i watch a lot and i think a lot afterwards. seriously, just a girl whose invested herself in way too many franchises. i’ve got too much books in the pile yet it's just been and gonnna be me and AO3 for the foreseeable future.
the fandom wormhole i currently find myself falling in: the walking dead | game of thrones | marvel | yellowjackets | stranger things | the rookie | attack on titan
i might be a tad bit obsessed with everything daryl dixon (disregard the very late entrance to the fandom)
fanfiction lover • fanfiction writer • mature and explicit sexual content • minors respectfully get out! • i am not responsible for the media you consume • all works here are mine
I would love to take requests! Currently, my hyperfixation has been the walking dead, and subsequently am in love with anything daryl dixon. I’d write xReader, but im also down to write about my favorite ships;)
tropes i wouldn’t do | incest/familycest, snuff, extreme age gap, minorXadult, violent sexual themes, race play, daddy and little relationships, pedophilia.
.☘︎ ݁˖ the bookshelf of masterlists — open and read at your own discretion!
summary | a year after the fallout of the sokovia accords, the avengers come out of hiding and turn to nelson & murdock for legal defense. as you work alongside them, the tension between you and bucky barnes simmers—still unresolved since the night you pulled him back from the edge in berlin.
tags | (18+), MDNI, p in v sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, emotionally loaded sex, desperate sex, oral sex (f), tastefully filthy, post-civil war, canon divergence, legal drama (loosely interpreted), not legally accurate but emotionally accurate, slow burn, unresolved tension, friends to lovers, emotional intimacy, DAREDEVIL CROSSOVER, matt murdock being a protective menace, soft!bucky, angst/comfort, lots of lawyer stuff, don’t look too closely, minor!steve x reader
a/n | soooo many requests for a part two of this, so loosely based on this request. Enjoy folk
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1
divider by @cafekitsune
The storm had passed, but neither of you moved.
The warehouse around you was still—the creaks of its old bones quieter now, softened by the hush of early morning pressing against its walls. Somewhere beyond the steel and brick, the world kept spinning. But in here, in this makeshift room, time had slowed.
Bucky hadn’t said much since.
Not out of shame, not even guilt. Just… stillness. Like everything inside him had finally gone quiet.
You didn’t know how long you lay there. You didn’t care.
His body was still pressed to yours, skin warm, breath slow, steady now. At some point, you shifted slightly, your head tucked against his shoulder, one of his arms snug around your waist. The other lay across your back, vibranium fingers resting gently at your spine like he was afraid to let go—even in sleep.
Or whatever this was.
You didn’t know if he was fully asleep. You weren’t sure if you were, either.
You just… existed. Together.
And it was enough.
The room was dark save for the weak amber glow of an old light strip still clinging to life in the hallway. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was earned. The kind of silence that came only after something had cracked open.
Every so often, you’d shift, and his arms would tighten around you instinctively. Protective. Grounded. Like he still needed to know you were real.
You ran your fingers gently along the nape of his neck, brushing through his hair, and whispered soft things you didn’t need him to remember—just things you needed him to feel.
“I’m still here,” you breathed.
And he exhaled, long and low, his face pressing into your shoulder.
You didn’t know where your body ended and his began.
All you knew was that you were wrapped in each other, and that for the first time in what must’ve been years… he slept without fear.
────────────────────────
The soft blue wash of morning light filtered through the cracked windows as you slowly began to dress.
Your limbs moved on instinct, your body still humming with the aftermath of last night—not just the sex, but everything that came with it. The breaking. The rebuilding. The silence that wasn’t empty anymore.
His gaze was heavy—not hungry like before, but quiet, almost forlorn. Like every inch you put between you and the mattress carved a little more out of him.
You paused to pull your jeans up over your hips and glanced at him, and he was still watching.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, jeans tugged back into place but still shirtless, elbows resting on his thighs, fingers laced. He watched you like you were already gone.
You paused, gave him a soft look. “Hey.”
His eyes flicked up.
“You okay?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Just gave the smallest nod. A lie, but not one you’d call out.
You pulled your shirt over your head, not bothering to fix the buttons just yet. Bucky finally moved, reaching slowly for his own shirt, tugging it down over his chest. He moved like someone whose body felt heavier today. You didn’t push. You let the silence wrap around the both of you again.
Then—voices.
Faint, at first. Outside.
You stood instinctively, moving toward the warehouse’s main entrance, brushing your fingers against Bucky’s shoulder as you passed—just a soft press. “Be right back.”
He looked like he wanted to say something.
But he didn’t.
────────────────────────
You stepped out into the chill, pulling your shirt tighter around your body, still half-buttoned from earlier. The wind carried the rustle of boots, the clink of gear, and quiet voices—tones you recognized even before you saw the faces.
Steve.
Sam.
And not just them.
Clint Barton stood to one side, squinting against the light like he hadn't slept. Wanda lingered near him, arms crossed, her posture at ease but eyes sharp as ever. And then there was a man you didn’t recognize—nervous, fidgeting, trying too hard not to.
“Oh, great,” you said, loud enough to carry. “I thought you were retired.”
Clint grinned. “I was. Then the world wouldn’t stop spinning without me.”
You snorted.
The stranger stepped forward next, hand extended. “Hi! Uh—Scott. Scott Lang. Ant-Man.”
You blinked. “Ant… what?”
“Ant-Man,” he said again, more sheepish this time. “It’s fine, you probably haven’t—uh, it’s complicated.”
You gave a small, puzzled smile, still reaching to shake his hand as you introduced himself.
Scott blinked, “Attorney like lawyer attorney.*
You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
Scott gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh thank god. Do you… have a card or something? I have a feeling I’m gonna need legal help after this.”
Your eyebrows lifted, but you reached into your bag and handed him one anyway.
“I like you already,” he added, tucking it into his pocket with too much care.
“Try not to get arrested, then.”
He gave a nervous laugh. “No promises.”
Steve had been watching from a few steps away. Now he moved toward you, expression tight with everything he couldn’t say. He looked tired in a way you hadn’t seen before—like the kind of tired that lived behind his eyes.
“Thanks for looking after him,” he said quietly.
You nodded. “Of course.”
But he just stood there, gaze lingering, and suddenly he looked younger somehow—less like Captain America, and more like the boy from Brooklyn you’d first met years ago.
Without thinking, you stepped forward, arms wrapping around his middle. He held you tight, his chin resting briefly against your hair.
“You sure you’re okay?” you asked, voice muffled in his jacket.
“No,” he said simply. “But I’ve got to be.”
You pulled back slowly, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Be careful, Steve. Please.”
“I always try,” he said, too lightly. Then, more sincerely, “You should go back to New York. Before this gets worse.”
Behind you, Sam appeared with his usual dry grin, clapping you on the back.
Behind you, there was a pause.
Sam wrapped an arm around your shoulders, warm and easy. “Glad to see he didn't burn the place down.”
“Really missed your charming optimism, Sam,” you said dryly.
“I’m gonna pretend that’s not sarcasm.”
“You do that.”
And then you felt it.
Eyes.
You turned—
And there he was.
Bucky stood in the doorway, fully dressed, stiff in the shoulders like he was bracing for impact. His jaw was tight, his arms stiff at his sides, as if even existing around other people took work.
But it was his eyes that struck you.
Not blank. Not lost.
Just… guarded. And something else. Something small and aching curled behind them.
The light hit him in that strange, soft way—dust curling through it like a veil between you. Like last night had been a hallucination, and now he was slowly retreating back into whatever shadows he’d crawled out of.
You stepped toward him, slow, like approaching a wounded animal. For a breath, you thought he might back away.
But he didn’t.
You stopped just short of touching, voice quiet. “I guess this is it.”
He didn’t answer.
His eyes searched yours with something close to panic—not sharp, not loud. Just quiet, restrained apprehension. Like his body knew you were leaving before his mind caught up.
And then—you moved.
Without hesitation, you stepped in and wrapped your arms around his neck.
No preface. No invitation.
Just the steady press of your cheek against his shoulder, your heartbeat open against his chest.
He froze.
Just for a second.
And then—he folded around you.
One arm slid around your waist, the other lifting to the back of your neck, his palm splayed flat against your hair. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t pull back.
He held you.
Not loosely. Not politely.
Fully. Fiercely.
As if his body knew how to stay when his mind didn’t.
Sam made a low sound, almost a whistle. “Well… ain't that something.”
Steve stood a step back, face drawn tight, watching—his eyes didn’t narrow, but they didn’t blink either.
You pulled back slowly, just enough to look up at Bucky.
“You’ll be okay,” you whispered.
Still, no words.
But his arms stayed locked around your waist.
You shifted, tried to step back.
And that’s when he grabbed you.
His arms tightened—one quick, almost frantic pulse—and before you could guess what was happening, his hand came to your jaw and he kissed you.
Right there.
In front of everyone.
You let out a small, stunned sound against his mouth, hands flattening against his chest—caught between the instinct to pull him closer and the need to stop him.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was desperate.
Like he was pouring every last thing he didn’t know how to say into you. Like if he could just press hard enough, stay close enough, it might change what came next.
Eventually, you had to break it.
You pulled back, breath caught in your throat, your cheeks burning.
He looked down at you, eyes heavy and sad, lips slightly parted like he’d already regretted it—but wouldn’t take it back.
You stared at him, then past him.
And couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.
You just… turned.
And walked away.
Every step felt like your skin didn’t fit right anymore. Like something inside you was fraying.
Because Bucky’s need wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t even about you, not really.
It was survival.
And now it sat heavy in your chest—because whatever happened last night, however real it had felt in the dark, it was suddenly too complicated in the light.
And you couldn’t help but feel like you’d taken something he wasn’t ready to give.
────────────────────────
By the time you made it back to Hell’s Kitchen, the sun had long since dipped behind the rooftops, and the office was its usual brand of organized chaos—papers stacked on every surface, the smell of burnt coffee lingering in the air, and four overworked friends pretending they weren’t a little bit in love with the mess.
You were leaning against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, scanning the top page of a police report with your glasses pushed up on your head. Foggy was pacing near the window, chewing on the cap of a pen like it owed him money. Matt sat in his chair, fingers steepled, listening as Karen flipped through another file.
“He’s claiming excessive force,” Karen said, voice even but skeptical. “But the responding officer was a foot shorter and eighty pounds lighter.”
“So,” you said, arching a brow, “a minor traffic violation turns into a broken nose and four cracked ribs, and that’s the story we’re running with?”
Matt gave a tiny shake of his head. “There’s video. Grainy, but enough to show the officer wasn’t the aggressor.”
Foggy stopped pacing, waving the pen. “Which means we either settle or poke holes in the narrative until someone blinks.”
You leaned over to grab another file, muttering, “God forbid we ever have a client who tells the truth.”
Karen snorted. “What fun would that be?”
“See, that’s why she gets paid the big bucks,” Foggy said, raising his coffee in salute. “Our legal assassin.”
You opened your mouth to say something equally smart-assed, but Karen beat you to it.
“Well, she does have experience with super soldiers.”
Your pen froze mid-note.
The room stalled, just for a second. Like the punchline hadn't landed—or maybe had landed too well.
You didn’t look up right away. Just capped your pen slowly, deliberately.
Foggy blinked. “Wait—like Captain America super soldier?”
“No,” you said calmly, still not meeting anyone’s eye. “I did not sleep with Captain America.”
Then you did look up—right at Karen, who had the decency to look stricken. You tilted your head. “That was said in confidence. Over Chinese food. And wine.”
Karen winced. “I thought Matt knew!”
“I didn’t,” Matt said quietly, not judgmental exactly, but there was a shift in the air. A subtle tightening.
Karen rushed to explain. “I thought she told you about the Bucky Barnes.”
Foggy made a small choking noise. “Wait—so, hold on. The Winter Soldier? That guy with the metal arm and murder eyes? You slept with—?”
You raised a hand. “Foggy.”
He shut his mouth with a sheepish grin.
You turned back to Matt, who hadn’t said anything else. His jaw was tight, unreadable behind those glasses. You could feel his attention like a weight.
“Just because we grew up together doesn’t mean we tell each other everything,” you said lightly, but the air had cooled.
Karen looked like she wanted to crawl under the table. Foggy was half-shocked, half-impressed.
But Matt… he didn’t say a word.
Not at first.
When he did speak, it was quiet. “You told me you were going to Berlin for a few days,” he said. “You said it was personal.”
You didn’t blink. “It was.”
He tilted his head slightly, brows drawn. “You went to help Captain America.”
You sighed through your nose, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table. “I did help Steve.”
There was a beat.
Then, without warning, his voice cut sharper than you expected.
“And in what universe did you think sleeping with an international war criminal was a smart decision?”
The room froze.
Foggy blinked. Karen stopped mid-sip of her coffee. The air between the four of you shifted so fast it was like the ground tilted.
You set your pen down carefully. “Are you serious right now?”
“I’m dead serious,” Matt said, crossing his arms. “That wasn’t just reckless—it was stupid. He’s unstable. He’s dangerous. And you—what in your right mind would make you do that?”
You scoffed, leaning forward now. “Wow. Okay. Are you shaming me, Matthew?”
“I’m trying to understand what part of this sounded okay in your head,” he snapped, voice rising just a notch. “He's a man that has just come out of severe brainwashing and you—what, thought it was a good time to sleep with him?”
Karen flinched. Foggy stood, trying to wedge a word in.
“Matt—come on, man—”
But Matt wasn’t finished.
“I knew helping Rogers was already a stretch,” he continued, ignoring the interruption. “But this? You’re a lawyer. You’ve seen what men like Barnes do in your cases. You know what it looks like when someone isn’t capable of giving consent.”
That hit you in the chest like a blow.
You stood.
“You think I don’t know that?” you snapped, voice sharp now. “You think I haven’t been thinking about that every hour since I left him?”
Karen stepped between you, hands up. “Guys—hey, hey—”
But Matt didn’t back off. “Then what were you doing? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” you said, trembling now—not from sadness, but indignation—“that I’d never seen someone look more afraid to be alive. I was thinking that he needed someone to treat him like a human being for once in his goddamn life.”
Foggy stood as well, voice low but firm. “This is not the time.”
But the air was already too thick with everything that had gone unsaid for years.
Matt shook his head slowly. “He’s not your responsibility.”
“No,” you said bitterly. “But neither were you at Saint Agnes. And that never stopped me.”
Silence.
Even the hum of the old radiator seemed to hush itself.
Then the TV flickered—static for a second—before the volume kicked in. The newsroom anchor’s voice, flat and grim, broke the silence that had followed your argument with Matt.
“…former Avengers Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson are confirmed to be in hiding following a classified prison break from the Raft—a maximum-security facility designed for enhanced individuals. The prison housed members of the rogue Avengers detained after the Leipzig airport incident in Germany.”
You stiffened.
The anchor continued as footage played—blurry helicopter shots of the ocean-bound Raft. Steel, water, storm.
“Security footage has not been released to the public, but officials confirm the breakout was staged by none other than Rogers himself. The former Captain America is now considered a fugitive by the United Nations, alongside Wilson and others believed to be aiding him.”
Karen lowered her coffee slowly, frowning.
“Sources also indicate that James Buchanan Barnes—known as the Winter Soldier—was not housed at the Raft, but is considered armed and internationally wanted. Barnes was last seen with Rogers in Siberia and is now suspected to have fled with him. Their current whereabouts remain unknown.”
The words blurred.
The room receded.
Because you weren’t hearing the anchor anymore—you were hearing Steve.
“I don’t think this’ll end well.”
You had heard the resignation in his voice when he’d said it—like he was already bracing for the fallout. Like he already knew.
And now it was here.
Karen’s voice was a soft whisper beside you. “Oh God.”
You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
Matt didn’t say anything. His jaw was still tight, and you could feel his scrutiny like a second pulse under your skin.
But he wasn’t the one you were listening for anymore.
You gathered your files and walked toward the door, brushing past them all with a quiet, “Let me know if we're filing,” before stepping out into the hallway.
Karen looked at you like she wanted to say something—but didn’t. Foggy rubbed a hand over his face, sinking down into his chair with a pained groan. “Wow. That was… hilariously bad timing.”
And Matt… just sat there.
Arms crossed.
Jaw set.
Still convinced he was right.
And not feeling any better for it.
1 Year Later
Nelson & Murdock, Hell's Kitchen — Late Morning
The debate in the cramped office was escalating fast.
“You’re missing the point,” you said flatly, flipping the case file closed. “We’re not here to do what feels morally correct. We’re here to win.”
Matt’s head tilted, his brows knitting in that quiet, exasperated way of his. “It’s not about morality. It’s about precedent. If we push this—”
You cut in, calm but curt. “We let landlords in this city get away with enough. I’m not handing them another loophole.”
Karen raised her voice gently, trying to stem the friction. “Maybe we take five—”
You turned her way. “I’m not asking for much, just once—just once—to have one of you on my side.”
Karen put her hands up. “I’m not siding with anyone!”
“Right because you're always playing referee.“
“I’m not playing anything,” she replied, shoulders tensing.
You turned to Foggy, who had been suspiciously quiet.
“Don’t even try to claim neutrality. You always back him.”
“I do not—” Foggy began, already knowing he was beat.
You held up a finger. “You backed him on the parole hearing for that mob accountant who had bodies in three boroughs. You backed him when we took on the Russian construction union—without confirming who was financing them. Hell, you backed him on the Diaz brothers appeal and that guy confessed twice.”
Foggy winced. “That was one time.”
“Three,” you corrected, “It was three times, Foggy.“
The debate had just hit a simmer when the door creaked open.
Karen froze mid-sentence. Her eyes widened. “Oh my god.”
You turned, already sensing something was off—and then your breath caught.
Four figures stepped inside. No one said a word.
Steve Rogers. Natasha Romanoff. Sam Wilson. And James Buchanan Barnes.
All stood just inside the office. Not armored. Not armed. But carrying the weight of a hundred headlines and a year of silence.
Steve stood just inside the doorway, not in the uniform, but unmistakably Captain America. His jaw was a little tighter, with a beard now, but the way he held himself—calm, decisive, eyes scanning the room with practiced awareness—hadn’t changed.
Beside him, Sam Wilson, cool and watchful. Natasha Romanoff, all composed silence and lethal grace, and now… blonde. And then—
Bucky Barnes.
Long hair tucked behind his ears, jaw shadowed with a thick beard, dressed in black. His presence was quiet but sharp—like the air changed around him. His eyes, slate blue and piercing, found yours and held there. He didn’t blink.
You didn’t meet his gaze.
You shifted focus—to Steve.
Matt, from behind the desk, tilted his head. His senses picked up the weight in the air—the loaded silence, the tightened heartbeats, the shift in everyone’s posture.
Foggy, stunned, leaned toward Matt and muttered under his breath, “Uh—Cap, The Falcon, Black Widow, and the Winter Soldier just walked into our office.”
Matt didn’t even flinch. “I figured,” he said quietly. “That’s a lot of boots.”
Steve stepped forward, voice steady. “We need counsel.”
Natasha’s eyes flicked toward you. “And we're here for your help.”
You were still standing by the table, arms folded tightly. “That’s a long way to travel for a consultation.”
“We’re trying to re-enter the world,” Steve said. “We want to do it the right way.”
Karen finally found her voice. “I thought you were fugitives.”
“We are,” Sam said, with a small shrug. “Just figured maybe it was time to try something less dramatic.”
You looked at Matt—because it was still his firm.
Matt turned his face slightly toward the sound of Steve’s voice, his expression unreadable. “With all due respect… you’re not exactly the kind of clients we’re licensed—or funded—to represent. You’re under international surveillance, and we’re a neighborhood firm in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“We’re not asking for a full legal team,” Steve said. “We’re asking for her.”
Matt’s jaw ticked subtly.
His hands folded on the desk, his expression unreadable behind his dark lenses.
“Our jurisdiction doesn’t cover what you’ve been accused of,” he said, addressing Steve directly, though his words encompassed all four fugitives. “We handle housing evictions. Police misconduct. Petty criminal defense. What you’re asking for isn’t just risky—it’s out of our league.”
Bucky hadn’t said a word since stepping inside. But you could feel his gaze—hot, weighty, locked on you like gravity. You kept your expression neutral, your eyes on Matt.
“They’re not walking into any firm uptown,” you said, arms crossed. “And every second they stay on the run, they look guiltier. You know that.”
Matt nodded slowly—measured, cautious. “Then give us a minute.”
Steve gave a slight nod in return.
Without another word, Matt motioned toward the hallway. You, Foggy, and Karen followed him into his office, the door clicking shut behind you.
────────────────────────
The second the door closed, you rounded on Matt.
“This is the part where you tell me we’re turning down Captain goddamn America?”
Matt didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just about Steve.”
“No. It’s about people who tried to do the right thing and were burned by bureaucracy.”
Matt stepped closer, voice low, deliberate. “It’s about us being a three-person law firm in Hell’s Kitchen with no security, no resources, and no international immunity. Do you have any idea what taking this case means?”
“Yes,” you snapped. “It means we actually do something that matters.”
He lifted his chin slightly. “We’d be standing against the United Nations. Against General Thaddeus Ross. Against the Sokovia Accords.”
You leaned in. “Which, by the way, are unconstitutional. Half the legal scholars in the country are already saying it.”
“And half the world signed on,” Matt countered. “Which makes it binding. These aren’t small charges. This is global policy.”
Karen stepped between you both, her palms lifted. “Okay, let’s all take a breath—”
“Karen,” you said, exasperated. “We do not need referee again.”
Foggy raised his hand, hesitant. “Not to interrupt, but… guys, I don’t think the walls are that thick.”
A beat.
Then— Sam's voice called from the other room.
“He’s right.”
You closed your eyes and sighed.
Matt dropped his voice, almost a whisper. “You’ve got history with Rogers,” Matt said evenly. “You’re not objective.”
You met his gaze, cold steel behind your eyes. “Don’t—”
“Are you doing this for them?” Matt pressed. “Or for us?”
A pause.
“For us,” you said finally. No hesitation. “Because if this firm stands for anything—if we really mean all that justice-for-the-voiceless rhetoric—then we don’t walk away when it gets hard.”
Matt stared at you. Silent.
Karen moved closer, her voice softer. “If we don’t help them… who will?”
Another silence.
Outside, the scrape of boots on the wood floor. Maybe someone pacing. Waiting.
Finally, Matt nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.
“Then we do this carefully.”
────────────────────────
The door to Matt’s office creaked open and the four of you re-emerged, expressions tight and unreadable. The air in the main room was still thick with silence, though Sam leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a knowing grin.
“Let me guess,” he said lightly. “That was the ‘don’t take this case’ speech?”
Foggy gave a small shrug. “More like a group therapy session with legal consequences.”
Matt stepped forward, composed, and focused entirely on Steve. “There are serious risks here. For all of us. This isn’t one case. It’s two.”
He turned to the group at large, folding his hands over his midsection. “One is the Sokovia Accords. The legality of operating as enhanced individuals without government oversight. Violating international protocol, fleeing detainment, staging a breakout at a maximum security prison. That alone could get you extradited.”
He shifted slightly, his tone measured. “The second is Barnes.”
You felt it before Matt even said it.
“Everything the Winter Soldier did under Hydra’s control—assassinations, covert destabilizations, attacks on U.S. soil. That’s a separate case. Separate charges. Separate legal challenges.”
Bucky, who had remained still near the wall, barely reacted—but his jaw flexed, just slightly.
Matt continued, voice low and clinical. “Legally, emotionally, those two cases need to be separated. Treated with different strategies.”
You nodded once, slowly. “Makes sense.”
Matt turned to you, expression unreadable behind the dark lenses. “You’ll take the Sokovia case. With Karen.”
You blinked. “Matt—”
“—I’ll oversee Barnes’ case,” Matt said. “Foggy and I can manage the prep, the research, the filings.”
There was a beat. Just long enough for the subtext to land.
You knew why he’d made the call.
Because of Berlin.
You didn’t argue.
You just nodded. “Fine.”
Karen glanced between you both, clearly picking up on the tension, but said nothing.
Steve spoke up. “We trust you. All of you.”
Matt nodded once. “Then we’ll need everything. Every detail. Nothing sealed. Nothing omitted.”
Natasha, quiet until now, gave a faint, dry smile. “You’re going to be real popular in Washington.”
Matt didn’t return it. “I’m used to being unpopular.”
Your eyes flicked—briefly—to Bucky. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But he was still watching you.
You turned back to the team. “Alright. Let’s get to work.”
