pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!fem!reader
warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)
summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.
word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)
author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!
It started small.
A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.
The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.
But Bucky…Bucky saw more.
You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.
You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.
You made things work. You made the team work.
You were the light that steadied them all.
But lately… that light had gone out.
Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.
He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.
You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.
When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled.
Terrified.
The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.
You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.
And then the bruises.
They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.
You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.
But these weren’t accidents.
There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.
A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.
Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.
His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.
He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.
The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.
He began checking your schedule.
Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.
You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.
One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.
You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced.
“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”
But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.
And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.
He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.
Something far more dangerous.
And whoever had hurt you?
They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.
Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.
The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience.
Stillness.
Safety.
So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.
The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.
The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.
You were still there. Of course you were.
You always stay late now.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.
You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.
Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.
The one he recognised too well.
The one he used to see in the mirror.
“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.
You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.
“Sure.”
But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.
He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.
You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.
He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”
You didn’t answer.
“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”
Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.
You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.
“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”
Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.
“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”
“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.
Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”
The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.
And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him.
“I thought I could handle it.”
Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”
Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”
His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”
You didn’t answer.
But your silence was answer enough.
His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”
You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”
He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.
But it wasn’t at you.
“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”
Your eyes met his cerulean irises then.
And something inside you cracked.
Because he didn’t look at you with pity.
He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.
And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.
You told him everything.
From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.
Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.
You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.
Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.
“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”
“You don’t have to ask,” he said.
He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.
You hesitated. “I don’t—”
He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”
And you believed him.
The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.
At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.
The broken picture frame on the floor.
The hole punched in the hallway drywall.
The cracked phone screen beside your bed.
You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.
When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.
“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.
Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.
“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”
You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it.
You were leaving.
Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.
And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.
Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.
There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”
You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.
He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.
“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”
You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.
You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.
You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.
Safe.
Protected.
Free.
You woke up with a gasp.
The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.
Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.
The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.
You couldn’t stay.
Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.
Bucky’s door was cracked open.
He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.
Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”
His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”
His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.
Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”
He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”
You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.
You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.
Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.
His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.
When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.
You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.
“I’ve got you.”
The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.
You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.
For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.
You were safe.
Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.
The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.
For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.
You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.
Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.
“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”
You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered.
Later that day, the team found out.
Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”
Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.
Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.
It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.
John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.
“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.
You hesitated. “Why?”
“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”
You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.
Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.
“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”
You could’ve cried.
Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.
“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”
You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.
Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.
“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“I don’t—”
“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”
Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange.
But real.
Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.
Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.
When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.
Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.
“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”
Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.
You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.
There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.
And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.
You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.
One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.
“What?” you asked.
“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.
You blinked. “I—I am?”
She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”
One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.
“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” you said.
He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.
You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.
He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.
It was the safest you’d ever felt.
It had started out as a good night.
One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.
The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.
“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”
You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.
But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.
The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.
Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.
You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.
Then the door jingled.
And just like that, the warmth bled from the room.
Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.
Bucky stilled beside you.
Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.
Like he still owned the air you breathed.
Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”
Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.
“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”
The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.
Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.
John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.
“Take that back,” Bucky growled.
Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”
You flinched.
Bucky didn’t.
“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.
Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”
Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”
You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.
But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.
With his metal hand.
The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.
Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.
“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.
Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.
“Do you understand me?”
A choked nod.
Bucky dropped him like trash.
Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”
The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.
“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.
Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.
Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.
Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.
He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”
You nodded shakily, tears welling.
Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”
John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.
And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.
“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”
You leaned into him, trembling.
“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.
Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”
And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.
You had them.
You had him.
You were safe.
You didn’t speak on the way home.
No one made you.
Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.
You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.
The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.
When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.
“Do you want to be alone?”
You shook your head.
He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.
“Can I stay?”
You nodded.
Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.
You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.
“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Your throat tightened. You nodded.
“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”
You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.
And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”
Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.
“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”
You closed your eyes.
And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.
Not because the fear was gone.
But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.
He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.
It sounded like safety.
It felt like home.
a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)
Title: We Couldn’t Stop
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers
Summary: During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.
Word Count: 7k
Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Sex Pollen / Drugged Lust, Threesome MFM, Dubious Consent (due to drug influence), Double Penetration, Oral (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, Rough Sex/Overstimulationm Fingering, anal ply, cum play, Competitive Doms
A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo
Square: A3- Threesome
Card Number: KB003
The mission was supposed to be a simple sweep- an old HYDRA lab buried deep beneath the forest floor, long abandoned, just a routine retrieval run for leftover tech and encrypted files that could pose a threat if they fell into the wrong hands. You, Steve, and Bucky had done that sort of thing more times than you could count. Clear the rooms, grab the drives, secure any volatile tech, and call for extraction. In and out. Easy.
You should’ve known better the moment you stepped inside. The facility was too quiet, too intact. Dust settled thick on the floors, but the lights still flickered dimly overhead, and the security systems were half-alive, humming low like they were waiting.
You were the one who found the sealed door- reinforced, heavily protected, and drawing power. It was locked down tight, tucked at the end of a corridor where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach. You called the others over.
"You think it’s storage?" Bucky asked, frowning at the biometric pad.
"Locked and powered," you muttered. "Could be data. Or maybe just a lab they forgot to scrub."
"Let's not poke the bear," Steve said, but he stepped up beside you anyway, scanning the door. "Looks like it's sealed for a reason."
That should've been the moment you backed off. But your fingers were already dancing over the keypad, overriding the old security system. The panel blinked. Clicked.
"I’ve almost got- "
The door hissed. Not wide- barely a few inches.
A soft spray hit you all in the face.
It came fast. Silent. A puff of pressurized mist like compressed air, followed by the faintest scent- ozone, chemical sweetness, almost floral.
You stumbled back, coughing once.
"What the hell was that?" Bucky barked, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the door. "You okay? Did you breathe it in?"
"Yeah, but- I don’t feel anything."
"We’re all covered in it," Bucky snapped, glaring at the faint sheen settling over Steve’s shoulders. "Fucking hell."
"Close it," Steve ordered.
Bucky slammed the door shut, sealing it again with a growl. "Old security measure. Shit."
"We’ll report it," Steve said, but his jaw was clenched.
The spray clung to your skin. Sweet. Heavy. And whatever it was, it was in all three of you now.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
By the time the jet touched down back at the compound, you were already flushed and aching, your heart thudding too fast in your chest. Whatever had come out of that door- it clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made everything inside you feel off. You weren’t the only one affected. Bucky was pacing the perimeter of the quinjet like a caged animal. Steve hadn’t spoken for the last twenty minutes, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a seat said everything.
You’d hoped the decontamination shower would be the end of it. But blood was still taken. Swabs run over your skin. Scans. More questions. Until finally, they left the three of you in the quarantine room- one sterile space, no outside contact, and cameras in every corner.
You wanted to apologize. This had been your mistake. But Bucky’s expression was pure storm as he continued to pace like a tiger in a zoo. Steve’s face was unreadable- steely, distant, controlled. So you kept your mouth shut and tried not to scratch at your skin like you desperately wanted.
Soft static crackled, and then Tony’s voice filled the room over the speaker. "It’s biochemical bonding serum," he said. "Looks like it's engineered to push subjects into a state of hyperarousal and submission, designed to override inhibition and drive instinctual behaviors."
Your stomach dropped. What kind of mess had you landed yourself in?
"How long?" Bucky snapped, voice sharp.
"We'll have to check back on the decay and metabolic rate, and we- "
"What Bruce means is- we don't know," Tony cut in. "For you guys, it might be a matter of hours. Little Miss Curiosity might be stuck with it in her system a little longer."
You flinched and shied away from the speaker, burying your face in your hands.
"We're working on it, don't stress. It shouldn't kill you," Tony added casually.
"Big fucking whoop," Bucky growled, pressing a fist into the wall. Steve shot him a look of disproval.
"Buck.." His tone warning.
"Just, try and stay calm, guys," Bruce said, trying to sound optimistic. "It'll be alright."
"Don’t make a mess," Tony said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We’ll keep you posted."
And just like that, you were cut off again.
Biochemical- engineered arousal.
"Well, you heard him," Steve sighed, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We just have to keep our heads. It can’t last forever."
That was easy for him to say. Both Steve and Bucky had super soldier serum in their veins- enhanced bodies that could regulate, adapt, maybe even resist. You… you were human. And you could already feel your body reacting in ways that made your skin itch and your blood feel like it was boiling.
You didn't say anything. Just shifted your weight, trying not to squirm. The heat beneath your skin pulsed steadily now, like it was alive.
"This is fucked," Bucky muttered, pacing again. "They just dumped us in here like we’re some kind of experiment."
"They’re doing what they can," Steve said, tone calm but tight. "We don’t know enough yet. Getting worked up won’t help."
You glanced between them, heart racing. The tension in the room was building again, only this time it wasn’t from anger- it was something heavier. Thicker. Clinging to the air like smoke.
And under it all, that hum beneath your skin only grew louder.
Hours had passed.
You'd started pacing a little while ago, unable to sit still. Movement helped. Not much- but it was something. You were going through the water they'd left in the room like you were dying of thirst. You were hot, sticky, your tank damp and clinging to your body, and you were doing everything you could to ignore the throbbing pulse between your legs.
You kept moving. Pacing. Trying to shake it off.
Steve watched from the far cot, jaw tight. His shirt was damp, his breath shallow, but he was sitting like he was trying to pretend everything was normal.
Bucky was pacing again, eyes locked on you more often than not, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “She smells different,” he muttered. “Fuck.”
His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The rough, raw sound of his voice made your head twitch like it was a physical thing pulling at you.
"Gonna try and sleep," you muttered, not looking at either of them.
Maybe you'd be able to sleep through the worst of it. Maybe if you were lucky, your body would calm down. You slipped behind the thin curtain, stepping into the tiny corner of privacy around your cot. Laying down, the heat of your body only seemed to intensify. Your skin felt suffocated, and with a frustrated sigh, you peeled your tank top over your head, leaving you in just your bra, hoping the exposure would help you breathe easier.
It didn’t.
You curled onto your side, arms around your stomach, thighs pressed tight together. The ache between your legs was a constant, heavy throb now. Maybe… maybe you could just handle your own needs. Just enough to take the edge off. Anything to ease the ache.
Your hands trembled as you pulled the thin blanket around you and lay on the cot. There was a small curtain for privacy, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds when your fingers slipped beneath your waistband.
You tried to be quiet. Tried to hold your breath. But your body was on fire, and even the gentlest brush of your fingers sent you bucking.
A whimper escaped, broken and desperate.
And then you heard it- Steve’s voice. Low. Strained.
“Don’t- don’t do that.”
You froze. “I- I can’t- ”
Still, you didn’t stop. You rubbed faster, then slower, your fingers diving inside of you, pressing deeper, trying every angle- but nothing worked. Every shift of your hand sent sparks across your nerves, your breath hitching with each pulse of pressure, but the fire wouldn’t break. Your legs trembled, your toes curled, but it all stayed out of reach.
You changed angles, tried circling your clit with trembling fingers while your other hand held onto the edge of the cot like it could ground you. You rocked your hips up, whispered pleas into the dark, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed more- needed them- but all you had were your own shaking hands and the unbearable ache growing between your legs.
Your breath hitched again as frustration bloomed hot and frantic in your chest. You were soaking, your thighs slick, the air sticky with the scent of your arousal. Your skin was flushed and clammy, your body locked in this endless loop of need- and yet you still couldn’t fall over that edge. Not like this. Not alone.
"You gonna keep pretending you don’t want her?" Bucky asked, voice low and rough, growling on the other side of the curtain.
Steve didn’t move at first, but his voice followed, strained. "I can smell her arousal from here, Buck. You think I’m not affected?"
"She’s whimpering, Steve. Sounds like music to me."
"We’re not doing this. We can’t- "
"Fuck this. She needs someone."
"Don’t you fucking touch her," Steve snapped.
"Then you do something," Bucky fired back.
Silence followed. You pressed your fingers deeper, hips rocking, but it wasn’t working. You were going to explode- your body was wound so tight it hurt.
Your fingers weren’t enough. You begged, voice cracking, desperate and broken.
"Please... please someone- "
Someone pulled the curtain back.
Bucky’s eyes were dark. Blown wide. He didn’t speak.
It hurt. “I can’t…” you whimpered, barely able to speak. “It’s not working…”
Your hips shifted again instinctively, your fingers still caught between your thighs, but the tension was unbearable. You were so wet, so swollen with need, it was maddening- and yet release stayed just out of reach. Your body craved more than your own touch could give.
They both appeared, stepping past the curtain without a word. You could see it in their faces- this was affecting them just as much. Steve’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Bucky looked wrecked, barely human with how sharp and hungry his expression had become.
You writhed again on the cot, body shaking, and Steve moved first- his weight shifting over you as he pressed your shoulders down into the mattress with steady, unyielding hands.
"Stay still," he said, voice gravel-thick.
At the same time, Bucky grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from you.
You whined, hips arched up, as Bucky’s gaze dropped to your slick fingers. He looked transfixed. Obsessed. His mouth parted before he dragged his tongue along your digits, groaning low in his chest at the taste.
Then- without breaking eye contact- he brought your hand to Steve.
"Tell me again we shouldn’t do this," Bucky said, voice rough and knowing.
Steve hesitated, staring at your hand, your eyes, then your body.
"...Steve?" you pleaded, chest heaving. A bead of sweat slid down your ribs, slicking your skin as the heat inside you pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Help... please."
Steve’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over your flushed, trembling body, lingering where your bra had ridden up from the way you were squirming, the curve of your thighs glistening in the low light.
Bucky didn’t speak. He just stood there beside him, wild-eyed and rigid, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The scent of you filled the air. Thick. Sweet. Desperate.
Steve exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow like he was trying to exhale restraint. It didn’t work.
"You’re going to regret begging so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, finally moving closer, the promise behind his words like thunder rolling through your veins.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
They were both on you.
You didn’t know who moved first- Steve’s hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, while Bucky’s mouth was suddenly at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The tension shattered. Clothing came off in frantic tugs- your joggers peeled away, your bra unclasped and discarded. Steve’s tank was tossed aside. Bucky’s sweats hit the floor with a low rustle.
Heat and skin and breath surrounded you. Their bodies pressed in, solid and hot and overwhelming. Steve's chest pinned you down as he kissed you- hard and consuming- his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands cupped your jaw, fingers splayed, tilting your head how he wanted it.
Bucky moved lower, lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping along your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you down the cot toward him with a roughness that made you moan. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your inner thighs, worshipping each inch like it belonged to him.
You gasped, arching into the touch of both of them. Their mouths- wet and demanding. Their bodies- slick with sweat, grinding against you like they couldn't get close enough.
You'd all held out for so long. Now there was nothing but the letting go.
Every nerve ending in your body sparked like live wires with every touch- every graze of skin against skin sent jolts of unbearable sensation through you. It was impossible to stay still. Your limbs twitched, your hips rocked, your breath came in short, gasping pulls as your body tried to process too much, too fast.
“Don’t move,” Steve growled, voice rough but laced with something gentler beneath. “Too sensitive? No. You’re just not used to being handled right.”
