𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙈𝙚 𝙂𝙤 ✮⋆˙ 𝘣. 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘴
Bucky Barnes/Avenger!Reader. established relationship. angst. hurt/comfort. takes place around civil war-ish, pre-wakanda. smut after some serious emotional damage. CONTENT WARNING for violence, ptsd, etc. unedited and raw like the sex they have.
Masterlist / Requests / Kinktober One-Shots
DISCLAIMER !!! This is not my idea. This is inspired by this little post by @greyyson-but-wrong. I couldn't stop thinking about it and just went nuts. Hope I did it justice.
You're bleeding to death.
You're pulled up against the wall, holding your insides with a shaky, unsteady grip. Your other hand is limp at your side, where the first bullet tore through your shoulder. The second one is wedged in your guts. You're numb and in agony at once. You're fading fast, which is why the HYDRA general hasn't wasted a final bullet on putting you down.
And then there's Bucky. Bucky, being held and drugged with enough tranquilizers to put a bear down. His eye is swollen shut. The general circles him like a vulture, and then, in perfect Russian, starts saying the words.
In English, they're just words that make him profoundly uncomfortable. Words that took him over a year to tell you between sobs as he opened up about everything they did to him.
You know Russian because you're well-trained. Not Widow, but almost.
The general thinks he's won. "Longing. Rusted. Seventeen."
Bucky howls like a wounded dog. Thrashes against the bars of a cage only he can see and feel.
The idea dawns on you in that moment of desperation, as you cling to life. Your comms are jammed to keep the rest of the team from accessing you, but you can still hear Bucky. And you pray that it works.
"Bucky," you rasp. "Focus on my voice."
"I can't," he whispers, and you hear it through the earpiece.
"Just listen to me, baby," you beg. "I'm so fucking sorry."
And then you do the most horrible thing you've ever done in your life. A sin you'll spend eternity atoning for, because Bucky trusted you with his worst pieces. His ugly. His pain. And you have to twist it, because you know the only thing worse than doing this to him is letting him become a machine in their hands again.
You say the words in flawless Russian. Like they don't rip you apart from the inside out, because you have to mean them for this to work.
The general revels in this display. Your torment. But he does what men always do, and he underestimates you. More importantly, he underestimates Bucky's love for you. "You're going to strangle the woman you love, your little whore, until the lights go out."
"Daybreak," you say softly, but firmly. "Furnace. Nine. Benign."
The general is still talking, but you and Bucky are here, in this space where no one can touch you, where it's just the two of you, going down fighting.
"Homecoming." You close your eyes, fight back a cry of agony. "One."
Bucky has stopped screaming. He's so still now, frozen in their clutches, defeated. You and the general say the final word at the same time.
Time stretches for what feels like an eternity, but really, it's a matter of seconds. A minute, at most. A handful of ragged breaths and heartbeats.
"Soldat?" The general asks.
You've only seen him like this once before, when you and Steve first discovered who he was. That fateful mission before he disappeared, and you were assigned to look after him.
Before. Before you fell in love. Before the Accords. Before...
Slowly, Bucky's head lifts.
And then he looks at you.
There's nothing in his eyes, no recognition, but a compliance that sets his shoulders. His jaw. You've won. It's a victory you're not sure you'll be alive to appreciate.
In Russian, he utters. "Ready to comply."
"Get us out of here," you manage to say, with the last breath in your lungs.
The general doesn't have time to flee. No, Bucky's on him so fast he doesn't finish his scream. He uses his metal arm to pound his face into a bloody, pulpy hole, the back of his skull a watermelon rind, his brain and bones and blood turned into slush. He snaps the general's arm to grab his gun, killing the two Hydra associates nearest him before shooting the one trying to run in the back of the head. Bodies hit the floor like marionettes with their strings cut.
Then quiet. A thick, violent silence.
The Soldat, impossibly, recognizes you. Just enough. He cradles you in his arms, applying pressure to your wounds, and navigates the facility. Your vision blurs, the world rocking in and out of focus as dark spots overtake your consciousness, and then you're gone.
When you wake up, shooting upwards in some nondescript hospital room, there's screaming. It takes you a moment to realize it's you. You're wailing in agony, in terror. Everything is too bright, too much. You can't really see through the fuzziness in your head and the blur in your eyes that won't disappear.
Someone says something in a language you don't understand. A needle plunges into your arm.
His flesh hand gently petting your hair as he reads. You haven't opened your eyes yet, but you hear the soft lullaby of his voice as he reads The Hobbit. He even acts out the voices of the characters, the same way your dad used to, before he died. Because he knows it comforts you.