────────────────────────
Two Months Later
The old television bolted to the corner of the wall crackled with static before clearing into focus—just in time for the morning news anchor to smile with the smugness of someone who knows they’re about to deliver the most interesting story of the week.
“In a move that’s turning heads across the country—and sending the internet into overdrive—Captain America, Black Widow, and the Falcon have officially stepped out of hiding.“
You looked up from your case notes. Karen froze with her hand half-dipped into a bag of bagels. Foggy leaned in.
“Two days ago, in a move that surprised just about everyone, former Avengers Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam Wilson appeared at the Federal Court of Appeals in Washington D.C., accompanied by their legal representation from—get this—a small, previously low-profile law firm operating out of Hell’s Kitchen.”
The image cut to grainy footage of you, Matt, Foggy, and Karen flanking the group like a mismatched legal cavalry.
“Nelson & Murdock, previously known for representing low-income residents and suing city contractors for asbestos violations, now finds itself at the helm of the most closely watched legal proceedings since the Accords were signed. The defendants, who include Rogers and Romanoff, are seeking to challenge the legality of the Sokovia Accords themselves…”
The anchor’s tone shifted slightly, eyes flicking to the teleprompter.
“…and yes, among them is James Buchanan Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, whose history as a Hydra operative makes this not just a case of civil liberties—but of reckoning with war crimes. His charges, we’re told, are being handled separately by the same firm.”
The screen showed Bucky stepping out of a black SUV, flanked by Matt and you. His eyes were cast downward. Yours weren’t.
“Their lawyers declined to comment, but sources close to the case say the team has already begun mounting a complex dual defense—one tackling international law, the other psychological trauma under state-sponsored manipulation. It’s ambitious. Whether Nelson & Murdock are brilliant… or just insane? Time will tell.”
Matt muted the screen with the remote.
A beat.
No one said anything for a long moment.
“Brilliant or insane,” you murmured. “Could be both.”
Foggy popped a cold fry into his mouth. “Leaning toward insane.”
Karen smiled tightly, but her eyes were distant. “You know what this means, right? If we lose… this isn’t just bad press. It’s over. For the firm.”
You leaned back in your chair, the glow of the TV soft against your skin. “Then we don’t lose.”
────────────────────────
The hum of conversation and typing filled the small legal office, broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair or the tired sigh of someone realizing they’d reread the same sentence for the third time.
Karen sat beside you at the center table, files on the Sokovia Accords spread open like a battlefield between you. Natasha leaned against the window sill, unreadable as always, arms crossed. Sam paced behind his chair, restless energy rolling off him like heat. Steve sat back, quiet but alert, his gaze following every word exchanged like a chessboard in motion.
“Paragraph twelve, subsection four,” Karen muttered. “The clause on oversight jurisdiction contradicts itself. It mandates UN supervision but assigns implementation to national governments.”
You blew a slow breath through your nose. “That’s either an oversight or a trap. Both are bad.”
“Welcome to international policy,” Natasha drawled, not looking up.
Sam made a low noise in his throat. “Well, joke’s on them.”
From beyond the glass wall of Matt’s office, another voice filtered through—rougher, heavier. Bucky’s.
“No. I don’t remember the name. He was wearing a blue ring, I think. Target was in Warsaw. Hydra flagged them as a threat to... something.”
Foggy’s voice followed, steady but gentle. “You’re doing fine, Bucky. Just talk us through what you remember, even if it’s fragments.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Matt’s voice, calm but firm. “And the handlers? The ones who triggered you—how often did they use the code?”
“It varied,” Bucky said. “If I resisted... more.”
You glanced toward the frosted glass separating the rooms. Bucky was a vague shape on the other side, head down, broad shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the chair. Matt stood opposite him, arms folded, Foggy sitting nearby with a yellow legal pad already half-filled in cramped handwriting.
“He’s been in there for two hours,” Karen said softly, reading your look.
“He’s cooperating,” Steve murmured. “But it’s not easy. I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.”
Back in your office, you flipped another page in the Accords briefing. Your fingers were starting to cramp.
“The entire structure of this thing is meant to constrain,” you muttered. “They want to turn the Avengers into government employees. And if they refuse, it’s jail. Or worse.”
“They tried that,” Sam muttered. “Didn’t work out for them.”
Karen leaned back and scrubbed a hand down her face. “We’re going in circles.”
“No,” you said, “we’re dancing around landmines.”
Another silence.
Karen stood abruptly. “Okay, this isn’t working. We’re all burned out. We need a break.”
You blinked, half in protest. “Karen—”
“You’re losing your mind over there, I’ve read the same paragraph three times, and Steve looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices.” She pointed at the door. “I’m declaring a recess.”
From the other end of the table, Steve raised an eyebrow. “Recess?”
“Josie’s,” she clarified. “We go, we drink, we breathe. Otherwise one of us is going to snap and file a motion to burn the Accords in front of the UN.”
Romanoff arched a sleek brow. “What’s Josie’s?”
You didn’t look up as you gathered the pages into a pile. “A dive bar two blocks from here. Sticky floors, strong drinks. A Hell’s Kitchen classic.”
Sam grinned. “Sold.”
Karen poked her head into Matt’s office. “We’re going for drinks. You’re coming. No debate.”
Matt looked up, eyebrow raised. “Karen—”
“Even you need a break,” she insisted, voice lighter but not asking. “And Foggy, if you don’t close that legal pad in the next five seconds I’m stealing it.”
Foggy blinked like he’d surfaced from a fog. “Wait, what?”
Matt sighed, then turned toward Bucky. “Do you want to come?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. His gaze slid over to you—just for a second—then back to the floor. But he gave a quiet nod.
“Alright,” Matt said. “Josie’s it is.”
────────────────────────
The moment the eight of you stepped into Josie’s, the entire bar went still.
It was almost cinematic—the way conversation halted mid-sentence, pool cues hovered mid-shot, and every pint glass seemed to freeze just before reaching someone’s lips.
Only it wasn’t you they were looking at.
Their eyes went right past you to the four figures just behind.
The tension was immediate. You could feel it like static against your skin.
You squinted at the crowd and snapped, “What.”
It came out sharper than you meant—but effective. Just like that, everyone returned to their drinks and conversations, like they hadn’t just seen literal war criminals walk into their local dive bar.
You sighed, stepped inside, and motioned toward the back booth like it was any other Thursday night.
“Same rules apply,” you murmured over your shoulder. “No starting bar fights. No interrogating anyone mid-darts game.”
Sam let out a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t planning on it, but now I’m curious.”
“Don’t be,” Foggy muttered. “That guy with the dart tattoo takes it really seriously.”
Karen nudged him, leading the way toward the booth. “Come on, Captain America. Let’s see how you do in a place where the floor sticks and nobody salutes you.”
Steve offered a faint smile, clearly trying to pretend he didn’t just make a dozen patrons sweat through their flannel shirts. “Sounds...refreshing.”
Bucky didn’t say anything. He followed silently, but you could feel his presence behind you—like gravity. Like heat.
You settled into the booth first, flanked by Karen and Foggy. Matt slid in next, followed by Steve and Natasha on the far side. Sam pulled up a chair. Bucky remained standing a moment too long, then finally sank into the seat next to Matt—putting the maximum amount of physical space between you.
Your stomach twisted, just briefly.
You didn’t look at him.
Karen raised a hand for Josie. “Eight whiskeys. Don’t ask.”
Josie nodded from behind the bar, unfazed as ever.
“You bring a circus, I serve a circus,” she called. “Just don’t bleed on the floor.”
────────────────────────
At some point, you’d drifted. The laughter around the booth was distant now—Karen leaning into Natasha as the former recounted some mildly incriminating story, Sam egging on Steve about a round of darts he absolutely didn’t want to play. Matt was nursing his drink with that subtle tightness in his jaw he always wore in crowded spaces.
You slipped away, needing a minute, and ended up at the bar under the flickering light that buzzed like it was dying. The wood beneath your elbows was sticky, familiar. Comforting, in a weird, grimy way.
A moment later, Foggy appeared beside you, sliding his hand onto the bar as he leaned. “I come bearing a noble quest.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Refills?”
“Exactly.” He grinned. “Whiskey times eight. Josie’s gonna love us.”
As Josie started lining up the glasses, you glanced sideways. “How’s your case coming along?”
Foggy made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Difficult. Bucky’s… not great at giving detail. He gives you one name, two dates, and then he goes quiet like he’s talking through glass.”
You nodded, unsurprised.
“But,” he added, tipping his head toward you with a knowing look, “also distracted. Like, flinch-at-the-sound-of-your-voice distracted.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I’m serious,” he said, grabbing one of the glasses, inspecting it before sliding it back down. “Anytime you walk into a room? His eyes snap to you like a moth to a flame. It’s kind of… sad, actually. Those big, quiet eyes practically begging you to look at him.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” he insisted, still in that frustratingly calm Foggy way. “I thought maybe I was imagining it, but after the fifth time I caught him zoning out mid-sentence because you walked past the hallway? It’s a pattern.”
You stared ahead, lips pressing into a thin line.
“My client,” you said after a beat, “is Steve. Natasha. Sam. I work on the Sokovia side of this mess. Bucky’s—” your voice dropped, “—not my responsibility.”
“No,” Foggy said slowly, “but you are avoiding him. And don’t tell me you’re not.”
You ran a hand over your face and muttered under your breath, “If you haven’t noticed, I have a very big, very real Matt-shaped fence around me any time I’m in the same room as Barnes.”
Foggy winced sympathetically. “Yeah… he does kind of hover.”
“Hover?” you echoed with a hollow laugh. “He treats me like I’m going to spontaneously combust if I so much as sit next to the guy.”
Foggy didn’t say anything at first. Then: “You don’t look like you want to combust.”
You were about to say something—something not entirely wise, maybe—but Foggy beat you to it, glancing over your shoulder with a quiet hush.
“Cap's on his way over here,” he murmured. “And he looks like a man on a mission.”
You turned just enough to catch the tall figure weaving through the crowd, eyes set squarely on you.
Foggy grabbed six of the whiskey glasses Josie had just lined up, balancing them with both arms like a bartender with something to prove. “I’ll leave you two with these,” he said, nodding toward the final pair left on the bar, “and, uh, good luck.”
You didn’t reply—just watched as he maneuvered his way back to the table like he was handling a tray of grenades.
And then Steve slid onto the barstool next to you. Quiet. Steady.
He didn’t say anything at first, just folded his hands loosely on the bartop, his presence as familiar as it was grounding.
“Hi,” you murmured, not looking directly at him as you nursed your drink.
He gave that small, sincere smile. The one that never failed to remind you why you'd once entertained the idea of something more.
“I know this is putting a strain on you,” he said finally. His voice was low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I just wanted to thank you—for helping us. Again.”
You scoffed lightly, your tone flippant by design. “You know I’d do anything for you, Steve.”
But you kept your eyes on your drink. It was easier that way. Easier than meeting those too-blue eyes and seeing all the history sitting inside them.
“I don’t take that lightly,” he said after a pause. “I never have.”
You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.
The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward—but it was full. With things neither of you had ever said out loud. With everything you’d been, everything you almost were, and everything you now couldn’t afford to be.
Steve shifted slightly. “You’ve changed.”
That caught you off guard. You turned, just enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye.
“In a good way,” he added quickly. “Stronger. Sharper.”
You snorted. “Or maybe just tired.”
He smiled, but there was a flicker of something behind it. Regret, maybe. Recognition. You didn’t ask.
“You ever think about what things might’ve looked like... if this all hadn’t happened?”
His voice was barely above a murmur, heavy with something unspoken. The kind of question that didn’t ask for an answer, not really—but still lingered between you, expectant and fragile.
You didn’t look at him right away. Just shook your head slowly, the corners of your mouth twitching in something like a sad smile.
“It probably would’ve been the same,” you said quietly. “You asking me for help... and me helping you. Without hesitation.”
Your eyes met his then—soft, sure. Unflinching.
“Just like now.”
Steve’s expression didn’t shift immediately, but something in his posture relaxed.
“Nothing more,” you added, voice gentler this time. “Nothing less.”
For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. That familiar Captain instinct flickering just behind his eyes—always reaching for something better, something fuller.
But he didn’t.
Because he knew you meant it.
────────────────────────
The office was unusually quiet for a Wednesday.
Karen had gone out to meet a contact. Foggy was holed up in the back with a stack of transcripts, headphones in. And Matt—Matt was gone, off doing whatever it was he did when he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.
You were at your desk, sorting through notes on the Sokovia filings, when you heard the soft shuffle of boots against hardwood.
You glanced up.
Bucky stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Not cold—never cold—but hesitant, like he was walking into enemy territory and wasn’t sure if he’d make it out the other side.
Your heart stuttered, but you masked it with a carefully neutral look. “Need something from Foggy?”
He shook his head, slow. “No.”
You set your pen down.
The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was brittle. Like one wrong word would crack the whole thing wide open.
Bucky took a few steps in. Close enough that you could see the faint bags under his eyes, fading but still present. A leftover from whatever truth he’d had to drag out in testimony.
His voice, when he spoke, was low. Rough around the edges like gravel. “Why won’t you talk to me?”
The question hung in the air.
You stared at him for a beat too long. You’d imagined this—this exact moment—so many times. And somehow, the real thing still knocked the air out of your lungs.
“I do talk to you,” you said, too quickly. “We’ve had conversations.”
He didn’t flinch. “Brief ones.”
You hesitated. Then stood, slowly, placing your hands on the edge of the desk like it might steady you.
“I didn’t think you wanted to,” you said finally, quietly.
“That’s not true,” Bucky said. “You know that’s not true.”
He took another step in, but didn’t crowd you. Never that.
“You used to look at me,” he said. “Back in Berlin. You saw me. Not the ghost. Not the asset. Me.”
Your throat tightened.
“I haven’t changed,” he said, a little more broken now. “Not really. But you… it’s like I became someone you’re not allowed to be alone with.”
Your mouth opened, then closed.
There it was.
The thing you’d been avoiding. Not because you didn’t want to face it—but because you already had. Night after night. Every time you saw his eyes find you across the room and forced yourself to look away.
“I didn’t want to make things harder,” you said, voice almost a whisper.
“For who?” he asked. Not angry—just quietly devastated.
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because if you did—if you opened your mouth—you were afraid of what might come out. And there was already too much unsaid between you to risk making it worse.
Bucky took one more step closer, slow and tentative. Like a man approaching something sacred. “I need to know, did I… did I do something wrong? That night?”
Your breath caught.
Your whole body stilled.
“No,” you said, almost too fast. “No. You didn’t.”
He blinked, eyes narrowing slightly with confusion and something sharper—pain. “Then why do you look at me like it was a mistake?”
You turned away, suddenly unable to hold the weight of his gaze. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, trying to ground yourself. But your voice cracked as you spoke.
“Because I think I made a mistake.”
You heard him shift, barely a sound, but you could feel the air change between you. “What mistake?”
“I think I… took advantage of you.”
The words hit the room like a punch. You didn’t look at him—you couldn’t. You stared at the stack of case files on your desk, eyes burning.
“You were… not okay, Bucky. You were still half-lost, barely holding on. I kissed you to stop a panic attack, not because I thought we—God, I didn’t think. I just acted. And then you kissed me back, and it felt like if I pulled away you’d shatter and—” you cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “And I let it happen. I let it go too far.”
A beat of silence.
Then another.
Then his voice, lower than you’d ever heard it. “You think that’s what that night was?”
You turned, finally.
He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to fall apart or hold himself together.
“That night,” he said slowly, “was the first time I felt human again.”
You stared at him.
“The first time someone touched me like I wasn’t dangerous,” he continued, breath catching. “Like I wasn’t something to be handled, or feared, or fixed. You kissed me and I—” his voice broke, “—I didn’t know what it meant, or how long it would last, but I held on to it. For a year. In Wakanda. Every morning, I thought about you.”
Your heart ached.
“I don’t know what it is I feel for you,” he admitted, shoulders taut, “but it’s not infatuation. It’s not fantasy. It’s something I haven’t had in a long time. And maybe I only knew you for a day—but it was enough to remember the way you made me feel.”
He took a tentative step forward.
“You were the first thing that made me want to come back.”
Your knees nearly gave out at that.
Because this wasn’t just about guilt. Or trauma. Or old wounds.
This was about healing, too.
And somehow, heartbreakingly, he had found his in you.
You took a breath, shaky and too thin, eyes burning with the effort it took to keep yourself upright beneath the weight of his words.
Part of you wanted to say nothing. Let silence answer.
But you’d done that already. For months.
So instead, you forced yourself to speak—softly, but firmly.
“I thought what I did… that night, I thought it might’ve been selfish.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “It wasn’t.”
You looked up at him, finally meeting those steel-blue eyes that had haunted you every time you tried to sleep.
“I don’t regret it,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know if I had the right.”
Bucky exhaled, the sound low and wrecked.
“You didn’t take something from me,” he said. “You gave me something. You made me feel… wanted. Safe. I hadn’t felt that in decades.”
A beat passed. Then another. Your hand twitched at your side, like it might reach for him. You didn’t let it.
“I care about you, Bucky,” you said, so softly it barely reached the space between you. “More than I probably should.”
Hope flared in his eyes—and that’s when you took a step back.
“But right now, I’m your lawyer.”
He blinked. “No. You’re not.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Nelson and Murdock are my representation. You’re on the Avengers’ case.”
The smallest, saddest smile tugged at your lips. “Still. It’s messy.”
His eyes searched yours, quiet and patient. “I’m not asking for something now. I’m not asking for anything.”
You tilted your head. “Then what are you asking for?”
He swallowed. “That you stop looking at me like what happened between us was wrong.”
The crack in your heart widened.
And maybe you didn’t have the strength to tell him that you'd been looking at yourself that way, not him.
You nodded instead. Barely.
He stepped back. Gave you space. But didn’t stop looking at you.
And as he turned to leave the room, your eyes followed him.
────────────────────────
Josie’s bar was unusually full for a Tuesday. The crowd buzzed with quiet conversation, the low hum of sports highlights rolling on the TV behind the bar. But then the channel flickered—cutting to a breaking news graphic—and slowly, the room began to hush.
“After over a year on the run for their violation of the Sokovia Accords,” the reporter continued, “the trio was represented by a relatively unknown but fiercely competent law firm based out of Hell’s Kitchen—Nelson & Murdock.”
A round of murmured cheers rippled through the bar.
“And leading the charge,” the anchor said, “was associate attorney—” your name followed, clear and pronounced, “—whose legal argument reframed the Accords as unconstitutional under both domestic and international law. The case has since been labeled a landmark ruling on enhanced rights, government overreach, and jurisdictional ethics in conflict zones.”
A grainy clip of you outside the courthouse played next. Microphones crowded around you. Your hair pulled back, blazer sharp, your voice calm but firm under pressure.
“The Sokovia Accords were a rushed and fear-based overreach,” you were saying. “The world needs accountability, yes. But not at the cost of civil liberties, and not by punishing people for doing the right thing under the wrong rules.”
A quiet cheer went up near the bar. Someone clapped. You heard a voice—one of the long-time regulars—murmur, “That’s the one that comes in for bourbon on Thursdays, right?”
Josie herself just raised a brow from behind the bar, the closest thing she gave to a nod of approval.
“General Thaddeus Ross issued a formal response,” the anchor added, voice tight, “saying—quote—‘While I do not agree with the court’s interpretation, I respect the process. These individuals are no longer fugitives, and I trust they will now operate within a framework of accountability moving forward.’”
Muted scoffs met that.
“Yeah, sure he does,” Sam muttered under his breath, arms crossed where he sat across from you.
On screen, the reporter continued, summarizing the case’s outcome. “The general amnesty clause within the ruling ensures that enhanced individuals acting in good faith and without malicious intent will not be prosecuted under the original terms of the Accords. While some international critics have voiced concern, the decision is widely seen as a critical first step in rebuilding trust between superpowered individuals and governing bodies.”
Steve didn’t say anything, but his eyes found you—something quiet and full in them. He raised his glass. Just once.
You exhaled slowly, unsure whether it was relief or anticipation sitting heavier in your chest.
Because one case was over.
And the hardest one still waited.
────────────────────────
The holding area outside the Special Tribunal Court at Fort Meade, Maryland, was as sterile and impersonal as the military complex it belonged to—linoleum floors, harsh fluorescent lights, and the low hum of overhead ventilation.
Outside the windowless space, armed guards rotated in silence. The tribunal room itself, behind a thick blast door, waited like a judgment chamber.
You sat stiffly on a bench too narrow for comfort, legal documents fanned out over your lap. Your fingers clenched the edges of one as your eyes burned with something hot and sharp.
Matt Murdock was nowhere to be found.
He hadn’t returned calls, hadn’t shown up to prep the night before, hadn’t replied to the increasingly frantic voicemails from Foggy. And now, with less than an hour until Bucky’s final hearing—he was still missing.
Foggy entered the room like a storm cloud. “I’ve called everyone I can think of,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Nothing. He’s not answering his phone, the apartment was locked up, Karen hasn’t heard anything from him either—he’s gone, and we’re out of time.”
You stood sharply, biting back the rush of frustration rising in your chest. “He had one case,” you said. “This was supposed to be his goddamn priority.”
“Yeah, well, it’s Matt,” Foggy muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
Your eyes narrowed. “This is more than a case, Foggy. This is his life—” you gestured toward Bucky, who sat silent and watching “—and Matt just walked away from it.”
A long silence stretched between the five of you.
Bucky’s voice broke through. Quiet. “So… what now?”
Steve looked at you. So did Sam.
You stared at the stack of files on the bench. “I’ll take it.”
“You sure?” Foggy asked, already reaching for the briefing notes.
You gave him a look. “Do I look unsure?”
He swallowed. “Okay. Geneva precedents up top. Watch for prosecution's cross-exam strategy—she'll hammer your credentials hard, especially since you’re taking over so last minute.”
“Let her try,” you said under your breath.
Bucky rose slowly, his blazer stretching across his shoulders. He didn’t look at you—just toward the tribunal doors. “They’re going to call me a monster.”
You turned to face him.
“They might,” you said. “But they won’t win.”
His eyes found yours then—guarded, questioning.
“They’ll see a file, a record, a reputation,” you added. “I see a man who survived hell and still had the strength to pull himself out. That’s who I’ll fight for.”
His jaw worked slightly. And in the silence that followed, he nodded—once.
The weight of his trust settled over your shoulders, heavier than any closing argument.
You picked up your notes, spine straightening. “Let’s go win this.”
────────────────────────
The tribunal room at Fort Meade was cavernous and cold, more war room than courtroom. A long semi-circle of military and civilian officials presided behind bulletproof glass and steel.
The American flag stood behind the tribunal's emblem—flanked by the Department of Justice seal and the Department of Defense. The lighting was clinical, unforgiving, and the walls, though soundproofed, seemed to hum with silent judgment.
General Thaddeus Ross sat at the far end, half-shrouded in shadow, his arms folded and his jaw set in stone. Beside him were analysts from the CIA, a rep from Homeland Security, and the sharp-eyed lead prosecutor from the DOJ’s National Security Division—Assistant Attorney Caldwell. Her file on Barnes was a stack thick with ink and classified stamps.
The moment your group was escorted in—Bucky, Foggy, Steve, Sam, and yourself—all eyes shifted. You didn’t flinch. But you felt the air change.
Bucky didn’t look up. He hadn’t since the elevator ride down.
You took your seat at the defense table. Foggy beside you. Bucky just behind, shadowed. And for one sharp moment, you felt utterly alone at the center of this war.
The presiding military judge adjusted his mic.
“We are here to assess the culpability and legal standing of one James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as the Winter Soldier,” he began. “This tribunal acknowledges the unique nature of this case, involving alleged international war crimes, state-sponsored coercion, and actions performed under mind control.”
Then, he nodded to Caldwell. “Prosecution.”
She rose with the kind of practiced composure that could slice through steel. Her tone was calm. Precise. Measured.
“The defense will ask you to see James Barnes as a victim,” Caldwell began, voice resonant in the mic. “They will cite brainwashing, trauma, and a corrupted past. And yes—there is undeniable evidence that Mr. Barnes suffered under Hydra.”
A pause.
“But the law is not only built on sympathy. It is built on accountability.”
She turned toward the panel. “James Barnes was a lethal asset in a global shadow war. He executed heads of state. He destroyed civilian infrastructure. He has killed American agents on American soil. His body count surpasses a hundred and known ops occurred over seven decades.”
