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.
Summary: The mission was intel. But when you went dark, Bucky lost all control—and the code turned personal.
Disclaimer: graphic violence, captivity, non-consensual restrain/touch, implied sexual threat, psychological trauma, physical degradation, feral violence (Bucky), verbal abuse, violent confrontation, bloodshed, reader described as plus-size, TB* members appearance, happy ending
Word Count: 8,558
Author's note: I'm sorry for the dark theme. I'm at the hospital, drowned by my own unsafe thoughts due to my surroundings. I understand this would trigger many things so please, please scroll away if this is not for you.
Bucky had been tense ever since the mission briefing with Valentina.
You and he had been assigned to extract intel from someone out of his worst memories—someone from the part of his past he’d spent years trying to bury. And as fate would have it, you were going to be the one sent in close. Personal.
The cherry on top? No one else in the building—except Walker—knew you and Bucky were married.
It hadn’t been a deliberate secret at first. You both just liked the simplicity of it. No questions, no gossip. Quiet. Private. You’d meant to tell the others eventually, maybe once things calmed down between missions. But three years and numerous near-death assignments later, it was still just you, Bucky, and that worn silver band threaded through the chain of his dog tags; kept tucked beneath his shirt, close to his chest where no one ever thought to look.
Walker had only found out by accident—he’d overheard you both talking, low and domestic, about decorating the new apartment Bucky had gotten you. Being a married man himself, he clocked it immediately and, to his credit, had kept his mouth shut ever since.
But the issue wasn’t the secrecy.
It was the mission.
You were going undercover to get close to Volkov—a former HYDRA taskmaster who’d gone dark for years, now resurfacing through underground ops and illegal tech smuggling. Worse still, the tech in question was rumored to be more powerful than both vibranium and adamantium combined.
And Volkov?
He had a type. Curvy. Plus-size. Long, wavy red hair.
And within a heartbeat, Valentina had already decided it would be you—hair dye on standby before you even left the room.
Bucky hated every second of it.
Not because he didn’t trust you, but because he knew Volkov.
Volkov had been there during the brainwashing. Watching. Smiling. Not the man who gave the orders, but the one who enjoyed watching them followed. Bucky remembered him leaning in from the shadows, jaw sharp, eyes gleaming with control like it made him feel divine.
He wasn’t just another piece of the HYDRA machine.
He was proud of what Bucky became. Of how many he broke.
Volkov had chosen him to fight other enhanced soldiers. Had studied him like a weapon. Had whispered twisted encouragement while the programming crushed him over and over again.
And Bucky hated the idea of you having to flirt with the demon from his past.
He understood the mission’s importance. He really did. But logic had never stood a chance against this—being forced to stare down the man who once stripped him of everything, while watching the woman he loved play nice to get information.
There was no good place for him in this. No role that didn’t make his blood boil.
You noticed the tension winding through him as you both walked back to the common room. His steps were stiff, calculated. His jaw had been clenched since the briefing. He hadn’t said a word.
You knew why. You always did.
Bucky had told you pieces of his nightmares—never the full picture, but enough. The burn of restraints against his skin. The cold metal table under his back. The sterile sting of alcohol. And Volkov’s voice cutting through the silence like a blade, low and proud and amused. Watching. Always watching. Like a man admiring a piece of art that he thought he owned.
The moment you stepped into the common room, Bucky blew out a harsh breath. His eyes were distant, like he was already somewhere else. The muscles in his neck and jaw were drawn tight, veins standing out starkly against his skin like they could split open.
Without a word, he dropped onto the couch, his body sinking in as if gravity had gotten heavier. The worn leather creaked beneath him as he leaned his head back against the cushions, eyes slipping closed for just a moment.
Valentina wasn’t going to change her mind. That much was written across his face. She never did.
You followed, settling beside him, the fabric of your tactical pants brushing softly against his. The air between you still carried the faint antiseptic scent of the briefing room—cold, clinical, suffocating.
Your hand found his, and you laced your fingers through his metal ones, your palm warm against the chill of the vibranium plates. He flexed just slightly, like even that much touch reminded him he was here. With you. Not in that chair. Not in the red room.
“You okay?” you asked gently, your thumb sweeping over the knuckles of his hand.
He didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled again, slower this time, like he was trying to pace himself through the storm still building inside his chest.
“I’m not,” he admitted at last. His voice was gravel-thick, barely above a whisper. “But…”
He turned toward you, his blue eyes heavy with something unreadable—part awe, part ache. He took you in like you were the only stable point left in the room. Your hair still its natural color, your body warm and solid beside him, your expression carved with concern. Your wedding band, stacked with a few others, caught the low lighting just enough to glint—hidden in plain sight.
His gaze lingered there for a second, and then moved back up to your face. You looked worried. You looked like his, and that was what kept him grounded.
“But I’ll be fine,” he said, his tone softening just enough. He gave a quick glance around, then lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, lingering there like he could breathe you in.
“We got this.”
He wasn’t saying it for you. He was saying it for himself. To remind himself that this time, he wasn’t going in alone. That even if you had to play nice with the monster, it was your mission. Not theirs. Not Volkov’s.
He’d been fighting demons for years.
And maybe he hadn’t slayed them all.
But he’d survived them. And now, he had you.
That was all that mattered.
─
Your jaw went slack the moment you saw the dress that Valentina had personally picked—laid out on the bed.
Red.
Not just red—blood red, silky, and scandalous. The neckline plunged lower than anything you’d worn outside of your own bedroom, and the hem looked like it might start a fight with gravity if you so much as bent over. You didn’t even have to lift it to know it would barely cover your ass.
You didn’t bother hiding your disgust. “Is she serious?”
You turned toward Bucky, dress still dangling from your fingers like it might bite. He hadn’t moved. Just sat there on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the garment with unreadable eyes. His face was a perfect mask—stone-cold, emotionless—but the vein ticking in his jaw betrayed him.
“I can ask for another one,” you said, your tone careful. “Too sexy for a married woman.”
You added a dry scoff under your breath, “Not like she knows, but—”
Bucky cut in, voice low and rough. “It’s nice.” A pause. “Should work on him.”
Another pause—longer this time—and then, his mouth twitched at the corner. “Definitely working on me.”
You rolled your eyes and gave him a light smack on the arm, but heat curled in your chest at the compliment. No smirk followed his words, no leering grin—just that quiet, reverent tone he saved only for you. The kind of tone that made you fall in love with him all over again.
He could’ve raged. Should’ve, maybe. But instead, Bucky just stood up and helped you with steady hands. Held out the necklace, clipped the clasp. Watched you with hungry eyes but never crossed a line. You knew he was mentally filing this all away—every curve revealed, every breath you took in that sinful dress—for when the mission was over and you were safely back in his arms.
You stepped behind the privacy divider and changed quickly, tugging the soft silk over your skin. The fabric clung like it had been sewn onto you, stretching taut across your hips and hugging the dip of your waist. You stepped back into view, adjusting the neckline in vain, before reaching for your hairpins.
Bucky helped you curl a few strands loose around your face, fingers gentle, eyes tracking every movement like he was touching something sacred.
You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and froze.
The red was devastating against your skin tone. Your curves poured into the fabric like molten gold into a cast, the neckline dipping low enough to hint danger and promise. Your breasts rose and fell in time with your breath, almost spilling over the fabric with every inhale. Your hair was gathered to one side in soft, tousled curls—polished, sultry, lethal.
And in the mirror, you saw him.
Bucky, still behind you, watching. His reflection stared like he wanted to devour something—someone. Like he was holding back a war.
His hands found your waist slowly, possessively. He pulled you back against him, his vibranium arm firm and cool against your side, his flesh hand sliding along the curve of your stomach. He pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, the heat of his breath scattering goosebumps across your neck.
“So fucking gorgeous, doll,” he murmured.
You felt the soft drag of his lips as he kissed down to your pulse point, then the gentle scrape of his teeth as he sucked lightly—just enough to tease, not enough to leave a mark. Professional. Barely.
The urge to melt into him nearly overrode the mission entirely.
“Your necklace,” he murmured, pulling back slightly. “Camera’s built in. I’ll be your eyes.”
He passed you the earpiece—small, skin-toned, nearly invisible. “For comms.”
You nodded, slipping it in, but your hands trembled just slightly from adrenaline or nerves—or the way he was still looking at you like the mission could go to hell for all he cared.
He took a step back and made you twirl once.
The silk flared high with the motion, fluttering like smoke around your hips. For a breathless second, the hem rode up just enough to expose the curve of your ass—barely covered by the black tactical shorts beneath. A teasing flash. A threat. A promise.