Your heart squeezes. You moan in pain, eyes fluttering open.
He drops the book and sobs.
Bucky's holding you before you can say a word, his arms wrapped around you as he buries his face in your shoulder and kisses every bit of skin he can reach.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs. "My baby."
You start to cry too. Wracked with guilt. Annihilated with worry. "I'm so sorry."
"You saved me," he whispers, kissing your head, your eyebrows, your cheek. "You saved me." His tears drip into your mouth. Mix with your own, like watercolor paints.
You hold each other like that for a long time, until the tears run dry. At last, he pulls back, studying your face, memorizing it.
"Where are we?" you ask, disoriented. Nothing around you identifies a place, which is confusing as all hell.
"Wakanda," Bucky answers. "It was a closer flight than New York. Steve—Cap—called in a favor. They had you in a medically induced coma, used these nanotech things to put you back together. I felt you stop breathing in my arms. If they hadn't..." He chokes back another sob, steeling himself. "I almost lost you."
"And I almost lost you," you whisper.
"I told them to put me back under," he admits.
"I thought it was the best move, to keep me from hurting anyone. From hurting you." He swallows. "But, uh, T'Challa and Ayo think they can help me. Be free of... him. For good."
He chuckles. "I don't know. But for you, baby..." He kisses your forehead again, his hand squeezing yours. "I'd do any damn thing in the world."
At Steve's behest, you go back to New York once the doctors in Wakanda give you the go-ahead. It'll take time, they said, to help Bucky, and distance will do him some good for his focus. You hate it. Every second of it. Like a piece of you is missing.
The French don't say I miss you. They say tu me manques, which translates to you are missing from me.
You feel him missing from you until the moment he comes home.
It's late when it happens. You're asleep in your room at the Avengers Compound, sometime after three in the morning. You've got one hand against Bucky's cold pillow, reaching for him in the dark in sleep, even when he's not there. After everything, you've reached a stalemate of sorts. You don't know how long the peace will last. You don't care. All you want is for Bucky to come home.
You don't stir until the bed dips. When a metal hand traces the line of your jaw, your eyes flutter open. He's there. Bearing a different arm, but the same blue eyes. Yet somehow, the azure is unburdened. Lighter.
His dog tags chime around your neck as you sit up. You're wearing his red Henley, which smells just like his cologne, wrapping around you. He notices right away, and the smile spreads across his mouth real slow, like he's got all the time in the world to look at you.
"You're home," you whisper.
"I'm home." He takes your hands in his, kissing your knuckles. "I'm yours. Just yours."
You know exactly what he means.
You're in his lap, hugging him so tightly that there isn't a part of you that isn't wrapped around him. Every inch of space vanishes as he hauls you into his arms and keeps you there, holding you delicately, like a precious stone.
"Let me lie down, baby doll," he says with a chuckle. "Hold you right."
You slide off him reluctantly.
You pout only for a moment before watching him undress, until he's down to a black tank top and his boxer briefs, which bulge even when he's soft. Though with the way you know you're looking at him, he won't stay that way. He's beautiful and strong and yours. You've got time to make up for.
He lifts the covers and slides in beside you, pulling you back against his chest, cradling you. His fingers trace your jaw with his free hand, the other supporting you. Your panties dampen, breath quickening, and he's just looking at you. Staring. Sam would call it creepy, but it's romantic. You know what his eyes are saying.
"Welcome home," you murmur.
His mouth crashes into yours.
It's a gentle kiss at first, but desperate. It's the kind of kiss that apologizes for distance and time apart. The sort of kiss that can recap and rewrite an entire love story with just the press of two mouths. He's kissing you, hands in your hair, tongue in your mouth, and then he's got you on your back.
Your fingers card through his hair, drawing him on top of you, nestled in the cradle of your hips. Your stolen shirt rides up, revealing a thin pair of cotton panties. He grinds his cock against your clothed core, and the two layers of underwear between you do little to hide just how much you've missed each other. His mouth shifts from yours, tracing your neck, your collarbones.
You pull off his tank top, and he lifts his arms happily. As you expose hot skin and ridges of muscle, your fingertips wander, following every edge of him down to the band of his boxer briefs. He shudders, moaning against your neck.
"Slow down," he chides you. "Let me savor this."
You nod, whimpering a complaint. He shakes his head, continuing his kisses. His palms slide under your shirt, over the curve of your stomach as they bunch around the hem, and then he pulls it off you.