Then, looking toward your table:
“Whatever happened to his mind—his hands did not forget how to kill. And today, we must ask whether releasing him into society is an act of mercy… or a threat to every principle we claim to defend.”
She sat.
You didn’t blink.
The judge turned to you. “Defense. You may proceed.”
You stood.
Voice calm. Clear.
“For over seventy years, James Barnes was a prisoner of war in a war he never chose. He was stripped of identity. Language. Memory. He was tortured and rebuilt into a weapon—not by choice, but by force.”
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the lectern.
“Yes, he executed missions. But he also survived unimaginable horrors. His captors used science and brutality to shatter the man he was, again and again. And yet—he clawed his way out.”
You met the tribunal’s eyes, one by one.
“He did not run. He came back. He asked for help. And this country, after failing to protect him once, now has a chance to show that it remembers what justice really is.”
You stepped back, pulse hammering in your throat. Behind you, Bucky hadn't moved—but you could feel him breathing. Steady. Listening.
The tribunal was silent.
And the battle had begun.
And after a brief recess the tribunal resumed. You reviewed the witness list as your pen tapped softly on the table. Your jaw was tight. Foggy leaned in beside you.
“You good?”
You nodded once, barely.
The tribunal called its first witness: Colonel Elias Rourke, former liaison to SHIELD, now with Homeland Security. He swore in, stiff and iron-backed in uniform. His voice was gravel.
“Colonel, you had firsthand knowledge of the Winter Soldier’s activity?” Caldwell prompted.
“I did. I was stationed in Berlin during the assassination of a NATO peace envoy. Clean kill. No surveillance footage. The only evidence was a classified SHIELD transcript pointing to a ghost operative—metal arm, cold precision. Barnes.”
You watched Bucky flinch imperceptibly. You didn’t look back.
“And what was your assessment?” Caldwell asked.
Rourke’s lips thinned. “The man was Hydra’s blade. Deadliest asset in the game. We called him ‘death in the dark.’ Didn’t miss. Didn’t stop.”
Caldwell turned, satisfied. “No further questions.”
You rose slowly. “Colonel Rourke, you served under SHIELD, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Were you aware SHIELD was compromised by Hydra at the time of your assessment?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
“So your data, your field reports—all possibly filtered through an organization secretly aligned with the enemy?”
Rourke bristled. “That doesn’t change the kill count.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it does change how we interpret it,” you said smoothly. “Tell me, Colonel—how do we define guilt when the evidence comes from traitors?”
The tribunal rustled. Ross's eyes darkened. Caldwell leaned back.
“No further questions,” you said.
Witness after witness passed—some military, some from European intelligence. You dismantled their claims methodically. Not denying Bucky’s past—but reframing it.
Context. Compulsion. Control.
Then came your first and only defense witness: Ayo Sekayi, General of the Dora Milaje, flown in under diplomatic neutrality. Her presence silenced the room.
Ayo took her seat, graceful and firm.
You approached.
“General Sekayi, you worked directly with Mr. Barnes in Wakanda?”
“I did.”
“And what was your primary role?”
“Deprogramming. Erasing the Soviet Hydra conditioning. The trigger words, the synaptic trauma, the enforced behaviors. We dismantled them piece by piece.”
You turned toward the tribunal. “And your conclusion?”
She looked directly at Bucky.
“James Barnes is not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. What they built in him—we destroyed.”
Caldwell stood. “General, can you confirm that these—‘deprogramming’ techniques—cannot be reversed or broken?”
Ayo narrowed her gaze. “Nothing in life is certain, Miss Caldwell. But I trust the work. And more importantly, I trust him.”
The prosecution rested after a tense exchange. Foggy passed you a note: You’re killing it.
But your stomach twisted.
The judge shifted in his seat. “Closing statements will begin in the next session. Tribunal adjourned until 1400 hours.”
You nodded, quietly collecting your papers. Bucky hadn’t spoken all day—but he stood when you did.
His gaze didn’t waver.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
You didn’t reply.
Not yet.
────────────────────────
The minutes before reconvening felt like a countdown to impact.
The tribunal room was heavier now. Not just because the panel of adjudicators had seen the evidence, heard the testimonies—but because they knew the weight of their decision. This wasn’t just about a man. It was about precedence. Politics. Redemption. War.
You stood at the lectern. Foggy sat beside you, calm but alert. Behind you, Bucky sat like he had the entire hearing—shoulders tight, jaw clenched, hands folded. Steve and Sam were across the room, watching, holding their breath through silence.
The presiding officer gave a nod. “Defense, your closing.”
You moved forward slowly. Let your silence stretch for two full seconds before speaking.
“James Buchanan Barnes was trained to disappear. Not just behind enemy lines—but inside himself. He was torn apart, piece by piece, rebuilt without memory or mercy. For decades, he was a weapon in human form. A ghost. A nightmare.”
You let your gaze sweep the tribunal.
“But that’s not who sits behind me today.”
Your voice softened, sharpened.
“He is not innocent. He will never claim to be. But he is not the man they made him. He is not their ghost.”
You swallowed.
“He is a man who has fought harder than most of us can comprehend to claw his way back into the light. He submitted himself to justice. He asked for this hearing. And what he’s asking for—what we’re asking for—is not exoneration without cost.”
You paused.
“We’re asking for understanding. For mercy. For recognition that justice must evolve alongside science, circumstance, and morality.”
Then, finally—
“James Barnes was a soldier. Then he was a prisoner. Then a weapon. But now—now he’s just a man, trying to find something like peace. Let’s not take that away from him.”
You stepped back.
The room was silent.
The prosecution’s closing was colder, but no less powerful. Caldwell spoke with solemn finality.
“However reformed, however rehabilitated—some weapons are too dangerous to unholster. James Barnes has been the tool of multiple regimes. Are we prepared to bet the lives of our citizens on the belief that it won’t happen again?”
She sat.
Then—nothing. Just deliberation.
Forty minutes of it.
Each tick of the wall clock pounded behind your eyes. Steve sat forward, elbows on knees. Sam paced. Foggy didn’t even pretend to read his notes.
Bucky never moved.
Then, the tribunal returned.
The presiding officer cleared his throat.
“In light of the presented evidence, the declassified testimony, and scientific evaluation…”
Your fingers curled against the edge of the table.
“…this tribunal finds James Buchanan Barnes…”
A pause.
“…not criminally liable for the acts committed while under Hydra control. Further, we acknowledge the legitimacy of his rehabilitation and no longer consider him an active threat to national or global security.”
A stunned silence followed.
But your heart didn’t lift. Not yet.
“We impose a five-year probationary review period. Mr. Barnes will remain under international observation and restricted combat engagement unless sanctioned. However, he will not face incarceration.”
A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your chest.
Foggy muttered, “Holy shit.”
Behind you, Steve let out a slow exhale. Sam’s shoulders dropped.
But Bucky… Bucky just sat there. Still as a statue. His eyes weren’t wide, weren’t teary. But something deep in them shifted—like a plate in the earth, tectonic and unseen.
He looked at you.
And for the first time since Berlin, you let yourself look back.
Not with guilt.
But something closer to peace.
The gavel dropped.
Court adjourned.
────────────────────────
The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you with a thud that echoed louder than expected. Your keys fell into the bowl by the entryway with a tired clatter.
The moment you slipped off your shoes, it was like your body remembered just how much weight you’d been carrying—shoulders sore, back stiff, head foggy.
The tribunal had ended just hours ago. One year’s worth of courtrooms, hearings, back-channel negotiations, UN statements, and defense strategies finally behind you. It should’ve felt victorious.
Instead, it felt like collapse.
You didn't turn on any lights. The glow from the city outside was enough—warm, amber halos from streetlamps slipping through your windows and stretching across the hardwood floor.
You moved by muscle memory, changing into an oversized shirt and sweatpants, tossing your suit into a corner without care. You’d earned at least a week of hermit-mode.
The pizza delivery guy barely warranted a word, just a tired smile and a muttered thanks. The glass of wine you poured wasn’t even your usual—it was whatever had been in your fridge long enough to gather dust on the cork.
You had just curled up on your tiny loveseat, plate in lap, wine within reach, when your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
Karen Page
Drinks at Josie’s to celebrate? 🍻 Foggy’s already halfway drunk. And we found Matt.
You smiled softly. Sweet, thoughtful. But it hurt a little.
Your fingers hovered for a second before you typed:
Rain check? I’m officially horizontal for the foreseeable future.
Almost immediately came a heart emoji and a "Love you, you earned it."
That small glow vanished when the screen lit again.
Matt (1 Missed Call)
Matt (2 Missed Calls)
Matt (3 Missed Calls)
You didn’t even have the energy to read the texts—but they stacked like an avalanche.
Matt Murdock
Call me back.
Please.
I didn't know Elektra would show up.
I didn’t mean for it to affect the case. I never meant to hurt you.
I’m sorry.
You turned the screen face-down and shoved it under a couch cushion like a bad memory.
Pizza. Wine. Couch. That was all you had space for.
And for a while—it worked. The TV murmured in the background. The bottle slowly emptied. Your shoulders lost some of their coiled tension.
Until a knock sounded at the door.
You stared at it for a full ten seconds.
Another knock. Firmer. You sighed, dragging yourself up with a muttered, “Matt, I swear to God—”
But when you looked through the peephole, your heart stuttered.
It wasn’t Matt.
It was Bucky.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Hair swept back, still slightly damp like he’d just showered. A simple navy t-shirt. Jeans. No jacket. And in his hands—
Flowers.
A small, uneven bouquet. Wildflowers. Not the kind you bought in shops. The kind you had to actually look for.
You opened the door without thinking.
When you opened it, the sound of the city filtered in faintly behind him.
Bucky looked… nervous. As in, genuinely uncertain of himself. The man who’d stood before a tribunal that morning like a stone pillar was now awkwardly holding out flowers that were slightly crumpled.
You blinked. “You’re… here.”
“Yeah.” He glanced down, cleared his throat. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if this was okay.”
You looked at the flowers.
“I didn't know what kind you liked,” he said, suddenly rambling. “So I just… picked some.”
You stared at him, the bouquet still held between you like a question.
Then, softly, “You picked these?”
His jaw flexed, faintly sheepish. “Yeah. I mean—not from someone’s yard. There’s this stand up in the Bronx. The guy there… he helped me out.” He paused. “I remembered you smelled like lavender. That night. So I made sure there was some in there.”
He hesitated.
“And now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds a little stalker-ish.”
You didn’t say anything.
He shifted his weight. “You weren’t at Josie’s.”
“Didn’t feel like celebrating.”
“I figured.” His voice was soft. “I thought maybe… you didn’t want to be around everyone. So I came here. Just in case.”
You leaned back against the doorframe, watching him with quiet wariness.
“Why’d you bring me flowers, Bucky?”
He looked down for a second, then back at you. “Call it a thank-you gift. For my lawyer.”
A breath of a laugh escaped you, the first real one in hours. “For the last time, I’m not your lawyer. Matt and Foggy were.”
He didn’t flinch. “You were the one who argued for me. Who won my case. The one who sat across from me every time I wanted to give up.” A beat. “You always seem to be the one pulling me out when I’m sinking.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. Just reached out and took the flowers from him, gently, like they might dissolve in your hands.
“Thanks,” you murmured.
He gave a quiet nod. “I’ll let you get back to your night.”
And just like that, he turned toward the hall.
You watched his retreating back, something cold curling low in your chest.
You closed the door quietly behind him.
But you didn’t move.
Not at first.
And then your body did what your heart had been screaming for since the moment you opened that damn door. You turned, ripped it back open, and stepped out into the hallway.
The hallway was dim, amber from the old light fixture flickering overhead, but you could still make out his silhouette. Shoulders hunched slightly, hands in his jacket pockets. That quiet slouch he always slipped into when he was trying to take up less space.
“Bucky—”
He was only a few steps away, but he stopped like you’d shot him.
You exhaled, stepping into his space without hesitation, bare feet cold against the worn floorboards.
“What do you want from me?” you asked, voice low. Not demanding. Just tired. Raw.
His eyes locked on yours, steady. Like he’d been rehearsing his answer.
“Whatever you’re willing to give.”
Your breath caught. That simple. That honest.
You stepped closer, heart thudding like a drum in your ears. “What if I want you?”
That was all the warning he got before your hands cupped his face, pulling him down.
And Bucky—he melted into it.
Like he’d been waiting for that kiss since Berlin. Since your hands had once pulled him out of panic and into something like peace. Like you’d opened a door inside him he hadn’t dared approach until now.
His hands came to your waist, tentative at first, then firmer—like he needed to feel you were real.
Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth.
This wasn’t the desperation of before. This was a storm that had built for a year, a longing that had aged like wine, richer now, deeper. And when you pulled him back into your apartment by the front of his shirt, he followed without hesitation.
Your back hit the door before you’d even registered closing it.
Bucky’s hands were on you—your waist, your thighs, your face. Everywhere at once, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first and was terrified he’d lose you if he stopped.
His mouth found yours again in a bruising kiss, all teeth and breath and the kind of hunger that came from a year of silence and stolen glances.
You moaned into him—high, needy—and he swallowed it like he’d been starved for the sound.
Then, without a word, his hands slid beneath your thighs and lifted.
You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as your back slammed gently against the wall. His strength was effortless—of course it was—but the way he looked at you, like you weighed nothing and everything all at once, made your stomach flip.
“God,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours for a breath. “You feel real.”
“I'm real,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him back down.
And he kissed you again, harder this time. Desperate.
You rocked your hips into his, and he groaned against your mouth—low, broken, like he was barely holding it together. The metal of his left hand braced against the wall behind your back, his right gripping your thigh so tightly you knew you’d feel it tomorrow.
He pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
“I wanted this,” he whispered. “Since that night.”
You blinked up at him, lips parted, chest heaving. “Then take it.”
And he did.
He surged forward, grinding against you through your clothes. The friction was too much and not enough, the heat between you growing sharp and wild. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails dragging over the cotton of his shirt as you moved against him, meeting his thrusts with your own.
His lips moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You drive me insane,” he breathed. “Every time you walk into a room, I forget how to fucking breathe.”
You whimpered, tilting your head back to give him more. “Then don’t breathe.”
He laughed—sharp and breathless—and kissed you again like it hurt not to.
And still, the wall shook with every push of his hips.
You didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was you, maybe it was him—but suddenly your hand was sliding between you, dragging the rough line of his zipper down.
You could feel how hard he was already, straining through the fabric, and Bucky hissed through his teeth when your fingers brushed him.
“Christ,” he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You want this here?”
Your answer was a breathless whisper at his ear: “Please.”
He growled—a deep, involuntary sound—and kissed you hard, teeth catching your bottom lip. His hands scrabbled at your sweatpants, pushing them down just enough, just enough for what mattered.
Yours were still wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. Always closer.
There wasn’t time for finesse. Only need.
Only him.
You reached between you, helping him free himself, guiding him, your hands shaking. And when he slid inside, it was one motion. No hesitation. Like your bodies had been waiting for this, just this, for years.
The stretch made your head fall back against the wall with a soft cry.
“Oh, God—Bucky—”
“Shh,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, one hand cupping your jaw while the other gripped your thigh like an anchor. “I’ve got you.”
And then he moved.
Slow at first, dragging his hips back and thrusting in again with enough force to make your breath hitch. The friction of clothes, the roughness of denim, the press of your back against the wall—it all made everything hotter, messier. You weren’t supposed to be doing this. Not here, not like this.
But it felt like coming home.
He was panting against your neck now, lips moving over your skin like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or devour you. His hips snapped forward harder, deeper, making you cry out and cling to him.
“Fuck,” he rasped. “You feel like—like I’ve been dreaming of you. And this is better.”
You arched into him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not until you come. Not until I know you remember this every time you look at me.”
He was unraveling. You could feel it in the way his thrusts grew less controlled, how he trembled against you, how his breath turned ragged. Your own climax was building fast—too fast—but you chased it, grinding down against him as he thrust up, again and again.
When it hit, it was a wave that crashed hard, stealing your breath and your voice. You bit into his shoulder to stay quiet, and that did it for him—he gasped, buried himself deep, and came with a broken sound that might’ve been your name.
His forehead dropped to yours as the both of you shook through the aftershocks, your hands still clutching at each other like it wasn’t enough. Like it would never be enough.
The only sound in the room was your shared, panting breath.
And neither of you moved.
────────────────────────
Your back still tingled from where it had met the wall—hard, unforgiving, but so forgotten beneath the ache of Bucky's body pounding into yours just moments ago.
You barely remembered how you got to your bed. One moment, his hands were gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your neck, his voice wrecked as he whispered how good you felt around him—and now you were sprawled across soft sheets, still trembling.
You were flushed, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, your lips swollen from his kisses and your thighs still parted, slick and sensitive from the way he just claimed you like he’d been waiting his whole life.
You were floating. Light. Feral with afterglow.
And then you saw him.
He was standing at the edge of your bed, chest rising in deep, uneven breaths. His eyes were locked on you—burning, stormy, like he wasn't quite done being wild.
His pants hung low on his hips, the fly undone, the muscles of his abdomen flexing with every breath. His metal hand was clenched at his side like he was holding back, barely.
You blinked up at him, still dazed, lips parting. “Bucky…? What are you doing?”
His jaw ticked. A muscle beneath his cheek jumped. He looked you up and down like he was trying to memorize the sight of you ruined and open for him. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Your breath caught.
He shedded the rest of his clothes with slow, deliberate movements—like he was daring you to look away. You couldn't. You wouldn't. His body was all hard lines and shadows, the silver glint of his vibranium arm catching the low light as he crawled onto the bed.
“Did you really think one time was enough?” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours as he moved between your legs. “After how long I’ve wanted you? After what you do to me?”
You tried to answer, but your words dissolved into a gasp as he began undressing you—slowly almost reverently, his hands pulling your top over you head, his mouth brushing the newly revealed skin. He dragged your panties down your thighs, kissing each inch of your skin as he exposed it.
You whimpered as his hands pushed your legs apart, his mouth hovering just above your soaked center. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, teasing, soft, then biting just enough to make you jerk.
Then he looked up at you—hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips red from earlier kisses—and said, “I need to taste you.”
And then he did.
His tongue touched you like a man possessed—like he was starved for you, like this was the only thing that would calm the storm raging inside him. The first long, slow lick made your hips jerk off the bed, a moan punching from your lungs before you could stop it. He groaned into your cunt, his hands—one metal, one flesh—gripping your thighs, holding you open, keeping you there.
“God, you taste so fucking good,” he rasped between licks, his voice muffled and desperate. “I could die like this. Right here. With you.”
He buried his face between your thighs, tongue plunging into you, then swirling up to your clit, his mouth wet and eager and relentless. He ate you out like he was drunk on you, like each moan you made was gasoline and he was the match. His metal fingers dug into your skin, grounding you, steadying you as his pace grew more frantic, more desperate.
You were already close again, still oversensitive from before, but he clearly didn't care. If anything, he was chasing that—your twitching thighs, your gasping breaths, the way your fingers tangled in his hair and yanked when it got too much.
“Come for me,” he whispered against you. “Let me feel it.”
He sucked your clit, fingers slide inside you without warning—two of them, thick and curling just right—and that was it.
You broke.
Your orgasm ripped through you like lightning, spine arching, a choked sob tearing from your throat as everything inside you contracted around him. You were shaking. Panting. Utterly wrecked.
And still, he didn't stop.
Not until you were whimpering, tugging at his hair, begging.
Only then did he pull back, lips and beard shiny with you, chest heaving, eyes wild with satisfaction.
“Fuck,” he breathed, crawling up your body, kissing your throat, your jaw, your mouth—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “I’m never gonna get enough of you.”
Bucky stared at you like you were something sacred. Like he couldn't believe you were real. Like he was terrified this would disappear if he looked away.
His metal hand, now sleek and Wakandan-forged, cradled your cheek as his thumb swept across your skin. You leaned into the touch—there was nothing cold about it. Not anymore. Not when it was his.
He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this again.”
“This?” you whispered, still breathless. “You mean… me?”
He nodded his head slowly. “Peace. Softness. Wanting something. Wanting you.”
You didn't say anything. You just kissed him again. Slow. Deep. Letting your lips speak all the things words couldn't. That he wasn't broken. That he wasn't just what they made him. That you saw him.
He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’s taken in years.
Then he reached down, wrapped a hand around his cock—still hard, still aching—and slid it through your slick folds. You were so wet for him, still pulsing, your thighs sticky with your own release and his from before. He groaned, the sound low and raw in his throat.
“Bucky…” you whispered, arching your hips toward him, needing him inside you again—slow this time, deep, drawn out until it’s unbearable.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I need to feel you again.”
He lined himself up, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip—not to restrain, but to hold himself steady. He pushed forward, just the tip breaching you. You gasped at the stretch, and his eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenched so tight he might crack a tooth.
“Fuck… You’re still so tight,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours again. “You feel like heaven.”
He inched in deeper, groaning as your walls clung to him, as if your body was reluctant to ever let him go. He kept his pace achingly slow, giving you time to feel every inch of him sliding inside—filling you again, this time without the rush. No frenzy. Just presence. Just him.
When he bottomed out, both of you froze.
He stayed there for a long breath, forehead against yours, breathing your air.
Then he began to move.
The rhythm was unhurried, sensual—his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts. Deep and full, every stroke brushing places inside you that made your toes curl. His cock dragged against your walls like he was trying to leave an imprint, like he wanted your body to remember him.
Your fingers slid over his back, tracing the line of his spine, digging into his shoulder blades when a particularly deep thrust made you moan.
He smiled against your jaw. “Yeah… that’s it. I wanna hear you.”
He was whispering now—dirty things, soft things, things that sounded more like worship than filth.
“Feel so good wrapped around me… like you were made for me…”
“Can’t believe this is real. You—under me—letting me have you like this…”
“I’m not gonna rush this. Not when I’ve waited this long…”
And then he shifted—just slightly—and hit that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur. You gasped, nails biting into his skin, and he groaned like he was unraveling.
He leaned back to look at you, watching your face as he moved inside you. The way your lips parted, your brows knitted, your hips lifted to meet his.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So fucking beautiful.”
Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, keeping him close. He adjusted his angle, going deeper still, and you both moaned—low, guttural, lost in the feel of it.
The tension built again, slow and steady. Not a crashing wave this time—but a tide, rising and rising, until it’s all you could feel.
You were close. He knew it. He could feel you clenching around him, see your eyes fluttering, your moans growing more desperate.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Come with me.”
And when you did—when you fell apart under him, soft and shaking, moaning his name like it was the only word you’ve ever known—he followed, hips stuttering, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you for the second time that night, his body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapsed onto you gently, his weight warm, grounding. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight to his chest. He kissed your collarbone, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
He didn’t move.
And neither did you.
Not for minutes. Maybe more.
The weight of his body on yours was grounding, not stifling—his arms wrapped around you like you were something he’d waited too long to hold, and now that he had you, he couldn’t let go.
You traced lazy, absent-minded circles over the back of his shoulder with your fingertips. Felt the faint line of the scars that connected to metal. A ridged edge from something long healed, but never really gone.
He sighed against your skin. A deep, almost trembling sound. Like the tension had finally broken loose from inside his chest.
“I keep thinking I’ll wake up in Wakanda again,” he murmured. “Like all this’ll vanish. The case, you… this.”
You turned your head toward him, your cheek brushing his. “It’s real.”
He nodded, barely.
“I didn’t think I deserved this,” he said. “Not after everything.”
You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t speak. Just kissed the side of his head, soft and slow.
Eventually he shifted—easing onto his side beside you, never more than inches away. His arm draped over your waist, his leg still tangled with yours. His forehead pressed gently to yours as if he needed that last point of contact to stay grounded.
No space. No distance.
And still—neither of you let go.
Your fingers brushed gently along the metal of his forearm, slow and absent. The room was dim now, the only light coming from the hallway through the cracked door. His breathing had evened out, his eyes half-lidded, but you could tell he wasn’t asleep. Not yet.
“Bucky,” you murmured.
He hummed in response, barely moving.
“What are you gonna do now?”
He didn’t answer right away. You didn’t push.
Eventually, he exhaled. “I don’t know.”
You waited.
“I think Steve and Sam… they’re still going to do it. The work,” he said. “Even without the Avengers. Even without the titles. They can’t not help people.”
“And you?” you asked gently.
He turned his head, eyes meeting yours in the dark.
“I don’t think I want to fight anymore.”
There was no shame in his voice when he said it. Just exhaustion. Honesty.