Bucky’s eyes locked onto the sight, and a low, guttural sound tore from his throat—half groan, half growl. He dragged a hand through his hair, like he was trying to keep himself from losing it right there.
“Fuck me, doll…” he muttered, voice thick. “You tryna kill me before the mission even starts?”
You gave him a soft, steady look—part smile, part shield. “You ready?” you asked.
But it was really him asking you.
His fingers brushed your wrist—once, twice—like a final tether before the storm. His voice came low and sure.
“With you?” His lips quirked. “Always.”
─
The nightclub, VØLT, was buried beneath a defunct hotel in the heart of the city—a forgotten husk above, but alive and feral below. Coded entry only, shielded from satellites, and loud enough to shake the bones in your chest. The air was thick with secrets and sin. Shadows clung to the corners, pierced only by strobes and flashing crimson lights. Bodies moved like smoke across the dancefloor, heat and perfume curling in the air like incense. The bass thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless, primal.
You walked through it all like you owned the place. Head high, hips steady. The red dress painted on your curves, your heels clicking sharp across the concrete floor. The music pulsed low and sexual, the bass vibrating through your ribs.
Bucky’s voice was in your ear—steady, low, grounding. “Cam’s good. I’ve got eyes. You’re clear to move.”
You didn’t answer. Just exhaled slowly and zeroed in on the booth near the back.
Volkov looked different, but not enough. His hair was grayer, his jawline looser, but his posture—relaxed, draped across the velvet like he owned the room—was the same. A monster’s throne.
He was smoking something sharp and spiced, the bitter tang of his cigar mixing with the scent of the club. It made your throat itch. His smile was practiced, sculpted into something that almost passed for charm. Almost.
He watched you approach like a man dissecting prey.
“Evening,” you said, voice wrapped in heat and silk.
He didn’t return the greeting. Just looked you up and down with a hunger that made your skin crawl. “You’re late.”
“I like making an entrance.” You sat, legs crossed slowly, the hem of your dress sliding up to reveal just enough thigh. “I heard you’re holding something I want.”
His eyes dropped lower. “I find that hard to believe.”
“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, tapping a fingernail against the glass in front of you. “I have the money. I want the weapon.”
Volkov watched you with unsettling calm, blowing smoke sideways. You could feel the nicotine cloud brush against your cheek.
“You ask for quite a bit,” he said eventually. “Trust doesn’t come cheap.”
“Then tell me what does,” you countered.
He smirked, teeth glinting behind his cigar smoke like a wolf sizing up a meal.
“Come closer, принцесса (printsessa). Let me feel what I’m selling to.”
Your breath hitched. Just a split-second delay, but it was enough.
The music felt louder now, bassline pounding through the soles of your heels, up into your spine. Your blood thudded in your ears, hot and slow, like it was being pulled toward danger. You could feel every eye in the room watching you, sizing you up the way he was. Like meat. Like leverage.
Bucky’s voice sliced through the comm, low and razor-sharp:
“Don’t do it. You don’t have to—”
“I got this,” you whispered back. It was the only thing you could say. You had to say it for both of you.
Volkov patted his thigh, thick fingers spread. His smirk widened. His gold ring caught the red light like blood in moonlight.
Your feet moved on instinct, each step heavy with something coiled in your gut. You slid into his lap like silk stretched over barbed wire—fluid on the outside, jagged underneath. You perched carefully, your weight held taut in your thighs to avoid giving him too much.
But it didn’t matter. His hand snapped around your waist like a shackle, possessive and greedy. His palm was hot through the thin silk, rough where the rings dug into your flesh. A predator’s grip.
Then the second hand came up—slow, deliberate. It skimmed along the bare skin of your back where the dress dipped low, each finger a cold brush of oil-slicked arrogance. Your breath caught. The nausea started in your stomach and crept higher.
He leaned in close, his breath warm and sickly sweet from brandy and smoke.
“Mmm… you smell like sugar and sweat. Dangerous mix.”
His voice dropped, coiled around your throat like a rope.
“Do you make sounds when you wear red like this? Or do you just lay there and kill slowly?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You forced a smile, teeth aching from the tension in your jaw.
In your ear, Bucky’s comm had gone silent.
Then: a sharp inhale. Metal hitting something solid.
CLUNK.
You could hear it—his vibranium fist slamming the edge of a table, or a wall, anything to keep from tearing the comm from his ear.
He wasn’t speaking. But you could feel him—burning, locked down, seconds from detonation.
Volkov’s hand crept lower on your spine, fingers dragging over your skin in slow, possessive circles. He lingered at the small of your back, thumb teasing just beneath the fabric now, pushing boundaries with the casual boldness of a man who’d never been told no.
His breath rasped against your ear, faster now—he was getting off on this. On the power. On you.
“Such a soft thing,” he murmured. “You ever had someone ruin you just to rebuild you sweeter?”
Your body went cold. You kept the mask on, but your fists were curled in your lap, nails digging into your skin to keep the rage from surfacing.
Then he raised his voice, just enough for the nearby guards to hear. Mocking.
“She’s the kind that moans when you just touch her. Right here—”
His hand pressed hard against your lower back, fingers flexing, suggestive.
“—and she melts.”
And that was it.
Bucky’s voice cracked back through the comm, no longer calm. He sounded wrecked.
“Pull out. Now. I swear to God—”
“I’m fine,” you whispered, through clenched teeth. “Just another minute.”
But he wasn’t fine. You could hear it now—his breath was short, shallow, furious. He was pacing, maybe. Staring at your feed. Muscles bunched and twitching, jaw locked so tight it probably ached.
His voice returned, low but raw, like it scraped up from his ribs:
“You’re not a pawn,” he hissed. “You’re my goddamn wife.”
Those words landed low in your chest, sharp and full of heat.
You inhaled slowly, steadied your hands, and leaned in just enough for Volkov to think he’d won. Close enough to feel the heat of his neck.
“Dock 65,” he finally whispered. “Tomorrow. Midnight. Alone.”
You smiled, soft and slow. Then you rose—graceful but fast, sliding off his lap like a knife from its sheath.
His hand didn’t leave you until the last second, dragging over the curve of your ass like he had the right. Like he owned even the air between your bodies.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look back.
You walked toward the exit with your chin high, every muscle taut, your dress swaying around your hips like liquid flame. But your legs trembled from effort. Not fear—restraint.
Then his voice filled your ear again, low and ruined.
“Come back to me. Now.”
─
You entered the hotel room, hit by the a of heat that had nothing to do with temperature. Rage hung in the air—thick, suffocating. Something acrid and metallic burned your nose. The air felt charged, like a thunderstorm was caught in the walls.
Your eyes dropped to the corner where your shared luggage sat—shredded, the zipper teeth split wide like a scream. One of the hard cases was caved in, the shape unmistakable. That was the sound you heard through your comm. The clunk. His fist.
Bucky stood near the window, shoulders heaving like a man coming down from battle. His chest moved fast, his breathing ragged. The moonlight through the blinds glanced off his metal arm, glinting off the knuckles that were still clenched, twitching. His jaw flexed, teeth grinding so hard you thought you could hear the bone creak.
Then his eyes found yours. And the fire there almost knocked you back.
“Goddamn doll,” he growled, voice barely human, thick with rage. “I swear to God, I’m going to rip that fucker’s head off with my bare hands.” His vibranium hand flexed again, sharp and jerky. “I’ll carve his spine out and feed it to him.”
But you were already crossing the room. No hesitation.
You threw your arms around him before he could move again, before he could spiral deeper into that dark place. Your cheek pressed to his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp with sweat, heart pounding like a war drum beneath it.
“I hated every second of it,” you whispered, your voice raw and tight. “That wasn’t easy for me.”
His arms wrapped around you a beat too late, stiff and tensed—as if he was afraid he’d break you. You held him tighter, anchoring both of you. His body trembled—not fear, not grief. Fury. A possessive, helpless rage that had nowhere to go.
“Baby,” you whispered, tilting your face up to his, “shhh. Baby, look at me.”
He didn’t. Not right away. His eyes were still far away—still watching that bastard touch you, still hearing the way he spoke to you like you were something he owned. You knew the image was carved into Bucky’s mind like a scar.
“I’m fine,” you said, brushing your fingers over his jaw. “He didn’t get me.”
His eyes finally snapped to yours. Hungry, desperate, searching for proof. For any sign that Volkov had left a mark.
“He touched you,” he said, voice hoarse, almost childlike with the weight of it. “He fucking touched you. I watched it—I felt it, like it was me.”
“I know,” you said gently. “But we got what we needed. Dock 65. Tomorrow. He bought it. It worked.”