Your bare tits are on display for him. Your panties, soaked, do little to cover you. You're completely exposed, and he looks at you like you're art. A masterpiece in a museum. Perfection.
He kneels, kissing between your breasts, following the valley, before shifting towards one nipple, teasing it with his tongue. Then, without further preamble, his mouth closes over it and sucks.
His hand comes up to your other tit, giving it the same attention as he paints your soft skin in love bites, getting your nipple hard and sensitive before moving to the other. You're sticky with his saliva by the time he's kissing down your belly, pausing to kiss the new scars from the gunshots on the last mission. Just to remind you, he thinks you're perfect even with a few dents.
He licks your hipbone and then pulls your panties down with his teeth. You lift your pelvis just enough to help him get them off, and then he pushes your legs open as wide as he can, kissing from your knee to your inner thigh, all the way up to your core. Your toes curl, hands in his hair. But then he pulls back, kissing your other leg, making you writhe, your cunt clenching and soaked. He pauses, just long enough for your breath to hitch, and then his tongue finds your clit, licking a flat stripe down your seam. You nearly fly off the bed, a broken moan falling from your lips as he traces every part of your pussy, from your clit to your needy hole. He outlines your folds, working your bundle of nerves into an oversensitive, swollen mound. He looks up at you as he sucks your clit, his fingers ghosting across your cunt before he buries two thick digits inside of you, aiming with his sniper's precision for your G-Spot.
At first, you're embarrassed by how quickly it happens, but the moan he lets out against your pussy shuts that down real quick. He keeps licking and sucking and finger-fucking you through it, scissoring his fingers inside you, devouring every drop of your desire. You cum again, all but screaming his name as his stubble rubs your inner thighs raw. He chases your high through every tremor until you're boneless.
You draw him back up to your mouth, kissing him. His lips and chin are slick with you. It's the hottest thing you've ever experienced in your life, and every time he eats you out, he reminds you.
"Thank you," he whispers. "Been dreaming about the taste of you for weeks."
"You just made me see God, and you're thanking me?" you manage to gasp.
"Not God," he corrects smugly. "Just me."
"James Buchanan Barnes, I swear to—"
He silences you with a kiss, tugging his boxers down and shucking them off in record time. You feel him gliding through your folds, thick and long. The hot length of his cock is enough to make your head spin. You gasp, shivering as he knocks the blunt head of his cock, weeping with pre-cum against your clit.
He answers you with a single thrust, splitting you open on his cock. Your head falls back against the blankets, nails digging crescent moons against his back. His balls hit your ass as he bottoms out, so deep he presses into your cervix. His metal hand closes around your lower belly, and when he pulls out and thrusts back in, he makes sure you can feel how deep he is.
How deep his love for you is.
He starts slow at first, dragging it out, rocking every inch of him back and forth into you, but then you nip at his bottom lip, and he loses his control. He takes your legs, wrapping them around his shoulders, and pile-drives you into the sheets with unbridled desire. The pressure makes your head spin, and you feel yourself getting close again.
"Come for me," he rasps as he fucks you deeper. "Wanna feel you come on my cock."
You do. As your third orgasm crashes over you, tears spring to your eyes. You're overwhelmed and so in love that it consumes you, taking you apart. He pauses, assessing. When he realizes they're good tears, he kisses them away and keeps moving, gentler, reveling in how good you feel.
He moves, sitting back against the headboard, and guides you into his lap, his cock buried deep in your weeping, oversensitive cunt. You kiss as you slowly ride him, making sure there's no space between your bodies, no place where you end and he begins. He kisses you and whispers your name like a prayer. Over and over again.
"One more," he begs. "Give me one more. Come with me, baby doll. Come on."
You don't know if you can, but you'll try. There's nothing you wouldn't do for Bucky Barnes, even if it feels impossible. He guides you up and down as your legs start to shake, and when that wave of ecstasy crests over you again, he thrusts into you one final time, and you fall over the edge together.
He spills hot ropes of his cum inside of you, moaning as you milk it out of him with the aftershocks. At last, you both lie back down, holding each other, the sheets wrecked, sweating and covered in both of your shared releases. Minutes pass. You speak without words, recovering from the exertion, the wildfire of passion.
Then, he kisses your mouth, then your forehead, and manages to find words. "You know how they freed me from... from him?"
You shake your head, waiting for him to continue.
"They had me look for my North Star in the dark and hold onto it. Suddenly, it was the easiest thing in the world."
I have raging impostor syndrome, but this was some quality writing. Had some absolute bars in there. Absolutely a blast.