You nodded, quietly. “Then don’t.”
He shifted a little closer, brushing his thumb over your hip.
“I just want to be,” he said, voice low. “Not a soldier. Not a weapon. Not someone to be fixed. Just… a person.”
Your heart tugged painfully at the simplicity of it. The longing buried in those few small words.
“Maybe,” you said after a moment, voice light but not careless, “you could stay in New York.”
Bucky didn’t respond at first. You felt him shift slightly, just enough to brush his nose against your hair.
“You’re from Brooklyn,” you added, teasing gently. “You’re practically built for rooftop fire escapes and overpriced bagels.”
That pulled a faint huff of laughter from him, the sound rumbling in his chest where it pressed against your cheek.
Then, softer—almost shyly: “I’ve taken a liking to Hell’s Kitchen.”
You smiled into the dark. “That so?”
He shifted, the tip of his nose brushing your forehead. “It’s loud, messy… smells like fried food and bad decisions most nights.”
You laughed—quiet, tired. “Accurate.”
“But it’s honest,” he added, voice softening. “People look you in the eye here. They don’t pretend not to see you.”
You swallowed, eyes on the ceiling. “Yeah. It’s rough around the edges, but it doesn’t lie to you.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then, “I need that. Somewhere that doesn’t look away when I walk by.”
You turned slightly to face him. “You don’t scare people here.”
“I used to.”
“You don’t scare me.”
His eyes found yours in the dark. There was something unguarded in them now—exhaustion, yes, but something gentler too. Something you hadn’t seen on his face since Berlin.
“Not even a little?” he asked.
You shook your head. “You’ve never scared me.”
He watched you a moment longer, like he was searching for a reason to disagree. But he didn’t find one.
The quiet was broken by the low buzz of your phone vibrating insistently from somewhere in the living room
You didn’t move. Just let out a soft groan and nuzzled further into the warmth of Bucky’s chest, tucking your face into the curve of his neck like you could block the whole world out.
“Just ignore it,” you murmured, lips brushing his skin. “It’s probably Matt. Again.”
Bucky’s hand slid slowly along your spine, his touch soft, deliberate.
“He’s been calling?”
You gave a faint nod. “And texting.”
There was a pause. Then Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, brow furrowed.
“Texting?”
You opened one eye, smiling faintly at the confusion written across his face. “It’s a thing called voice typing, honey. Blind people use it. Revolutionary stuff.”
He huffed—quiet, but amused—and let his head fall gently back to the pillow.
“Still weird,” he mumbled. “Didn’t think he’d be that tech-savvy.”
You sighed, lifting your hand to lazily trace circles over his chest. “He’s not. Every message ends up with an accidental comma or two dozen typos.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment, his hand resting warm against your waist.
Then, almost reluctantly: “He was at Josie’s. When I left. I saw him.”
You blinked, but didn’t sit up.
“He looked… rough,” Bucky continued. “Like he’d been in a fight with a brick wall, and lost. Cuts, bruises. Said he’d been in an accident.”
You gave a small, tired laugh. “Matt’s always getting himself into accidents.”
“Does he?” Bucky asked, not pushing, just curious.
“Mmhm. Staircases, doorframes, the occasional wall,” you muttered. “Clumsy as hell.”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, lips brushing your hair. “He apologized to me. For not showing. Said he should’ve been there. That it wasn’t fair to me. Or you.“
You went quiet at that and after a moment, you sighed, resting your head more comfortably against Bucky’s chest.
“I’ll forgive him,” you said, voice softer now. “Sooner or later. I always do.”
Bucky’s hand paused on your back.
Then, carefully—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer or not—Bucky asked, “You and him… were you ever a thing?”
You blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him. His tone was neutral, but you could see it in the tension around his jaw. The quiet way his eyes avoided yours for a beat too long.
Your brows pulled together. “What?”
He didn’t respond immediately, just glanced away toward the dark corner of the room like it might have the answer.
“You’ve been around us for a year,” you said, still trying to wrap your head around it. “You thought me and Matt were—”
“There’s obviously something,” he cut in, not defensive, just… honest. “There’s history.”
You watched him for a moment. Then sighed, laying your head back against his chest, cheek pressed to the space just beneath his collarbone.
“Of course there’s history,” you murmured. “We grew up together at Saint Agnes Orphanage. Sister Maggie basically drilled it into us that we were each other’s family. We were each other’s shadow for years.”
There was a pause. A breath of quiet between you.
“But,” you added, a wry smile tugging at your lips, “we’re also excellent at driving each other completely insane.”
That earned a small chuckle from him, low in his chest. His hand resumed that slow, absent stroke along your spine. But you could still feel it—that little line of worry sitting tight in his silence.
“I love him,” you said softly. “I do.”
His hand stilled again.
“But not like that. Not ever like that.”
The quiet stretched again. You thought maybe he’d fallen asleep.
Then, softly—not a question. Just a realization.
“You’re an orphan.”
You nodded slowly against his chest. “Yeah.”
There was another pause, longer this time.
His hand kept tracing that steady path along your spine. You could feel how the air around him shifted—not cold, not distant, just… deeper. Like he'd stepped into something personal without meaning to.
“Matt, Foggy, Karen…” you said softly, “they’re my only family.”
There was a pause. A soft breath between two heartbeats.
“Maybe not anymore,” Bucky said.
You stilled.
The air shifted again—warmer, somehow heavier—like the room had shrunk to only the space between you.
His hand didn’t stop its quiet movement across your back. His voice, when he spoke again, was softer. More certain.
“You were the first person to treat me like I wasn’t a machine. Like I wasn’t dangerous. You looked at me like I was still a man… even when I didn’t believe it myself.”
You didn’t move. Just listened.
“You didn’t try to fix me,” he went on. “You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pity me. You just… saw me. And that night in Berlin—when I was breaking—you didn’t pull away. You pulled me back.”
Your fingers tightened slightly against his side.
“That never left me,” he whispered.
And that’s when it slipped out—bare, breathless, and truer than anything you’d said all night.
“You make it really hard not to fall in love with you when you say things like that.”
It was barely above a whisper. But it landed heavy between you.
Bucky didn’t flinch.
He just looked at you for a long, aching moment. Eyes open. Jaw tight with something deeper than tension.
Then, quietly, like it cost him something—but he gave it freely anyway:
“Maybe that's not such a bad thing.”
You didn’t have time to respond.
Because his mouth was on yours again—slow, sure, steady. Nothing like before. This kiss didn’t burn. It settled. Deep into your chest, into the space where grief and guilt used to live. It didn’t ask for anything. It just was.
Because now, unlike that night, there was no looming mission. No stolen hours. No fight waiting outside the door.
pairing | new!avengers!bucky x new!avengers!reader
word count | 8.8k words
summary | when a world-famous diamond vanishes during a mission, all eyes fall on you—former jewel thief, current new avenger, and the possessive obsession of bucky barnes—who will defend you to the grave, whether you're guilty or not.
a/n | i swear to you, chat, I really really tried to make this 4-5k words, idk wtf happened
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
“Do you always shuffle like that, or is that just for show?”
Alexei’s voice boomed across the living room like it had nowhere better to be. He leaned back in the leather chair with a grin too wide for someone three rounds down.
You didn’t look up. Just slid the cards through your fingers with practiced ease, the movement smooth, fluid — sensual, even, if you did say so yourself.
“I find the theatrics help distract lesser players,” you said, cutting the deck without so much as a glance at him. “Consider it a handicap, sweetheart.”
From her spot on the couch, Yelena snorted, one knee pulled to her chest, tablet glowing faintly in her lap. “More like an ego massage.”
“She has to entertain herself somehow,” Ava added, eyes still glued to the book in her hand. She hadn’t looked up once since you'd started the game, but somehow still managed to insert herself exactly where it annoyed you.
You dealt the cards slowly, deliberately, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel like power.
“Jealousy’s not a good look on either of you,” you replied mildly, flicking the final card across the table toward Alexei. “But keep talking — I win faster when I’m being underestimated.”
Alexei picked up his hand like he was holding a newborn. “You know, in Soviet Russia, we play with knives. Much more interesting.”
“I’m not opposed,” you said, crossing your legs, silk robe falling open just enough to make Alexei blink. “But then I’d have to clean blood off the carpet. And I’m allergic to manual labor.”
Yelena cracked a lazy grin. Ava turned a page.
The Watchtower’s common room was dimly lit, warm from the flickering fireplace that Yelena insisted made the place feel “less clinical.” The rain outside painted slow-moving shadows across the hardwood floors. No one else was around — just your little core, spread out like some mismatched after-hours club.
You leaned forward just enough to reach for your bourbon — untouched, but placed with intention. Every move was deliberate. You’d worn the silk for yourself, technically, but you knew exactly what it did to the room.
Alexei scratched his beard. “One of these days, you’re going to lose. And when you do—”
You cut him off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “When I do, you’ll still be boring, and I’ll still be beautiful. It’ll be tragic, truly.”
Yelena let out a low whistle, muttering something in Russian under her breath.
Ava finally looked up. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you’ve managed to drag her into something that doesn’t sparkle.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you said, “Not everything has to sparkle to be valuable.”
Footsteps echoed from the kitchen.
“Oh, you guys are playing?” John's voice cut through the warmth of the room like wet socks. “Deal me in.”
You didn’t even look up. “No.”
Alexei chimed in at the same time. “Nyet.”
Walker stopped mid-step. “Seriously?”
Alexei gave a lazy shrug, raising his glass like it might soften the blow. “Room already has enough energy. Don’t want to shift vibe.”
You finally lifted your gaze, eyes raking him up and down with a slowness that bordered on cruel. “Besides, I don’t play games with men who can’t take losing. And you, Boy Scout Barbie, are a sulker.”
Walker blinked. “I’m not a sulker.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Yelena muttered.
He muttered something under his breath and made his way toward the other end of the room, slumping into the seat next to Bob like a moody teen. Bob immediately stiffened like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Probably breathing too loudly.
“I mean,” Walker called out again, clearly not done, “what are you guys even playing for, anyway? Bragging rights?”
“No,” you replied, slow and dry. “We’re playing for dignity. You wouldn’t be able to keep up.”
Yelena snorted. Bob looked like he wanted to disappear.
Alexei chuckled beside you, swirling the last of his drink. “So, what I get if I win, devushka?” he asked, eyes narrowing with faux confidence. “Something real. Something good.”
You tilted your head, lips pursing. “If you win…” You let the pause stretch, dragging the silence like velvet. “You get to say you beat me. Once. And then I’ll let you frame the cards.”
Alexei groaned. “Bah. No fun. Okay, okay—what you want if you win?”
You leaned back in your seat, stretching your arms overhead just enough to make it distracting. “Hmm. What do I want from a man who has nothing I need?”
Alexei leaned forward on his elbows, cards fanned lazily in one hand, smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Okay, devushka. If you win… I get you something made of vibranium. Real Wakandan stuff.”
You scoffed, slow and unimpressed, barely glancing up from your hand. “I already have something made of vibranium.”
Walker twisted from his spot on the couch, scoffing. “No, you don’t.”
You turned your head toward him, the motion fluid, calculated. “Yes, I do.”
He raised a brow. “What, like jewelry? Pretty sure that’s not on the market for—”
“No,” you cut in, voice syrupy with disinterest. “Unlike you… with your cheap excuse for a shield.”
Bob blinked next to him. “Damn.”
Walker bristled. “My shield is—”
You held up a hand. “Please don’t embarrass yourself further.”
Ava didn’t even look up from her book. “Secondhand symbolism isn’t a personality trait.”
Walker opened his mouth again, then promptly closed it.
Alexei chuckled, sipping his drink. “So, what is mystery vibranium treasure you claim to own, hm?”
You looked at him over the top of your cards, shrugged one shoulder, and said casually, “James’ arm.”
There was a full beat of silence.
Yelena lowered her tablet slowly, blinking at you like you’d just recited an entire monologue about tax law. “I want you to really hear what just came out of your mouth,” she said flatly. “You just… took ownership of someone else’s arm.”
You didn’t even flinch. “Whatever’s his is mine.”
Simple. Like gravity.
Ava turned a page with a deliberate flick. “So, whatever’s yours is his, then?”
“I never said that.”
That earned a huff from Yelena, who muttered something in Russian under her breath that sounded vaguely like delusional but committed.
Walker looked between you all like someone had changed the language setting on the conversation.
Alexei exhaled, long and put-upon, setting his cards down as if they weighed something. “Okay, okay… what do you want, then?”
You tilted your head, lips curving slow, deliberate — the kind of smile that meant trouble and absolutely no regret. Feline and dangerous.
“The Orlov diamond.”
There was a beat of silence.
Alexei turned to look at you fully, eyes narrowing like he was sure he’d misheard. Yelena’s tablet dropped to her lap as she cut you a sidelong glance, brows raising.
You just blinked, perfectly serene.
“You’re not serious,” Alexei said finally, half-laughing like he hoped it was a joke.
“You asked what I wanted,” you replied, your voice light, almost bored. “I answered.”
Alexei sat up straighter, suddenly far more animated than any poker game warranted. “That is Mother Russia’s diamond,” he declared, gesturing like he was rallying a crowd. “It belongs in our history, our legacy. It is symbol of strength—of endurance! Stolen by the West, admired by the world, but born of Russian greatness—”
You didn’t even lift your head. Just slid a glance toward him, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. “It’s originally from India.”
He blinked. “What?”
Yelena let out a sharp laugh, hiding her grin behind her hand. Ava didn’t even bother pretending not to smirk.
Alexei sputtered for a second, searching for a comeback. Finally, he puffed up his chest with exaggerated pride. “Well then, I simply make sure you don’t win.”
You gave him a slow, sweet smile. “You can try.”
And then, with your eyes locked on his, you slid another chip into the pot.
Alexei cracked his knuckles. You tapped your fingers against your knee, calm but coiled. The game shifted. The easy banter faded into something quieter, more serious — the room narrowing down to the felt, the cards, the chips.
Everyone else had settled in to watch.
Bob sat hunched over on the armrest of the couch, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was observing a bomb defusal. Walker sat stiff beside him, arms crossed, a faint scowl pulling at his mouth.
Ava leaned back in the corner, legs stretched out, expression unreadable behind her book. Yelena was the only one who looked remotely entertained, chin on her fist as she watched with open amusement.
The pile in the center of the table grew. Slow. Deliberate. Neither of you moved quickly now.
Alexei furrowed his brow as he looked down at his hand, chewing the inside of his cheek. You sat still, legs crossed, a fingertip trailing the rim of your untouched glass. Your eyes never left his.
He blinked. Put down one card. Drew another. Tried not to flinch.
You played your move a moment later — no theatrics. Just quiet, smooth certainty. You placed your final bet, then leaned back, completely relaxed. The kind of calm that made people nervous.
Alexei hesitated. Looked at you. Looked at his cards again.
He sighed through his nose. “I regret offering anything.”
“Everyone regrets something,” you said, your tone light.
Finally, he matched your bet.
Cards were laid.
Alexei’s face fell before the last one even hit the table. His shoulders slumped, and he gave a groan like he was genuinely in pain.
You only smiled.
“You’re kidding me,” Walker muttered.
Bob made a small, strangled sound that might have been applause or shock — hard to tell with him.
Yelena just shook her head. “Of course she won.”
Alexei leaned back in his chair, defeated, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was pure luck.”
You gathered your chips with graceful efficiency, not bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eyes. “Mm. I don’t believe in luck.”
Alexei gave you a side-eye. “So you really want diamond?”
You stacked the final chip on the pile, then leaned your elbow on the armrest and rested your chin on your hand, gaze cool and certain.
“I want it,” you said. “By the end of the month.”
Alexei groaned again. “Ridiculous.”
Watchtower — Conference Room, One Week Later
Everyone hated when Val came to the Watchtower.
She never arrived quietly. Always in heels, always carrying too many opinions and too little respect for the people who had enough evidence to lock her away forever. If she wasn’t here to corner them into another PR gala or some glossy photo-op for the press, then she was here to rip someone apart with thinly veiled passive aggression and backhanded insults dressed up like “feedback.”
This morning was no different.
You were seated next to Bucky, like always, mind somewhere else entirely as she paced in front of the projection screen, throwing her usual mix of threats and barely tolerable sarcasm around like rice at a wedding.
You had one arm looped casually through his, hand resting lightly on his forearm. Your legs were crossed, posture relaxed, entirely unbothered by the stiff tension that filled the room like smoke.
It had become routine. You in his space, wrapped around him like a claim. Him, settled beside you like he belonged there.
“Hong Kong and Japan are furious,” Val announced, clicking her remote like it owed her money. “You know, the kind of fury that comes with lawsuits, diplomatic tension, and entire governments not returning our calls.”
Yelena arched an eyebrow from her seat beside Ava. “So, same as last time.”
Val didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.
Walker leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “We literally saved Tokyo from a nuclear detonation last week. They could’ve had another Hiroshima and Nagasaki on their hands.”
Silence.
It was instant. Heavy.
Even the hum of the projector felt loud in comparison.
Ava looked up slowly. Bob blinked. Yelena tilted her head at him like she was trying to figure out how much brain damage a person could suffer and still hold a government clearance.
Walker glanced around. “Was that too soon?”
You didn’t even blink. “It’s centuries too soon to make a joke like that.”
His jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond.
Val sighed, like she wasn’t even surprised. “This,” she muttered, waving a hand vaguely at Walker, “is why you guys need media training.”
She clicked through another slide she wasn’t even pretending to care about. The projector whined against the silence.
“And now,” she said, tone sharpening, “we have a completely separate mess to clean up — one that’s about to make headlines if we’re not careful.”
Yelena sighed audibly. “You say that like it's new.”
Val ignored her. Of course.
“Same day you all landed in Tokyo,” she continued, her eyes sweeping the room slowly, “something else went missing halfway across the world.”
She clicked again. The screen lit up with a high-resolution image — the glint of light catching on flawless facets.
“The Pink Star Diamond,” she said. “Gone. From its private exhibition in Hong Kong. Security footage? Wiped. Guards? Drugged. No signs of forced entry.”
The room went still.
And then — every head turned.
Toward you.
Slow. Simultaneous.
Ava didn’t even try to hide her stare. Yelena gave a soft snort. Bob blinked like he wasn’t sure if he should make eye contact or duck for cover. Walker just sat there, frowning.
You didn’t react. Not even a twitch.
Val folded her arms. “Coincidence?”
You finally turned to her, face cool, mouth poised in that bored sort of half-smile. “Absolutely.”
Alexei leaned forward slightly. “We were in Tokyo.”
You leaned forward slightly in your seat, arm still threaded through Bucky’s as you rested your other hand on the table, fingers tapping once — slow and deliberate.
“I was never in Hong Kong,” you said smoothly, voice level. “I didn’t leave Tokyo the entire time we were deployed. Ask the field team. Ask Ava. Cross-reference satellite data. Internal comm logs. Flight manifests. Movement trackers.”
Ava didn’t deny it — just narrowed her gaze slightly, studying you with that unnerving, analytical expression of hers.
Val arched a brow. “The diamond was taken by someone who avoided every sensor in a high-security vault. Who moved with precision and didn’t leave a single trace.”
Yelena gave a small shrug. “I mean… she didn’t leave the drop zone. That I saw.”
Walker snorted. “Please. You’ve snuck past tracking before. No one’s doubting your ability, that’s the problem.”
You looked at him like he was gum on the sidewalk. “If I’d stolen it, you think I’d be dumb enough to let it get traced back here? Have some faith in my standards.”
“Oh, we have faith,” Ava cut in, folding her arms and staring you down. “Just not the kind you’re hoping for.”
You arched a brow, waiting.
Val took a step closer to the head of the table. “You were a jewel thief when I found you. Let’s not rewrite history. You were halfway through smuggling the Laurent Emeralds out of Geneva when I made you an offer.”
You smiled slowly, almost sweetly. “Correction. I was halfway out of Geneva. The emeralds were already in Paris.”
Bob blinked like he wanted to take notes.
“Let’s talk logistics,” you added, sharper now. “You think I snuck out of Tokyo in the middle of a live operation, somehow got to Hong Kong, cracked a vault with no gear, took a priceless diamond, and made it back — all without being seen or throwing off the mission timeline?”
Silence.
Then, “…Yeah, kind of,” Walker muttered.
You stared at him. “You can’t even open your own locker without help.”
Yelena snorted again.
Ava narrowed her eyes. “Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“You act like this is personal,” you said, eyes skating over the room. “It’s not. It’s logistics. And none of you have a leg to stand on.”
Yelena didn’t even look up from her seat. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t own a single pair of sweatpants.”
You turned to her with a lazy blink. “And I can’t trust someone who surrounds herself with rodents.”
Her head snapped toward you. “He’s not a rodent, he’s a hamster, and his name is Nathaniel. And you better keep that white she-devil away from him.”
Bob whispered, “I think Nathanial and Alpine are both adorable…”
Walker cut in, loud and self-righteous. “You’re a kleptomaniac. Just admit it already.”
“I’m selective,” you corrected. “There’s a difference. If I were a kleptomaniac, your watch would be missing.”
Walker looked down at his wrist instinctively.
Val stepped forward again, clearly running out of patience. “If you have the diamond, just give it back. We can clean this up before it escalates.”
You stared at her, jaw tight, smile gone.
“I’m not giving it back,” you said evenly, “because I don’t have it.”
“You know what?” Ava said sharply. “Even if you didn’t take it — which, let’s be honest, is a stretch — you still act like this team’s your personal playground.”
You didn’t respond.
“You don’t answer to anyone,” Walker snapped. “You don’t follow protocol. You steal. You lie. And we’re just supposed to deal with it because Bucky lets you crawl into his lap like a damn—”
Your head turned.
Eyes on Bucky.
No words this time. Just a look.
And that was all it took.
He stood like someone had flipped a switch — slow, calm, but absolute. A wall rising between you and the room.
“That’s enough.”
His voice cut through the air like a blade.
Everyone went still.
Bucky looked around the table, one hand still resting gently over yours, the other loose at his side — but the tension in his shoulders said he was ready.
“You’re accusing her with nothing. No proof. No data. Just gut feelings and guesses because you don’t like how she operates.” His voice stayed steady. “She’s not obligated to win you over with small talk and trust falls. She gets the job done. Every time. And if you can’t keep up with how she does it, that’s on you.”
Yelena opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her the chance.
“She was accounted for. We all saw it. And unless someone here can produce actual evidence that she left the mission zone, I suggest you stop throwing accusations like you’re on trial for your own insecurities.”
The room was dead quiet.
You sat back, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his jaw stayed tight.
Yelena leaned forward, voice sharp. “That’s so unfair.”
You blinked, tilting your head with faux innocence. “What is?”
“That.” She pointed toward Bucky — now standing like a sentinel at your side. “Every time we call you out, you don’t have to defend yourself. You just look at him like a Disney princess and suddenly he’s barking at all of us.”
You raised your brows, lips parting slightly. “Are you suggesting I’m not a princess?”
“We’re suggesting he’s your guard dog,” Ava muttered. “Trained, loaded, and ready to bite.”
Walker scoffed. “You say ‘James’ and suddenly we’re all the enemy.”
“Maybe don’t act like enemies,” Bucky said flatly, still standing tall beside you.
You let out a quiet hum, fingers gently brushing along his forearm. “You all seem very emotional about this.”
Bob, barely breathing at this point, whispered, “She’s doing the thing again where she pretends she doesn’t know what’s happening…”
Val looked like she wanted to rip her own hair out.
Alexei finally spoke, voice low and deliberate. “You say you want me to steal Orlov diamond for you — and we all laugh. But then Pink Star goes missing and suddenly it’s out of question?”
You gave him a look like he’d just said something painfully unoriginal. “It was a joke,” you said coolly. “One you're all now taking way too seriously.”
“Because it’s not unbelievable,” Ava shot back.
“And yet, still unproven,” you replied, voice even, unbothered. “So what are we really doing here? Group therapy?”
Bucky let out a quiet breath and finally lowered himself back into his seat beside you, arm brushing yours.
“The conversation’s over,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “She didn’t steal the diamond.”
A pause.
“Very sorry for Hong Kong,” he added, almost deadpan. “But that’s their own fault for losing it.”
Yelena threw up her hands. Walker stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. Ava just blinked slowly, lips pressed into a thin line.
Val looked around the room like she was considering setting the whole table on fire, but finally closed the file in her hand with a tight snap.
“Fine,” she said, “Whatever.“
And no one argued. Not after that.