Bucky pushed your legs open wider, guiding your knees apart until your calves hung off the edge of the cot, completely exposed, completely theirs.
“She’s soaking,” Bucky breathed. “Fucking hell- she’s dripping down her thighs.”
The cool air kissed your slick folds and made you shiver. Then his hand slid between your thighs again, and fingers plunged into you- two, maybe three. You didn’t even know whose they were anymore.
Steve’s mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around your nipple. You sobbed, your body already arching upward from the overload.
The blonde growled against your skin, one hand gripping your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bow your spine upward. You gasped, helpless, writhing between them, your body trembling from overstimulation.
“You’re taking it so well,” Steve murmured, voice low and rough. “Just like that. Good girl.”
“Look at her,” Bucky snarled. “That’s it, sweetheart- ride my hand. Come on. Take what you need.”
His fingers worked deep inside you, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the cot. His palm pressed against your clit with every motion, grinding you into the edge of bliss, holding you there with cruel precision. You could feel everything. Every ridge of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist. It was too much and not enough all at once.
You whimpered, your hands scrambling against the sheets, seeking something to hold onto as your body rocked with each relentless stroke. Steve bit gently at the underside of your jaw, his hand still twisted in your hair as he whispered praises that barely reached your ears over the rushing roar of need building inside you.
Steve’s mouth was on your chest again, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his hand massaged the other, groping you with a needy rhythm that only made it harder to breathe. His other hand had tangled itself in your hair again, gently tugging until your spine arched up off the cot, your body straining toward both of them.
Bucky’s metal thumb pressed into your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Your breath hitched, head tipping back as you let out a broken moan.
"OH FUCK." you cried, fingers clawing at the side of the cot, knuckles white.
He didn’t stop. His fingers pumped into you, slick and steady, coaxing the sound out of your throat again and again. You felt like you were vibrating- nerve endings lit up with fire, each touch sparking through you like electricity.
“You hear that, punk?” Bucky’s voice dripped with ego. “That’s the sound of my fingers making her cry.”
Steve shifted beside you, sitting up to watch, his eyes locked on where Bucky's fingers slid in and out of you. One of his hands moved down, low and out of sight, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control.
Bucky glanced back at him, grinning as he curled his fingers just right and made you cry out again.
"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice rough and ragged with arousal. He didn’t even look up, just watched his fingers slide in and out of you like it was the most important thing in the world. "She’s writhing just from my fingers. What happens when I put my cock in?"
"You’ll wait," Steve snapped, voice sharp, strained with barely checked control. He was flushed, jaw tight, clearly fighting the same battle Bucky was already losing.
"God, look at her," Bucky muttered again, breath coming faster. "Fuck, I want her mouth. I want every part."
You couldn’t answer. Your vision blurred. Every nerve in your body felt like it had snapped tight, vibrating with unbearable pressure.
And then it broke.
You came- hard.
Your whole body convulsed as the orgasm tore through you. Your legs kicked against the cot, arms flailing blindly for purchase. Steve had to hold you down, one hand braced across your chest, the other still tangled in your hair as your back arched and a strangled sob tore from your throat.
It didn’t end quickly. The drug made it last- your climax dragging on and on, crashing over you in waves so powerful they left you gasping, wrecked.
You felt Bucky’s fingers slow inside you, easing off just enough to let you ride it out without breaking. But they didn’t stop touching you. They didn’t let you go.
And worst of all, the haze in your head didn’t clear like you hoped it would.
You were still shaking. Still needy.
Still burning.
You were a panting mess, your skin still hot and your chest tight when one of them scooped you up and lay you out on the cool floor. The shock of it made you gasp, the chill a sudden relief against your fevered skin. You blinked your eyes open, dazed, limbs slack and breath ragged.
"You’re such a mess for us, baby," Bucky murmured, crouched above you now. His voice was low, ruined with hunger. "That sweet little body of yours wasn’t made to handle all this, was it?"
Your eyes found him- Bucky, kneeling near your face now, his cock hard and leaking, so close it blurred your thoughts. He looked feral, undone, lips parted like he was barely restraining himself.
Your tongue slipped out to lick your lips without thinking. The taste of your own sweat clung to your skin, but all you could focus on was him. The way his chest rose and fell, the way his fist clenched at his thigh.
Your mind narrowed to a single point of clarity.
You wanted him in your mouth.
You leaned forward slowly, licking the bead of precum off his tip before taking him in fully- hungry, needy, your lips stretching around the thick, velvet length of him. Bucky’s breath stuttered, and he let out a ragged groan as your mouth sealed around him.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not to guide but to anchor himself. “So fucking pretty like this- taking me so deep. Look at those lips- look at that mouth.”
You moaned around him, the vibrations making him hiss. He was hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks to take him deeper, until your nose pressed against the base and he swore low under his breath.
“Messy little mouth,” Bucky panted. “So eager. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed something to suck while we ruin the rest of you.”
You were lost in it- the taste of him, the heat, the way he twitched when your tongue flicked just right. Spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with sloppy desperation, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head in a steady rhythm.
Just then, you felt Steve’s hands at your hips, steady and sure. He shifted your lower body, pulling your legs open and up until you were spread out for him on the floor.
“You liked Buck's fingers? Let’s see how you do on my cock,” Steve growled against your ear, his voice dark and thick with restraint.
You gasped around Bucky’s cock, the moan caught in your throat turning into a garbled sound of pleasure as Steve aligned himself behind you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide as his tip pressed against your entrance- already slick, fluttering, aching.
He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and every nerve inside you lit up in electric spasms. Your muscles fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing as he stretched you open, the thick drag of him stealing your breath.
The pressure, the fullness, the stretch- it was overwhelming. You sobbed around Bucky, the vibration of your moan making him groan above you, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust.
Steve bottomed out with a hiss, his hands gripping tighter like he needed the anchor. Inside you, he throbbed, deep and perfect. You felt stretched to the edge of your limits, your inner walls fluttering in frantic spasms around him, struggling to adjust and clench all at once. Your body didn’t know what to do- pull him in deeper or push him out.
It was too much. It was everything. Your head was spinning.
They started to move- slow at first. Steve dragging back only to sink in again, deliberate, controlled, while Bucky’s cock bumped the back of your throat as he rocked forward with a groan. You gagged, whined, clung to them both with your mouth and body.
You were stuck in it now. The lust. The drug. The heat. There was no thought left, only sensation. Only how it felt to be stretched open in two directions, trembling and gasping.
They didn’t talk to you anymore. They talked about you.
“She’s so sensitive,” Bucky growled. “Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
Steve grunted, his pace picking up. “Tight as hell. She’s pulsing like she doesn’t know whether she wants to come or cry.”
You tried to moan but it came out a broken, garbled sound around Bucky’s cock. Your tongue dragged along the underside of him as he pushed deeper, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around the stretch. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, tears tracking down your cheeks, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.
Bucky’s hand tightened at the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there, gazing down into your wet, dazed eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Fuck, look at you drooling all over me. You love it, don’t you?”
Your hips rocked back into Steve without meaning to as he thrust forward again, harder this time, grinding deep. Your nerves fired like sparks, the friction of his cock dragging against hypersensitive flesh sending bursts of pressure low in your belly. Your insides coiled, pleasure building with every thick, deliberate thrust, your body wound so tight it felt like you might snap apart.
“You’re doing so well for us,” Steve grunted, leaning down, his mouth hot at your ear. “Such a good girl, letting us use you like this.”
He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving in deeper. The stretch made you cry out around Bucky’s cock, throat flexing as your moan turned to a sob.
"That's it," Steve growled, pace quickening. "Fuck, so fucking wet and warm... you gonna cum, sweetheart? Gotta feel you squeeze me while you swallow Bucky."
Your body arched, heat crashing through your spine as Steve hit that perfect spot again and again, each thrust sending a jolt through your core. Your throat tightened around Bucky's cock, the vibration of your desperate moans making him curse under his breath.
“Fuck- she’s so close,” Steve panted, driving harder. “You feel that? She’s fucking pulsing.”
You sobbed around Bucky, tears streaking your cheeks, the pressure in your belly a coil tightening with no escape.
“She’s gonna lose it,” Bucky panted, watching the way you writhed. “Look at how she’s trembling. She needs cock.”
And then it snapped.
Your climax hit like a bolt of lightning, seizing your body with white-hot tension as your inner walls clamped down around Steve’s cock. You wailed around Bucky’s length, the cry vibrating through him as he let out a guttural groan.
“Fuck, that mouth- ” Bucky growled, watching your teary eyes roll back. “I’m gonna- shit- ”
He spilled down your throat with a grunt, his cock twitching between your lips, his hand holding you steady as you swallowed every drop of him while he pulsed.
The clenching spasms of your climax milked Steve mercilessly, dragging his own orgasm from him with a ragged curse. He slammed in deep, staying buried as he came hard, filling you with warmth that only made the pleasure burn hotter.
“Take it,” he groaned, his breath broken against your shoulder. “Take it all. Good fucking girl.”
Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling himself from your mouth with a wet pop, still hard, his cock glistening with your spit. “"Fuck... you’re unreal..." he panted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing..pupils blown as he looked down at you.
Steve finally pulled out with a groan, the loss of him sudden and jarring, making you whimper. His cum followed, warm and slick as it dripped from your stretched pussy, pooling between your thighs.
His gaze dropped between your legs, transfixed. His eyes went heavy-lidded as he watched it leak from you, dripping down to your slick, twitching rim. Slowly, his fingers moved to your core, smearing the mess down lower, spreading it deliberately to your other entrance.
You gasped, twitching from aftershocks, your body still sensitive everywhere. His fingertip teased your tight hole, rubbing softly, slicking it with a practiced ease. You whimpered, already overwhelmed, but the moan that spilled from you was pure need.
“Damn, Stevie- you didn’t fuck her right if she’s still aching like this,” Bucky drawled, voice hoarse and edged with a smirk, watching the way your hips shifted restlessly on the floor.
You whimpered, the heat still rolling inside you, every nerve ending alive and twitching. The aftershocks made your muscles flutter, your body too sensitive and still so hungry. Steve didn’t bite back. He was too focused- his fingers slick with his own cum as he spread it lower, smearing it over your pussy and then circling your tight, twitching rim.
And then one thick finger pressed inward.
You gasped, whole body jolting, a broken sound catching in your throat as your body tried to clamp down instinctively. But Steve worked slowly, steadily, easing the finger deeper, the stretch sharp and slow as he began to work you open.
You felt your core clench around nothing as Steve worked his finger deeper. “I need- please, I need more, I can’t- ” you gasped, voice trembling. Your head was a mess, fogged with lust and the aftershocks still sparking under your skin. Steve kept up the slow pump of his finger, pushing in deeper, working more of his cum into your ass to keep you slick and open.
“Hear that, Steve?” Bucky said, voice thick with amusement, already fisting his own cock in lazy, slow strokes. “She wants more.”
Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, his finger sinking deeper, curling. You whimpered again.
“Can’t say no, can we?” Bucky added, grinning.
“Oh, I think I know exactly what our girl needs...” Steve muttered, voice thick with heat and control, as his hand disappeared between your thighs.
Steve pulled his finger from your ass just as Bucky got down onto the floor, reaching out to haul you up into his lap. Steve’s arms hooking under yours, supporting your limp, boneless body as they moved you together like you weighed nothing.
“Let’s get you on Buck now...” Steve purred near your ear, voice thick and smooth, a slow heat curling down your spine.
Bucky’s cock was already there- thick, hard, and waiting. They guided you together, Steve steadying you from behind while Bucky angled his cock to your entrance.
As Steve lowered you, your legs wrapped weakly around Bucky’s hips, and you felt the first stretch as his tip slid inside. A guttural groan ripped from Bucky’s throat, his hands tightening on your thighs.
“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, voice rough and reverent. “You always take me so damn good. Still so fucking tight- even after Steve blew you open? Shit.”
“That’s a girl,” Steve murmured, voice low with praise. “Nice and slow... Want you to feel every inch of him, don’t you?”
You just whimpered and nodded, the need to be filled consuming, overwhelming, as the pair of them helped you sink down onto Bucky’s cock, inch by perfect inch.
Your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder as you settled fully onto Bucky, who thrust up into you with steady pressure. The heat and stretch made your whole body tremble. You could barely breathe, still twitching from your earlier climax. Then Bucky's hands gripped your hips tight.
“Oh fuck,” he hissed, hips rolling upward as he began to move you, guiding you into a rhythm. “Look at you. Still aching. Like how I feel doll?”
The moan that spilled from your mouth didn’t even sound like you anymore- wrecked, raw, and desperate.
You were unraveling under Bucky’s rhythm- the way he filled you had your mind slipping, your thoughts scattering with every deep, slow thrust, how every thrust hit deep, high inside, brushing against that spot that made you shudder. Your head lolled back onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted around desperate little gasps.
“She bites her lip when I go deep. You see that?” Bucky said with a rough chuckle, voice wrecked but smug. “She likes my rhythm.”
You didn’t even notice the way Steve bent you forward over Bucky, hands guiding your body like you were something precious and fragile and already ruined.
You didn’t have time to think too much before you felt Bucky’s hands grip your ass, pulling you open as Steve shifted behind you. It wasn’t until the thick, spongy head of his cock pressed against somewhere you’d never let anyone touch that your eyes snapped open in surprise.
The first inch pushed into your ass slowly, carefully, but it still stole your breath.
“It’s too much- I can’t- wait- ” you gasped, voice cracking with overwhelmed panic as your body instinctively tried to jerk away.
But Bucky rocked his hips upward, pushing deep into your pussy again, and the shockwave of pleasure was enough to paralyze your resistance.
“Shh... it’s okay,” Steve murmured, arms wrapping around you from behind as he continued to press in. His voice was thick and coaxing, his control iron-tight. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for us.”
You sobbed, your whole body fluttering around them as Steve sank in deeper, the thin wall between your holes trembling with every inch he took. The two of them groaned in unison, voices rough and reverent as they filled you together.
You were caught between them now. Two super soldiers, all three of you lost in lust and need. Your face twisted with sensation as they held you there- one thick cock filling your pussy, the other spreading your ass open inch by inch. Both sunk to the hilt. You were impossibly full. You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Unable to process the stretch, the heat, the drag of their bodies inside you. It was too much. And you needed more.
“You’re both so… big- I’m gonna- fuck- ” you sobbed. You couldn’t believe how sensitive you’d become- how just being filled, just being stretched, could reduce you to this. You weren’t even moving, yet your body was already bracing to come undone again. There was no going back. No holding on. Just surrender.
You came without moving, the sensation of fullness alone tipping you over. Your body seized in the middle, core clenching violently, squeezing down on both of them at once as pleasure ripped through you like a lightning bolt.
Your voice cracked into a scream. You were gone- shaking, convulsing, burning from the inside out as your orgasm dragged through you with devastating force.
Both of them groaned at the way your body squeezed them- tight and hot and trembling.
“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, rocking his hips once more. “Didn’t even have to move. Just had to be inside you.”
Steve chuckled darkly, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “She’s that sensitive. That fucking perfect.”