His hands came up slowly, cupping your face like you might vanish if he let go. He exhaled a long, shaky breath against your forehead. The scent of him—sweat, adrenaline, and the lingering trace of that smoky cologne he wore on missions wrapped around you like armor.
“We can kill him later,” you whispered with a small, bitter smile.
Bucky still didn’t smile. He pulled you tighter against him, one hand sliding to the back of your head, cradling it.
“You’re not bait,” he murmured, voice low and guttural. “You’re not some decoy for men like him. You’re my wife.”
The word cracked open something raw between you.
Wife. Not asset. Not agent. Not distraction.
Just his.
You didn’t speak. You just stayed pressed against him, holding his trembling body as he tried to cage the storm inside him.
His arms were iron around you, but the tension in him was raw, barely contained fury simmering just beneath the surface. Yet somehow, he held you like you were fragile glass—his fingers digging into your sides not to hurt, but as if afraid to let go, afraid you’d slip away. You wanted more than anything to let yourself be crushed by him, to be pressed into his heat so hard that every memory of Volkov’s filthy hands was scorched away.
You pulled back just a fraction, enough to look up into those icy blue eyes—eyes that burned with a jealousy so fierce it made your skin tingle. Your voice was low, smooth but thick with emotion, a threadbare mix of exhaustion, defiance, and need.
“Bucky…”
His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away a phantom tear you didn’t realize you’d shed. You saw the flicker of guilt, the sharp edge of helplessness. But there was no brokenness in you to find, only fire.
You stepped closer, letting the soft rustle of your dress brush against his worn tactical vest—the fabric whispering secrets of where you’d been, what you’d endured.
The red silk clung to your curves like a second skin, a promise, a warning. The slit teasing open your thigh, the low back bare and vulnerable, but now reclaimed, like a battlefield you’d already won.
You reached up slowly, your fingers threading into the thick strands of his dark hair, pulling him closer—closer than the sharp scent of gunmetal and sweat that clung to him after every fight. His breath hitched in a way that made your heart shatter and heal all at once.
“I don’t want to remember him,” you said, voice a velvet thread laced with steel. “Not how he touched me. Not how he looked at me like I was a prize to be bought or broken.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched until the muscle twitched. But you pressed your hand to his chest, feeling the steady, heavy beat of his heart beneath the fabric, slow and sure under your palm.
“I want to remember you.”
His breath was shallow, erratic, like he was drowning in everything you were saying—and everything you weren’t.
You carefully removed your earpiece—the faint click breaking the silence between you like a vow. You set it aside, eyes never leaving his.
You slid your hands down the ridge of his collarbone, across the hard planes of his chest, tracing the line of muscle and scars that made him whole—the man you loved.
You stepped close, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper that barely brushed his skin. “You know,” you murmured, eyes locked on his, “when we were in front of the mirror earlier… I couldn’t stop noticing you.”
His gaze sharpened, dark and dangerous, like a storm about to break.
“You were so hard, pressed against me like you wanted to claim every inch of me. Like you wanted to tear me apart and make me yours right then and there.”
Bucky’s breath hitched, thick and ragged. His chest rose sharply beneath his shirt, muscles taut, pulsing with a tension that was almost unbearable. You could feel it—his need, his fury, his desperate hunger—all radiating off him in waves.
You lifted your hand slowly, deliberately, and pressed a featherlight kiss just below his ear, where his pulse beat wildly. The heat of your lips sent a shiver racing down your spine and made his whole body tense against yours.
His breath caught, low and rough, a sound raw with longing and restraint. His metal hand slid to your waist, firm and possessive, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
You trailed your fingers up the curve of his neck, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your touch, the scar beneath his jaw like a secret you were privileged to trace.
Your lips hovered over his skin, voice husky with need. “I want you, Bucky. Right here. Right now.”
His lips crashed against your neck, hot and demanding, searing a trail of fire down your skin. His mouth was hungry, worshipful, each kiss a claim—a promise and a warning.
But then his eyes flicked to the door, the weight of the mission pulling him back like a chain.
You pulled away slowly, breath mingling with his, your fingers still curled possessively against his neck.
“We’ll finish this,” you promised, voice thick with heat and something deeper. “I’d rather die tangled in your arms than spend one more second remembering Volkov’s filthy hands on me.”
His jaw clenched, voice low and rough, trembling with rage and need. “You’re mine, doll. No one’s going to touch you like that. Not while I’m breathing.”
His grip tightened around your waist, holding you close as if letting go might make you vanish.
And in that fierce embrace, you both found a fierce kind of sanctuary—a quiet promise that no matter what came next, you belonged only to each other.
─
You’d arrived at Dock 65 before the promised time, hidden beneath the skeleton of an abandoned shipping yard on the outskirts of Salzburg. The salt from the sea clung to the air, sharp and metallic, biting into your nose with every breath. Bucky had come with you, shadow-silent and lethal, staying just out of range to avoid compromising your cover. His presence was a tether, his voice in your ear a steady heartbeat.
“This feels off,” he murmured, low and tight. “Too quiet. Too clean.”
He was right.
The plan was simple—classic infiltration: see the tech, verify it, grab what we need, then vanish. You’d done this a dozen times with him. It should’ve been routine. It felt like muscle memory.
But the silence was heavy. Not tactical—vacant.
You padded across concrete in soft boots, slipping between rusted containers and steel pylons slick with dew. Your heartbeat matched your footfalls—measured. Focused.
Bucky’s voice hummed in your ear again. “Back’s clear. But I don’t like how easy this is.”
You were already at the final checkpoint—a thick steel door sunk into the loading bay, blinking with a red biometric scanner. The security was laughable. Almost like an invitation. A bad joke wrapped in confidence.
Still, you knelt and worked the panel, fingers flying. “Almost in,” you whispered.
The door clicked. The metal whirled and groaned as it peeled open.
And that’s when it hit.
A sharp prick—hot and thin, like fire beneath your skin. You gasped, stumbling back.
“Fuck,” you hissed, stumbling back instinctively. You reached for your weapon, but your fingers fumbled.
Bucky’s voice snapped in your comm. “What happened? What was that—?”
Your limbs went liquid. Your knees buckled.
You saw the hallway shift and blur. Lights smeared into streaks. A cold wave swept over you, then nothing.
Everything went black.
─
You woke up to cold. Not just in the air, but in your bones.
The scent hit first—rust and sweat and old blood. Your head pounded, dull and heavy, like you were underwater. Every sound was muffled.
Then came the sting in your wrists. The raw burn of rope—tight, too tight. Ankles too. Spread just far enough that it made your muscles ache.
Your gear was still on. Mostly.
But it didn’t feel like armor anymore.
The sleeves of your tactical suit had been shredded—slashed open by a knife meant to scare more than wound. Your zipper had been dragged halfway down your chest, the thick material parting under Volkov’s probing hands. One shoulder was bare where the fabric had been tugged aside, revealing the flush of your skin beneath the cold air. Your belt hung lopsided—holsters gone, gear stripped like trophies. Gloves missing. Boots scuffed from a fight you barely remembered before the sedative hit.
The chill in the room clung to your exposed skin, humid and damp like sweat that didn’t belong to you. And those cameras—silent red eyes blinking from the corners—watched you without blinking. Recording every breath. Every tremor.
You were still conscious. Still aware. And that was the worst part.
Volkov wanted you lucid for this.
Your arms ached from being bound above your head—metal cuffs cutting into your wrists, slick with sweat and blood. Your legs were tied at the ankles, the chair cold beneath you, bolts secured to the floor like this was always part of the plan. Like he’d been waiting to catch you like this. Waiting to make a spectacle of you.
Of course he was talking. He always talked first—like the sound of his voice was foreplay.
“I told them,” he muttered, dragging a chair toward you with a long, grating screech that raked across your skull. “Told them you’d fall. Doesn’t matter how trained you are. Everyone breaks. Especially the pretty ones.”
He sat. Legs wide. Elbows on his knees. Staring at you like you were already bleeding. Like you were his.
“You’ve lasted longer than I expected,” he said, his tone almost admiring. “But it’s coming. The breaking.”
His fingers reached forward again—those same thick, ringed fingers that had unzipped your suit, that had ghosted down your neck when you were half-awake. The scent of cigar smoke and synthetic cologne still clung to them, mixing with the tang of sweat and metal in the room.
His knuckles brushed your cheek. You flinched.
Not because you were afraid. But because you were furious.
And that fury—white-hot and blinding—was the only thing keeping you upright. And Bucky. Out there. Closing in like a storm beneath your skin.
But you couldn’t let Volkov see that.