You leaned into Bucky just slightly, your tone airy as ever. “I thought I handled that well.”
He didn’t smile—not really—but you felt the way his hand found your thigh under the table.
“You always do,” he murmured.
Your bedroom, That night
“James, you’re not admiring me enough.”
Your voice came out in a lazy drawl, like it wasn’t the first time you’d said it tonight—or ever.
Bucky didn’t look away from you, not even for a second. “I am, baby.”
His voice was quiet. Rough. The kind of hoarse that came from restraint, not disinterest.
He was seated in your vanity chair, his long legs spread wide, arms resting on his thighs. The golden light from a dozen candles danced across his face—across the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed when his eyes dropped lower.
The room smelled like rose oil and candle wax. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the cool New York summer air creep in, stirring the silk curtains. The rest of the Watchtower was asleep—or pretending to be.
You were stretched across your bed like something out of a painting, legs bare, skin glowing under dim candlelight. The rose gold silk of your nightgown clung to you like it was made for this moment, slipping dangerously off one shoulder.
And on your right hand—on your ring finger—the Pink Star Diamond glittered in a way that could never be mistaken for synthetic.
It sparkled as you moved, slowly dragging your hand down the curve of your own body, letting the diamond catch the light—your collarbone, your sternum, the dip of your waist.
Bucky's jaw clenched.
“Do you like it?” you asked, eyes meeting his through your lashes.
“You know I do,” he murmured.
“Mm. You haven’t said it.”
“Sayin’ it doesn’t do shit compared to what I wanna do, sweetheart.”
You stretched just enough to shift the way the silk slid over your skin, the gown riding high over your thigh as you tilted your chin toward him. The diamond caught another sliver of candlelight as you turned your hand, admiring it like it was a museum piece.
“I think it pairs nicely with this,” you said, voice honeyed, fingertip grazing the diamond choker around your neck — icy white, square-cut stones sitting flush against your collarbone.
Bucky’s gaze dropped instantly, breath catching in his throat.
“This one,” you murmured, drawing your hand slowly down between your breasts, “I stole in Prague. Four years ago.”
His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. His fists clenched on his thighs.
You watched him watch you. Watched his restraint unravel one breath at a time.
The gown dipped as you rolled one shoulder forward, then the other. Silk slid down your arms, slow and fluid, catching briefly on your wrists before slipping away entirely.
The fabric pooled at your waist.
You made no move to cover yourself.
Instead, you lifted the hand with the Pink Star and cupped your breast — a subtle arch of your back pressing into your own touch, thumb brushing lazily over your nipple as you let out a soft, unaffected hum.
“I think it looks best like this,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Don’t you?”
Bucky looked wrecked.
Absolutely still.
Like touching himself would be a sin, but staying still was agony.
His voice broke low. “Jesus, baby…”
You adjusted your hand slightly, the Pink Star flashing as your fingers squeezed around your breast just enough to make him twitch in his seat.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Just stared — like you were sacred and obscene all at once.
“You’re being very well-behaved tonight, Jamie.”
Your voice was soft, mockingly sweet — the tone you used when you wanted to draw blood with sugar. You dragged your thumb in a lazy circle, making your breath hitch just slightly, enough for effect.
“Is that for me?” you asked, tilting your head, eyes dropping briefly to the very obvious, very strained bulge in his pants. “Or are you just always that hard when you see me with something expensive on my body?”
His jaw flexed, a vein in his neck twitching. He still didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
This wasn’t new. Not for either of you.
Every time you acquired something rare — something stolen, expensive, yours — you made him sit like this. Made him watch as you modeled it, draped in nothing but luxury and intent. A necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings you'd lifted off a diplomat's mistress in Vienna.
Your thumb dragged over your nipple again, slow, absent, like you were just adjusting—like you hadn’t just knocked the breath out of him. The diamond on your finger flashed with the movement, sharp and pink and impossibly perfect.
“I think,” you said softly, “it deserves to be seen on something beautiful.”
Bucky was dead silent. Tense. Hard. Eyes fixed to your chest like he couldn’t look anywhere else.
You pinched your nipple between two fingers and let out a quiet, breathy sound that wasn’t quite a moan—just enough to let him feel it. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.
You let your hand trail down the center of your chest, past the soft dip of your sternum, fingers skating over your stomach before curling over the edge of your thigh. The candlelight made your skin look warmer, shinier—like satin layered over heat.
You shifted on the bed, spreading your legs just enough for the silk to fall open between them.
And then you smiled — slow, satisfied, dangerous.
“Don’t worry,” you purred, lifting your chin slightly. “You’ll get to touch.”
A beat.
“When I say.”
You watched his throat bob, the way his metal hand gripped the arm of the chair like it might snap.
You bit your bottom lip and let your legs fall a little wider.
“But for now…” your fingers ghosted across your inner thigh, just high enough to make his breath catch again, “you can keep watching.”
You let your knees fall wider, silk gathering at your hips, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your thighs. You could feel how soaked you already were—just from him watching, from the look in his eyes like he was praying and dying at the same time.
His breath was shallow now. Barely held.
You brought the hand with your diamond down, the weight of it glinting across your knuckles as your fingers brushed through your folds, slow and slick.
Bucky exhaled like he’d been punched.
You dragged your middle finger through your wetness again, slower this time—gathering everything at your entrance before circling your clit with the kind of practiced ease that made you hum in your throat.
“See?” you murmured, eyes locked on his. “Looks good with everything.”
Your finger dipped lower, slid inside—just the tip—and then pulled back out, glistening under the candlelight. You let him see it, held it up briefly like you were about to taste yourself, before trailing it back down again.
His legs shifted like he might stand, but you shook your head once, gently. “Stay.”
He froze. Swallowed hard.
You pushed two fingers in this time—slow, deep, your wrist angling to curl against that soft spot that always made your thighs twitch. You let out a quiet breath and arched, back pressing into the mattress as your palm flexed against your own heat.
The diamond caught the candlelight again as your hand moved—subtle, steady, your breathing picking up as the slick sound of your fingers filled the room.
“Do you know what turns me on the most?” you said softly, your voice catching on a gasp as you pressed deeper. “Knowing you’re sitting there, aching, while I get myself off with your favorite view in the world.”
Bucky’s hands gripped the chair again—one flesh, one metal—white-knuckled and silent, his eyes glued to your fingers moving in and out, knuckles glistening, thighs flexing.
You rolled your hips into your hand, thumb circling your clit now, pressure building fast.
And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You looked at him—sweaty, wrecked, waiting.
And you smiled.
“Good boy.”
You barely had time to pull your fingers out before he was on his feet.
The chair scraped back against the floor, and then Bucky was moving—fast, silent, like a man pulled off a leash. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of your thighs, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d been running.
You tilted your head, smug even now. “Took you long enough.”
He didn’t respond.
He just hooked his hands under your thighs, yanked you closer in one hard pull, and buried his face between your legs.
Your gasp hit the ceiling.
His mouth was hot, wet, desperate. There was no easing into it—no slow, teasing warm-up. He licked you like he needed it, like he’d been starving for it. Tongue flat at first, dragging up your folds, collecting the mess you’d made on your fingers. Then he sucked your clit into his mouth, slow and firm, moaning like he was the one getting off.
You fisted the sheets, eyes slamming shut as your hips jerked up into his face.
“Fuck—James—”
His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you still, dragging you closer, his nose pressed right against you as his tongue worked in tight, devastating circles. The stubble on his jaw scraped against your skin in the best possible way. Your breath hitched with every pull of his mouth, every little sound he made like he was drunk on the taste of you.
And when he shifted lower, dragging the tip of his tongue down to your entrance, you felt him moan—felt it, the vibration of it buzzing right through your core as he fucked you with his tongue, messy and slow and deep.
“James—” you breathed, your voice breaking. You reached down, hand tangling in his hair, diamond flashing as your fingers curled against his scalp.
He groaned again, the sound raw, needy, and gripped your hips tighter, rutting his face into you like he was trying to drown. One hand slid up—flesh—and pressed down firmly on your stomach, pinning you to the bed like he knew you were about to come.
And he was right.
You shattered in seconds.
Your thighs clenched around his head, your hand dragging through his hair as your orgasm ripped through you sharp and fast, your hips jerking under his mouth as he kept going, licking you through it like he needed to make sure you felt every second of it.
He didn’t stop until you pushed at his head with a shaking hand, breathless and ruined.
Even then—he kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. Your slick was smeared across his chin, his lips red and glistening.
“Fuck,” you murmured, voice hoarse.
He looked up at you like you were holy. “Now let me fuck you.”
You lay back against the pillows, your thighs slick and parted, the diamond catching flickers of candlelight as your hand dropped to your side. Breath steadying. Body humming.
Bucky stood slowly, still panting slightly, eyes never leaving you. You watched him reach for the hem of his shirt, grip it tight, and pull it over his head in one smooth motion.
You always loved watching him strip.
It wasn’t even about the muscle—though that was perfect too, buff and scarred and solid—it was the way he offered himself. Like the moment his skin was bare, he belonged to you again.
He unbuckled his belt next. His pants hit the floor in seconds, and your eyes dropped to his cock—already flushed, thick, twitching, and leaking for you.
You bit your lip, letting your legs fall wider.
“Come here.”
He climbed onto the bed without hesitation, crawling between your thighs with a low grunt, hands already spreading you open again like he couldn’t get enough.
But he didn’t line up just yet.
No—he stared.
Then he reached for your cunt with his flesh hand first, sliding two fingers through your slick, watching them glisten. He dragged them up, circled your clit lazily, and then brought them back down to tease at your entrance—slow, just enough to make you twitch.
“Still so wet,” he rasped, his voice thick with awe. “Fuck, baby…”
You lifted your chin, smirking through your haze. “That’s what happens when you use your mouth instead of your attitude.”
He huffed a laugh against your inner thigh, then pushed his fingers in—two at once, filling you with ease. Your back arched slightly, the stretch so much bigger than your own touch had been.
He curled them just right. Pressed deep. His thumb rubbed at your clit again in tight, controlled circles as he watched your face like it held all the answers.
You moaned, soft and breathy. “Just like that. Fuck—James.”
He groaned, forehead pressing to your thigh for a second, then looked back up at you, pupils blown wide.
“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, voice rough, honest.
You just smiled and tilted your hips toward him, cunt still fluttering around his fingers. “Then don’t.”
Bucky pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your cunt clenched even after they were gone. You were still dripping, the insides of your thighs slick, the scent of your arousal thick in the air.
He shifted forward on his knees, hand wrapping around the base of his cock.
Thick. Hard. Heavy. The head flushed, already leaking pre-come.
He didn’t thrust in right away.
No.
He dragged the tip through your folds first, slow and deliberate, groaning low in his throat as your slick coated him. Up and down, again and again, catching on your clit just enough to make you jolt.
You sucked in a breath, thighs twitching, but didn’t tell him to stop.
He pressed his cock against your entrance—not pushing in, just resting there, teasing you with the weight of it—then pulled back to glide through your heat again, slower this time.
“Fuck,” he breathed, jaw clenched. “You’re so wet. I could slide in without even trying.”
You grinned, your voice low and mocking. “Then stop trying so hard.”
He huffed a laugh, his free hand gripping your thigh, holding you open.
Another slow grind of his cock through your folds.
And then—
He lined up properly. Pressed forward.
And sank into you.
Your mouth dropped open, a breath catching deep in your chest as he filled you in one steady, unforgiving thrust. No rush, no hesitation—just a smooth, deep slide that had you gasping by the time his hips met yours.
“Fuck—” he groaned, head dropping for a moment, his forehead brushing yours. “You feel like heaven.”
You clenched around him, pulling him deeper, dragging your nails across his back.
“You feel like mine,” you whispered.
And then he started to move.
He started slow—just for a second—dragging his cock out until only the tip remained inside you, then slamming back in with a force that knocked a sharp moan out of your throat.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
Relentless. Deep.
The sound of his hips slapping against your ass filled the room, loud and filthy, mixed with the wet drag of your cunt pulling at him like your body knew it was built for this.
You gripped his arms tight, nails digging into muscle and metal— and for a split second, your eyes caught on the contrast of your hand against his vibranium bicep.
The Pink Star flashed.
The diamond, shining and delicate, pressed against matte vibranium.
“Oh,” you gasped, laughing breathlessly even as he fucked you through it, “that looks so good together—”
Bucky grunted above you, hips stuttering just a bit. “Baby—”
You squeezed tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him in deeper, tighter. “Don’t stop. Just—god, sweetie—look at it.”
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
His face was buried in your neck now, teeth scraping your skin as he rutted into you, desperate, panting, gone.
“Fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, always—can’t—”
You clenched around him on purpose, smiling through your moans. “You gonna come already, baby? Or do I have to ride you ‘til you cry?”
He groaned—deep and broken—his thrusts growing erratic, harder.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
You arched beneath him, the diamond catching one last flicker of candlelight as he slammed into you over and over, the bed creaking, your body singing.
“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Yours, baby. Just don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
Not until he was buried so deep inside you it felt like you were one breath away from breaking apart completely.
His vibranium hand pinned both your wrists above your head, the cool metal firm against your skin, holding you open, helpless beneath him—not that you ever minded. You loved when he held you like this. Controlled you like this.
You felt his rhythm stutter for just a moment—his breath catching as his eyes flicked up, just barely—
To your hand.
To the Pink Star glittering on your ring finger, pressed tight beneath his palm, your fingers flexing under his grip every time his cock punched into you deep.
“Yeah,” he rasped, letting out a breathless, wrecked laugh. “You’re right, baby. That does look good.”
Then he slammed into you, harder, rougher—dragging a cry from your throat as your back arched off the bed.
“Fuck, baby—this pussy’s mine,” he gritted out, jaw tight, fucking you like he needed to brand it into your body.
“You are mine,” you panted, breath breaking into soft, frantic sounds as your orgasm coiled sharp in your gut. “All of you—this cock—your mouth—your fucking arm—mine.”
His head dropped to your shoulder as he groaned, full-body shaking, thrusts messy now, erratic, hips slamming into you over and over. The head of his cock dragged right against that perfect spot inside you, over and over, until your legs trembled and your cunt clamped around him—until suddenly he pulled out, slick and heavy, leaving you gasping at the loss.
You didn’t have time to complain.
He grabbed your hips, hands rough and urgent, flipping you with practiced ease. His metal hand pressed into your lower back, firm but not harsh, guiding you down to the mattress until your spine arched perfectly, ass up, face against the sheets.
You loved when he got like this.
When the control slipped just a little. When his restraint cracked open and you could feel the desperation underneath.
“Just like that,” he muttered, voice hoarse, reverent. “God, look at you…”
You felt him stroke the head of his cock through your folds again, dragging it through the mess between your thighs.
Then—he slammed back in.
Hard. Deep.
You let out a choked moan, fingers clutching the sheets as he gripped your hips and fucked you harder than before. The angle was brutal — his cock hitting deeper, faster, the sound of skin on skin now filthy and loud.
“Fuck, darlin’, you’re so tight like this,” he growled, pounding into you with sharp, perfect thrusts. “You love it—don’t you? Letting me bend you. Letting me take you.”
“Yes—yes, James—fuck, don’t stop—”
He grunted, grabbing a fistful of your hair with his flesh hand, pulling you up just slightly, your back still arched, mouth slack and moaning. His other hand stayed locked on your hip, keeping you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Your whole body was shaking, orgasm coiling tighter, your cunt clenching around him again and again.
“You gonna come for me like this?” he rasped against your shoulder. “Bent over like my perfect fuckin’ toy?”
You nodded, nearly sobbing, hips pushing back against him. “Yeah—I’m—fuck, James—I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he growled. “Do it for me.”
And you did.
Your orgasm hit hard, but Bucky wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
He pulled out just long enough to haul you back against him — one strong arm wrapping around your waist, the other anchoring your thigh as he dragged you into his lap. Your back met his chest, slick skin to slick skin, his cock sliding between your folds again as he settled you down on top of him.
You let out a sharp gasp as he thrust up into you from below—hard and deep—the new angle making your whole body jerk, your cunt already pulsing from how wrecked you were.
He held you there, tight against him, your legs spread wide across his thighs, his metal hand gripping your jaw as he turned your head.
You didn’t resist.
Your mouth found his in a hungry, desperate kiss — your tongues tangling immediately, breathing each other in like you needed it. His kiss was filthy and soft at once, the kind that tasted like devotion wrapped in lust, the kind that said I’d die for you, but first I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.
He fucked up into you hard and fast, your bodies slapping together, your breasts bouncing with every thrust as he moaned into your mouth.
“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, lips dragging to your jaw, your neck, kissing everything he could reach. “You take it so fucking good… tight little cunt just pulling me in—fuck—I’m so close—”
You could barely breathe, your head dropping to his shoulder, one hand gripping his thigh, the other tangled in his hair as he fucked you through another aftershock, your body shaking in his arms.
“James—fuck—I want it—want you to come inside me—”
His whole body jerked.
And then he did.
With a broken groan against your neck, his cock throbbed deep inside you, pulsing hard as he spilled into you, hips stuttering with each twitch, his arms wrapped around your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.
He held you there. Still. Breathing hard.
Your cunt still fluttered around him, your whole body sticky and spent and trembling.
You smiled against his shoulder, breathless, boneless, full.
And he kissed the side of your face like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then his breathing slowed, heartbeat thudding heavy against your back as the last few pulses of his orgasm faded. You stayed there, slumped against him, skin sticky with sweat, his arms still locked around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.
But then he shifted — carefully, gently — kissing the curve of your shoulder as he pulled his cock from you, slow and deliberate.
You whimpered softly at the loss.
The stretch, the heat, the fullness—all of it slipping away as his cock slid free, dragging through your soaked folds one last time.
And then you felt it.
Warmth.
His come leaking out of you, thick and heavy, trickling slowly down the inside of your thigh.
You sighed, content. Possessed. Ruined.
Bucky let out a soft, wrecked sound behind you—half groan, half awe—as he looked down between your bodies and saw it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice low, reverent. “Look at that.”
His metal hand drifted down your stomach, tracing over your pelvis before his fingers slipped lower—collecting his own spend as it spilled from your cunt.
He rubbed it in. Slow. Gentle. Almost like he was marking you with it.
“Messy girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “You love when I fuck it this deep, don’t you?”
You let out a soft, satisfied hum, still dazed, your hand reaching back to curl around his thigh. “Just like I said…” you whispered, voice lazy, lips curling into a small smile. “Everything that’s yours is mine.”
His chest rumbled behind you. And he didn’t argue.
You exhaled slowly as you slid off his lap, your legs wobbly, your thighs still sticky with him. He caught your arm gently to steady you, but you were already shifting back onto the bed, sprawling lazily across the sheets like a queen returned to her throne.
You stretched, just a little, then sighed.
“Run me a bath,” you murmured, voice hazy but firm. “And bring me another nightgown, please. One of the white silk ones.”
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question.
“Yes, baby.”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your shoulder, then stood — naked, flushed, his cock still glistening with you as he padded toward the bathroom first to start the water.
The soft sound of running water filled the space.
Then he disappeared into your closet.
The doors opened into a space almost as large as your bedroom — walls lined with mirrors, plush carpet underfoot, the scent of your perfume hanging faint in the air.
One side was filled floor to ceiling with clothing: dresses, robes, gowns, coats arranged by fabric and color. Beneath them, rows of heels, boots, and custom shoes in velvet-lined cubbies.
The other side?
Glass cases and open displays sat under soft lighting, each one housing a piece that could bankrupt a small country. Famous jewels that had vanished off the face of the earth—now resting silently in your private gallery.
The Luxembourg Sapphire.
The La Peregrina Pearl.
The Florentine Diamond.
Bucky walked past it all with the quiet, familiar interest of someone who’d seen it all before… and still felt like he wasn’t supposed to.
He didn’t touch anything.
He just found the white silk nightgown you asked for—thin, sleeveless, soft enough to slide over your skin like water—and brought it back to you.
You were still on the bed, eyes half-lidded, legs open, the candlelight dancing on your still-exposed skin.
“Bath’s almost ready,” he said softly, offering the gown.
You took it without a word, slipping it on slowly, deliberately. And smoothed the silk down over your thighs, the fabric catching just slightly where your skin was still sticky and flushed.
You looked up, and there he was.
Still watching you.
His body was relaxed, but his eyes were locked on yours — heavy-lidded, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch you again or just stand there and thank god you let him breathe the same air.
You lifted your arms slowly, languidly, wrists loose, fingers curled just slightly.
“Take me to my bath?”
Your voice was low. Barely a question.
His mouth twitched, lips curling into something soft, a little wrecked.
“‘Course, darlin’,” he murmured.
And then he stepped close, bent down, and slid his arms under your legs and behind your back — lifting you like it cost him nothing.
You sank into his hold, arms curling around his shoulders, nose brushing his neck as he carried you into the bathroom.
Later That Night
The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the city through the barely cracked window and the occasional creak of the bed shifting under your bodies.
The candles had mostly burned down, little pools of wax cooling in their glass bases, shadows soft and heavy across the walls. The sheets were a mess beneath you—kicked halfway off the bed, damp with sweat, and still carrying the scent of sex and silk.
You were naked again, your white nightgown discarded somewhere on the floor after round two had turned slow and rough—deeper, more desperate.
Now, you were draped half on top of him—chest to chest, your thigh slung over his hips, toes brushing his shin. His cock lay soft and spent between you, trapped under the weight of your thigh, resting against the hard plane of his stomach, still tacky with the evidence of just how hard he’d come inside you.
Your cheek was pressed to the side of his throat, your nose brushing lazily along the sharp line of his jaw as your lips planted slow, wandering kisses.
His arms were around you, one hand splayed wide on your lower back, the other lazily gliding up and down your spine—not really comforting you, more like soothing himself. Like keeping you close was the only thing holding him steady.
Your fingers toyed lightly with his hair, the weight of the Pink Star still glinting faintly in the low light as it caught against the strands at his temple. You hadn’t taken it off.
You never took your newest prize off the first night. It was a rule. Possession needed to be felt after all.
But this?
This was the part of the night no one else ever got to see.
No cruelty. No teasing. No commands.
Just you. A little sleepy. A little warm. Nuzzling his neck like a cat in her favorite sunspot, soft kisses trailing down his pulse point.
Bucky didn’t speak. He never did first. He just let you have this—his body, his warmth, the silence.
Because this was the closest thing you ever came to asking for comfort. And he knew that.
Your lips brushed his neck again, slower this time—less a kiss, more a lingering press of your mouth against his pulse. Your breath was warm on his skin, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw.
You didn’t lift your head. Didn’t change your tone. Just whispered.
“You won’t make me give back my diamonds… will you, James?”
The question hung in the dark between you—delicate, heavy, threaded with something that wasn’t quite fear but not far from it.
It wasn’t about the Pink Star.
Not really.
It was about the whole closet of them. The ones you stole before you met him. The ones you wore like armor. The ones no one ever understood. The ones that made people think they knew you—when they didn’t.
But he did.
You didn’t look at him as you said it. Just buried your nose in the crook of his neck, lips brushing his collarbone as you pressed another soft kiss there—almost like an apology.
He was quiet for a moment.
Then his arm curled tighter around your back.
His vibranium hand slid up the length of your spine with that same slow rhythm, fingertips dragging gently, almost reverently, like he was tracing the edges of something precious.
“No, baby,” he said softly. “I won’t make you give back anything.”
Your lashes fluttered against his skin as you breathed him in—warm and steady and always there. You didn’t answer his words. Didn’t say thank you. You just pressed another kiss to the hollow of his throat, your hand now lazily tracing down the slope of his chest, not teasing—just feeling.
It was quiet again.
But you weren’t done. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.
“You love me, don’t you?”
It wasn’t coy. It wasn’t playful. Just soft. Raw. Honest.
Like if he didn’t answer, the silence might fill with something too sharp to swallow.
He turned his head just slightly, lips brushing your temple, breath fanning across your hair.
“I do,” he whispered. “God, I do.”
Your hand stilled against his chest.
Then, a little quieter—
“You need me?”
His grip on your back tightened for just a second, like his body responded before he could.
“Yeah, baby,” he whispered. “More than anything.”
You didn’t speak right away. Your mouth just trailed lower along his jaw, pressing the kind of kisses you never gave anyone else. Slow. Thoughtful. Like you were imprinting yourself into his skin.
And then—
You breathed it into the space between his throat and shoulder. Quiet. Dangerous.
“You’ll never leave me…?”
