”

You exhaled slowly, looking down at the IV in your arm. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s the problem,” he said. “You didn’t even think about it. You just went in.”

“Someone had to.”

He let out a rough sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You always say that like you’re the only one who can.”

You met his eyes, steady and unflinching. “Would you have done it any different?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

The silence between you thickened, stretching until you could feel it — that same pull that had been there before the mission, before the confession, before everything fell apart.

He finally moved closer, pulling a chair beside the bed. His metal hand rested lightly against the blanket near your knee, close enough to feel but not quite touching.

“You should hate me,” you said quietly. “I made you watch that.”

His eyes lifted to yours, dark and steady. “You think that’s what I remember?”

“What else is there to remember?”

He hesitated, then reached out — slow, deliberate — and brushed his fingers along the edge of the bandage at your throat. The touch was feather-light, reverent.

“I remember the way you looked at me before you fell,” he said quietly. “Like I was the last thing you trusted.”

The words hit harder than any wound. You swallowed, blinking against the sudden burn in your chest.

“I did trust you,” you said softly. “I still do.”

Something in him broke at that — a flicker of vulnerability that melted straight into resolve. He stood, leaning over the rail of the bed, the storm in his eyes close enough to feel on your skin.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You smiled faintly, breath trembling. “I think I do.”

And then the space between you disappeared.

He cupped your jaw, one hand warm and human, the other cool and unyielding, and kissed you. It wasn’t careful or tentative — it was desperate, fierce, full of everything both of you had been swallowing down for weeks.

You tasted salt and exhaustion and something you’d almost forgotten how to feel: alive.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath unsteady.

“You don’t get to do that again,” he whispered. “No more trading your life. No more walking into death because you think it’s the only way to save someone.”

You smiled weakly, voice rasping through the ache. “Guess we’ll just have to save each other next time.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound cracked and warm. “Next time, huh?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t believe there’ll be one.”

He sighed, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “God help me, I hope not.”

But he kissed you again anyway — slower this time, less desperate, more a promise than a plea — and when he pulled away, you could see it written all over him:

Bucky Barnes, soldier, survivor, man who had seen too much — finally had something worth fighting for that wasn’t just the mission.

[navybrat817]

Why isn't Bucky waking me up to have his way with me?

I wish I had the answer, nonnie!

Slip Inside

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky can't resist having you when he comes home.

Word Count: Over 1.5k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected vaginal sex, somnophilia (at first), established relationship, pet names, possessive behavior, slight feels (it's me, okay?), lovesick and needy Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: I can't send Bucky, but here you lovelies go! ❤️Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky wasn't meant to be home until tomorrow. He almost called to let you know he’d be back a day early, but it was late and he didn't want to disturb your slumber. Imagining the happy look in your eyes when you woke up beside him brought a smile to his face. Being loved by you was something he still couldn't believe was real some days, but he knew in the depths of his soul that you would always be his girl.

“Welcome home,” he whispered to himself when he saw you in bed, a sight for sore eyes.

He kept his gaze on you as he undressed, careful not to make any noise. You had an arm draped over the pillow next to you, the one he usually rested his head on. His heart raced as he took a step closer and gently pulled the blanket away, your body barely covered by the shirt he recently bought for you. Shivering slightly, you tried to curl in on yourself, but stilled quickly.

Like you knew he was watching you.

“I love you,” he breathed into the room.

You replied with a moan and rubbed your hand against the pillow.

You were beautiful when you slept. If you asked him, you were gorgeous all the time. A breathless kind of vision that he grew to appreciate more and more each day. But you weren't like a piece of art for him to just admire. You were the type of beauty meant to be appreciated.

And he gladly did so with his hands, mouth, and cock.

Oh, he loved you. Fuck, he needed you, too. It was an ache. A hunger. Awake, asleep, it didn't matter as long as he had you. And you were understanding enough to let him take what he needed.

“Mine,” he whispered.

Bucky quickly took the opportunity to slip into the bed and spoon you from behind. Your steady breathing grounded him in a sense while awakening the beast he kept at bay. The one that wanted to come out and play. One that needed to bury himself deep and keep you full.

If you were awake, he would've turned your head to kiss you nice and slow, unrushed even with the mounting desperation. Instead he rubbed his nose and scruffy chin at the juncture between your neck and shoulder, breathing in the distinctly sweet scent of you while wanting to leave his claim. That no one else could touch or have you. That you were his.

“You're mine,” he growled lowly.

Rubbing the inside of your thigh once he pushed your shirt up enough, he heard your breathing hitch. He wasn't ready for you to wake up just yet, but it didn't keep him moving his hand higher and grasping the elastic of your underwear. He debated tearing the offending fabric off, but he couldn't fault you for wearing them.