So you swallowed the bile in your throat, forced your limbs to sag like the sedative still held you. You let your eyes flutter, like you were slipping under again. You made your voice small. Weak.
Why me?” you rasped, voice thin but laced with just enough bait. “What is it you want, really?”
He chuckled, the sound low and cruel. “Why not you? You were on my list the moment I saw you in that club. All that attitude, all that strength. It’ll make the footage better.”
Your stomach turned, a leaden knot of disgust and rage.
Still, you kept your face slack. You played your part.
“You kill me,” you whispered, slurring the words just enough, “you lose what I know. HYDRA vaults. Weapon caches. Secure lines. Things your people couldn’t even find.”
He paused.
There it was. That flicker of greed in his eyes. That hesitation.
You leaned into it.
“Let me talk,” you said, breathing shallowly, trembling just right. “Water. Hands free. Just a little. I’ll give you something.”
He stood again—slow and amused—and crossed to a small metal table at the side of the room. Tools. Restraints. Maybe something sharper. You couldn’t see all of it, but you heard the clink of something metal. A chain. A blade.
You clenched your teeth. Not yet.
A drop of sweat rolled from your temple down to your jaw, and you caught your reflection in one of the black-glass camera lenses. You barely recognized yourself.
But your eyes—your eyes still held fire.
You could see it.
And somewhere out there, Bucky saw it too.
Because you knew. You felt him like gravity. The echo of his fury, the weight of it marching toward you. He’d tear through walls for you. And he was close. So close.
You just had to survive a few more minutes.
Volkov picked up something—something you didn’t want to look at—and turned back toward you.
“You think you’re stalling,” he said with a grin, eyes glinting like broken glass. “But this? This is the good part.”
Your jaw tightened.
You let your chin drop forward, your eyes go dull again.
But inside, you were coiled wire, stretched thin. Every heartbeat was a countdown.
You weren’t stalling for your life.
You were setting the stage for his execution.
─
(Bucky's POV)
He heard it—the faint pop of compressed air, like a dart or a silenced shot. Then a low thud.
Your voice followed, barely audible in the comms—one last breathy fragment before the drug pulled you under. Slurred. Straining.
“Sweet, sweet printsessa. I’ll ruin every tight little hole until you’re nothing but broken.”
Volkov.
That voice.
That fucking voice.
Bucky didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Every muscle in his body locked, like a tripwire had snapped taut in his chest. The world around him went sharp and silent—no more footfalls, no night breeze, no humming electricity from the docks.
Then—
Static.
Your line went dead.
Gone.
And Bucky snapped.
He was moving before he even realized it—sprinting, boots pounding against the dock’s gravel and steel. The radio in his ear buzzed, someone trying to hail him, but it was just noise. White noise. Meaningless.
His blood roared like fire through his veins, hot and bitter, his heartbeat hammering so loud it drowned out everything but the image—you, helpless, in danger, with that bastard’s voice still echoing in his head. That threat. Those words.
It wasn’t just rage. It was something deeper. Older. Something that lived in the marrow of his bones, coiled like a beast.
But he didn’t lose himself.
Not this time.
No—he harnessed it. Focused it. Weaponized it.
The Winter Soldier was awake—but for once, he wasn’t in control. Bucky was. And that made him even more dangerous.
His metal hand clenched so tightly the plates creaked, servos humming under strain. He leapt over the low railing between two shipping containers, landed in a crouch, and kept going—his movements faster, heavier, more brutal with each second.
He tore through a bolted gate, didn’t even feel the sting of metal slicing his palm. Pain didn’t register. Nothing did. Just the map in his mind—your last known location. The building ahead. That thick steel door.
He saw it, even as his breath fogged in the night air—what Volkov must’ve done. You’d been careful. So fucking careful. But he’d planned for this. Had something in place. A trap meant for you.
The woman he loved.
His wife.
Mine. Mine. MINE.
The thought pulsed with every stride, every heartbeat.
He hit the access panel beside the locked door with the full weight of his vibranium fist. It shattered instantly. Sparks rained as he jammed a wire into the circuitry, bypassing the system with muscle and rage, not finesse.
The door creaked open—and what Bucky saw beyond it turned his fury into something nuclear.
Cameras. Chairs bolted to the ground. A metal table with restraints. Tools. Blood.
And your scent—faint, but there.
He felt his soul fracture for half a second.
Then he moved.
Fast.
Silently.
A predator.
He would tear Volkov apart piece by piece—not for the information, not for revenge. But for you. For every breath he stole from your lungs, for every second of fear he put in your eyes, for daring to think he could touch you.
And if there was a god—he hoped Volkov would scream.
Because Bucky wanted him to scream.
─
The second Bucky breached the reinforced door, the scent of blood, sweat, and fear punched him in the gut.
You.
He felt you in the room before he saw you—your pain, your rage, your heartbeat fraying at the edges. Something ancient and monstrous twisted inside him.
The air changed. He knew before he looked. And then he saw you…
Strapped to a bolted-down chair. Tactical gear torn open. Skin bruised and shivering under flickering light. One wrist raw where the rope had bitten deep. A trail of dried blood traced the curve of your neck. The air hung heavy with copper and mildew, and the blinking red cameras watched like silent executioners.
You looked up—just barely. Your eyes found him.
Fire behind glass.
Tears unshed. Fury held in trembling muscle.
Then Bucky saw him.
Volkov.
Standing just feet away, an iron rod clutched lazily in one hand. A SIG-Sauer P226 slung at his hip. His lips curled into a grin that didn’t quite hide the madness beneath. He hadn’t touched you again—not yet. But the look on his face said he planned to.
“You should’ve brought flowers if you wanted to interrupt,” Volkov sneered. “Didn’t know they let backup dogs run loose these days.”
Bucky didn’t speak.
Not yet.
He walked forward—slow, deliberate, methodical. His breaths were sharp and clipped, like drawing air through broken glass. A predator’s prowl. Precision in every step.
“You here for a trade? A martyr’s end?” Volkov taunted. “C’mon then. Let’s make it cinematic.”
Still, Bucky said nothing.
He moved until he stood directly between you and Volkov—shoulders squared, stance rooted. His left hand—vibranium—automatically reached back, as if shielding you by instinct alone.
Then—
He snapped forward.
His voice tore through the room like a thundercrack.
“This woman—” he roared, pointing directly at you, body shaking with raw fury, “—is my wife!”
The word wife detonated in the air.
Your head jerked slightly. Even through the haze, even through the pain—you heard him.
“MY FUCKING WIFE! Not your toy. Not your hostage. Not something for your sick little games.”
Volkov’s smirk cracked. It slipped—just slightly—but enough to see the twitch in his jaw.
Bucky’s vibranium fingers curled into a fist. The sound was like metal grinding on metal.
“You touched her,” he seethed. “You looked at her like she was yours. I’m going to make you regret ever drawing breath.”
Volkov moved first—fast, confident, stupid.
Bucky met him halfway.
He pulled his sidearm mid-stride and fired. Two shots. One aimed for Volkov’s shoulder, the other for his thigh. Volkov twisted with inhuman reflexes—the first bullet grazed his bicep, the second slammed into a steel support behind him.
Volkov returned fire—a sharp, calculated double tap.
Bucky slid sideways, felt the bullet nick the edge of his arm. Didn’t matter. He was already moving.
They collided like freight trains.
Bucky’s knife flashed out from his belt—a matte black combat blade, narrow and deadly. He slashed upward, fast, aiming for Volkov’s abdomen. The Russian twisted, caught the blow with his forearm—blood sprayed in a fine arc.
Volkov spun, boot kicking Bucky square in the chest. He staggered back one step—just one.
Then launched himself forward again.
Knife to knife now.
Volkov drew his own—shorter, serrated, HYDRA-issued. Their blades clashed, metal sparking, skimming skin and armor. The room filled with the sound of grunts and steel colliding. Bucky’s body was pure muscle and memory—every move learned in blood, every strike meant to kill.
Volkov ducked a slash and drove his blade into Bucky’s left side, just under the ribs.
Shit.
Bucky grunted. Twisted. Let it dig an inch deeper—then used it. He grabbed Volkov’s wrist and pulled, driving his own blade straight into Volkov’s thigh, burying it deep.
Volkov howled.
But he was trained. He didn’t drop.
He struck back with his elbow, cracked it into Bucky’s jaw. The blow rattled Bucky’s brain for half a second—enough for Volkov to sweep his leg under Bucky’s and take him to the floor.
They rolled—grappling, snarling, blades scraping armor and bone. Bucky’s metal hand caught Volkov’s throat. He squeezed—hard. Volkov gagged, slammed his elbow into Bucky’s side, but Bucky didn’t let go.