His hand lifted to the back of your head, cradling it gently, thumb brushing your hairline.
“Never.“
His voice was firm now. Steady. Certain.
“Even if the whole world turns on you,” he murmured, “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.
His hand stayed at the back of your head, stroking slow, mindless circles as your body finally started to sink against him—your breathing evening out, your leg still thrown over his hips like you were anchoring him to the bed.
The Pink Star glinted faintly in the low light, still on your finger, resting against his ribs as your hand settled over his heart.
And somewhere, in that half-conscious haze between desire and sleep, your mind wandered.
Diamonds.
You had hundreds of them.
Tucked away in velvet and glass, sealed behind locks and systems no one could break.
Each one rare. Priceless. A little dangerous.
But none of them compared to him.
He wasn’t flawless. Wasn’t carved or polished. He was scarred. Weathered. Real.
And he was yours.
Your most precious diamond.
You wouldn’t give him back either.
Ever.
Not even if the whole world demanded it.
You smiled against his neck, the last of your thoughts slipping into sleep as his arms tightened just slightly around you.
And you didn’t need to say you’re his.
That part was obvious.
Bucky when his girl is so obviously guilty and in the wrong:
this is the first story from my 707 followers' milestone event 💖
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Medic!Reader (female)
Summary: It started with a question you didn’t realize sounded filthy: “Can you come on command?” Bucky thought you were teasing. But you were just too clinical to know better. And now? He’s going to show you exactly what happens when curiosity goes too far.
Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, oral sex (f receiving & m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, blowjob, face-fucking themes, size kink (mild), orgasm denial, soft dom!bucky, light power play, praise kink, slight dub-con vibes via misunderstanding, medical/clinical kink themes, slow build to climax, cockwarming (implied), cum on thighs, aftercare
Word Count: 7.1k
The med-bay smelled like antiseptic and fresh laundry—too clean for a room that had known so much blood. It was a Sunday evening, quiet and uneventful, the kind of shift where silence hummed against your ears and your thoughts wandered deeper than you intended. The kind of boredom that stretched into your ribs.
Until you heard the heavy thud of combat boots echo down the hallway.
You looked up from your tablet. He walked in with a presence that made the sterile air feel charged.
James Buchanan Barnes
Unit: Thunderbolts
Registry: Alpha-01
Notes: Vibranium prosthesis (left arm). Serum-enhanced physiology. Prior Hydra experimentation flagged in psychological history.
His combat shirt hung from one shoulder, blood soaked into the seams. His torso was bare—bruised, sweating, smeared with dried streaks of red. Deep brown hair fell in damp strands against his temples, jaw tight, body moving like something made to endure.
“Didn’t know we had new faces,” he said, voice gravel-rough as he eased himself down onto the med-bed. “Nice change.”
You nodded once and pulled on gloves. “Yes. I started this week.”
He dropped the shirt beside him, settling in like the cot was his personal recliner. The tone in his voice had suggested ease, maybe even a joke, but you didn’t react. You weren’t always sure when people were being sarcastic.
Especially not him.
You retrieved gauze, saline, antiseptic. You were focused on the wound low across his abdomen—a shallow blade graze, already clotting along the edge. As you cleaned around it, you recalled a conversation from earlier that week. Your first night shift had been filled with stories, warnings, casual gossip from the senior medics. They spoke about the team like they were walking myths. And Bucky Barnes, in particular, had been the centerpiece of several of those stories.
He can do anything if you tell him to, someone had said. Hydra programming, you know? Sit, kneel, come—just say it.
You hadn’t laughed. You’d written it down. Because you didn’t know it was a joke.
Now, he sat bare-chested in front of you, quiet, unmoving, skin warm beneath your gloved hands as you pressed sterile pads to the wound.
The question formed itself before you realized it was inappropriate.
You spoke plainly, genuinely. “I was wondering—can you get hard and ejaculate on command?”
The silence that followed was total. Not a pause. Not surprise.
It was a shift.
You didn’t notice it right away, too focused on folding gauze precisely, until the weight of his gaze pulled you back to the moment.
When you looked up, his entire body had stilled.
His eyes were on you. Unmoving. Brow low, mouth parted just slightly, as if he were still computing the words. The faint line between his brows deepened.
“Come again?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t casual. It wasn’t flirtatious either. It was something closer to caution.
You met his stare. “I asked if you’re able to achieve erection and reach orgasm on command. Based on what the other officers implied regarding your conditioning.”
He blinked once. Very slowly.
Your tone hadn’t faltered. You weren’t embarrassed. You were just curious—curious the same way you’d asked someone last week if the Hulk’s resting heart rate really was thirty-five BPM.
Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes scanning you like he was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, his jaw worked, muscle flexing once under stubble.
Then he stood.
Not abruptly. But with enough weight behind the motion that you instinctively stepped back. The tray clinked behind you.
He stepped closer, enough that you felt the heat coming off his skin. Still watching you. Still trying to process.
“You’re seriously asking me that?” he said, quieter now. “Like, you’re not messing with me.”
“No,” you answered plainly. “I just wanted to understand the scope of the conditioning. Neurological control of physiological functions isn’t unheard of.”
He dragged a hand down his face. Let out a long breath through his nose. You saw the flicker in his expression—somewhere between disbelief and… something else.
“You really don’t realize how that sounded, do you.”
You tilted your head. “Should I?”
He huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, almost under his breath.
Then he moved forward again—closer. Close enough that your hip bumped the counter edge.
“Are you asking because you want to know,” he said slowly, gaze dragging down your face, “or because you want to see?”
You stared back at him, unflinching. The intensity in his eyes didn’t register as threatening to you—just confusing. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, still gloved. Still sterile. Still in the mindset of diagnostics and assessments, not flirtation. You weren’t sure what he meant by see, but the phrasing seemed to demand clarity.
So you gave it.
“I want to know,” you said plainly, meeting his eyes. “But if visual confirmation is possible, then yes—seeing would be helpful.”
His face didn’t move at first.
Not a blink. Not a breath.
Then his eyebrows lifted just a fraction—just enough to break the tension—but his mouth stayed parted like he’d lost his words somewhere between inhale and exhale.
You watched him, calm as ever. Not realizing that what you just said, to him, sounded like you were practically asking to watch him jerk off in the middle of med-bay.
His eyes narrowed slightly, still scanning you for a punchline. When there was none, something shifted. Not in you. In him.
Because that’s when it hit him—hard.
You weren’t fucking around.
You weren’t teasing. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t setting him up for some kind of HR trap. You were genuinely trying to understand the technical boundaries of Hydra’s physiological conditioning, like you were running through a checklist for your own notes.
He exhaled once through his nose and ran his palm over his jaw.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself. His gaze flicked to the side, like he needed to look anywhere but directly at you for a moment.
You could see it happening—the calculation behind his eyes. He was deciding whether or not to walk away. Whether to laugh. Whether to report this. But then something else moved through him, too—curiosity. You recognized the signs: pupils shifting slightly, breath shallower. He wasn’t sure either.
“I mean,” he said at last, voice rough, uncertain. “I’ve never… actually tried that. Not like—deliberately.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Would you be open to attempting it?”
His mouth parted again, like he wanted to respond but couldn’t decide which direction to take it. You sensed hesitation and tried to reassure him in the only way you knew how: by defaulting to protocol.
“If you’d prefer this be off-record,” you added, “we can skip the video documentation. I’ll log it manually.”
That did it.
His jaw dropped just a fraction further as he let out a breathless, incredulous noise. It wasn’t quite a laugh—it was something between disbelief and amusement, and it landed heavy in the air between you.
He looked back at you like you were some rare, alien creature. And maybe you were.
You hadn’t moved. You weren’t flustered. You weren’t seducing him. You were just… waiting. Like this was any other medical procedure.
Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, clearly still processing. Then his eyes returned to yours.
“You really wanna see if I can do that,” he said. It wasn’t a question. More like a final check. Like he needed to hear it in your voice one last time before he crossed the line.
“Yes,” you said simply. “For observation purposes.”
There was a long, still beat.
Then his stance shifted.
Something subtle in the way his feet planted, in the slow curl of his fingers at his side, in the way his shoulders rolled back with quiet intent. He wasn’t leaning anymore—he was centered now. Present. Watching you as something darker flickered behind his expression. Something curious. Something charged.
He nodded once. Low. Controlled.
“All right,” he said roughly, voice dipping just a bit lower than before. “Try me.”
—
You gave a short nod, already reaching back toward the tablet on the metal tray behind you, fingertips hovering to wake the screen. The chance to collect a new data point—something none of the other medics had dared ask for—was unexpectedly thrilling.
But the rustle of fabric behind you pulled your focus.
Bucky had stepped away from you again, his heavy boots padding quietly as he moved back toward the med-bed. Except this time, his fingers were already at his waistband.
You froze halfway between the tray and your chair.
He turned slightly toward you, eyes locked onto yours as his thumb worked open the button of his tactical pants. The zipper followed with a quiet rasp, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t speaking. Just watching.
And only then, only then, did your brain finally process the image forming in front of you.
His pants loosened around his hips, hung low now—unzipped and open just enough for you to see the black band of his briefs and the defined lines of his lower abdomen. The cut you’d just cleaned stretched faintly when he moved, muscles flexing subtly under the skin. His cock was still covered, but the shape of it—resting heavy against the fabric, shifting slightly as he adjusted—was impossible to miss. Still soft. Still untouched. But undeniably there. And Bucky wasn’t breaking eye contact.
Something shifted in your chest—an odd tightness you weren’t familiar with. A spike in heart rate. Not fear. Just sudden, confusing awareness. Your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fell away from the tablet screen.
Bucky let out a quiet breath. Not a laugh, not quite. A huff, amused and something darker beneath it.
“You’re realizing how bad everything looks now, huh?” he said, and his tone was different—still low, still calm, but tinged with heat. A crooked smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “Starting to piece it together?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not yet.
Because the tension in the air had shifted again. The weight of it wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was physical. Heavy. Warm. Centered on the space between you and the man now standing with his pants undone, cock barely covered, staring at you like this was still part of your little experiment.
You swallowed. Just once.
“I can stop,” he added, arching a brow. “But if you’re gonna ask me to do this… I need you to say it.”
“Say it?” you echoed.
He nodded, the line of his jaw tight, like something about this had challenged him in a way he wasn’t used to. “Yeah. The command. Give it. Let’s see if it works.”
You blinked, heartbeat tapping quick in your throat. Your gloves felt suddenly too tight.
It was for science.
Wasn’t it?
Except… now you were staring at the shape of a man’s cock through his briefs. At the subtle way it shifted behind fabric. At how he just stood there, open like a test subject, waiting for you to initiate the next step.
And suddenly, your carefully ordered brain started… glitching.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to look. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—warm skin, eye contact, unspoken tension stretching tight across the space between you like a surgical suture about to snap.
You tried to stay focused. Tried to categorize what was happening as neuromuscular stimulus, externally initiated. That’s all. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could repackage them more… appropriately.
“What kind of command should I say?”
Bucky’s brow arched. He shrugged one shoulder, still loose, still watching you like you were the show now. “Anything,” he said, voice smooth but quiet. “Try whatever comes naturally.”
Your brain immediately clicked into gear, cataloging possibilities, filtering for language precision. He’d said command. Singular. Direct.
“Get hard,” you said.
Bucky blinked once, slowly. “You might need to be more specific,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There’s a lotta things in here that can get hard. Floors. Plastics. Steel.”
You paused. Blinked again. Fair. Logical.
Your eyes dropped to the bulge at his front, the soft outline of his cock resting slightly to the left beneath dark cotton.
So you recalibrated. Clarified.
Your voice was steady when you said it:
“I command the cock of Bucky Barnes to get hard.”
The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was crackling. Electric.
And then—it worked.
You watched, frozen, as the shape beneath his briefs shifted. Thickened. From a resting weight to something firmer. Fuller. The fabric tightened around him as the shaft pressed upward and outward, no longer soft, no longer passive. He twitched once—just enough to catch your eye—and then kept swelling.
Your lips parted. You didn’t move.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
It couldn’t happen.
But it had.
And Bucky… Bucky exhaled something between a scoff and a groan, and tipped his head slightly back like he couldn’t believe it either. When he looked at you again, his pupils had darkened, narrowed, and the curve of his lips had turned into something far less amused and far more interested.
“You’re kidding me,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You actually meant that.”
You nodded once, slowly, as your eyes locked onto the now very-obvious bulge straining his briefs.
He smirked, but there was a heat beneath it now—a flicker of something dangerous. His voice dropped a notch deeper.
“More.”
“What?”
“Give me another command,” he said. “Anything. Let’s test your theory.”
You hesitated. A beat too long. Then your eyes dropped again, tracking the shape beneath the black fabric. Your breath hitched—quiet, but noticeable to both of you. Your gloved hand curled reflexively at your side.
You bit your lip.
And then, softly, clinically—
“Twitch for me.”
And it did.
Just slightly. A small, visible movement under fabric. But enough.
A pulse. A response. An involuntary contraction of arousal-based musculature.
Your throat went dry.
A chill spidered down your spine, despite the warmth flooding your neck. Your mind scrambled to reframe this—to maintain control—but this no longer felt like controlled scientific inquiry. This was crossing into something else. Something biological. Something reproductive.
This wasn’t a training module anymore.
This was a live demonstration.
And you were the sole witness.
—
Bucky’s fingers curled under the waistband of his briefs.
He held your stare for a moment—something unspoken hanging in the air between you—and then he pulled them down.
Not rushed. Not coy. Just practical. Like it was necessary for the demonstration.
“You wanna learn properly, right?” he said. His voice was smooth, but edged. “Gotta see it bare if you want the full data.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because your breath caught the moment it came into view.
You choked—literally—on your own saliva.
Half-hard, and already thick. Heavy. You could see the potential of it, the way the veins curved beneath flushed skin, the slight upward tilt even in its semi state. It looked obscene without even being fully erect yet, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from tracing it, from measuring it mentally like you were still running diagnostics.
But you weren’t anymore. You knew that now.
Bucky saw your stare, the way your eyes had locked there like you forgot how to blink. His voice dropped, barely audible over the thick hum of your pulse.
“Give me another command.”
Something in your body responded before your brain did. Your feet shifted—one step forward. Then another. And another. Four in total. Just enough to bring you closer. Close enough that you didn’t have to squint to see the twitch of him. The weight of it.
Your gaze finally broke from his cock and lifted—slow, dazed—until you met his eyes again. There was something in them now. Not confusion. Not amusement.
Permission.
“Stroke it for me,” you said, voice quieter than before. Not clinical. Not innocent. Just… real.
And that was the moment the game changed.
Bucky’s breath stuttered once in his throat, just the smallest hitch. Because now, you weren’t analyzing—you were participating.
And he liked that. He liked it a lot.
He wrapped his flesh hand around the base, slow and deliberate, his thumb swiping just under the tip as he started to stroke upward in long, lazy pulls. His cock twitched again in his palm, growing harder with every pass. No sounds left his mouth. His jaw clenched. His brows pulled tight. But he didn’t moan.
He was waiting for you to tell him to.
You shifted in place, thighs pressing together with a sudden, instinctive squeeze. Your breathing went uneven, and the pressure building between your legs was no longer something you could rationalize away. Wetness pooled at the center of your panties. Your skin was hot. Your thoughts a blur of static and want.
Your eyes dropped again. His cock had grown—thicker, longer, flushed deep at the head. Veins thickened along the shaft. The slide of his hand was smooth, practiced. Deliberate.
Your mouth opened again.
“Stroke faster.”
He obeyed instantly.
The rhythm changed, tightened, faster now—fingers gliding up the length, thumb brushing the tip each time in a way that made the muscles in his stomach twitch. His breathing picked up, but still no sound. Still waiting.
You stared.
Hard. Thick. Veined. It should’ve been obscene, but you couldn’t look away. The way his cock reacted to your voice felt like an experiment gone wrong—or maybe perfectly right. And you were the one holding the data, holding the power.
Your pulse beat between your legs.
And then—a glint.
Your eyes caught it before you could process it.
A bead of pre-cum had leaked from the tip, catching the light under the bright med-bay fluorescents. It clung there, glistening.
You groaned.
Not intentionally. Not performatively.
It was raw, low, a breathy little sound dragged straight from your chest before you could clamp it down.
And when you realized what you’d done, your hand flew to your mouth.
Bucky’s fist slowed for just a moment.
Then he smirked—eyes dark, blown wide, a faint sheen of sweat forming across his collarbone.
“That wasn’t very professional,” he murmured.
—
Bucky’s fist moved faster now—stroking with a pace that was no longer lazy or exploratory. It was urgent. Determined. Testing both your commands and his own control.
His eyes flicked up to you again, and this time his voice had a rasp to it. Thicker. Needier.
“Come on,” he said lowly, just above a whisper. “What’s next, huh? Moans? Touch? You’re running the experiment, right? Gotta get all your data points.”
The words coiled low in your abdomen like a tightening wire. He was pushing you now—not resisting, not breaking the role—but tempting you to go further. Daring you.
And fuck, you were already too far gone to backpedal.
You watched the way his cock jerked in his hand, the head flushed and leaking. The pace was obscene—wet, rhythmic, fast.
“Stop,” you said, breathless but firm.
His hand froze instantly, mid-stroke.
You stepped closer, chest rising with shallow breaths.
“Now grip it tight. At the base. Like a cock ring.”
His jaw clenched. But he obeyed.
Fingers slid down, wrapped tight at the base. The moment he squeezed, his hips jolted just slightly—a tiny thrust he didn’t mean to give. The muscles in his stomach twitched. His lips parted.
A whimper escaped him. Soft. Strained. Like it had been forced through grit teeth. Not a moan. But close.
Your own breath caught.
Something about that sound—his frustration, his restraint, the way he held himself back on your order—sent a hot wave crashing through your core.
Your nipples peaked, the fabric of your bra suddenly too tight, too abrasive, like even the fibers couldn’t stand not touching you directly. Heat spread low in your belly, soaking between your thighs. You didn’t dare look down at yourself. You didn’t need to.
You already felt how soaked you were.
Your eyes didn’t leave his cock.
It twitched slightly in his grip.
Alive.
Waiting.
You swallowed, and then—
“Moan for me.”
He did.
Not a pornographic moan. Not some overdone, fake gasp. It was real.
It started low in his chest, almost like a growl — rough, full of restraint snapping open. It vibrated in his throat before it left his mouth, his jaw slackening as he let out a slow, masculine moan that sounded like it had been pent up for hours.
“F-fuck—” he gasped, voice catching. “That what you wanted?”
It was full of yearning. Of weight. Like he’d been aching to be heard, and now your voice was the only one he’d obey.
Your thighs squeezed again, tighter this time. You shifted on instinct, trying to ease the pressure building deep inside you. But it was no use.
He saw it.
Saw you squirm, saw your chest rise like you couldn’t catch your breath, saw the tremble in your fingers now clenched around the edge of the tray behind you.
And he smiled.
But this one… wasn’t mocking.
It was sharp. Almost feral.
His hand still gripped the base of his cock, skin tight and flushed. But he didn’t move. He just looked at you, pupils blown wide.
Then—his voice dropped to something darker. More commanding.
“Your turn.”
You blinked.
“What?”
His smirk widened just slightly, voice gravel-smooth, no longer soft or playful.
“Take the gloves off,” he said. “Then touch me. And let’s stop pretending this is still about Hydra.”
—
For a moment, you hesitated.
Just a breath.
Then you peeled off your gloves—one hand, then the other—fingers flexing slightly in the cool med-bay air. The sterile barrier was gone now. There was no pretending this was still clinical. This wasn’t about notes. This wasn’t about data.
This was about him. And you.
Your footsteps were slow, measured, as you stepped the last bit of distance between you and Bucky. He stood in front of the med-bed, body bare from the waist down, cock flushed and leaking, his chest rising just a little faster now.
You reached out.
Your fingers wrapped around him—replacing his own grip at the base. He let go immediately, lifting his hand away to let you take over, the breath in his throat catching as your skin made contact.
He was hot. Heavy. Alive in your palm, twitching slightly as your hand encircled the base. The skin was soft where it needed to be, velvet over steel, and the tip was slick and pulsing.
You looked up at him.
Your gaze met his, and his eyes were dark, narrowed—hungry.
His lips parted just slightly, voice rough and short.
“Stroke me. Then blow me.”
The order made your thighs clench.
You obeyed without speaking.
Your hand began to move, slow at first, adjusting to the shape and heat of him, your grip gentle, exploratory. You watched the way his stomach flexed with each pass, the subtle twitch of muscle when you passed your thumb over the tip, smearing the pre-cum slowly down the shaft.
You leaned in.
Just slightly at first, tilting your head forward, your breath skating warm over the flushed head. Bucky’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then your tongue slipped out—just a taste.
One slow lick, right over the tip.
He groaned. Low. Guttural. His head tipped back for a split second, throat flexing.
You licked again, bolder this time, then wrapped your lips around the head of his cock and drew him in—slowly. You hollowed your cheeks slightly, using just enough pressure to feel him respond, the weight of him dragging your mouth open more as you took him deeper.
Your hand didn’t stop moving.
You stroked while you sucked—your fist gliding up and down the base in sync with your lips pulling wetly around the top. The angle made it easy, almost natural, to slide into a steady rhythm. Before long, your knees found the cold tile beneath you, and you dropped fully down.
On your knees for him.
Bucky’s hand reached for you.
His fingers threaded through your hair—not yanking, not controlling, but guiding. His palm cradled the back of your head, gentle but firm, keeping you steady, helping you move with him.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Jesus—you feel…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
You felt it—every twitch, every surge. You could taste him. Hear the sound of your mouth working over him—slick, lewd, hot. His cock throbbed under your tongue, and your hand was slick with saliva and pre-cum now, sliding faster, keeping pace.
Your thighs were soaked. You didn’t dare check.
This was no longer about commands.
This was about the way he moaned when your lips sank lower.
About how his hips gave a slow, helpless jerk when your tongue curled underneath.
About how your name—or maybe a prayer—slipped from his lips like he was giving in.
—
Bucky’s moans were getting ragged—too close. You could feel it in the way his hand tightened at the back of your head, the subtle twitch in his hips, the tremble riding down the backs of his thighs. He was losing control.
But then—he stopped.
His cock slid from your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva still clinging as he stepped back, and his hand released your hair with a gentleness that contrasted the tension still buzzing in the air.
You blinked up at him, breathless. Lips swollen, jaw slack.
Confused.
He leaned down suddenly, close, the blunt edge of his nose brushing your cheek, his mouth ghosting against your ear.
“I gotta stop,” he said, voice thick and wrecked. “If I keep going, I’m gonna come—and that’s not how I want this to end.”
Before you could speak, he inhaled sharply, slow and deliberate—right near your neck, your shoulder.
“I can smell you,” he whispered, so close you could feel his breath. “So sweet… fuck, you smell good. Like heat. Like need. It’s all I can fucking think about.”
Your throat tightened. Your thighs instinctively pressed together, but it was no use. Your panties were soaked through. You could feel it now—sticky against your skin, the telltale ache of need building deep and low.
He pulled back, eyes locking with yours.
“Get on the bed.”
You didn’t think. You just moved.
You climbed onto the med-bed, hands shaking as you laid flat, the sterile paper beneath your back crinkling under you. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your heart was hammering.
Bucky stepped up beside you, fingers moving straight to the controls along the side panel. You watched him adjust the platform—angling it upward, shifting it higher, higher—until your hips were raised perfectly at the edge, aligned with the height of the rolling med-chair he pulled in behind him.
Then his hands went to your waist.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your uniform pants—flicking the button open, tugging down the zipper slowly.
His eyes stayed on yours the whole time.
The fabric slid down your hips, over your thighs, exposing your underwear—already ruined.
His gaze finally dropped, and the sound he made was primal. A low, breathless groan punched straight from his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at that.”
Your panties were dark with arousal, wet from center to seam, clinging to your folds. His thumb grazed the soaked cotton, dragging it along the sticky heat there.
“You’re this wet for me?” he murmured. “Just from watching me stroke my cock?”
You swallowed but didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your hips tilted slightly into his touch, searching for more.
He hooked his fingers under the waistband and peeled your panties down, slow. As he pulled them off your legs, he paused—his eyes lingering for a heartbeat too long on the soaked gusset—and groaned again under his breath.
If he brought them to his nose, you didn’t see it. You were too busy trying not to tremble as he settled between your thighs.
He grabbed the chair, dragged it forward with one hand, and sat—his eyes level with your cunt now, bare and glistening, exposed completely on the edge of the bed.
