🥃 Wasted Love
Pairing: Bucky Barnes / Yelena Belova
Rating: E (smut, small emotional intimacy)
Spoilers: Thunderbolts (2025)
Word Count: ~1.4k
AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67897186
Inspired by: wasted love by JMSN
Summary:
“Have you ever been with someone… when it wasn’t a mission?”
Bucky and Yelena’s first time.
E for smut. Written for Bucklena Week 2025 – Day One (First Kiss / First Time)
“Like grains of sand inside my hand
It’s falling away from me now…
I want to feel something that’s not just wasted love…”
~ wasted love by JMSN
xxx
We were halfway through a bottle of vodka when the stories started.
It was Walker, of course.
“—and then she bit me,” he said, gesturing with the bottle like it was a mic. “Right on the lip. I was bleeding the rest of the damn school day.”
Ava made a noise halfway between a groan and a gag. “Dear God. Is this what our team-building nights have come to?”
She leaned back on her palms, unimpressed. Bucky was trying his best not to smile.
Walker kicked Ava lightly in the shin.
“C’mon. That was gold. I told you mine, you tell me yours.”
“I don’t kiss and tell,” Ava said with an eyeroll. “Don’t be crass.”
“Ohhh,” he drawled, grinning. “That sounds like someone’s never been kissed before.” He raised the bottle in mock horror. “What, you mean no one in all of SHIELD ever took you out behind the quantum lockers, or whatever?”
Ava snatched the bottle from his hands. “Derek Hayes. Fifth grade.”
She took a long pull. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I phased through him afterwards. He called the police.”
Dead silence.
And then—laughter. Loud, doubled-over, breathless kind of laughter. Even Alexei had to cover his face.
Bob shook his head, smiling. “That poor kid.” His voice softened when he spoke next, and started telling a story about holding hands on a park bench in Cleveland, sophomore year.
I glanced up. Caught Bucky looking.
He didn’t smile. Just held my gaze for half a second too long—then looked away.
And then, it was my turn.
By the time they’d gotten to me, the bottle was almost empty—and the topic had veered from “first kisses” to “first loves” to “first times,” period.
I took the bottle. I didn’t blink.
I thought about lying. Thought about saying something casual, something easy. But I was done pretending.
“First kiss? Mission.”
I waited half a beat.
“First time? Also, mission.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody asked a follow-up.
The air changed.
I let it stretch. I didn’t elaborate—just passed the empty bottle to my right. To Bucky. It was his turn.
He shifted in his chair, posture tightening. He didn’t look at the bottle—he didn’t look at anyone.
“I’m calling it a night.”
He stood up, and left.
Nobody said a word—none of us had to. The collective expression was, huh?
I shifted in my seat. I knew why.
xxx
Hours later, there was a knock on my bedroom door.
I half-expected it when I opened it, and Bucky was on the other side.
His jaw was tense, clenched. Eyes unreadable.
We didn’t say hi. We didn’t do that anymore.
Earlier, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Now? He wouldn’t look away.
“I wasn’t going to ask you this,” he started. “But it’s been stuck in my head all night.”
I didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, gave him a small nod.
“Have you ever been with someone… when it wasn’t a mission?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
If it was anyone else, my expression would’ve been unreadable—Fort Knox. I knew how to guard, how to hide.
But this wasn’t just anyone. He’d been trained to read people like me. And it didn’t help that he had a few months head start—a few months of living, working, and spending just about every waking minute together.
We’d been on top of each other, those last few months. Everyone on the team.
But with Bucky—I didn’t mind it. Except during moments like these.
I crossed my arms. I felt naked—exposed.
“Why are you really here, Bucky?”
It was the only play I had. If I couldn’t hide, I could deflect. Fire it back at him.
Because I’d felt it—the energy shift, between us. And not just tonight. We’d been circling the drain for weeks.
He took a breath. Didn’t answer.
He just moved.