You couldn’t even answer. Your lips parted in a silent gasp as Steve’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your stiff nipples as he started to move again. Slowly at first, easing back before pressing forward, dragging against that thin wall with every thick stroke.
Bucky's grip returned to your hips, steady and possessive, guiding you to rise and fall on his cock. Your body jolted with every motion, your moans soft and slurred.
“That’s it,” Steve cooed, hips snapping gently. “We’ll start slow…”
“I-I can’t- ” you whimpered, but your body was already moving, driven by instinct and need.
“I know you can take more,” he murmured. “Look how beautiful you are when you come apart. It'll feel better- just gotta keep going.”
And it did. It felt better than the denial. Better than the ache that came from holding back. The pleasure rolled through you like a drug, heavy and all-consuming.
Your hips started to move again, slowly grinding into Bucky as your walls fluttered around him. You didn’t know if it was need or instinct- maybe both- but you couldn’t stop. You were cock-drunk. Barely aware of anything except how good it felt to be filled this way.
“Breathe,” Steve whispered. “Just like that. Hold it- good girl.”
Then Steve pulled your hips back into him and pressed all the way in.
“You think you’re fucking her deep?” Steve growled at Bucky, voice low and wild. “Watch this.”
Bucky shoved his hand flat to your lower stomach and lifted his hips with a brutal thrust. You cried out, the stretch making your eyes roll back as he ground up into you. It was obscene how deep he reached, how thick he felt. You pawed at his chest, clinging to him with trembling fingers.
“..fuck fuck fuck...” you gasped, the breath knocked out of you before he eased his hips again, smug and steady.
“Told ya,” Bucky muttered with a grin.
But it didn’t stop there.
Bucky answered your gasps with harder thrusts. Steve listened for his name and answered with praise. His mouth latched to your neck, nipping and licking along your skin as he squeezed your breasts roughly, molding them in his palms.
“Did you hear that one? That was mine,” Steve muttered against your skin when you gasped his name.
Bucky answered with a sharp thrust that made your breath catch. “She moaned louder for me, sweetheart. Don’t get cocky.”
Each of them was locked into the game- testing reactions, adjusting pace, trying to claim the sounds that spilled from your lips. One made you cry out, the other drew a gasp. They used your body like a live wire for their competition, and you were helpless in the storm.
“She whimpers when I kiss her right here,” he growled, biting just beneath your ear.
Bucky’s hands gripped your hips tighter, fucking up into you hard enough to rock you against Steve’s chest. “She clenched around me when you said that,” he rasped. “Bet she’s trying to pick a favourite.”
You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think. You only managed to gasp whatever name escaped your lips first, and they both heard it- every time. And they responded with sharper thrusts, filthier praise.
“You’re so cock-drunk, you don’t even know who’s making you come anymore, do you?” Bucky said, voice rough.
“She’s beautiful like this,” Steve murmured, licking the sweat off your throat. “All wrecked. All ours.”
Then Bucky’s metal hand slid between your thighs again. His fingers brushed your clit, the coolness of steel a shocking chill of metal against your heat made you jolt, gasping as sparks danced up your spine.
“Oh- god - fuck- ” you sobbed, trembling uncontrollably as sparks shot up your spine.
“Breathe,” Steve ordered again. “Just like that. That’s our girl.”
They started to move faster now- driving into you in sync, pistoning in perfect rhythm. The slap of skin echoed, the slick sounds of your soaked cunt and the obscene wet pressure of being filled from both ends breaking whatever was left of your mind.
“You want to make her come, punk?” Bucky growled. “You gotta fuck her harder than that.”
“Shut up, jerk,” Steve snarled, thrusting harder. “We don’t need to break her. Just ruin her a little longer.”
“She’s shaking so bad. You keep her steady, Steve- I wanna see her face when she comes again.”
Your next orgasm ripped through you with a small wail, your features contorting as your body locked up tight. You clawed at them both- gripping Steve’s forearm, Bucky’s shoulder- as your walls fluttered around their cocks, milking them, begging for more without a word.
They didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to come down. Steve groaned, his thrusts picking up as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. Bucky cursed, gripping your hips tighter, lifting and dropping you into him with growing urgency.
You felt them both losing control- felt their restraint slipping with every second you squeezed around them, heat and slickness pouring down your thighs.
“Fuck- fuck, she’s doing it again,” Bucky grunted.
Steve’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “She wants it. She’s not done. Not till we are.”
Then the pace shifted- harder, rougher, deeper. Their moans grew louder, matched only by the slap of skin on skin. Your head spun, your vision blurred.
And then they were coming again- Steve first, pulled tight to your back, his groan muffled in your shoulder. Then Bucky, buried deep beneath you, eyes locked on yours as he spilled inside you with a strangled moan.
You collapsed between them, limp and boneless, your body a trembling wreck held up only by their hands. You didn’t even try to move. There was no fight left in you- only the slow hum of satisfaction and overstimulation. Somewhere in the haze of your mind, a flicker of disbelief passed through you- how had you endured that? How had you survived the storm of them inside you? But there was no room for shame or second thoughts. Only surrender. And the quiet, overwhelming hum of being utterly, deliciously wrecked.
You were too dazed to understand what was happening at first, the haze still thick behind your eyes. The humming under your skin hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled- muted to a low thrum that echoed in your bones. They were careful, even if your overstimulated body didn’t register it that way.
You whined, squirming, as they slowly pulled out of you. The stretch reversed, the heat slipping away, leaving you empty and raw. It wasn’t pain, but your body protested the loss with soft whimpers.
Someone pressed a water bottle to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You obeyed without thought, the coolness trickling down your throat a small mercy.
Another set of hands gently wiped you down. A cold, damp cloth slid between your legs, easing away the slick mess with slow, tender strokes.
Then your head was lowered into someone’s lap. Fingers carded through your hair.
“You did so well,” Steve murmured. “Look at you- perfect.”
You blinked slowly. Steve’s voice again, closer now: “Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
Your limbs twitched weakly, still responding to phantom pleasure. A quiet laugh came from Bucky.
“Still twitching. Still fucking gorgeous.”
You felt him kissing up your leg, mouth trailing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh.
Then your legs were being moved again- lifted, spread with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the earlier frenzy. There was no rush now, no urgency- just the soft reverence of Bucky's hands as he cradled your thighs like something precious, something breakable, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you minutes ago. You blinked, barely aware, as Bucky settled himself between them, laying flat, his breath hot against your oversensitive core.
He pressed a kiss there, soft and reverent, and your whole body jolted in response.
“And I’m not done tasting her,” he muttered, voice thick with need.
“Buck- she needs to recover,” Steve warned again, but his voice had softened to something indulgent.
“I’ll be gentle…” Bucky promised, his mouth already lowering, tongue dragging slow and careful over your aching folds as your head lolled back into Steve lap, eyes fluttering closed, lost to the warmth and the wetness and the impossible pleasure building again
pairing: boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x girlfriend!Reader
word count: 2.4k
summary: Bucky always knows what you're reading. Mysteries, fantasy, historical fiction. He listens to every ramble, remembers every plot and never questions the ever-growing collection of sticky notes peking out of your books. Until one novel introduces a new color: Red. Unfortunately (or fortunately) curiosity gets the best of him.
warnings: +18 MDNI explicit sexual content, established relationship, domestic fluff, humor, praise kink, hair pulling, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, oral sex(f and m receiving), edging, spanking, rough sex, roleplay.
a/n: I blame bubu for sending me a Tiktok that said "imagine having a boyfriend who helps you recreate your favorite book scenes", so this was a self indulgent fic. Beta read by my girls @buckysdecaflove & @kileyking 𖹭
read on AO3
The smell of a new book and fresh coffee always made you happy.
You were curled up in your favorite armchair, legs tucked under you, a hardcover open in your lap. Across the room, Bucky was sprawled on the couch, pretending to watch a baseball game but actually watching you. The way your eyes moved rapidly over the pages, the little smile that tugged at your lips when a line hit just right, the way you'd occasionally look up, mouth already opening to share something—he lived for that.
"Okay, so," you said, not even checking if he was listening, because he always was, "the protagonist just discovered that the mysterious letters she's been getting aren't from her dead husband. They're from the lighthouse keeper… who she's never met. And he's been in love with her for years, just watching her from across the cliffs."
Bucky's eyebrow lifted. "That's… romantic? Or terrifying?"
"Romantic," you said firmly, pointing a finger at him. "It's about longing, Bucky."
He chuckled. "If I sent you anonymous letters from across the cliffs, you'd call the cops."
"You'd never writ anonymous letters. Your handwriting is too distinctive. Very 1940's penmanship."
He grinned, stretching his arms over his head. "I'll take that as a compliment."
This was your routine. You read, you rambled, he listened and asked questions that proved he was paying attention, remembering characters' names and plot twists better than you did sometimes. And whenever he came home from a mission or a trip to the city, more often than not, he'd have a paper bag in his hand with a new book inside—something he spotted in a shop window, or that the cashier recommended, or that just "looked like one of your covers with the swirly letters".
So when a new book arrived in your life—not from Bucky, but from your friend Darcy, who slid it across the coffee shop table with a wicked grin—you weren't prepared.
"Trust me," Darcy said, tapping the cover. "It's dark romance, super popular. Very steamy. You'll thank me later."
You laughed it off, tucking the book into your bag. You read everything; how bad could it be?
Turns out, bad wasn't the word.
You understood why Darcy recommended you that book. The male lead was a sergeant in the middle of the war. He ran his command like he owned it, bent rules until they broke in his favor and never once apologized for either. The heroine called him sergeant, even when they were in bed.
You got five chapters in before your face caught fire. The book wasn't just spicy… it was a five-alarm blaze. The brooding, morally gray love interest had a very intense way of doing things. The filthy way he talked to the main character felt criminal to read in your own living room. Every other page seemed to hold a scene that made your heart hammer and your thighs press together. It was thrilling. It was also deeply, deeply embarrassing.
Your usual sticky note system wasn't equipped for this. Blue for sad? No. Pink for fluff? Absolutely not. Yellow for funny? Definitely not. You found yourself staring at your little rainbow of tabs, feeling a blush creep up your neck, before finally rummaging through your desk drawer for a forgotten pad of red sticky notes. Red, you decided, would be the new code. For scenes that made you feel hot all over. For lines you'd never ever read aloud.
You read smut, but this was a whole new level. It was different from the vanilla, corny sex you were so used to—even in real life.
That evening, when Bucky came in from his run, all sweat-damp hair and soft gray henley clinging to his shoulders, you slammed the book shut so fast you nearly cracked the spine.
"Hey, beautiful." He leaned down to kiss the top of your head. "What are you reading now? Another mystery novel?"
"Nothing!" you squeaked, stuffing the book between the couch cushions. "Just—a thing. For book club. It's so boring."
Bucky froze mid-straighten, his sharp blue eyes narrowing just a little. You never said a book was boring. You could find something to love about a magazine article, and you've never hidden one from him before. He catch the flash of vivid red before the book disappeared. He knew all your tabs, and he'd never seen red before. "That a new color?"
"No," you said, far too quickly. "It's.. just a different genre. Not really discussion material."
"You told me about that nonfiction book on medieval cat paintings for forty-five minutes."
"Well, that was fascinating."
"So is this one, I bet," he said, his voice going full teasing-mode. His eyes lingered on the edge of the cushion where a single red tab peeked out like a guilty secret. "Looks like it's got a lot of highlights. New category?"
You grabbed the cushion and hugged it to your chest, blocking his view. "No category, no highlights. Just a boring book."
"Uh-huh." He didn't push, just hummed and went to grab a glass of water, but that red tab was burned into his mind.
Over the next few days, he noticed a pattern. You'd be reading completely absorbed, a glass of wine on the nightstand and that book bristling with red tabs—until you heard his footsteps. Then it would slide under the blanket, or flip face-down, or get casually covered with your phone. Once, he walked in and you literally shoved it into the pillowcase.
"Smooth," he commented dryly, hiding a smile.
"I was… fluffing the pillows."
"Right, with a novel."
The breaking point came on a quiet Thursday evening.
You were taking a shower and Bucky came in to grab his charger and stopped dead.
There it was. The book. Sitting innocently on your nightstand, no longer hidden, just waiting. And it was stuffed with red sticky notes. They fanned out from the pages at every angle, a scarlet forest of tiny paper flags. He'd never seen a book of yours marked this heavily—not even your all-time favorites. Curiosity coiled in his stomach.
He knew he shouldn't. He really, truly knew.
But there was a brand new category he didn't understand, and you've been blushing for five days straight, and god forbid, he was only human.
With a guilty glance toward the bathroom door, where the sound of running water and your off-key humming filtered through, Bucky picked up the book. It fell open easily to one of the red tabbed pages, the spine already creased from being held there. The sticky note had a tiny, hastily-drawn flame sketched on it.
His eyes found the highlighted paragraph. The scene unfolded in stark, vivid detail. The sergeant had the heroine bent over the sturdy oak desk in his quarters, one large hand fisted in her hair to keep her chest pressed flush against the wood. She was gasping, completely at his mercy as he took control with slow, punishing thrusts.
"That's it," he growled against her ear, voice low and authoritative. "Take what your sergeant gives you. You don't get to come until I say so." She whimpered, fingers scrambling for purchase, but he only tightened his grip. "Say it. Tell me who owns this pretty little body right now."
"You do, sergeant," she moaned, voice trembling with desperate pleasure.
Bucky's mouth went dry. His pulse kicked up hard. The two of you had always kept things gentle and loving—slow kisses, tender touches, vanilla nights that left you both smiling and wrapped around each other. He'd held back the rougher edges of himself, not wanting to overwhelm you. But this… this was what you've been blushing over for days? The realization sent a sharp jolt of heat through him, tangled with that quiet thread of guilt for snooping.
He closed the book carefully and set it back exactly as he found it, just as the shower turned off.
You stepped out a few minutes later in nothing but your favorite robe, hair damp and skin flushed from the hot water. The second you saw him sitting there—trying (and failing) to look casual—you knew something was off.
"Why do you look like the cat that ate the canary?" You asked, eyes narrowing even as a flush crept up your neck.
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish little smile breaking through. "Well… I wouldn't say the book is boring, sweetheart. I'm surprised you're into this… and you didn't tell me." He nodded toward the nightstand. "Sergeant, huh? Lots of red tabs on that one."
Your face ignited. "Bucky—"
He crossed the room slowly, stopping just in front of you. "Hey… If you want me to drop it, I will. But if you're into it… if you want me to give you what that book's been making you crave, I'm right here. You're okay with that gorgeous?"
Your heart hammered. The way he was looking at you sent liquid heat pooling low in your belly. "I… yeah. I'm okay with it."
"Good girl," he murmured, the praise sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers slipped through the belt of your robe, tugging it open with slow intent. The fabric slipped down your arms and pooled at your feet, leaving you bare in front of him. His gaze dragged over you, dark and hungry, before he cupped your chin and tilted your face up. "On your knees, sweetheart."
You sank down obediently, the carpet soft under you. Bucky stood tall, looking every bit the sergeant from those pages, gray Henley trenched across his broad chest. He thread his fingers into your damp hair, gripping firmly enough to send sparks across your scalp. "Open that pretty mouth for me, baby."