You didn't know he'd come home tonight.

He also thought about touching you through your panties to feel you squirm under his touch. Your whines and whimpers always made his cock twitch, especially when you soaked the fabric. Sometimes he liked to shove them in your mouth so you could taste yourself and know he was the one who did that to you.

Only him.

He brushed his lips along your skin as he pulled it down, almost wishing he was in front of you so he could look down and see your exposed pussy. “Mine,” he whispered again as his fingers parted your folds and skimmed over your clit.

You moved back against him with a sigh, enticing him without even trying. Alternating between teasing the bundle of nerves and your slit, he felt his own breathing get heavier and harsh with each passing second. By the time he brought his fingers to his mouth to lick your juices away, his cock was hard and heavy with the need to sink into your dripping cunt. He grunted as your flavor exploded on his tongue. He was done with foreplay.

And with how you panted and writhed, you were ready for him.

He hooked your leg over his thick thigh to open you up, hoping it wouldn't hurt when you stretched around him. “I love you,” he said once more as he brushed the tip of his cock against your hole, sighing as he slowly filled you up.

He had to close his eyes and hide his face in your neck to keep from losing it. He could go for hours when he wanted to, but the feel of your warm wetness gripping him like a vice was almost too much. Finishing quickly or not didn't matter. You’d take it as a compliment if your sweet cunt made him empty himself inside you so fast.

But he had to make it last and make you come first.

With a deep breath, he got himself under control. You let out the sweetest whine when he almost pulled out completely and shoved himself back in. Curled around you, all you could do was take his deep thrusts. He could've breathed through his nose and tried to stay quiet. He could’ve gone slow and steady. But he moaned and nipped at your skin, not wanting to hide his desire for you.

He couldn't see your face, but he felt you roll your hips back as you began to stir and heard another whine escape. You weren't completely awake, but your body craved what he was doing to you. It was enough for him to roll you on your stomach and quicken his pace.

“Bucky?” You mumbled.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn't resist. Your pussy’s too good,” he groaned, putting a hand to the back of your neck to hold you still. “I need you. Need to feel you come on my cock.”

You fluttered around him as he stretched over your back, forcing you to take every inch of him. Your body went pliant as you let out a tired and needy moan. If you wanted him to stop, you would’ve told him to do so. “Please,” you whined as he practically rutted into you.

“I got you,” he grunted, driving harder into you as your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Missed you. Missed you so fucking much. Might need to keep my cock in you all night.”

You trembled, both of you knowing you’d lay there and let him fuck you all night if he asked. You were so good for him. And greedy. It would be wrong of him not to give you what you longed for.

“And you'll let me fill you up, won't you? Of course, you will,” he panted against your ear. You tried to arch your back, but his massive frame overpowered you. “It’s okay. Just take it. Let me have you.”

Fucking you raw was a gift he’d selfishly continue to ask for and take. But how could he not? You always let out the prettiest sounds when he flooded your holes.

He couldn't stop himself from shoving his hand between the mattress and your body, seeking out your clit to tip you over the edge. Moans poured from you as he lightly pinched it, giving you the push you needed. “That’s it. Come on my cock. My cock. My good girl,” he encouraged as you clamped around him hard enough for him to lose his breath.

You nearly cried as he took you apart. “Bu… Bucky…”

“Trembling around my cock. Greedy girl,” he moaned, his hips snapping faster as he brought his mouth back to your ear. “My turn.”

He let out a deep groan as he stilled, filling you. His release hit him so hard his head spun, muttering his love for and possession of you as his eyes fluttered. You let out a broken moan as you clenched around him again and he had to keep from collapsing against you, both of you fighting for air.

“Love you,” he mumbled, wanting you to hear it now that you were awake.

He only pulled out so he could move you to your back and desperately kiss your lips the way he needed to, pushing himself back inside your leaking hole with a hum. Your eyes were half-lidded when he broke the kiss. Your gaze made him want to ruin you all over again.

“Love you, too,” you croaked, your back bowing when he groped your breast through the shirt. “Welcome home.”

Bucky’s heart pounded as he leaned down to kiss you again. It was a dance of tongue and teeth, dizzying and passionate. Some days you were the fire and others you were the fuel. You accepted the entirety of him and he welcomed everything you selflessly gave him in return.

“Good to be home, baby,” he smirked, brushing his thumb along your covered nipple. “Now stay awake. I need to fill you up at least two more times before the sun comes up.”

Even after that, he wasn't close to being done with you. But he was whole because he was home with you. And that would always be enough.

We deserve this, okay? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[stardustrider]

Uffff..... 🥵🥵🥵 the perfect mix of hot and sweet!