Took a step forward.
I didn’t stop him.
He stepped into my space. I felt the question hanging in the air.
He didn’t answer it. So I kissed him.
And, then—we crashed into each other.
All heat, teeth, his mouth on mine, as I pulled him into the room and slammed the door shut behind us.
Clothes flew from there. His mouth was on my neck, my collarbone, everywhere. We stumbled backwards onto my bed, our limbs tangled together, intertwined.
"What are we doing?” I finally breathed.
I didn’t mean for it to come out. But once it did, it hung there—between us, too late to take back.
His eyes flicked up. Paused. I wasn’t sure he’d answer.
He didn’t.
He’d trailed his way down from my neck to my navel, to the space between my legs. He ran his hands down my thighs, thumbs catching on the waistband.
“This doesn’t count as a mission,” he managed, voice rough with want. He looked up at me, not breaking eye contact until my pants were all the way down—past my knees, past my ankles. “Right?”
His thumb pressed into the heat between my legs. As he did, it sent a shudder down my spine.
“No,” I managed, shaking my head.
He swallowed. Hard.
“Good.”
He pulled my panties down. And then he was gone—mouth on me, like he needed it to breathe.
He didn’t ease in. He took—mouth rough, breath hot, like he couldn’t get close enough fast enough.
I was already shaking by the time his tongue flicked over me, mouth greedy and focused. No teasing. No performance. Just pressure, rhythm, intent.
I fisted the sheets. My hips bucked into him, and he didn’t stop—just grabbed my thigh and pulled me closer.
We were nothing but friction and breath and teeth.
When I came, it was sharp and sudden, pulled from somewhere I didn’t know I’d locked away.
He didn’t give me time to recover.
I pulled him up, and he kissed me like he’d lost something.
Clothes half-on, limbs tangled, hips grinding. The only sound was breath and skin and the scrape of the bed against the wall.
He pushed into me with a groan, like it hurt to hold back.
I felt it, too. That ache, the hunger.
We moved like we were trying to outrun something.
There was nothing slow. Nothing sweet.
But it was ours.
For the first time, it was ours.
He buried his face in my neck and shook.
Not from effort. From release. From relief.
I didn’t say anything. But I held him anyway.
xxx
Afterward, we lay there in the dark. No pillow talk. No jokes. Just breath.
I could still feel the ghost of him between my legs. My chest rising too fast.
He hadn’t let go of my hand. I only noticed when I tried to move and found our fingers still laced tight.
A minute passed. Maybe more.
I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.
Or maybe that he was about to get up and leave.
Then, low:
“You know they made me, too… right?”
His voice didn’t shake. But something in it cracked wide open.
I turned my head. He was staring at the ceiling like it held an exit.
He didn’t elaborate. But I didn’t need him to.
Not with the way his jaw clenched. Not with the way he’d touched me earlier—like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want it.
I’d heard rumors, back when I was in the Red Room. Whispers. That some of Hydra’s assets were used for more than just combat.
But I hadn’t let myself believe it. Not with him.
And now, I wished I hadn’t made him say it out loud.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
His head shook, sharp and automatic.
“Don’t be. That’s not fair. What you went through…”
He swallowed.
“It wasn’t the same. I didn’t have it as bad as you. At least I had... something. Before.”
That caught me.
I let the silence hang. Then asked:
“Did you? Before the war?”
He nodded slowly.
“Yeah. A few girls.”
His voice dropped even quieter.
“But it wasn’t anything like this.”
The last line hung in the air. Fragile. Honest.
Something fluttered low in my stomach.
Not nerves. Not surprise.
Just heat. Awareness.
I looked at him—really looked—and whatever was in his expression… it lit something in me.
I reached for his face. Brushed my fingers against his jaw.
And then I kissed him.
Slow. Sure.
Not hungry, this time. Just real.
When I pulled back, I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
He just leaned into me like he meant it. Like he finally let himself mean it.