You parted your lips eagerly. Bucky freed himself from his sweats, already hard and heavy, and guided the tip along your tongue. "That's it… good girl. Keep your eyes here. Let me see you while you take me."
His grip in your hair tightened when you looked up at him and he began to move—shallow thrusts at first, then deeper, fucking your mouth with controlled power. The weight of him on your tongue, the way he hit the back of your throat, had you moaning around him. Every few strokes he held you there for a second, groaning low, before pulling back to let you breathe.
"Fuck, just like that. You look so good with my cock in your mouth." He gave a slightly rougher thrust, hair pulling taut, then eased off immediately, stroking your cheek. "Still okay?"
You nodded quickly, murmuring "Yes, Bucky" around him, the words muffled and eager, earning a soft pull of your hair.
"Tsk, tonight you should call me sergeant."
"Yes, sergeant," you corrected yourself, pressing your thighs together.
He kept one hand fisted in your hair, guiding you exactly how he wanted—never too rough, but dominant enough to make your core throb. When your jaw started to ache he finally pulled free, breathing hard, and lifted you onto the bed.
"On your back, legs open for me," he ordered.
You scrambled to obey. Bucky settled between your thighs,pushing them wide with his broad shoulders. The first slow lick up your soaked folds drew a broken moan from you. He didn't tease for long—he devoured you. Tongue plunging inside you, then circling your clit with firm, relentless strokes while two thick fingers curled deep. The wet sounds of his mouth were obscene.
He brought you right to the edge within minutes, sucking hard on your clit as your thighs started to shake.
"Not yet," he growled against you, pulling back just enough to deny your orgasm. He kissed your inner thigh, nipping softly, then dove back in. Twice more he edged you like that—building you higher each time, fingers pumping faster, tongue working you mercilessly—until you were whimpering, hips grinding desperately against his face.
"Please."
"Please, what?"
"Please, sergeant. I need to come."
Bucky hummed in approval and finally let you tip over. He sucked your clit between his lips and curled his fingers just right, holding you down as the orgasm tore through you. You came hard, crying out, thighs clamping around his head while he worked you through every pulse.
Before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you over onto your stomach and pulled your hips up, bending you over the edge of the bed. Your chest pressed into the mattress, ass raised high for him.
His palm cracked against your right cheek in a firm, stinging spank. "You've had me wondering what's got you so worked up for days." Another smack on the left side, then a soothing rub of his metal hand. "Turns out my sweet angel has a dark side."
He thrust into you in one deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden fullness tore a sharp moan from your throat. Bucky set a hard rhythm—hips snapping forward, the sound of skin slapping skin loud in the room. One hand fisted in your hair again, tugging your head back to arch you perfectly while the other delivered occasional sharp spanks that made you clench tighter around him.
"So wet for me," he groaned, pounding into you deeper. "Taking everything I give you like the good girl you are."
He kept the pace relentless but checked in, leaning over you to growl against your ear. "Still good, baby?" You could only manage a desperate "Yes, sergeant, please—harder," which earned you a particularly deep thrust and another firm spank.
The way he filled and claimed you completely pushed you toward the edge again fast. Bucky felt it, snaked a hand underneath you to rub your clit, whispering his command right against your neck. "Come for me again. Now."
You shattered around him with a broken cry, pulsing hard. Bucky followed right after, slamming deep and grinding through his own release, groaning your name under his breath as he spilled inside you.
He stayed buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting. Then, the dominance melted away. He eased out carefully, turned you over, and pulled you into his arms, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks and your lips.
"You okay, sweetheart?" He whispered, his voice was gentler now. His fingers were stroking soothing circles over the light marks he left on your hips and ass. "Wasn't too much?"
You shook your head, curling into his chest with a satisfied glowing smile. Bucky chuckled softly and held you tighter. "Next time you pick the scene, gorgeous. I want to hear every filthy detail you were too shy to tell me."
I Think I’ve Seen This Film Before | Bucky Barnes x Reader
I am back to writing after moving cities, starting a new job, going through a death in the family, and breaking up with my ex! Please enjoy the angst.
Word count: 20.4k
Warnings: anxiety, talk of cheating, vomit
The persistent buzzing was wearing on your last nerve.
“Buck!” you called, “your phone is ringing- again!”
Bucky’s phone sat on the opposite side of the kitchen island, vibrating into oblivion, just as it had been for the past few minutes. Part of you wanted to answer the damn thing and put a stop to whatever telemarketer spam was plaguing your boyfriend’s phone. And if it weren’t for the cookie dough covering your hands, maybe you would’ve.
And so, you called to him again.
“I think it’s probably pretty important!” You let out a sigh, “Cause they won’t stop fucking calling.”
Bucky chuckled from down the hall. Damn his enhanced senses. Not even words mumbled under your breath could escape his hearing.
“Just let it go to voicemail,” he hollered, content to ignore his ringing phone.
Bucky never had much affection for his phone. He felt it was more of a bother than an advancement. That it didn’t fit comfortably into his life. He never wanted to be this accessible. This available to other people. Until he met you.
Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous.
But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait.
He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.
But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row.
You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”
“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”
Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.
A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.
He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls.
He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.
“Um… hello?”
There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”
He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.
“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”
And just like that, the mysterious call was over.
Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.
“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”
Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:
“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”
Tara. Tara.
“Yeah.”
How could you forget?
He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.
Sam told a different story.
After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.
But she didn’t ask him to tag along.
Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky.
And it destroyed him.
He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee.
And then she was gone.
Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person.
An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?
“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.
Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it.
“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.
“Yeah. And she wants my help.”
It took you off guard.
“With what?”
Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”
“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”
Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”
A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry.
Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting.
But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.
“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.
You stared right back.
“Um, what do I think?”
You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless.
“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”
Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.
You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”
“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten. “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”
“Oh, um…” you shrugged.
The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way.
In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified.
You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.
“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-”
The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.
“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”
You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.
But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck.
You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing.
“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.”
You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.
But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern.
But you muzzled it, just like you had before.
Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy.
Wasn’t he?
Yes. Of course.
You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason.
You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around.
“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”
It wasn’t so bad at first.
His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung.
Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.
And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.
The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time.
There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole.
Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes.
Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.
But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.
“Tara said the funniest thing today.”
“Tara had a great idea.”
“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”
Tara.
Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors.
There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?
The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.
After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.
It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.
And she hadn’t even done anything wrong.
But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind.
And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.
Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.
You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky.
Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone.
You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too.
As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.
As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing.
A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking.
The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.
“Buck?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”
“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”
“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”
The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-”
“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”
He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”
And he was.
The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly.
How could you compete against someone like that?
Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.
His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara.
A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.
He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever.
“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”
“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”
A small sigh pushed through your lips.
It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest.
“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”
It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied.
“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”
You simply shook your head.
And that was the last night you ate dinner together.
The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.
You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.
At least, that’s what you thought.
Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.
“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”
It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.
Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.
The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”
“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”
“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged.
“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.”
With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.
With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window.
But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite.
But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.
“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”
“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”
He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess.
But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him.
Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down.
You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.
It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.
Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work.
Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.
You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.
Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job.
If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.
But you didn’t have to.
Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.
“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”
You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.
Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.
“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”
“’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.
The cabin?
Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.
“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.
“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”
Your heart fluttered.
“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”
Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will.
You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them.
“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips.
It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks.
Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his.
In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel.
After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.
All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.
On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time.
“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.”
“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”
Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”
When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.
You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.
He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open.
“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark.
Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter.
“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”
“Noon sharp,” you said back.
He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”
“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”
But you didn’t.
Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.
But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.
Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail.
‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’
But he wasn’t.
Nor was he home by two. Or three.
The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.
At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame.
You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken.
Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.
But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.
Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.
But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable.
With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.
A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage.
At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip.
The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side.
On the final ring, you answered his call.
And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.
“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”
A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned.
“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”
“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”
“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”
“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”
‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?
“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.
Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus.
Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.
“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”
The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.
“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”
You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.
Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t.
“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”
He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned.
He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.
“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”
T needed him. Not the team. Tara.
It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.
“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”
Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”
You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired.
“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in.
His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person.
“I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke. “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”
You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you.
But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.
“I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?
“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”
You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”
“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”
Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you.
How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving.
His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.
He stared at you, “What are you-”
“I can’t let you quit.”
“But-”
“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”
He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.
“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”
He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you.
You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.
“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”
You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you.
A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.
Finally, he spoke.
“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”
You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.
“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”
You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”
“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”
Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?
“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”
The alarms quieted a few decibels.
“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”
Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.
He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem.
And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’.
However, you did want to ask him one question.
“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”
He nodded.
“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”
Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time.
“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.
Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”
“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”
“Cross my heart.”
You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last.
And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap.
“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”
He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape.
Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?
“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”
The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.
“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”
You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…”
“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”
He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.
And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind:
“Thou dost protest too much.”
You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind.
But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’
You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.
“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”
And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value.
“I love you too, Buck.”
He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time.
“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”
You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning.
But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.
When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold.
“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”
No answer.
“Of fucking course.”
With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief.
But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened.
Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back.
“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”
You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”
Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”
Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”
Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.
“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.
“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.
“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.
His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”
“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug.
“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”
“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”
Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh.
“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”
Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car.
The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.
There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust.
As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that.
Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home. Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.
It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.
As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well.
So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.
But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.
And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway.
But work he did, anyway.
Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree.
“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”
He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.
“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”
Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.
But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks.
The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.
He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business.
And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.
And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
Things were looking up.
Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face.
He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way.
“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”
“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”
He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited.
“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.
Your jaw dropped. “Really?”
“Really.”
It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received.
“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”
You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”
He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”
You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”
“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”
It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened.
“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”
“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.
“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.
The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.
But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.
He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.
“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”
He fell silent for a long moment, thinking.
“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”
“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”
“You’d rather not what, Buck?”
He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…”
He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken.
This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.
His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”
He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”
A satisfied smile spread across his face.
You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days.
“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”
You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”
“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”
You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.
The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.
And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded.
But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?
No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore.
With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.
Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door.
Bucky looked at you. You looked at him.
“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”
He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.
“Who is it, Buck?”
He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.
When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor.
It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest.
As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.
“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried.
Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?
And then a woman’s voice filled the air.
Not any woman’s voice.
Tara’s.
“I know, but I need you, Buck.”
A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open.
Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout.
You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway.
And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.
A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered.
Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed.
“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”
“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”
“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”
Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.
“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.
Bucky perked up.
“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”
“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”
“But we can’t be sure…”
“Barnes, I’m sure.”
Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”
Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.
“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”
Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important.
You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came.
“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.
A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.
“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”
“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.
With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look.
“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”
“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”
He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”
You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”
You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts?
But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it.
And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.
Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster.
“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”
“Magdalini’s?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”
You waited for something more, but nothing came.
“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.
“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”
Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with. And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies.
You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous.
“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.
You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.
Until there was another soft knock at the door.
Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver.
“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.
Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.
And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?
You gestured for her to enter, “Sure.”
She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over.
“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.
“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.
Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?
“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”
It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of.
But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder.
Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there.
“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”
“I can help with-” “Oh, here, let me-”
Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded.
The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.
After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident.
You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did.
Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.
Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience.
Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.
The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.
“There,” you said , “All done.”
Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek.
“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”
“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!”
Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.
‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.
After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance.
And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.
After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.
Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.
Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open.
“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.
“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”
His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.
But he never appeared.
Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.
Something was wrong.
You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size.
You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.
“Hey…” you called.
He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”
The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.
And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.
“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?”
Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.
“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”
His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.
“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.
Suddenly, his eyes grew wide.
“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”
Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”
His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went.
A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering.
But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.
“I told you so!”
“I told you so!”
“I told you so!”
This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments.
But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.
It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everything would have to wait.
“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.
His brow furrowed, “What?”
You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”
He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.
“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”
The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.”
“Baby-”
“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.
You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.
On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump.
With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.
The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.
The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor.
But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him.
But it was too late.
“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”
The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed.
His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”
You didn’t answer.
“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”
The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman.
But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.
Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.
And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.
All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.
“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”
Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied.
“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”
‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’
The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.
The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs.
Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.
Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.
Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck.
In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them.
“I can’t do this again.”
The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.
No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect?
The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.
Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit.
“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.”
He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly.
There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger.
More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.
The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.
“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”
“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face.
“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”
“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-”
A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.
Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”
And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.
Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.
The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out.
“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”
A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand.
“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”
Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry.
“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”
It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”
And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate.
But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera.
“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern.
You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”
He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.
“Thanks for catching me, Buck.”
“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.”
He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?” he asked, “Or is it something new?”
He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.
“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees.
He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”
There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help.
“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words.
You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”
Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.
“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.
“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.
“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”
But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics.
Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard.
In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.
But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds.
“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”
“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”
Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them.
He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something.
But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.
“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”
“What?”
He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet.
“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”
You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”
“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”
He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow.
You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon.
He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight.
“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.
It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did.
When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.
Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor.
“You still love me?”
It crushed you.
“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body.
“Even after-”
“Yes,” you said against his chest.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”
This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance.
“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”
“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”
“No.”
And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals.
“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”
It was quiet- inaudible, really. But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.
The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.
But the relief only lasted so long.
“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”
Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”
The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.
“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”
He tightened his grip around you.
“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”
“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”
“Sweetheart-”
“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”
He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”
“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”
“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…”
For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate.
“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”
Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him.
“You’ve been cheated on,” he said.
You nodded, “Three times.”
A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”
Again, you nodded.
“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”
Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink.
And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs.
Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.
“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”
A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod.
“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”
“You weren’t-”
“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”
Bucky nodded.
“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”
“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”
Your shrug was cold, detached.
Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”
“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.”
Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”
Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”
Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”
For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.
“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”
He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”
“Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.
The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind.
“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”
“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”
You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”
His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.
He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”
“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”
Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.
“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”
“But-”
“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”
He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.
“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”
A quiet laugh left your chest.
“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again- I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”
There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body.
He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak.
Your story and his were inextricably wound together, and that’s how they’d remain.
Now that tumblr have added the feature to sort your likes from oldest to newest (on the app nonetheless), here's some more Bucky Barnes and Clark Kent and a dash of John Walker fics that I read since starting reading ff here up to date (and most of these are stuck to my brain and I still constantly think about.)
A Simple Favour by @metal-armed-muse
summary: Bucky Barnes is your senior. That’s how simple it should’ve been. But when feelings come into the mix, nothing is ever simple right?
Second Chances by metal-armed-muse
summary: one stolen night with congressman barnes leaves you with more than memories: a positive test and a man who's determined to prove he's worth a second chance.
A Torture Called Love by metal-armed-muse
summary: You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, you’re both scrambling to pretend it didn’t change anything. What better way to save one’s heart than by breaking the other first?
Wildfire by @w1nter-fairy
summary: You were born to run the ranch, Bucky was raised to work the land. Somewhere between exhausting days of work, barn hookups and ten months of something neither of you dared to name you've crossed a line you can't uncross. But love doesn't mean the same thing to both of you. And when pride, class, and everything Bucky thinks he should be start pulling him away from you you realize loving him might not be enough to make him stay.