“You ever had someone eat you out?” he asked, voice deep and low.
You shook your head. Small. Honest.
A flicker of something passed over his face—dark and pleased. His pupils blew wide, tongue wetting his bottom lip.
“Good,” he said, breath ghosting hot against your inner thighs. “I want to be the first.”
Then he leaned in—and licked you.
The first pass of his tongue was slow, wide, and devastating. A drag from your entrance up to your clit in one long, shivering stroke.
You gasped, back arching. “Oh—!”
He moaned into your cunt, low and deep.
Again.
He licked you slower now, more deliberately, the slurp audible. He nosed into you, spread you with two fingers of his flesh hand and devoured you like it was the only thing he was built to do. His tongue circled, then flattened. Then flicked—messy, wet, perfect.
Your hips twitched. Your hand flew to the bed rail, fingers clenching tight.
“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice trembling.
He grunted into you—sound vibrating straight through your clit.
Then you felt it.
Cold.
His vibranium fingers slid between your folds.
One pressed at your entrance—gentle, firm. A slow stretch as he slipped it in, knuckle by knuckle, filling you in one smooth thrust.
You cried out. Your thighs jerked.
The coldness of metal inside your hot, fluttering walls was overwhelming. You clenched around it instinctively, hips rocking into the sensation.
“Shit—yeah,” Bucky rasped, pulling back enough to speak. “Clenching already? Fuck, you feel good.”
His mouth returned to your clit, tongue circling, then sucking, lips closing around it just right.
At the same time, that finger started to move. A slow, deliberate rhythm. In and out, curling just slightly.
You whimpered. Your eyes squeezed shut. The heat building between your legs was unbearable.
“More—” you gasped. “I want—”
You didn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t have to.
Because your body had already betrayed you—back arching, hips bucking, slick dripping down to his palm.
His mouth sucked harder, tongue flicking faster, finger fucking you deeper—and you felt yourself start to unravel.
His breath hit your cunt when he spoke again.
“You want more?” His voice was rough, dark. “Say it. Tell me what you need.”
—
Your back arched as the first vibranium finger curled inside you, drawing another soft whimper from your lips. You needed more. The pressure was good—but not enough. Not yet.
Your hips rocked forward instinctively, searching, rolling toward his mouth, his hand, anything he’d give.
“Please,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Another…”
Bucky didn’t hesitate.
Another cool, sleek finger joined the first, easing in slowly with a delicious stretch that made your thighs jerk open wider. He groaned against your cunt as he watched your body react.
“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing against your inner thigh. “Take it. Just like that.”
Your hips rolled, desperate for more friction. The pressure was growing deeper, stronger—but it still wasn’t enough. Your moans grew softer, more frequent, broken by panting breaths. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t ask.
But he knew.
Without needing permission, he slid a third vibranium finger inside you, and that made you cry out.
“F-fuck—” you gasped, legs shaking.
The stretch was intense—your walls clenching tight around the cool metal, fluttering with every slow curl of his fingers. You didn’t know you could feel this full from just fingers. But the pressure was perfect. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough at the same time.
Bucky groaned, his own voice ragged now.
“Fuck, look at you,” he said, voice thick and reverent. “Clenching around me like you’re starving for it.”
He set a faster rhythm, fingers pumping into you with slick, wet sounds that filled the space between your own needy moans. His thumb slid up, circling your clit while his tongue flicked beneath it, and it was too much—your thighs shaking, your breath coming in shallow, desperate bursts.
Your hands gripped the rail above your head. Your body was so close, teetering, right there—
And then he stopped.
Just like that.
You whimpered, a broken sob of air as your hips bucked forward, trying to chase the friction he just took away.
“No—” you gasped.
He didn’t answer. He just sat back slightly, eyes hooded with heat, breath heavy, fingers soaked in your arousal.
He raised his hand to his mouth.
Licked the wet off one finger.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You taste so sweet. Addictive.”
Then, to your surprise, he brought those same fingers to your lips.
You parted them without thinking.
The taste of yourself hit your tongue—salty, musky, warm. It made you moan softly, eyes fluttering closed.
Bucky’s hand dropped, and he leaned over you, one arm curling around your waist as he pulled you upright from the bed in one swift, effortless move. Your legs wrapped around him loosely, chest pressed to his, your soaked cunt still throbbing.
He kissed you.
And it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was claiming.
Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that spoke everything his mouth couldn’t say. Tongue sliding against yours, hands anchoring you close, his cock thick and hard between your bodies.
You broke the kiss first, breath catching in your throat. A soft moan escaped you as you leaned into the crook of his neck, lips brushing his jaw, your breath hot against his ear.
“I need your cock,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Inside. Now.”
He jolted. Just slightly—but you felt it. The way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his cock twitched hard against your stomach.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough. “We don’t have to go that far. I can just—keep going. Oral only. Or I can stop.”
But you weren’t having that.
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.
Your voice steady now. Low. Commanding.
“It’s a command. Fuck me. Use your cock.”
Something in him broke.
His expression shifted instantly—lips parting, pupils dilating, breath punching out of him like you’d knocked the air from his lungs. And then his hands were on your hips, dragging you down the bed, adjusting your angle.
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed.
—
Bucky stepped in close, hands firm on your thighs as he aligned his cock at your entrance. You were still clinging to him from the kiss—legs locked around his waist, hips tilted forward—and the tip of him slid through your slick folds, gliding right up to your clit.
You gasped. Your arms tightened around his shoulders.
He let his forehead rest against yours, breath hot between your lips.
“Gonna split you open real slow, doll,” he whispered, voice dark and low. “Wanna make sure you feel me for days. Wanna make you think of my cock when you’re sittin’ at that medic desk, squirming in that chair…”
You whimpered, breath catching hard in your throat.
He shifted his hips slightly, the fat head of his cock nudging right at your entrance. There. Warm. Heavy.
“Still okay?” he asked, eyes scanning your face.
You nodded quickly—too fast.
But Bucky didn’t move yet.
He was patient. His flesh hand slid to your lower back, supporting you. His vibranium arm cradled under your thighs. You were secure. Held. Open.
He pushed in slowly.
The stretch was immediate.
Your breath hitched. Your brows pinched tight.
It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t discomfort.
It was just—a lot.
So thick. So full. Your walls struggled to accommodate the girth of him, every inch pressing into you with that impossible, deliberate pressure.
Your fingers clawed slightly at his back, seeking grounding. Your lips parted around a breathy, trembling moan.
He stilled halfway.
“Talk to me,” he whispered. “Need me to stop?”
You shook your head. “Just—need a second. You’re…”
“I know,” he muttered, placing a soft kiss against your temple. “You’re taking it so well.”
His cock twitched inside you, and the sensation made your core flutter around him again.
You adjusted your hips subtly, trying to find that sweet angle, and he caught your eyes—dark, hungry, but still gentle.
You gave him a tiny nod.
“Okay.”
He eased forward again, the rest of him slowly sheathing inside—inch by thick inch—until his hips met yours and you were completely full.
You both paused.
You gasped softly, still trying to breathe through the stretch. He stayed still, letting you feel everything: his length, his weight, the way he filled every space inside you like he was made for it.
Then—he began to move.
His hips rolled forward, slow and deep. A drag of thick cock against tight, soaked walls. You moaned quietly into his neck, your arms around his shoulders as he rocked into you with careful, steady rhythm.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt. Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”
You didn’t. Couldn’t. Your body wrapped around him like instinct, taking everything he gave, hips jerking slightly with each push forward.
The pace stayed tender, but every thrust got a little deeper.
He lifted you slightly with each one, your thighs trembling around his waist.
But after a while, he slowed again—kissed your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
Then his voice dropped.
“Turn around for me.”
You blinked up at him, dazed. “What?”
“Wanna see you bend over that bed,” he said, voice rough. “Wanna fuck you from behind. Real slow. Let you feel every inch while you arch that back for me.”
You moaned.
He slowly pulled out—slick and thick and aching—then gently set you down on the mattress.
The bed hissed slightly as he adjusted the height down, just enough to allow your knees to hit the floor if needed. You leaned forward, hands braced on the mattress, spine arching as he guided you into place.
Your cunt throbbed—open and wet, dripping for him.
“That’s it,” he muttered behind you. “Just like that.”
Then he slid back in.
Your mouth dropped open with a gasp as his cock filled you again from behind—this time deeper, the angle hitting something different, something devastating.
He kept his hands firm on your hips, pulling you back gently as he rocked forward. The rhythm wasn’t hard—but deliberate. Controlled. Every stroke sank to the hilt, then withdrew just enough to let you feel the drag before he shoved back in.
You whimpered, braced against the bed, flushed from the neck down.
And he just kept going.
“Still good, baby?” he murmured, thumb brushing over the curve of your lower back.
You nodded, nearly trembling. “S-so good…”
But the words were starting to fall apart.
So was your mind.
And neither of you had even come yet.
—
Bucky’s thrusts deepened, hips rolling into yours at a steady, dragging pace. Each stroke hit just right, and you were keening for him—barely holding yourself upright, knuckles white as you clutched the edge of the med-bed beneath you.
But then his rhythm slowed.
You gasped when he slipped out, your empty cunt fluttering at the sudden loss. Before you could speak, his hands were already guiding your hips—flipping you over with a gentleness that made your heart twist.
You landed on your back.
He hovered over you for just a beat, gaze sweeping your face.
Then he leaned down and kissed you—slow and tender. Like a thank you. Like a promise.
“Lie back,” he murmured against your lips. “Wanna see your face when you come.”
Your cheeks burned. But you obeyed.
You slid further onto the mattress until you were lying flat, arms at your sides, heart pounding in your ears. He followed—climbed onto the narrow bed, the space barely enough for him, but he made it work.
He settled between your thighs again, and without a word, lined himself up.
Then—he pushed back in.
Your body stretched around him once more, the delicious fullness making you gasp. He groaned softly above you, head dropping to your shoulder.
And then he started to move.
Still gentle—but faster now.
Deeper. The strokes came in a rhythm designed to wreck you, his hips driving into yours, the mattress squeaking faintly beneath the both of you. His mouth hovered over yours, your foreheads touching, breath shared.
You looked up at him—really looked—and something in your chest cracked open.
He was flushed. Focused. Eyes trained on every expression you made. Every gasp. Every tremble.
“You’re so close, huh?” he whispered, voice rough. “Can feel you squeezing me.”
You nodded, breath caught in your throat. Your hands gripped his shoulders now, fingers digging into his back.
“Bucky—” you choked. “I’m— I’m coming—”
His mouth found yours as you shattered beneath him.
Your entire body clenched around his cock, heat surging through you like a wave breaking. Your walls pulsed tight around him, spasming with every beat of your climax. Your legs shook. Your fingers trembled. Your voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.
And he kept going—just enough to help you ride it out, hips rocking in slow, shallow thrusts as your body twitched and trembled beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that. You did so fucking good…”
When your spasms started to ease—when your cunt stopped fluttering and your hips finally slumped against the mattress—he pulled out, slick and twitching.
His hand wrapped around his cock, stroking hard and fast.
You could barely watch, breathless and dazed, but the sight of him, flushed and towering above you, fucking his fist with your arousal still shining on him—it was filthy in the best way.
A few strokes later, he came.
Hot ropes spilled across your lower belly, streaking your thighs in thick, warm pulses. He grunted low, teeth clenched, brows furrowed as his release overtook him.
You lay there, wrecked. Chest heaving. Skin slick with sweat.
Bucky? He panted for a moment—but that Super Soldier thing had him steadying fast. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, just above the mess he’d made.
Then he reached for the tissue box by the tray.
You flinched when the cool wipe hit your thigh, but he was gentle—careful as he cleaned the sticky remnants off your skin. His touch wasn’t sexual anymore. It was care. Quiet. Wordless.
He helped you sit up, tugging your pants back into place like it was second nature. Buttoned them for you. His fingers lingered at the waistband.
Neither of you spoke right away.
You didn’t need to.
There was no awkwardness. No guilt. Just… this unspoken truth between you.
This would happen again.
You both knew it.
Bucky looked around the room once everything was cleaned—bed straightened, gloves tossed, no trace left.
Then he turned to you, mouth tugging at one corner in a crooked grin.
“Maybe next time,” he said, voice low, “we try sex on command, too?”
♡ tags: f!reader, neighbor!bucky, Brad The Asshole, a speedrun of enemies to friends to lovers, implied unspecified age gap, bucky punches someone in the face for you, no cheating/infidelity, use of the word ‘cunt’ for reader, wall fucking, having to be quiet, carrying/lifting/manhandling, multiple orgasms, implied masturbation / use of sex toys, pet names (baby/babygirl), use of ‘good girl’, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected p in v sex, spit, multiple positions, overstimulation, spanking/clit spanking, getting together
♡ word count: 10k
♡ synopsis:
Fed up with bad dates and even less satisfying sex afterwards, you’ve taken to running out the batteries on your vibrator and shoving the hopeless romantic inside of you into a box of shame until it stops getting you into shitty situations. You’re just about ready to throw in the towel and commit yourself to a lifetime of finding out what exactly being a ‘spinster’ and excessive cat-ownership entails when—because things can somehow still get worse—your brooding, man-of-few-words neighbor decides to tell you that he can hear how awful your love life is because you share a bedroom wall with him.
At least he proposes a solution. In the end, turns out you didn’t have to go far to get what you needed after all.
♡ warnings: reader is called a bitch once in the beginning (not by bucky!) !!!
“No, you’re right, Brad. I’m the asshole for expecting you not to sneak out of my apartment in the middle of the night without warning. That’s my bad.”
You blaze through the kitchen and entryway of your apartment, hot on the heels of the guy you thought was about to be your boyfriend, feeling a little guilty toward your downstairs neighbor for the way your bare feet thud against the floor.
“I thought you just wanted something casual!” Brad says, exasperated, as he throws open your front door and stumbles out into the hall, halfway into one of his shoes.
“He says after our third date,” you toss back. You cross your arms, leaning against the frame as you watch him struggle into the boot. “Were you even listening to the things I was saying on those? Or just waiting for me to stop talking and hoping I’d split the bills with you?”
Brad groans. “All I said was that Caravaggio’s was really nice for a first date.”
“Yeah, well. Some of us like to make a good first impression.”
And you had; you’d worn something nice, spent a good few hours in the shower and getting ready in front of your mirror, and you might’ve stalked his socials beforehand to have some talking points prepared ahead of time. Meanwhile, Brad had shown up in jeans and then fumbled his way through asking if they could split the check.
Pausing by the bannister of the stairs, Brad scrubs a hand over his face and sighs.
“What do you want me to say? Look—you’re really nice, and I had fun. Seriously. But I just wanted to hook up.”
“You couldn’t have told me that when I asked you what you wanted?”
“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “I didn’t want you to think I was a jerk. Okay?”
“Great job you did on that,” you snap. “Pro tip: next time you try to sneak out of someone’s bed and ghost them in the middle of the night? Don’t leave your fucking phone behind so your other girlfriends can text you and wake them up before the sheets are even cold.”
Uncrossing your arms, in your thin sleep shirt you’d tugged on to follow him out, you toss his phone at him. It skids across the floor and lands face down, its case-less, screen protector-less edges giving a satisfying crunch.
“We’ve been on three dates,” Brad bites, crouching down with a curse to examine his phone. “What—did you think we were gonna get fucking married?”
You tilt your head. “No, Brad. I just thought I could settle for the bare minimum, but it turns out you can’t manage to meet the bar even when it’s below the floor.”
Brad looks at you for a second, his true colors shining through, before he scoffs and shakes his head.
“Bitch.”
He spins and heads for the stairs, rounding the bannister and then starting down to the ground level. You hear him stumble for a second where your eyes are still twitching, locked on where he disappeared, and a moment later, your neighbor appears in the gap.
James’ eyes flick up to you as he pauses on the landing, then continues his steady footfalls until he reaches the door beside yours. You should say something, probably, but you’re still trying to talk yourself off the edge, and it’s not like James has ever made any effort to talk to you either. So.
Letting your eyes fall shut, you take in a deep breath and let it out again, listening to the jingle of his keys as he pulls them out of his pocket. You wait to hear them turn in the lock, but they never do.
When the silence stretches, James’ slow breaths and your elevated heart rate the only noise in the hall, you chance a look over at him.
“You should stop dating assholes,” he says.
The novelty of hearing his low, gruff voice for the first time isn’t enough to change the fact that his words hit right where it hurts. Your eyes narrow, your body pushing off the frame to turn and face him.
“Excuse me?”
James doesn’t bother repeating himself. Just stares. You can feel your blood pressure increasing with each time he blinks without another word.
“You mean like the kind of assholes that don’t speak to me despite living next to each other for six months and then decide a good opener would be ‘stop dating assholes’?” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Unbelievable.”
When he just keeps staring and it becomes obvious he doesn’t plan on saying anything else, you give up and storm back into your apartment, letting the door shut soundly behind you. You do up the locks and navigate to the kitchen on autopilot, reaching for the pain killers to combat the headache you can already feel forming behind your eyelids, washing it down with water from the tap and leaving the glass on the counter for tomorrow.
Your bedroom feels too stifling when you walk back in, thick with lingering heat and the smell of Brad’s knockoff cologne. Spinning on your heel, you march back to the hall closet to fetch some clean blankets and drag them out to your couch instead, collapsing in a heap onto the cushions.
You turn the television on but leave the lights off, hoping that the low volume of an old sitcom will make you feel less alone so you can get some much needed sleep.
You’re not even an episode in when the tears come, hot and stinging and stubborn, and you’re too tired to this time to try and stop them. Instead, you bury your face into your cocoon of blankets while a laugh track plays distantly on the TV, and you let yourself pretend for a moment that things could have worked out.
It’s still not enough to drown out the thought plastered on the backs of your eyelids, sharp and quiet: maybe it’s me.
But that, like always, is a problem for tomorrow.
The coffee shop you usually stop at before work is closed this Monday, so you have to leave a little earlier to get to the other one. It’s past time you should invest in one of those fancy little ones for your apartment, but the routine of stopping by the cute cafe on the corner to stock up on your much needed caffeine has become too much of a comfort to give it up now.
The further coffee shop is pretty much the opposite of that.
It’s loud, and crowded, and you get shoved in the shoulder more than once trying to make your way to the counter. You’re rushed through placing your order and then told to wait at the end of the display, and you tuck yourself into a corner, pulling out your phone to pass the time.
Several people come and go in front of you, and you glance at them as they pass by. But then your eye catches on an unfortunately friendly face—and a gnarly looking, half-faded black eye bruise covering one side of his temple.
“Brad?” you say, sticking your phone back into your pocket. “What the hell happened to your face?”
Brad, who’d been grimacing a smile toward the barista handing him his drink, immediately drops into a scowl when he sees you. He steps off to the side and lowers his voice, obviously in a rush.
“Seriously?” he huffs. “Your little boyfriend ran me down after I left and laid one on me for calling you a bitch.”
You frown. “My boyfriend?”
“Creepy guy in the leather jacket coming up the stairs? Looked a little older than us, but whatever.”
…Barnes? You tune Brad out for a second, your thoughts scattered. James is the one that’d given him a black eye? After you fought with him too?
The only reason you even know Barnes’ name at all is because, once, some of his mail had gotten delivered to your box instead of his in the mail room, and you’re the only two with a 3 printed in front of your boxes. It was just a credit card advertisement and a pizza coupon so it wasn’t anything particularly invasive of his privacy, but you’d finally seen his name: James Buchanan Barnes.
It’s not adding up. You hadn’t even seen him the remainder of the weekend after Friday night (morning?), and you hadn’t heard anything else that night out in the hall or downstairs. Nothing to suggest that he’d punched someone for you. Up until now, you’d been pretty sure he hated you.
“Rich of you to accuse me of talking to multiple people when you’re doing the same thing,” Brad continues with a grumble. “Could’ve pressed charges on the asshole.”
Even as he says it, you can see the way he hides behind his cappuccino, the way his eyes shift off to the side. James must’ve really gotten to him.
“I’m gonna be late,” you dismiss yourself, slipping by him to grab your drink off the counter and head for the door past the morning rush.
You end up thinking about it all the way to work and throughout your day, confused and…flattered? It’s not like you hadn’t made your point pretty clearly, but you can’t deny that it’s nice that somebody cared enough to, well. To commit an act of physical violence to defend your honor.
Even though Brad probably won’t stop being an asshole, he’d been different even today; hadn’t insulted you as much, never shoved at your shoulder or impeded on your personal space. And maybe, if James made him think twice about doing it to you, he might think twice about doing it to any other women too.
Well, fuck. You’re going to have to go see Barnes.
You wish you could say you were dreading it more.
When you show up at his door later that night with a six pack and a tentative smile, you aren’t even sure he’ll be home, much less that he’d let you inside.
There’s silence on the other side of the door after you knock, no shifting, no footfalls, no warning when it suddenly creaks open after a minute and James blinks at you as he leans on the doorframe.
“I have to admit, I’m not really sure what constitutes a good gift for someone that punches my ex in the face to defend my honor,” you say with your best game face, holding up the six pack, “but I’m hoping that beer’s a good start. You seem like a beer guy.”
The twitch in James’ brow seems vaguely concerned. He folds his arms over his chest, the lines of his black tee stretching over a tan bicep and what you’re now realizing is a prosthetic on his left, and he tracks the movement of your eyes with his own.
“I seem like a beer guy,” he repeats blankly.
Your smile stretches into a wince. “That was a compliment?”
“You sure about that?”
“Do you want the beer or not?”
This is a thank you. You’re not here to kiss his ass.
He sizes you up again for a second, and then steps back, using his boot to nudge the door open further. “You comin’ in?”
The inside of his apartment is nearly a mirror of yours, your living rooms facing outward, your bedrooms up against each other on the inside wall. It’s dark, with only a lamp on by the armchair in the den, his leather jacket thrown across the back of it. You have no idea what James does as a job, only that he seems to come and go at odd hours, and that he’s usually up during the night when you’re going to sleep—which you only know because there’s a particularly creaky floorboard somewhere in here, and otherwise, he’s completely, sometimes unsettlingly, silent.
He walks off through the space without checking over his shoulder to make sure you shut the door behind you, leaving you to stand idly by the entryway while you try to decide whether or not you should take off your shoes. But it’s not carpet in here and James is still wearing his boots, so you leave them on and follow him through the apartment toward the window that’s open to the fire escape, ducking through it behind him.
The night air is humid, and you slip off your jacket after setting down the beers. James slips one out for each of you, knocking the necks on the railing to pop off the caps, and then hands it back as you both take a seat on either side of the metal grating.
You wonder what he was doing out here before you got here; there’s no evidence of any other drinks, no smell of cigarettes or smoke, no books or phones or anything else to hold his attention. He takes a long sip and then glances down at the street below, and you think maybe he was just people watching.
Just as you’re about to try to come up with something to break the tense silence, James lifts two fingers to his mouth and whistles sharply. You hear rustling from inside, and then a ball of soft white fur leaps past your head and crashes into James’ side.
“Oh! You have a cat.”
As the cat rubs its head against his side with a heavy purr, James glances over at you. “You allergic?”
You rub your thumb and pointer finger together, holding it out to get the cat’s attention with a shrug. “No, I just—didn’t peg you for a cat guy, I guess.”
“More of a beer guy, right?”
It takes a belated second for you to realize that he’s teasing you, your eyes flicking up to the subtle tilt at the corner of his mouth. You laugh, then, and he ducks to take another sip of beer at the noise.
“Pretty risqué tastes for a guy named James,” you hedge back.
“Bucky,” he offers. You raise a brow, half wondering if he’s talking about the cat until he elaborates. “I go by Bucky.”
You raise your bottle.
“Bucky, then.”
He waits a beat before lifting his own, clinking your glasses together as the cat gives a meow of solidarity between you.
You knock it back, washing any remaining tension away with warm beer and the unfamiliar pleasure of a new friend.
By the time an hour’s passed, it’s like talking to a different person.
Not, like, entirely, because Bucky is still just as blunt and grunts his way through most of the conversation when he doesn’t have anything to add, but it’s still nice.
You learn that he’s a veteran when he catches you subtly eyeing the prosthetic again, and that he doesn’t much like being around people; hence his haphazard outings and poor sleep schedule, the way he’d avoided you for six months, and the abruptness of his introduction the other night. When you apologize for practically inviting yourself over to his apartment, though, he eyes his cat—Alpine, you learn—nuzzling up against your hand in your lap, and admits that you might not be so bad. It feels like a win.