“You think pain makes you strong?” Bucky growled. “You don’t know pain.”
He slammed Volkov’s head into the ground. Concrete split beneath.
Volkov, bloody and furious, managed to roll away. Pulled a hidden pistol from his ankle holster and fired.
One shot went wild.
The other grazed Bucky’s shoulder, slicing through the edge of his suit.
Bucky dove low—shoulder-first—tackled him against the metal table. It folded in half under their combined weight. Chains rattled down like rain.
Bucky disarmed him in a heartbeat—knife spinning across the floor. Pistol kicked away.
Now it was just them.
Fists.
Steel.
And rage.
Bucky landed a blow to the ribs that bent Volkov sideways, then drove a knee into his gut. Volkov coughed blood, still fighting, still moving. He threw a headbutt. Connected.
Bucky’s vision flashed white. But his body kept going.
He ducked under a punch and drove his metal arm up into Volkov’s chin.
Crack.
Teeth scattered.
Volkov dropped.
But Bucky wasn’t done.
He grabbed him by the collar and threw him across the room—into the steel wall. The impact echoed like thunder. Volkov slumped, dazed, broken.
Bucky moved in.
Each step was deliberate. Measured. Deadly.
Volkov made one last move—limping, bleeding—toward a blade still on the floor.
Bucky stepped into him.
And drove his vibranium fist into Volkov’s gut. Deep. Bones snapped. Blood spattered.
Then came the uppercut. Vicious. Perfect.
Volkov flew backward. Hit the floor. Didn’t get back up.
Bucky stood over him, breathing like a war engine, sweat and blood dripping from his brow, muscles flexing with each ragged inhale.
He could kill him.
One more hit.
One.
But then—
He looked at you.
Your bruised wrists. The blood on your neck. The silent strength in your eyes.
And the fury softened—just enough to make room for control.
Bucky stepped back.
Grabbed one of the thick cargo chains from the floor. Industrial. Cold.
He wrapped it around Volkov like a vice. Again. Tighter. Again. Until Volkov’s ribs creaked and his mouth filled with the taste of metal.
Bucky looped it through the floor bolt. Yanked it tight.
Then knelt, voice low and lethal in Volkov’s ear.
“You’ll live just long enough to rot in a black site,” he hissed. “Every day knowing you lost to me. That you never got to touch her again.”
He stood.
Wiped the blood from his mouth.
Then turned.
And saw you.
Bruised. Bleeding. Breathing.
Still you.
And in that instant, everything else in the world disappeared.
—
The moment his eyes met yours, something in him shattered.
He crossed the room in a heartbeat.
“Doll—” His voice broke, hoarse with something primal.
His hands were already on the restraints, fingers shaking as he worked through the tight buckles with mechanical precision. The cold touch of his vibranium palm met your bruised wrist, and you winced—more from reflex than pain.
“Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He flinched like he’d hurt you.
“Bucky,” you whispered. “It’s okay. I’m—”
“No,” he rasped, his gaze sweeping over you like he was cataloging every mark, every scratch, every tear in your clothes. “It’s not. Look at you. Fucking look at you.”
His breath hitched. Blood smeared his temple, a gash cut across his jaw, and the left side of his torso was soaked in red—where Volkov’s blade had torn beneath his ribs—but he didn’t register it. Didn’t care.
He knelt in front of you like a soldier before an altar, pulling the bindings off your ankles with a desperate kind of tenderness. Every time the rope gave way, he touched the skin beneath, thumb brushing gently across raw flesh like he could erase it.
“I should’ve gotten here sooner. I should’ve known.” His voice cracked again. “I heard what he said to you over the comms—I heard—God, baby, I should’ve fucking—”
“Bucky,” you said again, firmer this time. You leaned forward weakly, your hands finding his bloodied face and cupping it between your palms. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
He shook his head like he didn’t believe you. Or couldn’t.
“I saw your face when I walked in,” he whispered. “I saw what he did.”
Your lip trembled, but you forced it still. “He didn’t… get far. I was drugged, restrained—but I don’t think he…” You swallowed hard, bile rising. “I think he wanted to wait. To make it worse. I could feel it.”
Bucky’s entire body stilled. Frozen.
Then his jaw flexed, and a tremor rolled through his shoulders.
“I was going to kill him,” he admitted, voice like shattered glass. “Right there. Would’ve torn him apart with my bare hands and smiled while I did it.”
“I know,” you said softly. “And if you had, I wouldn’t have stopped you.”
His eyes met yours again—steel blue, raw. “But you did stop me, didn’t you?”
You nodded. “Because I still need you, Bucky. I don’t need vengeance. I need you.”
For a long second, neither of you moved.
Then he slowly leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. His blood mixed with your tears. His hand—metal, unyielding—cupped your jaw with a touch softer than silk.
“You’re my whole goddamn world, doll,” he whispered. “They can take the mission. They can take the tech. But they touch you—”
“I know.” You closed your eyes. “They didn’t.”
You sat in silence another beat. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to feel your body again. It hurt—every inch—but it was still yours.
And you were still his.
Finally, you pulled back just enough to look at him again. “Can you move?”
He nodded, wincing as he stood. The stab wound was clearly more than a graze now that the adrenaline was wearing off.
“Good. Because we’re not done yet.” You exhaled and braced a hand on the chair, pushing to your feet.
He immediately steadied you.
“Hey—slow. You sure you’re okay?”
“No,” you said honestly. “But I’m upright. I’m breathing. We came here for more than him.”
Bucky looked at you like you’d just grown wings. Like maybe you were the strongest person he’d ever met.
You gestured to the side door—half-open, dimly lit.
“Volkov said he kept it behind security doors. Tech that could outrun vibranium and adamantium. We find it, we finish this. Together.”
He gave you a long look. Then nodded, bloody and steady.
“Together,” he said.
And this time, it wasn’t a promise.
It was a war cry.
—
You settled beside Bucky, your fingers still trembling from the adrenaline, but your voice stayed steady as you pulled out your comms. The sterile hum of the damaged room was pierced by your quiet command.
“Val, I need backup. Volkov’s down, but his intel’s too valuable to lose.”
Your words felt heavier than air, each syllable soaked in urgency and the weight of what you both had just survived. The faint crackle in your ear answered with Val’s cool, unwavering voice—a beacon cutting through the dark.
“Copy that. Bob and Yelena are on standby in the city. They’re moving in now.”
Relief unfurled inside you—a fragile thread of hope amid the storm. Familiar voices. Reinforcements racing through the city’s shadows toward your location. A lifeline tethered to survival.
You glanced at Bucky, whose breathing had slowed, chest rising and falling like a war drum now beating for peace. Your touch found his bruised shoulder, gentle but grounding—an unspoken promise that this fight wasn’t over, but you’d face it together.
Meanwhile, Bucky turned back to Volkov, seizing the moment to inflict just enough pain to crack the enemy’s stoic facade.
Codes and coordinates spilled out under Bucky’s relentless pressure—every word a strike against Volkov’s will. The new tech’s location was now clear, an ominous prize tucked in a forgotten warehouse.
Without hesitation, Bucky led the way.
Your mind raced as you scanned the data, heart pounding in your chest. The place was rigged—dangerous. Lethal. But destruction was necessary.
Bucky moved with purpose, expertly setting charges that would erase the tech and any trace of its existence.
Explosions roared behind you, shaking the ground. The acrid scent of burning metal and plastic filled the air.
Back in the quiet aftermath, you knelt beside Bucky. Your hands moved carefully over his wounds—bruises blooming purple, cuts still fresh. You ignored the heat of your own exhaustion, focusing on him.
The metallic taste of blood still lingered on his lips, but his skin was warm under your fingertips—healing fast, fueled by sheer will and some stubborn human resilience.
Your touch was gentle. Deliberate. Calming the storm inside him.
His wild eyes softened. He exhaled. The tension in his jaw eased under your care.
Volkov lay unconscious, wrapped tight in steel chains—conscious enough to curse in his dreams, but powerless.
You met Bucky’s gaze.
And in that look, shared a quiet understanding:
The worst was behind you.
For now.
—
The low hum of the jet thrummed around you, the tension from the mission fading like smoke.
Bucky lounged back in his seat, that cocky smirk never leaving his face as he nudged you gently with his metal arm.
“You comfortable now, wife?”
The moment the word left his mouth, Yelena shot upright like a firecracker had gone off beside her. She slammed her fist on the intercom button with enough force to rattle the entire jet cabin.
“You two were fucking?!”
Your cheeks flushed a hot, creeping red, heat blooming across your neck as all eyes snapped to you and Bucky.