Draw Me Like a Secret by @danitecx
summary: Working as an illustrator and editor at the Daily Planet, you spend your days drawing Superman so often that his face feels more familiar than it should. What begins as harmless admiration slowly turns into secret late-night sketches hidden inside a private notebook—drawings no one was ever meant to see. But after accidentally losing that notebook to Clark Kent, your shy coworker starts acting strangely around you.
It's Not The Same River by @goldiwrites
summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.
Drive You Home by @navybrat817
summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well. He can’t help but fall for you. But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy. He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore. He wants to be someone you can come home to.
Guilt of the Quiet One by @fromsil
summary: your life was unraveling, little by little. bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. nothing made it easier, especially when one of metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.
Jump Then Fall @mcrdvcks
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
Longing in Lane Three by @sunday-bug
summary: You're spending your summer working at the local bowling alley and thirsting over your ex-best friend's dad, Bucky.
Manchild by @houseofhyde
summary: bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.
I feel it Turning into Addiction by @sinner-as-saint
summary: He was too old for this. Crushing on his next door neighbour? Unbelievable. He should leave the poor girl alone. But fuck, he couldn’t. Could he? After all, you were so sweet, and gentle, and kind, and always baked things in the middle of the night and left boxes and baskets filled with sweet-smelling treats at his doorstep for him to find almost each morning. And what did he do in return? He imagined all the sinful ways he could make you whine and whimper for him. He was bad for you, he knew that. People called him all sorts of things: criminal, gang leader, outlaw. Bucky Barnes was bad news. But did that stop him? No. You being so forbidden just solidified his addiction. Bucky Barnes never claimed to be a good man, so he’d do whatever it takes to get whatever he wanted. And all he wanted was you.
good girl by sinner-as-saint
summary: You come home all sad and upset after a horrible date, and your two best friends cheer you up in the best way ever.
dark desire and tainted bliss by sinner-as-saint
summary: Hiring you as his assistant was the best and the worst thing Bucky had done. He knew he shouldn’t be doing the things he was doing. He knew he shouldn’t have offered you to just live in the tower because it’s easier. He knows that this obsession of his will only breed problems. But the heart wants what it wants. And what Bucky wants, he gets.
Declassified by @dreamwritesimagines (another fav congressman!bucky fic)
summary: Politics is a game that requires secrets, just like love.
Red Star Bruise on Tour by w1nter-fairy (rockstar bucky is my guilty pleasure)
summary: So, you've found your way to Backstage. This is the kind of tour that leaves marks: good, bad. Depends on the night, really (and how much of Bucky Barnes you can handle when the house lights go down and the after party's just getting started)
Different by @quiteamessbabes
summary: Clark is different. Different from your ex he can't stop thinking about, different from the men who couldn't make you cum.
It's not what you think by @alrisyl
summary: clark cancels on you again for ‘work’ but it was a lie..
but he doesn't like me, does he? by fromsil
summary: there was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain : clark kent didn’t like you. not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. but you could feel it. his body language and attitude gave everything away. your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?
Partition by @kimoralov3
summary: bucky's campaign is going smoothly, or as smoothly as it could go for someone who technically was a former assassin. but the real crime is bucky standing in front of you and looking so good, when you couldn't get your hands on him yet.
Checks and Balances by @pellucid-constellations
summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough.
If We Talked by pellucid-constellations
summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.
who did this to you? by @buckysleftbicep
summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.
bent and bruised by buckysleftbicep
summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears.
Washington's Finest by @flofaiiry
summary: Congressman Barnes has heard the stories from his colleagues on committee, he knows the stereotype that politicians in Washington often hire women to pursue their extracurricular activities- but he never expected to be the one to be in the need of such... services, much less the kind of man who'd actually seek them out
I Thought We Were Already Dating by @danysdaughter
summary: you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).
I think I Love You by danysdaughter
summary: You agreed to keep it casual—just sex, no feelings. But when loving Bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can do… even if it destroys you both.
still yours by danysdaughter
summary: bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.
when the sun hits (it matters where you are) by @rosesaints
summary: it’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!)
reckless fever, lover girl by rosesaints
summary:you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now.
all mine, baby by @buckyseternaldoll
summary: You crossed a line to finish the mission. Bucky saw it. Now he’s going to remind you who that pussy belongs to—with his mouth, his cock, and his name on your lips.
use me. you're all mine. by buckyseternaldoll
summary: You were too sore to move. Too fucked-out to think. Good thing Bucky never minded doing all the work.
eighteen hours. by buckyseternaldoll
summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.
Every Time We Almost by buckyseternaldoll
Summary: Every time you almost had a moment—life got in the way. Night shifts, missions, exhaustion, missed calls and missed chances. But tonight, the universe finally gave you the time. And Bucky? He’s not wasting a second of it.
sergeant's magic mouth by buckyseternaldoll
summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.
Dead-End Heat by buckyseternaldoll
summary: After his divorce, John Walker hides out at the end of a dead-end road — quiet, wrecked, and alone. Until his new neighbor starts dancing naked by the window. And he stops pretending he’s not watching.
We Couldn’t Stop by @societyfolklore
summary: During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.
heavy in your arms by @buckytakethewheel
summary: Bucky has big arms. And you've been dreaming about losing yourself in them since you saw him for the first time.
research purposes by @cursedheartsclub
summary: What starts as “sex ed” with your shy, curious best friend turns into something neither of you can deny. He wants to learn. You want to teach. But somewhere between the videos, the moans, and the way he says your name—it’s not just research anymore.
bound to burn by cursedheartsclub
summary: You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part?
bad idea by @barnesonly
summary: Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you all mission and when you catch him moaning your name back at the safe house, you make sure to give him exactly what he’s been craving.
Yearning by barnesonly
summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…
me and my husband by @venusheartsyou2
summary: bucky asks a lot of you. like that time he asked you to marry him, no-strings-attached, of course.
Busy Woman by @wbellab
summary: You’ve always had a soft spot for Bucky Barnes. Shamelessly flirted just to see that annoyed look that made him look so good. He never gave you more than those quiet stares, jaw tight like he was holding something back. Fine by you. You had better things to do than wait around for a man stuck in the 40s. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
A Thousand Times Before @marvelstoriesepic
Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.
A Star Without a Sky by @vunblr
summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.
Wanted by vunblr
summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
come back to me, please @little-miss-dilf-lover
summary: bucky would never return home late from a mission, not if he could help it anyway. he would always give you updates and little texts when he gets the chance. though tonight he doesn’t message and all your texts go undelivered. you immediately think the worst and are left to wallow in your made up grief for hours before he returns back home to you.
Wanna Be Yours by @daddyjackfrost
summary: Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.
What's Left of Me is Yours by @pleasantlycrazyworld
summary: You didn’t want Bucky to know about the stalking. Not just because you were scared but because you knew what it could cost him. What it would pull out of him. But the second he finds out someone’s been watching you… he gives you a truth that chills you deeper than the fear ever could.
Firsts by pleasantlycrazyworld
summary: Bucky takes your virginity.
With All My Heart @street-smarts00
summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.
come back to me @peterparkive
summary: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.
mrs. walker, if you're nasty by cursedheartsclub
summary: You never meant to fake marry your ex-fuckbuddy-turned-field-partner. But when the mission called for a believable couple, John Walker—with his old wedding ring still in a drawer and tension still in his jaw—was the only option Val had for you.
only you by cursedheartsclub
Summary: John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home. You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary. But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.
bucky trying to help you forget about your ex, but can’t hold back his feelings anymore by cursedheartsclub
where the quiet lives by cursedheartsclub
Summary: You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house.
say it by cursedheartsclub
summary: You were always so careful with him. Always asked before you touched. Always pulled back when he got too still. But Bucky never pulled away. Not from you. Then you saw Sharon Carter touch him. Completely innocently. Now your hands are on his thighs, your mouth is at his throat, and you’re making him say he wants you. (He does. He always has.)
outside by cursedheartsclub
Summary: Your ex used to talk shit about John Walker. You all ran in the same Army circle– never close, but you knew each other. Then one night at the bar, John saw you walk in wearing that dress… and decided that your ex didn’t deserve to say your name ever again.
sweetpea by @artficlly
summary: After the Riftborn War, Bucky Barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.
the art of pretending by artficlly
summary: being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.
Lust by @barnesonly
summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.
need a ride? by @barnesandashes
summary: save a horse, ride a congressman. after waiting for congressman james bucky barnes to finish his emergency meeting— which lasted the whole night, he offers you a ride home, at the back of his motorcycle. like, what could go wrong?
the kinktober prompt: cockwarming · hickeys · lingerie (it's a hattrick!)
as a one-year anniversary gift, you propose that you and your husband divorce. he decides to teach you a lesson: that the king of new york doesn’t give anything up, least of all his darling wife.
⚜️ WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, mafia!au, angst, porn with plot, childhood best friends to arranged marriage to lovers, repressed feelings, noncon mention (does not happen), allusions to age gap but no direct reference, dom!bucky (soft and mean), fingering, oral, unprotected piv, dirty talk, creampie, breeding kink
🔑 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair (described to tumble down at one point) and is able-bodied
🔱 AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's not a fic by unificsation if uni doesn't crash out a little when writing it lol. this is my first bwa collab and i worked hard to live up to the talent in the room—i just hope it shows in the story! please be patient when you read this, i beg!
the jewelry aspect in this is inspired by @flockoff-featherface's rendition of mob!bucky in the previous collab! there are some bwa references here, too, though not of everyone because i couldn't fit it naturally and didn't have time to rework things 😭 please know that i love you all, ardently and equally!!
The mahogany door to the suite swings open. Even at night, New York shines beyond floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows, busy streets twinkling like rivers of stars. A switch turns on. Warmth floods the space with its velvet finishes and Canaletto walnut counters, the lights beamed through brushed bronze sconces on the walls.
Two figures slip inside. A laugh rings true—yours.
“I can’t believe you got them to make Mom’s tiramisu! Did you have to ask Dad for the recipe?”
Bucky smiles at your back, watches the tumble of your hair from that updo like he didn’t spend the whole night staring at you. Here in your shared home, he’s free to monopolize. No secret audience in the public eye, just twin flames on the top floor of one of the many buildings he owns.
“Your dad wouldn’t write it down. Said they’d steal it,” he taking off his suit jacket to drape it on an armchair, then drops metal cufflinks on a terrazzo tray. “The people at the Chateau were nice enough to follow his instructions through the phone.”
You giggle, mostly at the image—his father-in-law speaking into a brick phone with glasses all the way down his nose—but also a little bit from the wine.
It was vintage. Older than your husband, but certainly not smoother than he is. He was charming all throughout dinner. Got you blushing from compliments even before they poured you the burgundy Bordelaise.
You catch him rolling his sleeves up in your periphery.
And the Chateau was an excellent place. Great service, equally amazing food. The restaurant was efficient without sacrificing intimacy: tables spaced out and sleek, lights dimmed, carpeted floors dampening the sound of delicate cutlery. Bucky didn’t have to say much to get what he wanted, only needed to spare a glance for the maître d’s full attention.
But maybe that’s more because of who he is, though you don’t doubt the restaurant’s hospitality.
No business in their right mind would leave the king of New York wanting.
What you don’t know is that mob boss James Buchanan Barnes spent a good couple of hours worrying about where to take his wife to dinner.
But he made the right choice, like he always did. It charmed you inside and out: lush interiors, a decadent five-course meal with garnishes as pretty as garlands, powder rooms bigger than some people’s apartments. You passed each second marveling like you yourself weren’t accustomed to a life of luxury. Like you weren’t born in it.
And then there was your soft moan when you bit into the food. He didn’t know if he should be jealous or proud, but he can’t complain.
Not when you’re celebrating your first anniversary as a married couple.
“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” you sigh as limbs drag themselves towards the suede settee. He watches as silk ebbs and flows on your skin, soft dangerous ripples lit by hazy highlights from the floor lamp. The dress is one he hasn’t seen before. He’s a stupid man for not taking you out more often.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he sits next to you. You press a smile against his cheek, the peck chaste, thumb brushing against his ringed knuckles.
How you break him with the easiest of touches is beyond him.
The orange dim of the room reflects a look in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while. A trace of mischief. Or is it amusement? Either way, it reminds him of bygone eras spent with you: trampolines, tree-houses, and twenty questions. Back when you were young and stupid and free, a foxy daughter and the bloodhound of an old family.
“Bucky?”
“Yes, princess?”
“Close your eyes for me?” you smile. “I got you a gift.”
He shakes his head with an acquiescing chuckle. He’s never said no to you.
Blue eyes close.
“You’re beating me to it.”
“To what?”
“The presents.”
“Ladies first, as you like to say,” your reply is playful, and he hears movement. Shuffles all paper-like. “Anyway, I thought dinner was your gift.”
“Dinner’s not enough, doll.”
Then the couch sinks next to him and his skin holds your warmth even without touch. Something light falls on his lap.
“Open.”
Blue eyes land on an ivory folder sitting innocently across his thighs. Embossed at the front is an ornate B—his family insignia. The one you made yours, too.
His blank face meets a smile that can only mean excitement. You tilt your head to the piece of stationery, a small ‘go ahead’ that nudges his curiosity past the precipice. He flips the cover open.
Inside is a neat stack of papers. The black ink at the very top of the first page screams at him, all capital letters and antipathy:
REQUEST FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
Eyes snap to yours. You bite back a pleased grin.
“Happy anniversary, Bucky.”
The first time you left him so dumbfounded was on his fifteenth birthday.
Yes, Bucky Barnes was once fifteen. Not as tall or muscular. Lighter in both the color of his hair and the weight on his shoulders, compared to the man he is now.
But even a conqueror like him had a childhood: days when his biggest woes were bad weather or Becca’s unending boy problems that he somehow had to hear about.
On his fifteenth birthday, his biggest woe was you not attending the party.
It was a rather big thing. They prepared favors. Balloons, too—despite his insistence on not having them. Indulgent food for the children and an open bar for the chaperoning adults.
All of his family was there and so were his friends, but sweet little you somehow became the best of them despite having nearly nothing in common with him other than interest in each other’s company.
He was older, you were younger. He was a Yankees fan, you thought the baseball diamond was the prize for winning a game. He laughed when he told you that was what they called the field, and then you were laughing too.
It was the most delightful sound he’d ever heard.
Something clicked then, except ‘click’ was too inconsequential a word. Shifted, more like. Fatal like tectonic plates, fated like a story.
At that fifteenth birthday party, Matthew got too into catechism for Bucky to have a conversation with. It was also the year relations with the Starks got slightly tense due to suspected swipes at each other’s assets, which meant he and Tony barely met, let alone spoke. The Romanoffs and their eldest daughter Natasha were away for overseas business.
Sure, Bucky always had Steven Grant Rogers by his side. But you and Steve were the best in his books for entirely different reasons.
Even with Steve there, it hurt when you weren’t.
But it wasn’t your fault. You’d been sick all week, down with a nasty bug he wished were a real one instead of a mere turn of phrase—that way he could actually crush it for you.
That way he wouldn’t be sad because the girl he liked couldn’t make it to his special day.
When his mother asked what cake he wanted for the party, he said your favorite flavor instead of his.
What was the point of that if you weren’t here at all?
Then, just before he was supposed to blow the candles out, you showed up. Pretty dress, pretty hair, even prettier face. For a split second, he thought his wish was granted before he even got to make it. Year-on-year myth made material.
“I got all better for you,” you grinned. A little tired, sure, but happy to see him.
He hugged you as tight as the twinge in his chest. You giggled into his shoulder. The adults melted with a chorus of awwws—only made worse when you parted to kiss his cheek.
Just like that, his birthday was made.
You gave him a gift. The one in the wrapped box was great—but your presence is the better present.
Because that was everything he ever wanted: you next to him.
When he started carving order out of underground chaos with his own two hands, you made him understand why the work was necessary. He wanted to protect you. To keep you safe, even before he was old enough to receive his first Glock.
Before he became king.
He blew on your skinned knee when you fell off your bike. Pulled stray twigs out of your hair. Let you steal the heart of his family dog—then his in the process. The two of you grew taller, and still he took care of you: hid you from the guards while he snuck you out to play, then took the brunt of the scolding when you got found out.
For all his easy smiles, you’d always look at him like it was your fault. Doe-eyed. Guilty.
He’d pull you in, pat your head, say it’s okay. Keep the little thank you, Bucky you murmur into his chest like it was buried treasure.
And then college called.
The Barnes’ had history with Princeton, so that was where he went. But the distance from New York to Jersey had nothing against where your parents decided you’d go.
Europe. You told him about it while he was interning.
He said he was excited for you. He lied.
The night before your flight, you cried in his arms. Not the kind of cry that wrenched guts in its wails—the kind that was hushed. Compliant. You cried like he wouldn’t fly across the ocean every weekend just to see you. Like you were in the final stage of grief. Acceptance.
He held you through it. Stroked your hair. Said it’s okay. Promised to call.
What he didn’t do was tell the truth. Declare feelings. How he realized he’d only ever thought of you when he sat across a revolving door of women that fought to be near him. How he replaced the sound of their laugh with yours, only to be disappointed when the self-afflicted spell broke.
How he’d be so much happier be if you were the one he held at night.
Those thoughts festered over the years. Then they’re locked for at least a few more, because tomorrow, it’d take a seven-hour flight to touch your fingertips. Tomorrow, you’d be a name on his phone, a voice on the line, a specter in the corner of every room.
He wasn’t sure he’d keep the secret if he visited. So he didn’t.
Better for you to be a continent away loving him as a friend than shunning him as a foe.
Better for you to shun him as a foe than forget about him entirely.
Time passed. He changed. His feelings didn’t.
Then a few years later, you returned: smarter and stronger and more beautiful, standing just a little taller. Like you’d come into yourself while he wasn’t watching. But even then, you were still you. The girl with twigs in her hair, who now understands ‘three strikes and you’re out’ and batting orders, just with a degree and acquired confidence. Still laughed that same laugh when he picked you up at the airport.
Neither of you wanted to part from that first hug in years, just hands on each other’s backs. You buried your face in his wool. He memorized the smell of your hair.
Your families must’ve put two and two together after seeing that reunion. Or maybe they’ve noticed for a while, bode their time like the good criminals they are.
The arranged marriage didn’t feel like the punishment many of his cohort purported it to be. But then again, he had it good.
For one, he knew who he was marrying. Didn’t have to go through polished profiles and fake first dates. The Barnes family was prestigious enough to attract posers on the regular—they didn’t need any more. Your folk had things greater than reputation: connections, controlled resources, and you.
For two, he loves you.
He never said so out loud.
And he didn’t dare ask you how you feel, but you never said no to the deal, either, even when the two of you agreed how egocentrically strategic it was. Both your parents wanted a power consolidation. They used affection to get it. Yours.
He lingered with you by the balcony of his summer home where the decision was announced, sipping the night air. Come morning, it wouldn’t taste the same.
“Why didn’t you fight it?” he asked.
“Because it was you,” you answered.
He didn’t push. Not when it could capsize him into saying something he might regret.
“Not like I’d know what to do without you, anyway,” you smiled wryly, voice quiet above the breeze and cricketsong.
“I promise I’ll take care of you,” he murmured back. Eyes looked into yours.
You looked back, then rested your head on his shoulder.
“I know. You always do.”
That was how it happened. Like an avalanche: the late afternoon fittings, lilies, and diamond rings. He didn’t know there were so many types of papers he had to consider for the embossed invitations.
But amidst the flurry, it still didn’t feel like punishment. Never like punishment, but a reward. As if being born in blood and brutality didn’t stop some force of benevolence from acknowledging his patience and deciding he deserved mercy.
That mercy was you in a white dress. An angel before the altar. A kiss followed by church bells.
Matthew Murdock blessed the marriage—Father Matthew Murdock, pardon him. Bastard went from boxing prodigy to priest.
Bucky was ready then, that first night. Ready to spill his guts on the honeymoon suite floor, heart close to bursting with held-back hurt. All the things he felt throughout the years. Things you made him feel, dream, do in the dark. A matrimonial confession that would lead to either crushed ribs or open arms.
Hell or heaven. Nothing in between.
But then he saw you sit in bed with your pajamas—the one with tiny daisies on it—and you beckoned him, patting a spot on the king-sized bed.
Every sentence he scripted was lost in an exhale. What remained was a conviction so cold, it kept him quiet for a year.
He couldn’t lose you.
That night, you ended up cuddling like you were children again. Traded stories about what transpired during the grand reception.
“Your kiss was very convincing,” you smiled conspiratorially.
He didn’t tell you he meant it. The kiss. The vow. The till death do us part.
It’s been a year of that—wedded bliss that you treated like a sleepover.
Touches remained innocent. Gazes remained guileless. You told him his kiss was convincing, but he didn’t know yours would be, too. The soft brushes of lips against his in public dinners. The way your fingers tangled with his.
It was so easy to believe that you married not by circumstance, but for love.
But behind closed doors, it was like the two of you never grew up—or at least you acted that way. Talked about your long day and his dirty work. Fell asleep in innocuous hugs that settled his soul. Took turns being big spoon and little spoon on a whim.
He prefers being little spoon. That way, he feels your breath on his back, and you’re left oblivious to the malady in his sweatpants. Easier for him to escape to the ensuite and touch himself at the thought of you.
Specifically, the thought of you looking at him like a man and not your childhood best friend.
It was a barren purgatory, and he went through like it was all milk and honey.
But now you’ve gone and done it.
He stares at the printed text, slowly crawling back to the present. Your name under petitioner, his name under respondent. He swore to never say no to your wishes, but he never thought you’d wish for this.
Divorce.
The question slips out of him, reeling barely restrained.
“What the fuck is this?”
You tense.
His baritone dips the way it does on his worst days, only now it pulls you under with it. It’s enough to drain the smile on your face until you’re left with a blank look. A canvas for confusion. For turbulence.
Then horror floods the thrum of your veins, making blood run cold.
It reminds you of fear that follows a grave mistake: like the time you accidentally broke an heirloom vase, except the weight in your stomach is a hundred-fold now, and so is the mess on the floor.
You’re glued to your seat by the sensation, instinct to move replaced by ice.
“What do you mean?” you ask, hiding a tremble.
Blue eyes snap to yours. There’s no joking twinkle. No affectionate narrow of them—not when his jaw is as locked as a steel vault. Though you can’t read his expression, it definitely isn’t one you expected him to wear.
He should be happy. This should be what he wanted. But instead he stares at the folder like he’s wondering if this is a dream.
You might be watching a nightmare unfold.
Then he throws it across the room, sending papers and your heartbeat scattering.
“That was my question, princess,” he murmurs, a flash of a storm in his eyes. “Explain.”
Shadow looms over you while he rises to his feet. The movement tears the truth out of you, nervous eyes darting everywhere except his face.
“Well, since the merger’s stabilized, I thought…” you breathe, “I thought that we don’t have to keep this up anymore.”
“Keep what up?” He chases like a dagger: quick, incisive.
“The marriage,” your eyes finally meet his, hoping you’ll witness him see sense. Hoping for awareness to wash over him, that he’ll melt into a kind smile and say: right, I get it now, thank you for absolving us of this thing our parents put onto our shoulders.
That balm doesn’t arrive, and anxiety continues to burn. You stammer.
“Bucky, I’m saying you don’t have to sacrifice your happiness anymore—”
But he scoffs instead, grin devoid of humor. A hand runs through his hair.
“That’s what this marriage is to you then? A burden?”
The turnabout scathes more than his previous silence. Maybe because you never expected this outcome. It is also deeply unjust: why he’s pinning this on you is beyond any logic, especially knowing what he did.
Your eyebrows knot as you stand, a reflection of rising temper more than conscious choice.
“How could you ask me that when you’ve made it clear how much of a burden this is to you?”
“What the hell are you talking about? We just had a great time at dinner!”
You let out a laugh. It’s funny how he thinks you don’t know.
“I’m talking about you smelling like ten different perfumes every night for the past month, Bucky.”
He must think you’re sound asleep each time he slips under the sheets, but the truth you don’t want to admit is that your body stirs at his presence. Even half-conscious, you feel time tick by: one in the morning becomes two, and then three, which is when he comes home most nights.
There in the dark, you breathe him in, wanting comfort, only to find a bouquet of betrayal.
Jasmines and the sea. Camellias, cocoa, and citrus.
They spin like a carousel, switching, erasing his forest green scent only to replace it with the shade of jealousy—one you struggle to school into submission.
You have no right to that feeling. He was never yours to begin with.
And now you watch as his face falls. It fuels your step and the fire beneath your voice.
“I’m not stupid. I noticed. You don’t talk to me about your day anymore, we barely eat together, you come home smelling like women. A great time at dinner doesn’t exactly erase that.”
There’s a pang in your heart. You will it to pass.
“This marriage might have been arranged, and we might not really be husband and wife, but you sleeping around behind my back is still disgraceful. Not just for me. For the both of us.”
Bucky stares back. You speak before he can—he’ll ruin you otherwise, with or without words.
“You could’ve told me, Buck,” you soften. “You know I won’t blame you. You deserve company.”
Company. The kind he won’t look for in you because he’s your good friend—your very best, even.
Expecting him to want to sleep with you is wishful thinking. Expecting him to stay celibate is like muzzling a dog you don’t even own.
“Let’s not pretend this is what we wanted. What you wanted.” There’s nothing interesting about the rug, but you stare at it anyway.
Maybe its modern pattern will rewrite the ancient ones woven in your head. A tangle of old afflictions—expectations, comparisons, the value you brought to the table dictating the love you begged to receive.
A quiet voice prickles in the back of your mind. It tells you it’s not that he doesn’t want an arranged marriage; he just doesn’t want you.
Scheming parents made you a coincidental casualty that landed on his lap, and now you’ve become a problem he’d be better off without. So much that he’d rather distance himself from you than talk about it like you used to.
Even though you’d let him fuck other women if it meant he’d stay.
A greater woman would have cut ties and run. Next to her, you feel like a little girl with a broken sense of self-esteem.
Maybe this divorce is your attempt to prove something. Anything.
Your gaze is blank at the scattered papers on the floor. The only thing you’ve proven so far is your lack of conviction—running away at every shadow of something real.
How did it come to this?
“I just want us to be friends again,” you whisper.
Something crackles against your skin. The air turns into an emotional minefield. An invisible string tugs your gaze, pulling it back to his with the force of nature. The way he looks at you crushes your faith.
It looks like he’s falling apart, too.
You can tell through the clench of his jaws and fists. Through the flicker in his eyes. In the breath you barely remember to take above a tyrannical tension. Tightrope over bear traps.
“Yeah?” he rasps. “Well, I don’t want that.”
Pain and embarrassment punch you with monosyllabic words. He might as well change that last one to ‘you’.
I don’t want you.
But then he steps forward. You look up at him, trying to hold your ground. It doesn’t work. His steadiness knocks you back, feet moving away from him like repelling magnets.
“We can’t be friends anymore,” he says. Your back hits the wall.
“I don’t understand—”
His smile is mirthless.
“‘Course you don’t.”
Bucky stands tall in front of you, silhouette casting a shadow with no escape routes. The hand on your face is the final nail to an uncovered coffin—it holds the hinge of your jaw, the last rites of a relationship. Blue blade-like eyes cut your defenses and drive you into a corner.
His face hovers over yours.
At this distance, he’ll see the sadness past your irises, so you look away. His hand tilts you back to face him.
Then he speaks, soft, and whatever troubling thought you have shatters into a million shards—the second time tonight.
“You don’t know what it’s like to share a bed with the woman you love and not touch her.”
A thumb smooths over your cheekbone, as if to placate the shock. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up.
“And I’ve loved her since she practiced cursive with my name.”
Your missing breath fuels memories, your mind plays a reel. It shows what he’s talking about: a movie, with scenes that slipped between cracks of life lived and fractured.
You’re wearing your favorite skirt. The weather is so nice outside. There’s clumsy handwriting on ruled paper. He smiles when you show its loops and curls:
James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend
The words ‘best friend’ are now overshadowed by a single one with four letters.
Time stands still. Gravity swallows your feet into the ground.
He tips your chin up. A taunt.
You can’t run, the gesture says, now that I’ve said it.
And you can’t because he’s pressing up against you, trapping your body between cold wall and warm chest. As if mocking your speechlessness, his finger swipes at your bottom lip, parting them more.
“Sweet girl doesn’t understand what she does to me,” he hums, tracing the perfect edges of your lipstick, “doesn’t even know she gets me hard just by kissing me good morning and good night on my damn cheek. Why d’you think I wake up first and go to bed last, hm?”
Hot breath fans your ear. Hands move to his torso in a bid to steady yourself.
“I tried to be good, honey, I really did.”
Mouth brushes your jaw. Your head lolls to one side in response: are you running, or are you giving him room to take more of you?
“Tried to take my greed out elsewhere, except it didn’t work. They don’t have your body. Your voice. Your face,” he growls.
“They’re not you.”
He’s nipping at your ear, licking the shell as he murmurs.
“Couldn’t even fucking touch them.”
The confession sinks in the way ink does in water: slow, pulsating, before it grows and takes over.
He loves you.
“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.
He scoffs. “Hated you?”
The look on his face clogs your throat. Eyes dark, lips parted—no sign of focus brought by contempt, though you certainly are the object of his perturbation.
He’s lost. The crack in his voice brings the point home.
“How can I hate you when you’re all I ever wanted?”
“Buck—”
Whatever you wanted to say is cut off by a stern shove of your shoulder against ivory wall. The syllables melt into a single whimper.
“I’m your husband, sweetheart,” he breathes across your mouth. “And if you can’t understand that, I’ll drill it into your pretty little head.”
The first kiss he ever gives you is a devouring.
Lips slot. You gasp. For a second you think the Bucky you know is gone: the man who kneels to fix the strap of your high heels, the boy who held you through thunderstorms. There’s nothing gentle in the way he moves. He takes as if you’re his right, voracious like the jowls of a beast. Tongue and teeth further condemns you to his cause—to collapse your walls.