Bob burst into delighted applause, grinning ear to ear like he’d just won the lottery.
Yelena’s glare sharpened, her voice dripping with playful disgust.
“Seriously? You could do so much better than some grumpy, hundred-year-old man.”
She shot you a smirk full of challenge.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the soft smile tugging at your lips, your voice low and teasing as you leaned into Bucky’s side.
“I’m too down bad for him already, Lena.”
Bucky caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles, his steel-blue eyes sparkling with a tenderness that made your heart thud painfully in your chest.
The warmth of his touch was a stark contrast to the sterile hum of the jet’s engines.
Yelena groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.
“I’d rather die than witness all this PDA shit in real life. Please, no more!”
Before you could respond, the intercom crackled to life.
Ava’s voice came through, shocked and high-pitched:
“Who—what??”
Then Walker cut in, with his usual dry edge:
“Is the cat out of the bag now?”
Bob chimed in happily, clapping again.
“Finally! Took you two long enough.”
Suddenly, the intercom blasted again, this time it was Alexei—loud, exuberant, completely unfiltered:
“YESSSSSS, AVENGER PAPA AND MAMAAAAAAA!! AVENGER BABY IN MAKINGGG!!”
The cabin exploded into laughter.
Yelena groaned as she slammed the intercom button once more, shaking her head at the glorious madness surrounding you.
Bucky smirked down at you, eyes soft but mischievous.
“Looks like we’re famous now, love.”
You nestled closer, hand tightening around his, feeling the rare calm of being home amidst the chaos of your lives.
First time doing something like this for Bucky! This is part 1 but it is still being edited (I can't find some of the fics I like)
Remember to read the warnings and tags before writing!
NAVIGATION
SERIES
TRILOGY
Five Seconds, Five Years Apart, II, III
Angst - Bucky Barnes proposed just days before the world ended — afraid he might never get another chance. Then he vanished in Wakanda. Five years later, he’s at your door — unchanged, while your whole life has moved on. Some love survives time. But what happens when life doesn’t wait?
DUOLOGY
Praise (1.7k), Cloud Nine (4.7k)
Fluff, Smut - Bucky realises he has a praise kink after getting a tattoo. | Bucky is dating a modern woman. He didn’t expect you to get him high, though.
Traces of a Lonely World (3.2k), Final (7.3k)
Angst, Suggestive - bucky's job takes him away from you more that he cares to admit. most of the times you can understand, but there are some nights it tears you apart.
Before I Could Say It (5.9k), After I Was Too Late (10.1k)
Angst, Fluff - The three times Bucky almost confessed his love to you, and the one time he finally does. | The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.
Lovefool (18k), Juno (14.8k)
Fluff, Smut - James Barnes is a terrible congressman, hence Sam sending you to be his assistant. You keep him on a tight leash, and you both do a horrible job at hiding your feelings for one another. Add jealousy and alcohol to the mix? what could possibly change? | In the early stages of your relationship with Congressman Barnes, you swore he was kidding anytime he mentioned the idea of being his wife, however, it is apparent that he wasn't kidding. It's also obvious that there's nothing more that you want in the world.
ONE-SHOT
Exactly Like You Said (0.5k)
Smut - You and Bucky Barnes have always had that thing—the kind of sexual tension everyone sees coming from a mile away. Every sparring match somehow ends the same way: your thighs locked tight around his head, pretending it’s just part of the fight. But today, Bucky decides he’s tired of pretending. One snarky comment turns into a moment you can’t take back—and don’t want to. He pins you to the mat, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and shows you exactly how long he’s been thinking about this.
The Same Thing (1.4k)
Angst - during a mission, you put yourself in harm's way to protect bucky. back at the avengers compound, he wants to know why.
In the Mood (1.5k)
Angst, Fluff - He tells himself it’s fine.
Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list. His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten.
Until he met… you.
Never Been Kissed (1.5k)
Fluff - You've never been one to kiss and tell.
Take Me Home (1.7k)
Angst, Fluff - the team discovers bucky's relationship with you when bucky searches for you in the hospital after hydra attacks new york
The Cost of Sides - (2.0k)
Angst - You and Bucky seem to be on opposite sides.
Cry For Me, Sweetheart (2.1k)
Smut - You always cry when he bites you. It’s not pain, not really. It’s too much your system overloads and Bucky can’t help himself.
Even If You Forget (2.1k)
Angst - After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back.
Kneel (2.1k)
Angst - The three times Bucky kneeled for you, the heartbreak the ensued.
Smitten (2.3k)
Fluff - Sam finally meets Bucky’s girlfriend, though you’re not who he thinks you are.
The Stupid One (2.3k)
Angst, Suggestive - your breakup with bucky had all been his fault. he got scared and called it quits. and he regretted more than you knew. but he’d never admit that to you. at least, not while sober.
Birds of a Feather (2.5k)
Fluff - You have to attend a close relative's wedding and there's no one better to bring than your best friend, Bucky.
Love Me or Leave Me (2.6k)
Angst - You loved him deeply. But loving him started to hurt. And Bucky? He saw it coming—he just couldn’t stop it.
Out of Time, Into Our Lives (2.7k)
Fluff - A teen girl suddenly appears at the Avengers compound claiming to be from the future. While she tries to avoid revealing too much, she accidentally and subtly drops hints about her life, her siblings, and the deep bond she shares with you and Bucky Barnes both.
Oh, My Love, Side to Side (3k)
Angst, Fluff - After a successful yet traumatizing mission, you dream of losing Bucky for the first time in years. In a fit of panic, you call him. He answers. Not the phone, but the call your heart makes to his.
What You Don't Know (3.2k)
Angst, Fluff - You and Bucky are sent to find Joaquin, causing you to finally get to know each other in the process.
Put My Mind at Ease - (3.5k)
Angst - You return home from a successful mission with plans to have a pizza night with Bucky- but things go awry when an injury rears it’s head.
Open Wounds (3.9k)
Angst, Fluff - Due to an open wound, Bucky seems to hate you. And no matter what Sam does, nothing seems to change. Until you and Bucky have a heated exchange that ends in a way neither of you had been expecting.
He Still Smelled Like Home (4.1k)
Angst, Smut - A missed anniversary. A quiet goodbye. And then a metal arm shielding you from death. You were always his. Even when you weren’t.
Pink in the Night (4.5k)
Smut - Some interesting rumours have been circling around about Bucky. Little do you know, it's kinda your fault.
Hotel Mishap (5.1k)
Angst - you and bucky can't go five minutes without wanting to slam each other into a wall, so when you're forced into a hotel room with only one bed, years of unresolved tension and bruised pride boil to a breaking point.
Man in the Woods (5.1k)
Angst - Bucky pulled the trigger to save a mission—and lost the only person who made him feel human. Years later, Sam finds him deep in the woods, still living like she’s beside him.
What We Never Said (5.3k)
Angst, Fluff - You weren’t lovers. Not really friends either. Just two people who found something sacred in the silence between them—until he left.
Get Around (6.1k)
Fluff - After going on a date with Bucky, Sarah realises they're better off as friends. So she does the next best thing: sets him up with you, the Wilsons’ childhood best friend.
How You Get The Girl (7.7k)
Angst, Fluff - you thought you’d ruined everything by loving him. but that was the moment everything finally made sense.
Nine Lives (9.4k)
Smut - Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.
You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.
When It All Falls Apart (8.1k)
Angst - The fate of the universe was in your hands. Bucky and you had been sent to retrieve the soul stone, a seemingly simple task. Unbeknownst to you, there was a hefty price to pay for such an exchange. You’re able to return to Earth, but it’s soon apparent part of you was left in Vormir.
Mercy Kill (10.6k)
Angst - After Bucky gets hurt on a mission, you’re forbidden from visiting him in the medbay. When you finally get to speak to him, things go differently than you expected.
(i only came to this) party 4 u (11.4k)
Angst, Fluff - For the first few months you worked with the avengers, they barely knew you. Beyond what you were like during a mission, you were a mystery to them. It was truly marvelous how well you worked with the team and yet there was so little they knew about you.
You barely went to team bonding and you NEVER went to Tony Stark's parties. Well, not until last night. And you’re never going again.
Because of James Bucky Barnes.
Lost in the Wild (12.9k)
Angst, Fluff, Smut - It was supposed to be an easy mission. In and out. But then communication went out. The intel became useless. The weather turned horrific. Bucky lost his gun. And then, you.
Come Find Me (13.4k)
Angst - Bucky cant wait for you to return from your mission. But when your partner comes back without you, it’s up to Bucky to bring you home safe.