You crumble headfirst.
But he’s still James Buchanan Barnes, the only constant you’ve ever had in your life, so you hold on to him.
A ragged groan slips past when he feels your fingers in his hair. The touch lights up his nerve endings in a bright, loud yes, God, finally—satiated but already screaming for more. His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist: both of them strong like shackles in a cage.
“Fuck, I went beyond insane over you,” he mouths, “came so close to just taking you in our goddamn bed.”
The thought sends a chill down your spine. It’s not fear, it’s desire and thrill. You moan.
“You wouldn’t,” you pant, “you’d never.”
“Don’t be so sure,” exhales grow heavy as he paws at your flesh, saliva-slicked lips sucking at your neck. “I’m not a good man, honey. You’ve seen my ledger—our ledger.”
You have. It’s red, just like the lipstick he’s smudging right now as he crashes into you with another violent kiss. You clutch the front of his white shirt, crumpling it. He pulls away to survey the wreck he made.
He smiles at the sight.
“I know the first anniversary’s supposed to be paper, but divorce papers?” he hums. “You’re one hell of a gifter.”
“Bucky, I—”
“Sssh,” lips meet yours again. This time the kiss is languid, almost lazy. In his leisure you find vexation.
“Your turn for your present.”
After leading you to the bedroom, the first thing he gives you comes in an unwrapped box. Its contents are designed to wrap you instead. And they do wrap you: beautiful and bridal, deadly and dangerous in one set. White lace, ribbons, garters that lead to sheer tights—a thing like this should make bridesmaids giggle and say ‘he won’t be able to let go of you if you put this on!’
They’d be right.
Because Bucky is already ruining you.
“Bought this for our wedding last year,” he tugs the balconette bra down, letting your tits spill free like he didn’t make you wear it. “Never got the chance to see you in it.”
The warmth of his mouth captures a nipple. You whine when he delivers a mean suck, spine arching off the bed, a tentative coolness of air before you melt into the sheets again. They’re damp with sweat the moment he crowded you onto your shared bed.
“But we’re celebrating our anniversary tonight. The perfect occasion, yeah?”
Fingers hook at the gusset of your pretty underwear, pulling it aside to reveal slick folds. He touches you there and you stir at the coordinated pleasure that catches you unaware. He hums around your chest. The vibrations send sparks in your veins.
Squirming only sets off clinks of metal.
Bracelets of all kinds knock into each other: some charmed, some bangled. Long necklaces tangle with crystal body chains that flow down your skin like sparkling rivers. The weight of diamond drop earrings sink against the pillow.
The lingerie you’re wearing might be from last year, but these? The glimmering riches he took his time to put on you, save for the princess-cut rock on your ring finger? These are all new, their branded boxes forgotten on the floor.
His gift for a year of marriage.
A marriage you’re only consummating now.
“Look at you,” he moans, “so fucking pretty, you should be illegal.”
He lets go of your chest with a loud pop. Your breath shakes.
“Tell me,” he looks down at your pleasure-twisted face, “who helped you get those papers, baby?”
A finger prods at your slick hole, teasing. You surrender with a sob, except you don’t fight him at all.
“J-John.”
Your voice around another man’s name tips him over to villainy.
He adds another finger at your entrance, circling before pushing both of them deep into you.
You let out a cry, walls clenching around him—wet, tight, a vice he’s already devoted the rest of his life to. Love before first touch.
Manicured nails claw at his shoulders, but they soon relax as he waits. You pulse around his fingers while your lungs relearn how to breathe.
God, you’re soaked. Pliant. Warm.
“Yeah? ‘Cause Steve wouldn’t?”
That gets your attention. You blink up, eyes hazy.
“How’d you know…?”
He kisses your forehead, pulls his fingers out, and thrusts them back in.
“A-ah—”
“He asked if we were doing okay,” Bucky pants, watching your lashes flutter at the languid pace his hand sets. “Thought he was talking about me going out to the supper club again.”
His other hand pushes the hair out of your face while you pant, chasing each pump, crystals clinking above the wet sounds.
“Didn’t think he meant this.”
His thumb flicks your clit, punishment and reward in one touch. Tricks of an unfair trade. Your head thrashes.
“Bucky—!”
Your body rocks with his fingers, a byproduct of drawn-out desperation. It’s an awakening, a cryptic hunger yawning at the bottom of your gut. Now that he’s feeding that emptiness, it demands more.
“Walker must be so goddamn ecstatic his queen came to him for help.”
The crystals chains on your skin jingle alongside rolling hips. Bucky traces the sight with drunken abandon, dead set on destroying you first.
Call it payback for the many times he fisted himself at the thought of this, and call it occupational hazard how he’s already planning methodologies: fingers first, mouth second, cock third.
Then again, and again, and again… until you’re too spent to tell him to stop.
“You made him feel important, honey. Made him think we were gonna split,” he chides condescendingly. Fingers hit a spot in you that form stars at the edge of your vision. He watches you squirm. Transcribes every whimper in his brain.
“Gotta pay for that—c’mon, cum for me.”
Your lips part in a silent scream.
If it weren’t for his hand on your face, your cheek would be pressed against the pillow, but one broad grip has you looking straight at him as he pushes you over the edge.
The last thrust squelches as it sinks, lewd sound crystal clear in the empty room. He watches as you spasm like a live wire. Thighs twitch, eyes screw shut. Then his name on your mouth.
“There we go. Good girl. Good fucking girl.”
He doesn’t partake in the family’s merchandise, but this has to be what a drug high feels like.
Because he’s already addicted while your breath reconstructs itself. Already begging for another taste of you when he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean.
“You know I see the way he looks at you?” Bucky murmurs, caressing your face with the same hand that broke you. “Swear he wants me dead just so he can have a chance with you.”
Two seconds pass before your ecstasy-addled brain catches up to the fact that your husband is still talking about John Walker. But any further thought is halted by the heat huffed on your neck.
“Let’s show him who you really belong to, yeah?”
It starts off slow with kisses on the column of your throat, almost kind compared to the rapture of release. His nose traces the slope that leads to your shoulder and he breathes, cataloging your scent: sweat and something floral that you wore to dinner. It pools in his stomach, makes him feral.
You’re prey on a pedestal.
He bares his tongue for the feast. Then teeth.
You sigh, feeling them drag oh so gently across skin. There’s no rush, but when he sinks down, it’s with intent. Purpose. Authority.
Muscles ripple over your lipstick and lace as he latches onto the side of your neck—you hold onto his arms even though there’s nowhere to fall with the mattress against your back. His warmth clings to you in return.
“Oh,” the airy sound slips out when he lets go. Flesh stings with stimulation. That spot will darken tomorrow.
Blue eyes map a path of ruin where he’ll bite next. A plan of attack to spell his name on your neck. The wedding ring isn’t enough of a claim, he reasons to himself.
Minutes later, you’re shaking beneath him wearing a new necklace of his making.
Pinks and reds dot collar to chest in what looks like a botched J-A-M-E-S. In a few hours, they’ll turn into a sunset purple. He marvels at the work of his mouth, stares down at you.
“Walker will learn his lesson. But now it’s time for yours.”
Wide eyes stare up at him.
“You see how the divorce is so uncalled for, honey? You don’t really want me to leave you, do you?”
You shake your head. It hurts, the thought of him leaving, even if it’s for his own good.
Hips pin yours. You feel the hard ridge under his slacks press against damp lace. Blood rushes south, makes you throb.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” he says, but he slips a thumb in your mouth. It presses on your tongue and forces your heartbeat into a stutter.
You say it anyway, stifled, vowels warped.
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell me you’re sorry for making me think of fucking other women instead of you.”
Tears blur your vision. You’re not sure why—maybe from the thought of wasted time, or from the image of him almot rutting into a warm body just to run away from yours. He said he didn’t—couldn’t—but your brain is an errant thing. The space between your ribs tighten.
He’s here to make it right. Are you that transparent? Because the finger in your mouth is still mean, but his other hand strokes your cheek in a manner so opposite you think it might have a mind on his own.
Bucky kisses your temple. Then cheek. Then ear, where his voice rumbles deep.
“C’mon, honey. Say it.”
“I’m sorry for—” drool escapes from the side of your open mouth, “for making you think of f-fucking other women…”
“Instead of?”
“…instead of me.”
“Good girl.”
He grinds down against you harder, the friction catching your clit just right. You keen.
The thumb dislodges, drawing a spit-slick line down your chin, then collarbone, then sternum. He toys with your nipple. The wet touch makes you jolt. Beneath shimmers and gem-studded strings, your skin is smeared with pigment from smudged lipstick.
“Tell me you’re sorry for not giving yourself to me sooner.”
A tear slides down your cheek. He kisses it away.
“I’m sorry for not giving myself to you sooner,” you hiccup.
He leans down to mouth at your nipple again. Spine curling like a big cat above you, hips rolling against yours.
“Now tell me you’ll let me do what I want to you,” he murmurs against you.
The new commandment shepherds silence—not in fear, also not quite submission. You linger at an open doorway while everything about him beckons you to enter, where all the pleasure he’s given you may multiply.
But once you go there, you can’t go back.
He sucks at your chest in a manner so selfish it breaks your reverie. Blue eyes snap to your face when he lets go.
Then he says those words: the exact same ones he said to you the night your fates were sealed.
“I promise I’ll take care of you.”
He rises, face above yours, breathing your air. “I know I was stupid. Stubborn. A damn coward.”
Then, after an inhale:
“I just didn’t want to lose you.”
It’s enough to make you lean up to kiss him, the antithesis of how he started.
Soft, almost solemn. He kisses back like he’s kissed you a thousand times before—and maybe he has in his dreams. It tastes like sticky succumbence, as sweet and as cloying as honey. The more it drips in your mouth, the more you hunger. Your fingers grip his arms, still clothed in that damn white shirt.
The way the both of you are dressed, you can almost pretend this is your wedding night.
He parts first.
“Give me words, sweet girl.”
With instructions so clear, how could you not?
“I’ll let you,” you whisper.
He watches. Waits. It takes every bit of you in your dizziness, but you finally continue.
“...do what you want to me.”
The breath that escapes him is ragged, wanting—like an animal desperate for nourishment. He wastes no time in diving between your legs. Spreads thighs with strong hands, pulling your panties over to one side. You gasp at his breath caressing the apex of your thighs.
“Good,” he rumbles, “gonna make you cum on my tongue.”
Your body becomes his to control. Greedy hands use garters as handles, tugging them to haul your legs over his shoulders as he eats. One of them moves to torment your chest, the other your clit.
He really is a rotten liar, because he makes you cum on his tongue twice. It’s motivated by self-justification: this is what he wanted for so long, surely he’s allowed to take more? He’s been so good, holding back all this time…
The first orgasm rips a loud moan out of you, thighs bracketing his head. He doesn’t stop after that. Eats you like it’s his pleasure. Your stomach twists with the beginnings of overstimulation until the curl of his tongue in your cunt pushes you past that precipice again.
The second time you crest is devastating. You sob under your breath while a strong arm presses both your legs to meet your chest, opening your core up for him like you’re a right and a privilege in one reality.
Seeing you folded in half like that—slick, clenching around nothing—is enough to sever him from sanity.
Or maybe he’s never sane to start with. Not when it comes to you.
“She looks so empty, sweetheart. Let’s fix that.”
A hand takes both of yours overhead, pinning them into pliancy. You’re too weak to even writhe.
Then he feeds his inches into your hole and you cry.
“Bucky—!”
The stretch of his cock is far from comprehensible. It’s excruciating, but each vein inspires addiction. Then there’s the heat, the intoxicating way he pulses inside of you as he pushes ever deeper, nudging places you didn’t know existed, claiming them for himself.
His blunt tip finally sinks all the way in and you feel him in your stomach. In your lungs, your throat.
“Christ, you’re unreal,” he pants against your ear, smokescreens in the form of saccharine things distracting from the dull pain.
“Think she might be made for me, honey. Tight fucking pussy swallowing my cock—”
You moan, walls unwittingly clutching him. He groans.
“Fuck, not gonna last if she’s grippin’ me like that.”
“Bucky,” you murmur.
“Yeah, princess?”
“‘s too much,” is all you can muster, gaze falling to the sight between your bodies. Blue eyes and blown-out pupils follow, and he grins. The grip he has on your wrists tightens.
“Yeah?” he pants in bliss, still buried in you, “This is what I think about every morning. Every night.”
Then he thrusts once, shallow at first. Two strangled voices echo in the room.
“Fuck—wasted my time dreaming of you... could’ve had this all along.”
Your hands don’t know what to do: fingers stretch and claw at air while his hand keeps you where he wants you. He splits you open, hips steadily sawing into yours. It leaves you at a loss, coherence deleted with each rock of him until only three words loop: ‘please’, ‘Bucky’, and ‘more’—because you’re a paradox like that.
A symphony worth waiting years for.
And because he can never deny you, he gives.
Makes you cum on his cock just like that, pounding mercilessly into your sensitive spots. Your hair forms a halo on the pillow while plump lips part, crying out his name again and again. He drives into you just the same, eyes never straying from your face, just to convince himself this isn’t a dream.
The way you clench around your cock tells him it isn’t. Dreams can never feel this good—he knows because he’s had plenty.
“Fuck,” he grunts, cock buried so far up in you that you almost cum again when he does.
You mewl at the hot spurts of him inside. For a second the fever breaks, satisfied with release, but as you’re flooded with his spend, the appetite rises. The ravening isn’t over. His eyes say as much.
A dark intention takes over him, affection corrupted by avarice. What other expressions will you show him? What secrets sounds can he steal from you?
How far can he make you fall?
Minutes melt into hours.
Here you are now, a picture of ruined grace draped across his lap. Lingerie ripped, chains and jewelry in knots, sparkling diamonds in the dark illuminating the blotches around your throat.
He keeps you sat on his cock for god knows how long already. Tears blur your vision, and the feeling in your chest is the same as your poor, plugged up cunt.
Full.
God, you’re stuffed with him—his cock, his cum. A mess in both body and mind, slick with his spend and yours sluicing down your ass and the sheets, overflowing. The drip of it is warm. So is his naked chest against yours.
There are thin pink lines on his skin—your nails dragged down there when he sinks you down onto his length, weak and wanting even after how many orgasms, you don’t know. You lost count. The same scratches must exist on his back from when he fucked you on yours.
Through all this, somehow your husband is still hard as he holds you in his lap. He lets you sob into his neck, big hands caging your hips.
The same hands that dusted dirt off your knee the first time you fell from your bike.
You’re compelled by the cardinal sins. Greed, lust, and gluttony order your hips to roll, to shift, to do anything just to feel something.
He coos, resting his forehead against yours.
“Sssh, you can’t,” and he’s right, because his fingers are bruising stillness into you. “You need to wait, sweetheart.”
You sound like you’re past pathetic. He really meant it when he said he’d drill it into your head: the pace, the pleasure, him.
“Bucky, please—”
“Made me wait all this time, think it’s only fair you should, too.”
Large hands adjust you on him. You gasp, feeling driblets of him escape your cunt before he sits you all the way down his cock again.