In the Woods (13.5k)
Angst, Smut - He left you behind to keep you safe, but safety never stopped the heartbreak. Now, a year of grief, silence, and sleepless nights unravel the moment he shows up at your door with his new team—bruised, breathless, begging. You’re angry and he’s sorry, but the love is still there. It always has been.
Meet Me Halfway (15k)
Angst, Fluff - Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.
A Thousand Times Before (16.5k)
Angst, Fluff - 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.
SHORT FICTIONS (drabbles, prompts, requests, blurbs, etc.)
Bucky’s cock being so fucking big he teases you about it (0.1k)
Smut
Bucky giving you backshots (0.1k)
Smut
Bucky Barnes taking you from behind and talking you through it, kissing your neck (0.2k)
Summary : You got hit on at a bar and bucky gets protective
Friends to lovers, college AU, baseball player!Bucky, mentioned of alcohol, pining, Natasha's your bestfriend. Wc: 2.5k
Note: this is a little rush to the end sorry, I didn't wanted to post it at first but it put some content for the next part ! Reblog appreciate, I'm insecure in my writing lately..
Part 2 | masterlist | rules
The music was better than you expected, some r&b tunes that match the rather chill, gray and dark blue vintage vibe of the bar perfectly. It was a little loud but, considering the hour, it wasn’t too much to ask. Natasha waved toward a group of men in the back of the bar, and you tried your best to compose yourself at the attention you three gained from that.
Wanda, Natasha and you just came out of the movie theater when she got a message from her roommate, asking if you wanted to join them in a bar nearby. You weren’t much of a bar type to end your girls’ night, but from time to time, it can be really fun – there was nothing better than to manage Wanda when she’s drunk, with Natasha insulting people in Russian on the street. So you all agreed, giggling as you remember the good memories from last time.
As you made your way closer to the table, your eyes fell on Bucky, Nat’s roommate and you had to swallow the lump in your throat. Your heart beats faster in your ribs as you say hi to everyone, smiling at Sam as he made a comment about how gorgeous the three of you looked; you felt your cheeks heating up but brushed it off with a small, rather awkward giggle. He was always like that, it seems like he couldn’t help it and yet, it never failed to boost your ego. Sam was the one who talks a lot, yet you never had a real, deep conversation with him – maybe you were never there at the right time, because he was around a lot, along with Steve.
The girls take place around the table, Natasha took a chair from the table behind to sit between Steve and Bucky, while Wanda sat next to Sam on the other side of the table. Bucky looked up your way and smiled, shifting closer to Sam – bickering for him to move away as well – for you to sit on the sofa with them. You blink a few times before sitting next to him, nodding his way as a thank you but never really meeting his eyes. You melt into the sofa and sigh, twisting your ankles one by one, trying to ease the pain caused by the heels you decided to wear. You didn't really expect to walk this much.
Steve didn't waste a second and got up, asking what you wanted to drink; claiming it was his round. After they exchanged a knowing gaze, Bucky and Sam started to laugh, not that either of you girls understood why, but the way Bucky leaned back into the sofa, shaking his head as he laughed made you look his way. You had no idea what was going on, but it still put a smile on your face. Steve left with an eye roll, with Natasha behind him to help him get the drinks back – again, Sam wiggled his eyebrows at his friend, knowingly. It was no secret that Steve had a crush on Natasha, but they obviously seem to know more than you two.
They brushed it off when Wanda asked more about it, leaning on the table, eager to know the latest thing Steve might have said about their ginger friend; but Sam mimed a zip on his lips and instead asked about the movie. Natasha and Steve could already be seen coming back with the drink – it wasn’t crowd, so it wasn’t so surprising – when Bucky laid his arms behind your head before he leaned into you, his nose pushing through your hair. When his lips brushed against your ears, your heart skipped a beat at the sudden proximity. You did your best to hold your hands still – praying nobody caught the shake in them.
“He was waiting for you to arrive to pay his round, I've finished my beer for over 20 minutes now,” Bucky whispered in your ear, an amused smirk dripping from his words, making you chuckle.
The thing was, despite how you felt, you and Bucky were rather close. You've spent so many times and nights at Natasha's place that he became a part of your routine as well. You were this close to having your own keys at this point and you already spent nights there only with him, waiting for her to come after her late dance lessons. He sits next to you at a party where you don't know many people. It wasn't new, him leaning into you to whisper in your ears, nor was his arm resting behind your head – but it always made your heart flutter, bringing a small blush to your cheeks. At this point, you started to think he was doing it on purpose to mess with you. Though he wasn't really like that, not with you at least. You couldn’t process the way he may be flirting with you all this time – you supposed you were too close to Natasha for that, and he treats her like a sister. You were like a third roommate and he never really acted like he does when he has his eyes on someone with you. So you brushed it away the best you could, pushing the feeling deep inside your heart every time you’d have to.
You cleared your throat as you shifted in your seat, taking yours and Bucky's drink for Natasha's hands.
"Thank you love," He cooed as you slid it in front of him like a second nature. You rolled your eyes at the pet name and instead of giving him attention, jumped into the conversation about the movie.
It wasn't really late, around 11pm maybe – you didn't check your phone in a while – but alcohol was kicking in just right, helped by the fatigue you've been dealing with for a few days. Your laughter got louder easily after your two first drinks and Bucky's thigh touching yours was long forgotten. Being drunk always makes it easier to be around him; you think about it less, simply accept him in your personal space as if he belonged there. The hit of your hand against his chest as he teases you feels more natural. The smile in his eyes goes along well with the night and you miss the way they linger a second too long on you.
You don't think twice about the way his arms wrapped around your shoulders when you lean into him as you fight and catch your breath after Steve almost kicked his drink over the table – Bucky's always like that, protective, when you drink. But so he is with Natasha. You've lost count how many times he had to take care of you both after getting drunk at their place. It was never special, his behavior towards you; he always does so with somebody else as well. So, as much as your heart wanted him badly, lingering at every touch, fluttering at every word said just for you, you pushed it away every time. You weren't ready to give up on what you had with him, even if it meant one day seeing him flirt with other girls at uni, after his baseball game, until he got a girlfriend. You would've enjoyed it the more you could. And it was enough.
Pushing his hand away, you stand up awkwardly – the pain in your feet kicking back again so bad you made a face.
“Ok it's my round, what do you guys want ?” You asked cheerfully despite it, clapping in your hands.
After they all answered, and you made them repeat it twice to be sure your brain registered it, you left without waiting for anyone to come with you – even if it was statically impossible for you to hold all the drinks by yourself. Your head was barely spinning, it was doing better than you thought as you made your way to the bar swiftly. Smiling at the barmaid, she took your order immediately, not letting you register what was going on around you, happy to get yet another glass of wine.
Moving your head gently to the music, you missed the man waiting next to you, the way his eyes roamed your body from head to toes. Instead, you finally checked if someone was following you and caught them in the middle of rock, paper, scissors. You scoffed, not believing no-one wanted to follow you this time when Steve and Wanda had someone tagging along immediately.
“Hey,” your blood turned cold as the man hit your arm with his elbow, his voice faking something smug rather badly.
Your eyes shook as it looked at him, taking in the smirk on his face and the way his eyes could barely hold yours – rather looking south. Your jaw worked, but still smiled awkwardly at him, not wanting to appear rude yet. He didn't really do anything wrong, not really.
“You alone ?”
“Hum, no. I'm ordering for my friends over there,” you pointed at the small group behind your shoulder, hoping someone was on their way now.
He hummed as he took a quick glance, then looked back at you within a second.
“One of them is your boyfriend ?” he asked directly, his fingers working around his glass.
Your eyebrows twist into a small frown instinctively, and you realize you took a second too long to answer as he lifts his eyebrows, waiting for an answer he knew would be false.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, opening your mouth when you felt a hand wrapped around your waist gently. You flinched at first, before taking in the cologne you know too well, that sometimes cling to your clothes after spending the night at Natasha's place. Bucky pulled you closer to his chest, kissing your temple sweetly before staring in your eyes with something you've never seen in his eyes. There’s something sweeter than honey, thicker even. It lingers on your face as to make sure you’re alright – and you are now that his arm is around you. Now that his lips find your skin.
“Wait for me next time, love. You can't take all this by yourself,” He nodded towards the bar where all your drinks were ready now, a soft smile on his lips, just for you.
You nod slowly, letting your eyes linger in his perfect blue ones before it turned cold to the stranger. You leaned into his embrace, giving you a warm sense of security you needed right now. Enough to steady your breathing, too much for your heart to recover.
“Thanks for the help man, I supposed that's why you two were talking, right ?” his voice turned cold but stayed steady, staring daggers at the man who shifted awkwardly a step away.
“Yeah, yeah, that's right. No problem man !” He left as soon as he arrived, and Bucky's grip relaxed around your waist.
He didn't let go though, keeping you close a moment longer as he leaned into your hair, kissing your head a second time. You closed your eyes, doing your best to contain your feelings mixing and boiling inside your stomach.
“Don't leave without me again, love, hum ?” he said gently in your ear before letting you go.
You stood there for a second as he took the first few drinks, waiting for you to do the same. He didn't tell you to not leave alone, to wait for someone. No, he told you to wait for him in particular, and that threw you over the edge. You took the drinks quickly, managing the 3 glasses into your smaller hands but they were shaking a little now.
You knew it was intentional. His words. Bucky doesn't talk for the show, he's a man who chooses his words carefully, thoughtfully and after you sat right next to him, it was overwhelming. His scent, his thigh back against yours, his hand hanging right next to your shoulders, barely a centimeter away from your covered skin. It was like the alcohol left your system as quickly as it came, and it made the night harder than you wished.
You couldn't focus on anything else, your thoughts always coming back at his fingers lingering on your shoulders from time to time. Or to the way he looked at you specifically after he made a joke. All the things you didn't want to see were suddenly thrown at your face like a brick, and you weren't really fond of it.
When Natasha asked if you were coming to her place, like you usually do since you’re the only one living alone, you shook your head instantly. She frowned, not expecting this for sure – she doesn’t like leaving someone who drank alone.
“I really need to be alone,” you said faintly, your shoulders falling, trying to make it more convincing.
“I can drive you home if you want,” Bucky said, stepping closer to you even if he was already at arm's length. He tilted his head, never breaking eye contact, his eyes filled with worry – and something warmer you couldn't really name.
He didn't stop after the stranger talked to you. He didn't stop touching you in one way or another, glaring at people around the bar from time to time above his glass when they looked at their table the wrong way when you laughed louder than you should. Damn, he even followed you to the bathroom. If there was one thing you didn't imagine, it was Bucky getting over protective over you after a man tried to hit on you.
“Sam lives closer, don't worry about it,” you said with a gentle smile because, even if his behavior was driving you crazy inside, you couldn't just let him know that.
Not more than you already did by refusing. You had to figure out how to deal with your emotions first. Sam scoff, not believing he got dragged into this but still accepted to drive you home anyway. You still hold Bucky's hand quickly, squeezing lightly; telling him everything was ok. Or going to be, at least. He bit his lips, but squeezed too.
“Take care. And call if you need anything,” He said gently but you could still see the worry in his eyes.
He'd rather have you close than alone in your apartment, but it couldn't be helped at the moment, he knew it. You nod before wishing them all a goodnight and jumping into Sam's car.
After surviving the drive back with Sam hammering you with stupid questions, which usually get met with a ‘shut up’ or an ‘I don't know’, you could finally crash down on your bed. The night coming back into your mind, over and over – the movie long forgotten, the only thing remaining was Bucky's eyes laying in you more often than not and the weight of his hand around your waist.
It was bad, because you started thinking he could feel something for you too.
Summary: After avoiding Bucky for far too long, you're forced to come to him and ask him to help you walk through memories you don't believe are real. Only this time, it involves two people that look suspiciously like you and Bucky.
Or: A second chance romance between two super soldiers.
Warnings: Eventual 18+ content, canon-typical violence, knives, injuries, mentions of suicide, language, blood, needles, trauma, angst galore, more detailed warnings in each part
Word Count: 22.8k+ - ongoing
Chapter 1: Little Viper
Chapter 2: The Patriot
Chapter 3: Guard Dog
Chapter 4: Margaret & Peter
Chapter 5: Little Ones
Extras:
AO3 Link
Playlist: Let Down - Mack Loren, Something Real - Post Malone, Undressed - Sombr, Back to Friends - Sombr, I'm Not Perfect (But I'm Trying) - Rachel Chinourini, At the Beach, In Every Life - Gigi Perez, Nobody's Soldier - Hozier, Eyes Open - Taylor Swift, I Think About You All the Time - Gatlin, Red - Taylor Swift, Everywhere, Everything - Noah Kahan, Sailor Song - Gigi Perez, Never Let Me Go - Florence + The Machine, When I Look At You - Miley Cyrus, I Bet on Losing Dogs - Mitski, Margaret - Lana Del Rey, Peter - Taylor Swift
What about one with Bucky meeting an avenger who towers over him and he's like "he might be taller but I'm stronger" and reader teases the supersoldier 😅
Not About Size
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: A giant Avenger has been recruited, and you can't help but tease Bucky about their interaction.
Warnings: light hearted fun, teasing, fluff
Word Count: 712
A/N: I just loved this one! More light hearted requests would be amazinggggg yay please enjoy!
The new recruit was tall. Not just tall but he was ridiculously tall. The kind of tall that made ceilings look like they were in the way and clouds could brush the top of his head.
You were leaning against the kitchen counter with your palms wrapped around your mug of hot tea when Bucky wandered in, still tugging at the sleeves of his Henley. He froze mid step, eyes flicking to the new Avenger across the room.
“Bloody hell,” you muttered under your breath, lips twitching. “Reckon he can see the weather change before the rest of us.”
Bucky shot you a look, but his eyes returned immediately to the newcomer, sizing him up much like a gator does when it's being fed.
The towering Avenger noticed him, gave a cheerful wave, then ducked slightly to avoid cracking his skull on the ceiling light as he crossed the room. “Hey, man. You must be Barnes. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
You saw it immediately. The way his head tipped back ever so slightly, chin lifting to meet his eyes.
“Yeah,” Bucky said carefully, shaking his hand. His metal fingers flexed just a touch too deliberately, the faintest clink sounding. “You’re… tall.”
The man laughed. “Yeah, get that a lot.”
“Oh, my God Buck,” you whispered, bringing your mug to your lips to hide your growing grin. “You actually had to look up.”
“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, eyes still locked on the newcomer like he was assessing a hostile target.
“Well, better be going. It's the first day on the job and I don't want to be late." The man smiles, turning on his heels and ducking under the doorframe. In a few strides he's back to where he was moments before he walked over.
As soon as he left the room, you absolutely dissolved.
“Don’t,” Bucky warned without even looking at you.
“I haven’t said a word,” you said, tears already threatening.
“You’re thinking it.”
“Oh, I’m thinking loads, love,” you teased, grinning ear to ear. “Mostly wondering if you want me to buy you a little step stool so you can reach his eye level.”
Bucky finally turned, scowling. “I’m not short, doll.”
“No, no, you’re very…” you paused, pretending to think. “Compact. Fun-sized even.”
His nostrils flared. “He might be taller,” he said, with the utmost seriousness, “but I’m stronger.”
That was it, you broke. Doubled over, wheezing laughter into your sleeve, absolutely undone.
“You actually said it!” you gasped. “Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, reduced to playground logic. ‘He might be taller, but I’m stronger.’ Oh, love, that’s going straight in the hall of fame.”
His ears flushed pink. “What? It’s true.”
“Not arguing,” you said, grinning wickedly. “It’s just hysterical. Next time he has to duck under a doorway, you should flex your vibranium bicep at him in protest.”
Bucky stepped closer, trying to loom over you. It sort of worked, you had to tilt your head back just a little. His voice dropped, all mock-threat. “Careful, doll. I’ll prove it to you.”
“Oh, what, you planning to wrestle me?” you teased. “Or are you going to arm wrestle Jack And The beanstalk?”
His smirk said it all.
Ten minutes later, the two of them were squared off at the common room table, and you were perched at the edge, chin resting on your hand as you watched. The rest of the team had gathered too, egging them on.
“Three, two, one, go!” Sam called.
The giant’s arm shook almost immediately, muscles bulging, but Bucky was relentless. His vibranium arm didn’t budge an inch and Bucky didn't break a sweat. With a sharp slam, the bloke’s knuckles hit the tabletop.
Bucky leapt up like he’d just won a heavyweight title. “Ha! Told you. Taller doesn’t mean stronger.”
The room erupted in cheers and laughter. Even the new guy grinned, rubbing his wrist. “Fair enough Sergeant Barnes. Stronger, no question.”
Bucky’s gaze darted straight to you, waiting and needing your approval.
You just smirked. “Congratulations, love. You’ve proven you can out muscle a giraffe in boots. Truly, what an achievement.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
“Don’t worry,” you added sweetly, patting his arm. “You’ll always be my favourite action figure. Pocket sized and deadly.”
His laugh slipped out before he could stop it, soft and warm. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” you shot back.
And judging by the way his lips curved into a reluctant smile, yes he really, really did.