“Now, how ‘bout you tell me a story while you learn to be patient?” he breathes. “Something from when you were a kid. About us.”
You want to scream. How are you supposed to speak, let alone think? All you want is to rut into him again, to feel him throb, to drink the friction—
The corner of his lips twitch up.
“Maybe I’ll let you move if you do.”
Either your husband is a telepath, or you’re so wonderfully obvious.
Bucky sees your throat swallow, the gears turning in your mind. His blood sings, and maybe he’s the worst man alive for enjoying this a little too much: watching you work through a haze. His pretty girl, too drunk oncock to function.
One of his hands stroke your cheek, almost coaxing the words out of you, then he coos like he’s not the cause of your misery.
“You can do it, sweetheart. Tell me a story.”
It’s the softness in his voice that damns you.
“I—” you begin, unsure, lungs still clawing for air, “remember that time… after summer break?”
He resists the urge to tease: which summer break? You spent so many together.
“You came back and your voice c-changed.”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, teasing your nipple with a thumb. He remembers. You whimper, the sound pitiful, but you’re being so good for him, staying still even when one of his hands went astray.
“What about it, honey?”
“It was… I was so confused,” your voice hitches.
He doesn’t stop touching you.
“You looked the same, but—ah—you sounded like—”
His hand moves from your chest back to your ass. Fingers sink into the flesh, grip you closer to him, as if there was any room between your bodies in the first place.
“Like?”
Your head drops into the crook of his neck.
“Like a man,” you admit, muffled.
He breathes near your ear.
“Look at you now, finally treating me like one,” you can feel him grin, taking your earlobe between his teeth. “Letting me fuck you like one, ‘s that right?”
The nod you give him is slow, like you’re drugged. He lifts you up just enough to sink you down. A temporary relief that makes you mewl.
“So? Do you still want to be just friends?” he grits.
You shake your head, eyes blank and wet. That one thrust is enough to vaporize your vocabulary.
The tears at your lashes makes his cock twitch. He used to hate seeing you cry. Felt helpless with every cartoon band-aid he smooths over your skin. Reminded him of the time you had to fly halfway across the world for a fucking degree, the damp pillowcase you slept on, the way he couldn’t stop you from leaving.
Now? Crying is all he wants to make you do.
“What am I to you now, hm?”
Your breath breaks.
“H-husband,” you croak, “you’re my husband—”
“That’s right. Smart girl.”
As if to reward you, he bounces you on top of him again. You almost collapse onto his shoulder, a ragdoll to pleasure.
“Please, Bucky, I want—”
“Want what, baby? Wanna stop?”
You whimper, shaking your head again in the crook of his neck, arms around his back. He almost laughs, but the spasm of your cunt around his cock, full with his cum and yours, strangles the sound into a guttural groan.
“Tell me.”
“Want more,” you whine shamelessly. He gladly exploits it.
“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson first.” A hand grabs your face, forcing you to peel away from his body to look at him.
You stare back. He’s sweaty, eyes dark, lips swollen. You’re probably about thrice as wrecked.
“Who do you belong to?”
“Yours—I’m yours.”
“You’re my what? Finish that sentence.”
You nearly choke. “I’m your wife.”
“Attagirl. What else have you learned?” His tone is cruel. Cold. But you know better. Blue irises drown you with devotion in a single look. In them, you find your answer.
“You—ah—take care of me. Make me feel good.”
“There you go, sweet thing.” His lips latches onto yours, a thief to your breath as if you had any left to spare. “D’you want me to take care of you now? Wanna feel good on your husband’s cock again?”
“Yes. Please.”
You feel his cock twitch inside of you.
“Still want a divorce?”
“No—” your hips begin to sway, the hunger clawing at you, but his hands are steel restraints, fingers sinking into flesh.
“What do you want, then?”
“You,” you sob, “please, Bucky, want you—”
He watches your face contort, desperation and desire mingling into the most delicious expression he’s ever seen on you.
One day, he’ll take a picture.
“Y’know, I told you I love you earlier, but you never said it back,” a thumb holds your chin in place. “Think you can do that for me? Say it real sweet for your husband.”
Your chest cracks open with feeling. The night tumbles through you like a tidal wave, where everything comes crashing: his confession, the papers thrown on the ground, all the way to your mother’s tiramisu he got the restaurant to make for you.
Still, the wave builds. It sweeps up old memories to the forefront.t
The two of you on the balcony the night you got engaged. You crying in his arms hours before boarding a plane. A birthday party where the cake was your favorite flavor instead of his.
The surge summits at the memory of awkward pencil scratches.
James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend.
Every feeling known to you is suspended like they’re encased in floating water. The nostalgia of youth, unabated longing, dark desires, and a kinship brought about by fate—
—then gravity pulls them down, and they break.
So do you.
“I love you,” you rasp, voice hoarse with timeworn truth. “I love you so much, Bucky, I love you, I love you, I love you—”
He swallows your confession in a kiss, tongues tangled, fingers buried in hair. You grind down once.
He lets you.
So you do it again. And again.
“I love you too, baby, so fucking much,” he murmurs into your mouth. You move with the opposite of inhibition.
“My good girl. My best girl—”
He rips a scream out of you when he stills you again, only to thrust up. You’re already so close, it drives him out of his mind more than he already is.
“Gonna fill my wife up with my cum,” he grits, “make it take. Wanna see you round with me.”
The promise nearly ends you. He senses its impact, feels his own need grow.
“Yeah? You’re gonna leak for days when I’m done with you,” a growl as he mauls your neck more than he already has, “let ‘em see who you belong to.”
“Fuck—Bucky!”
“You’re mine, honey. All mine.”
He triggers your ruin like that. Smiles as he watches you shake in his lap, breathless while he relentlessly ruts into you even as spurts of viscous white oozes down your thigh. He uses his cock to push it back in.
A hint of humor tickles the back of his mind: that after all these years, it took a near-divorce to bring the two of you together.
“Remind me to burn those papers tomorrow,” he rasps against your mouth.
When he pushes you back onto the bed, he’s already making time in his schedule for a renewal of vows.
pairing: bucky barnes x female!reader
summary: is getting wet a valid response when your boyfriend knows how to treat you right? or, bucky barnes being the poster child for gentlemanliness in the 21st century, that it's a turn on with how much he loves you.
warnings: 18+ content, MDNI. reader is female. swearing, dirty talk, dirty-minded reader, bucky and y/n having a challenge on who's hornier, thoughts of public sex, everybody wanna get laid, mentions of past relationships, sam and joaquin mention! no use of y/n. not proofread! wc: 1.9k
a/n: just listened to sabrina's new album and i am definitely inspired! this is also an update that i'm still alive. so do any of you wanna be in my taglist….
The heat, the light, or his hands?
You weren’t really sure what was the cause for the steam trailing down your stomach threatening to tingle down your lower body. As if heaven could not get any colder, hell’s fever was grabbing you by the waist as you fell down under the gates of utter temptation, for the guy opening the door to some five-star restaurant.
Which Bucky fucking Barnes booked god knows when, where, and how– the one that you mindlessly mentioned on some aftercare evening, saying how much you wanted to eat there. It was so sweet, so sugary– all things that could get you diabetes. But adoration was not the right word to describe what you felt right now. No, that specific word started with an h and ended with orny.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Bucky muttered under his breath when he realized that you were spacing out, as if you were on planet neptune while he tanned in the sun. The soldier wore all black, you weren’t surprised nor disappointed– he looked devastatingly hot in black, the kind of hot where you’d be begging him to eat you out in the nearest bathroom available the minute his muscles flex and the plates of his vibranium arm whir.
Meanwhile, you wore midnight blue, coincidentally one of your boyfriend’s favorite hues and coincidentally the same dress he haphazardly slipped you off in one of your heated makeout sessions. A touch of makeup that enhanced your features from beautiful to even more beautiful, but Bucky loved you either way— whatever you wore and if you had makeup on.
Bucky smelled great too, he always did. You took a whiff of his scent when he pulled you out of the backseat to give you a flirtatious hug, which was holding your waist by his metal hands and burying his head in your neck, leaving a lingering kiss. All the while looking up at you after with feigned innocence marked in his face. He looked the most insatiable to your eyes under the moon of this fine evening, and judging by the way his grip did not let go of your hands, you assumed he felt the same.
“I’m good, baby.” Yeah, you were good. You felt great. Everything was fine.
He looked at you with suspicion laced in his eyes, but he did not pry any more, at least for now.
“If you’re feeling stuffy here, we could get out, y’know?” He replied effortlessly, like it was no problem to give up the reservation he booked probably weeks in advance, as if you did not catch him late at night figuring out the website of the establishment. All his hard work would go down the drain the minute you would say yeah, let’s get the hell out. But he did not bat an eye– no hesitation because he knew better to put what you felt first above anything else.
And fuck, was that so hot.
“I love it here! Plus, it was so nice of you to reserve.” You gave him a reassuring smile. Your eyes paced around the restaurant, with a warm ceiling light under each table, just far enough from each other to ensure there were no eavesdropping happening. The bar was three tables behind Bucky, jazz melody filled the air of the room in a sultry atmosphere. As the two of you waited for the food he picked out as a surprise.
“I knew you were busy with work, so… I hope you didn't mind that I booked it.” He gave back a grin, but it was filled with nervousness– deep set worry that you wouldn’t like his initiation. But he swore he had listened intently to Sam’s advice, and some of Joaquin’s weirder suggestions, something about making a t-shirt that had text ‘I LOVE MY GF’ with your face on it.
He just said he’d reconsider. He also made use of your laptop when he slept in your apartment while you showered. Fifty tips on how to actually take women on a date! Post-Blip Edition (PS, asking if she got dusted is not a good conversation starter!)
“Well, thank you for initiating and I love you for it.” You gave him a chuckle as your hand reached out to intertwine with his, resting on the table as you crossed your legs and leaned back in your seat.
You didn’t mind at all.
wyd rn? where u wanna eat? pick a cheap resto. im bored ;) wanna fuck after this? pull up. r u free tonite?
Those were the usual texts you’d get when the guy suddenly had divine powers and managed to remember your existence at night, after his shift at some other person’s tongue. It was so tiring to make decisions on dates again and again. Albeit shitty and fucked up, being treated badly was the new norm for relationships in the 21st relationship— or was it just your choices?
Either way, being treated like a goddess by the man who equally looked like a roman god sculptured by Michelangelo or whomever almost made you tear up. Whose eyes were always on you, never wandering because his hands would do that job on your body whenever you wanted to. Those failed hookups and situationships had nothing on the man in front of you, eyes dangerously locked in yours and lips turned into a small smirk as his head was slightly tilted in a teasing manner.
You were so fucking horny right now because he was doing all the things you ever wished for in a guy. And it wasn’t even fun anymore that he knew that. Maybe, a little.
You bit your lip as you titled your head. He took a quick sip of the red wine in front of him as he licked his, eyes never leaving yours.
Suddenly, everyone was hyperaware of each other’s mouth.
And you felt a certain patch of wetness in the middle of your thighs, start to ruin your underwear. You were fucked. The food hadn’t even come yet, but you were ready to be the sacrifice and be devoured by Bucky.
“I know what you’re doing, babe.” You whispered, didn’t need to be loud enough because he could hear it from a distance away. He leaned in closer to the table.
“What am I doing, babe?” His eyes furrowed in confusion, that had mischief as subtext.
“Oh my god, stop whatever you’re doing, Barnes.”
“Are we on a last name basis now?”
“Yes, if you don’t stop.”
“Stop exactly what, sweetie?” He rubbed his fingers on the inside of your palm, to which your legs wobbled in return. It was embarrassing, that he had you trapped under his gaze like you were under a microscope. On the brighter side, your embarrassment was being flushed away by arousal, he knew what he was doing— he also knew you loved it.
“T—That! You, whatever. I’m out of fucking words.” You rolled your eyes. You were not going to fall under one of Bucky’s effortless ragebaits anymore after you (regretfully) taught him that word. But this wasn’t just usual teasing, it was a test to whoever was going to drop the magic words first.
“I haven’t even started yet.” He laughed breathlessly, adoring how your lips puckered in annoyance, preferring it should on his instead.
You stayed silent, gulping the drink in front of you, trying to avoid his gaze like you’d die, god forbid it should happen— although you probably would.
“Don’t try to act like you’re the only one being tortured. I love that dress on you.” He added, slowly looking at your curves up and down, relishing the way no other men had the privilege to fawn over you like he did. You managed to hold back a smile at the compliment he snuck in, because a day did not pass by that he won’t compliment you with a shower of beautiful, pretty, and other synonyms for it.
That’s what you loved about Bucky.
Because even though you were thinking of different ways to fight him because of his endless teasing— he knew his boundaries, gave you what you needed, and treated you so well you weren’t sure if you were deserving of this goodness.
“So, you should see how hard I am right now, just for transparency.”
You also loved the fact that he was not afraid to show you how much you turned him on. You squirmed under your seat as he winked playfully, you didn’t need to look, he wouldn’t lie about things like that— painfully honest at how he also wanted to do the things swirling around in your head right now. If not, more— only if you wanted to, of course.
“Shut up! People could hear us, Bucky!” Your eyes widened as a warning, that if he did not shut the fuck up right this instant, people might be in for a show should you lose the willpower to not pounce on him.
“People wasted too much of their money here to care about other tables.” He responded as a matter of fact. You peered your gaze at them, at each table who were also in a conversation, sighing as a relief that if you could not hear them, then they probably could not also hear you.
Hopefully.
“What are we gonna do about this, huh?”
“Nothing. We will wait for our food.” You shrugged nonchalantly, trying to avoid the need for Bucky’s fingers to be inside you right now, or his tongue, maybe his dick— whatever. You were starting to look at everything but his face, his hands, or peer under the table to look at his crotch and confirm the fact that he was, indeed, hard.
“Are you sure, baby? I’ll do whatever it is that you’re imagining right now.”
Your brain short circuited.
Which scenario? The one where he ate you out on this table? Or fucking you from behind in one of the bathroom stalls? Maybe even riding him on his motorcycle seat.
You were so wet at the thought of him that it flew you with a one-way ticket to insanity. Had you known it felt this majestic being treated good by a responsible man like Bucky, you would have time-traveled back to the 1940s and hunted him down right away. You were sure anything this man could do was a turn on, whether it was assembling furniture from IKEA or his tongue traveling down from the valley of your breasts to your pulsing clit.
As opposed to his sweet nature of remembering the little things you loved, like this restaurant, or the places you’d like to visit in your free time with him. He always had flowers on dates, and if that was not enough, he would help you set it up on a vase in your room. Bucky was the epitome of being a gentleman, and how he’d remain this tender and caring after all these decades— you did not know how, but you were thankful you had the privilege of being the center of attention.
Oh god, that did not help. You closed your eyes and shook your head.
How his hands were ridiculously big against your hips when he was under you, or how Bucky looked feverishly handsome when his head was in between your thighs, stubble wet with your slick, never stopping lapping up your juices until you were screaming his name.
He looked at you like he was remembering all of that too. Horny was an understatement when you could feel the tears running down your thighs.