This is not a date, but—God. You’re having more fun talking to him than you’ve ever had sitting across from any of the other guys you’ve gone out with. You’ve both been through two bottles already, Bucky’s shoulders have finally come down from his ears, and he’s finally meeting your eye when you talk. He lets you speak without steamrolling over you or changing the subject back to himself. He doesn’t once ogle your cleavage, even without your jacket on. You don’t have to wonder what he’s thinking, because he just sort of lays it out there whether you ask for it or not.
For example: “He was a fuckin’ idiot.”
Sputtering a laugh, you run a hand over Alpine’s back and shake your head. “They’re not all that bad,” you tell him weakly.
“Sure,” he agrees too easily. He takes a long glance at you from the corner of his eye, then tilts his head back to take a long sip. “So I guess it’s your phone that’s vibrating after they fall asleep.”
Your mouth falls open as heat rushes to your cheeks, and your laugh this time is significantly higher than the last. You’re a little tipsy, sure, but you’re not sure you’re drunk enough to discuss your lackluster sex life with your neighbor just yet.
“Our walls aren’t that thin,” you mumble into the neck of your bottle. “How the hell did you manage to hear that?”
Bucky shrugs. “Got good hearing.”
The noise of the city rushes back in to fill the first lapse of silence there’s been since the conversation began, and Alpine purrs in your lap as if mocking the noise Bucky’s referring to.
“Well what would you suggest, then?” you ask eventually, half-joking and half earnest. “It’s not like I haven’t been trying.”
He grunts. “Never said it was your fault.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“S’like I said in the hall. Stop dating assholes who only care about themselves.”
“They don’t really tend to go around advertising it,” you defend. “Sometimes they seem really great, and then—”
“That. Right there.” He peels a finger off his bottle to point it at you. “Really great doesn’t mean good. You’re settling.”
You falter. “Since when is great worse than good?”
“Since that little twitch in your face when you said it.”
“Stop being so perceptive,” you tell him.
“Stop settling,” he returns easily.
“It’s not settling if I can’t do any better.”
The aftertaste in your mouth turns a little sour, and you glance back down at the street below when Bucky’s expression narrows and hones in, unused to the weight.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. I just.” Your steep inhale comes out as a sigh. “Look, I know what lane I’m in, okay? I’ve tried dating better guys before and there’s always a reason I’m not good enough,” you admit lightly. “At least this way, I can blame it on them for it not working out.”
And that’s the root of things, isn’t it? You know you’re dating assholes. A part of you does it on purpose, like it’s not even conscious anymore. Just instinct, meant to let you perpetuate an inflated version of yourself compared to people that would never be able to fulfill your needs anyway.
But you can’t think about that too long, because then it turns into bone deep loneliness, and a spiral about how you’re running out of time, and that just makes you more desperate so the cycle starts all over again.
It’s just that usually you’re not this transparent to other people, too.
The clink of Bucky’s bottle hitting the grate behind you drags you back to the present, and when you turn your head, Bucky’s closer than he’d been before. Not enough to be imposing, but enough that his palm is resting flat to the grate just beside your hip, enough that the breeze blows his scent toward you every few seconds, enough that your heart begins to beat faster in your chest.
“How ‘bout this,” he says, glancing down to your mouth and back up again. “Next time you bring somebody home and they can’t fuck you like you deserve—you come and knock on my door.”
“Like a walk of shame,” you laugh bitterly after a moment of shock, trying not to take his offer too seriously. He’s just tipsy. Has to be.
Even still, the crooked tilt of his lips betrays you when he catches you looking at his mouth in return.
“I didn’t say in the morning,” Bucky reiterates, sounding jarringly sober. “I said, if you’re not satisfied, you come over as soon as the asshole’s asleep. It’ll be real poetic when he wakes up to the sound of you screamin’ for me next door.”
His head tilts then, considering, and the way his gaze runs over your face feels like it’s his fingers instead of his eyes.
“Then again, he probably wouldn’t even recognize you like that. Would he? Since he couldn’t fuck it outta you ‘imself?”
“Bucky—” you say, breathier than you’d intended to.
Before you can come up with some way to finish the thought, he grabs his bottle and leans back again, casual as ever. “Or don’t. There’s no obligation. But. Offer’s on the table, when you decide enough’s enough.”
You catch yourself staring at his mouth several more times before you leave, and Bucky looks at you underneath the shitty hallway fluorescents like he already knows what you’ll decide.
You try to at least act a little bit like you don’t already know too.
It’s two in the morning, and you can’t take it anymore.
There’s sweat drying underneath your back under your clothes, wetness smeared in between your thighs, and an ache inside of you that feels vast and restless and unsatisfied. It’s the only reason you’re in the hallway in your hastily pulled on socks and sleep shirt in the middle of the night, knocking a fist against Bucky’s door.
You’ve been thinking about his offer for weeks now. You’d been on a few dates as you and Bucky got closer as friends, tried to forget about it, write it off as a joke. But it’s like saying it out loud that night only reinforced the fact that you knew you were getting yourself into dead ends, and now every face you look into across a dining table or in your bedroom you just end up wishing were his instead.
You drive yourself crazy, wondering what it might be like. Would he be rough or gentle with you? Would he tease you all night until finally pushing you over the edge, or would he overwhelm you with so much pleasure from the beginning that you went a little hazy, just because he likes the way your mouth looks when it knows nothing except for his name? You already know he wouldn’t sneak out like the others—but how would he be afterward? Stoic and quiet after a thorough orgasm, or soft and sweet and wanting to keep you close?
And then, like an entirely too belated epiphany, you realize that you don’t have to wonder anymore.
The door creaks open not even thirty seconds after you knock, and the smile Bucky gives you in the low light is knowing and disarming and exhilarating all at once.
He takes one look at you—half-lidded and disheveled in nothing but a t-shirt and socks, your chest still rising and falling with evidence of your unsuccessful exertion—and pulls you in.
The door closes louder than necessary, Bucky’s attention on you instead as he grips you by the hips and backs you into the nearest wall. You gasp when your back meets it and Bucky inhales your air, greedy and close, but he doesn’t close the distance.
Instead, like he already knows what you need without having to ask, he keeps his eyes on yours as he bends to secure both arms around your waist, then stands to full height again with you against his chest. Your feet hover inches above the ground but you don’t move to wrap your legs around his hips, the thrum of arousal inside of you simmering in a way that burns better than it ever has before.
Your noses touch, gazes locked, the peripheral view of his apartment nothing more than a warm blur around you as he carries you through the kitchen, past the living room, across the hallway and into his bedroom.
Your socked feet are lowered to the ground again once you’re inside, and Bucky walks you back even further, that telltale piece of wood creaking under both of your feet as you cross over it.
And then you finally come to a stop against the far wall—the one that backs up directly to your bedroom on the other side.
You hiss in a cautious breath, your heart racing. But it gets much harder to keep quiet when one second Bucky’s looking down at you with more heat than anyone else has ever managed before, and the next he’s on his knees.
The broad planes of his shoulders are on full display, bare and glistening in the moonlight coming in through the window, and the material of his flannel sleep pants dulls the thud of his knees on the wood just enough to be able to pass it off as something else.
Still looking up at you like he’s daring you to look away, Bucky lifts one of your ankles, bending your leg enough that he can turn his head and drag his mouth against the spot just above your knee. The heavy inhale he takes doesn’t go unnoticed, undoubtedly picking up the scent of your slick that’s smeared across the insides of your thighs, soaked through the material of your underwear on your hips.
With him holding your ankle, you can’t close them either. You’re forced to hold your breath in steep anticipation as his kisses grow hotter, wetter, messier the higher he climbs up your thigh with his mouth, thoroughly appreciating the lengths you’d gone to to shave and moisturize earlier in the day.
Someone definitely should.
His warm palms and calloused fingers work their way up the outside of your thighs, over the curve of your hips, collecting the material of your t-shirt and pushing it up as he goes. When the material bunches underneath your breasts, he guides one of your hands to hold it there, then presses a barely-there kiss just above your navel.
From there, he slips down the few remaining inches to finally settle his head at the apex of your thighs. You feel his nose nudge against your vulva and eventually your clit over your underwear. There’s a brief pause as he breathes you in, and then a low, deep groan buried against the material covering your core as he uses it to keep himself quiet.
You’re not doing any better. You’re already shivering, sensitive from earlier in the night, and Bucky’s hot breath against your hotter cunt is not doing much of anything to cool you off. His lips part over the damp fabric right over your entrance, the drag of his tongue made rough and textured with the remaining degree of separation.
You only narrowly avoid a moan, shoving the back of your free hand against your mouth to stifle it at the last second. With his chin nestled up against your entrance and his tongue rolling in waves against your clit, you clutch at the material of your shirt like it’s a handful of bedsheets, keeping your shoulder blades against the wall but rolling your hips forward against Bucky’s eager mouth.
Before you can work up a rhythm, he presses you back into the wall firmly, the thud of your body against it making you both pause briefly. When you calm, he hooks his fingers over the edge of your underwear and finally drags them down your legs, leaving you wet and open in the cool air of his bedroom.
The soaked fabric hangs off of his fingers once it’s been pulled off of both your ankles, and without pausing or asking permission, Bucky reaches over to his nightstand to your right and shoves them into the top drawer to keep.
With nothing left between you, he moves a little quicker, a little more focused. He grabs your leg again and hitches it over his shoulder, curves both hands around your hips, and tilts his head back to fasten it against your cunt.
The first press of his mouth against where you’re wet and open sends a shock through your system. Your head knocks back against the wall behind you whether you mean for it to or not, and you can’t bring yourself to care when Bucky’s nose nestles up against your clit and his tongue wastes no time in gathering your wetness just to fuck it back inside of you, tasting you from the inside out.
He pulls back enough to drag the flat of it from the bottom of your cunt all the way up to the top, then suctions his mouth around your clit and flicks his tongue in a relentless pattern, never staying in a single place for too long.
When you feel like you can remove it without getting yourself in trouble, you lower your fingers from your mouth and slip them into Bucky’s hair instead. His moan vibrates against you, inside of you, his lashes fluttering agreeably when you tug.
One of his hands holds your thigh over his shoulder while the other caresses the curve of your ass. You can hardly focus on it until suddenly those fingers dig in and your other foot leaves the ground too, and you squeak out a panicked noise at the abrupt change in stability.
You don’t need to, though—Bucky’s hands are strong and sturdy under your ass and thighs, your hand steadying in his hair, his fingers urging you to cross your ankles behind his back. The shift only draws his head closer to your cunt until there’s nowhere for him to go but dutifully forward, the hard, stubbled edges of his jaw working against you endlessly in contrast with the sweet, soft laps of his tongue.
The noises he’s making against you get progressively rougher, deeper, hungrier, and you feel the fleeting graze of his teeth against your clit, just enough to dance along the hazy line between pleasure and pain. You’ve never been with anyone so confident before, never once been eaten out with your legs wrapped around someone’s head as your only point of support. It makes you have to trust Bucky inherently, to depend on him not only for your pleasure, but to keep you from falling, too.
And then he takes it a step—several steps—further.
“Bucky,” you gasp as your axis shifts once more, his grip anchor tight around your hips as he stands up with you still attached to his mouth, one of your hands thrown up flat against the ceiling as you’re shoved up and up.
Your legs tense on either side of his head, your hips rutted forward and back arched as you grind against his tongue. He keeps you steady and you try to keep yourself quiet, your body overwhelmed by the mounting pressure in your cunt and the thrill of a position you’ve never found yourself in before.
Bucky’s entire body is slanted toward your cunt like a compass, his strong, broad shoulders and rough face the best thing you’ve ever found yourself sitting on.
The closer you get to coming, the more taut your muscles grow in your legs, inadvertently pushing his face away from you when it feels like too much. But he doesn’t let you go far, his hands reaching up to grip around your waist instead of your hips and thighs, and then he tugs once, sharp, hard against you so that there’s not a centimeter of space left between your slick cunt and the relentless pressure of his mouth.
Your breathing goes tumultuous, whimpers making their way through your teeth despite how hard you try to keep them in. The noise only seems to spur him on further, something like a growl buried in between your thighs as you squirm against him, and in lieu of the way he’s been fucking you with the hard point of his tongue the last few minutes, he finally lifts up another inch to focus on your clit again.
After the brief reprieve, the renewed pressure feels incredible. You buck against him, your impending orgasm momentarily taking precedence over your fear of falling, and Bucky’s hands dig into your hips tight enough to leave evidence behind.
He works you expertly; flicking his tongue, suctioning his lips, rubbing the roughness of his cheeks against every last one of your sensitive nerve endings until you can’t take it anymore.
With one hand braced against the ceiling and the other clutching his hair like a lifeline, you choke on a moan that’s louder than you mean for it to be as your body tips from closecloseclose into shattering.
Bucky holds you even tighter through it as you ride it out, your hips rolling against him like a wave. Your stomach clenches hard, your cunt bearing down on the slick, soft muscle of his tongue, your thighs shaking hard on either side of his head.
He laps at you through it, gentling the pressure of his mouth as you shiver with the aftershocks, his fingers easing into firm instead of sharp around your hips.
With a final, filthy-sweet press of his lips to your clit in parting, Bucky tilts his head back and the lower half of his face, glistening with your release, finally emerges from between the grip of your trembling thighs.
You relax your fingers in his hair, but as the gaze of your orgasm retreats, the fear of falling swoops back in to meet it. Bucky shushes you as you reach for him in a half-panic, your limbs still too loose to do much of anything but depend on him to keep you up.
It’s a slow descent, and his whispered words soothe you as he carefully removes one thigh from his shoulder and then the other, helping you wrap them around his middle instead. He stops you before you can lower yourself fully, grip tightening again to keep you still as soon as your heaving breasts are in front of his face.
Your nails scratch softly at the back of his head as he nudges your shirt up further with his nose and mouths at them, lips still slick with you as he smears it across your skin in pursuit of taking one of your nipples between his teeth. He doesn’t relent until it earns him another poorly concealed moan, and then he’s quick to soothe the sting with his tongue in a similar move to the one he’d used on your clit earlier.
Only once he’s left a fresh mark on the top curve of your breast does he begin to lower your thighs from his hips, unfolding your legs so that your feet touch the floor again.
Even then he doesn’t let go of you, a hand splayed possessively over your spine as he boxes you in against the wall until you get your balance back. Your cheek meets the bare skin of his chest, the sturdy thud of his heartbeat matching the one in between your legs. You wonder if he can feel it too.
The hand he slides down your side tells you he isn’t done with you yet, and you’re thrilled by the prospect. It’s rare that you come first (or at all, sometimes), and even more so that a man’s able to draw out the evening long enough to actually wear you out. Two or three orgasms is pretty standard for you with a toy, and maybe one with a guy.
You have a feeling Bucky is about to ruin you for either one of those moving forward.
With a drag of his lips against your shoulder where your shirt has shifted to the side, he grabs your hips and turns you to face the wall, your cheek pressed up against it so you can hear the still silence on the other side. It pushes your ass directly up against the bulge of his dick through his pants, and you push up on your toes a little, moving against him to return the favor.
Your objective gets a little skewed when Bucky’s wet kisses move from the curve of your shoulder up toward your neck. They trace up the side of it, lazy and deliberate, and you tilt your head for him as he moves up to your chin.
One of his hands drifts up, grazing your breast again before it grips your jaw. His thumb presses down on your lower lip, opening you up for him, and then he leans in over your shoulder and kisses you with his tongue, his teeth, his lips—in that order.
You whimper against him, pleased to have somewhere new to muffle your noises. You’re so close to your bedroom wall and you’re both getting off on it, on trying to be good while secretly hoping the other fails spectacularly at it.
With the prosthetic draped across your stomach underneath the shirt, Bucky holds you still while he kisses you, grinding against the bare curve of your ass leisurely.
“Y’open for me already?” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, your taste still heavy on his tongue.
You nod eagerly, pressing a hand to the wall and pushing up higher on your toes for more. You feel his hand leave your jaw to reach down between you, shoving the band down just enough to expose his cock.
He’s not wearing anything underneath the flannel sleep pants, his dick hard and pulsing against you, and you wonder as he ruts against the cleft of your ass if he’s thought about this as much as you have; if he’s lied awake on the nights he couldn’t get to sleep, picturing something like this. Maybe even sleeping nude with only a pair of pants on the end of the bed to slip into if you decided to knock on the door, ready to slip into you just like this if you did.
He leans over you to claim your mouth again while he angles his cock down enough that it curves between your legs instead, sliding through the wet mess of your cunt and slicking himself up. You shudder between him and the wall, so achingly empty you could cry for it.
The head of his cock nudges up against the underside of your clit, and you break apart from his mouth with a gasp.
“Please, Bucky.”
The arm around your waist tightens as it lifts you a couple of inches in the air, and Bucky kisses you hard—pointed, claiming—as he lowers you onto his cock in one easy shift of your body.
You cry out as he fills you, and Bucky mutters a curse as he grabs your jaw again, roughly covering your mouth with his fingers. You can’t find shame right now, your body overwhelmed by the size and weight and heat, an anchor in between your legs. Your legs shake and you find yourself depending on Bucky once again to keep you upright, your upper body slumped into the wall as he takes you from behind.
With his palm over your mouth, you let yourself get a little louder. You choke on a particularly hard thrust, moan when he begins fucking you in earnest, sink your teeth into him in retaliation when he presses his canines into your shoulder.
He bends his knees a little so he won’t have to hold you up with his arm, using his newly freed hand to fill in the gaps between your fingers with his own where they’re splayed on the wall. They curl through and over yours until he’s squeezing your fleshy palm, pulsing with each forward movement of his hips.
He might be muffling the noises from your mouth, but the ones coming from where the two of you connect are even more incriminating. You were wet already when you came over, wetter when he ate you out, wetter still after your first orgasm. His cock is swimming in it now, every shift and thrust audible when he moves.
You say his name, muffled into his hand, and he must be able to feel your lips try to curve around the letters. He groans against your back, fingers flexing where they hold yours, and presses a kiss to your shoulder as he slows.
You start to whine, but find yourself preoccupied once more when his hands slip away for good reason. Without pulling out of you, he reaches down to scoop up your weight from behind your knees, and before you can even comprehend what’s happened, his grip is wrapped all the way around you; his forearms underneath your knees, keeping them pressed to your chest while his cock still pushes up into you from underneath.
A moan manages its way out of your throat as you scramble to grab onto him where you can, your body practically folded in half in his hold. You can only imagine the way you’d look in a mirror right now, unable to close your legs, an unimpeded view of Bucky’s cock splitting you open, his face tucked over your shoulder from behind, biceps straining to support the weight of you and his own dwindling self control.
But Bucky doesn’t waste time looking for a reflective surface. He pulls you back from the wall and walks you toward the mattress instead, his dick moving inside of you with each step. Carrying you like a basket against his chest, he teases you with a few lift-and-drop motions before he relents, carefully lowering you forward until you’re on your hands and knees on the edge of his bed.
It leaves him standing behind you off the side, still buried deep in you like he’d been reluctant to even leave you long enough to move a few feet.
He steadies you with hands on your hips, smoothing over you as you push back against him, but both of you freeze when his first hard thrust makes the springs of the mattress creak loudly with the movement. There’s a brief pause where you can nearly hear him thinking, and then you’re left empty for a few aching, awful seconds when he pulls out.
He flips you onto your back and then hooks his hands underneath your arms to toss you up toward the pillows with a bounce, kicking his pants the rest of the way off as he climbs on top of you.
With a bruising kiss and a push of your legs back toward your chest, Bucky presses back inside of you, easy as if he’d never left.
The pace of his thrusts this time is slow and intimate to keep the bed from creaking, overwhelming in an entirely different way. His arms box you into his embrace around your head and shoulders, his mouth on yours, your legs folded around his hips as he rocks inside of you.
You’ve had rough sex. You’ve had quick, desperate sex that left you aching for something more. You’ve had bad sex, and you’ve had some really great sex, on occasion.
But you’re beginning to understand what Bucky means when he says that really great isn’t always better than good.
Good is so singular that it can’t be anything else—doesn’t need any specifying details or additives. Really great is a flash of novelty, something unexpected and fleeting. But good is inescapable, a ground floor instead of the main event. Good is the sort of thing you want to keep, even if you shouldn’t.
Even if it’s not yours.
Bucky fucks you good enough to make you forget about all of that. The weight of him—his eyes, his kisses, his body on top of yours—how could you possibly be expected to be thinking normally?
One of his arms slips underneath your shoulders as he buries his face in your neck, his other hand reaching under you to press against the base of your spine and help your hips move against him. You gasp for breath with your chin propped on his shoulder, his ceiling the same but opposite of yours overhead. Your eyes flutter shut as you picture it, a world where there’s no difference between them, where you share a bed with him more nights than you ever sleep alone.
Your fingers slip up into his hair, your other hand pressed flat against his hip as he moves. You can’t even help the sounds you’re making now, the air he’s punching out of you even when he’s forced to move so slow, the raw edge of your voice that comes out alongside it.
Luckily, Bucky doesn’t seem to mind.
“Can’t hold ‘em back, can you?” he murmurs against your collarbone, smearing a kiss across your skin. “All those sweet noises, just for me.”
“Just for you,” you nod, breathless, tugging him impossibly closer.
He hums. “I know, baby. Know you think about me when you’re fuckin’ somebody else. Know how long you’ve been waiting for this.” His teeth drag along your jugular. “Almost s’long as I have.”
He leans up on his arms again to look at you, thumbing at your lower lip the same way he had before he’d kissed you earlier. Without closing his eyes or taking them off yours, Bucky dips to close the distance with an achingly sweet kiss, and then settles that same hand around your throat.
“Promised I’d make you scream for me, didn’t I?”
Your breath catches, and you’re sure he feels the way your cunt squeezes him at the idea. But still, he waits for confirmation, dilated pupils flicking between each of yours.
You spare a fleeting thought for your bedroom on the other side of the wall, but you’ve already made up your mind. You nod.
Bucky’s fingers flex once around your throat, the easy sway of his hips coming to a complete stop between your legs. His voice is stripped, near unrecognizable when he looks down at you with a filthy grin and says, “Good girl.”
His cock slips out of you and your hips are yanked upward as Bucky sits up on his knees, dragging your cunt up to his mouth. With both of his arms locked around your thighs you’re left splayed open and at his mercy, your shoulders still against the sheets as blood rushes to your head and your cunt in equal, confusing but fucking incredible measure.
“Bucky,” you moan, louder than you’ve been all night. You flex your hips against him but he’s gripping you too tight to move much, his mouth moving rough and ravenous against you.
You choke on a pleasured sob as he mouths at your oversensitive clit, burying his face between your folds and shaking it, his own groans and growls muffled inside your body. It’s not enough to get you off, not for the second time, but the stimulation of the already buzzed nerve endings all over your cunt makes you spasm and shake, makes you grip the sheets and reach for Bucky to steady yourself, your mind dizzy with scattered pleasure.
Just as abruptly, Bucky pulls back. He purses his lips and spits, landing hot against your entrance and dripping down, and he takes a second to smear it with his fingers before he throws one of your legs over the other, turning you onto your side in front of him.
He fucks back into you in a fluid motion, and you nearly scream with the feeling of it. You’ve never been in so many different positions in one night before, and each one feels so different. You want to memorize all of them, the way Bucky’s cock splits you open in ways you haven’t felt before, carving out a space inside of you that won’t ever be filled in quite the same way again.
Bracing a palm in front of your face, Bucky leans over you and sets a quick, deep rhythm. He feels so much bigger, the squeeze so much tighter this way, with your thighs pressed together on your side. You rub them together a little, unable to help yourself and keep away from the pressure it puts on your clit with each of Bucky’s thrusts.
“Been so good,” Bucky mutters above you, brow furrowed in pleasure. “Told myself I had to wait. That you’d come to me when y’were ready for me, but—fuck,” he curses, gritting his teeth when you clench around him. “Hardest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever done. Can’t hold back now. Been waitin’ too long, babygirl. Too fuckin’ long.”
“Don’t have to,” you tell him between thrusts. “Whatever you want, Bucky. It’s yours.”
“Yeah?” he grunts. “What’s mine? Use your words. Let him hear you.”
He wraps a hand around your throat again as he fucks into with quick, punctuated thrusts, but your words fade into whimpers as he grinds in at just the right angle to hit that sensitive spot inside of you.
You make an attempt, but it all comes out jumbled and incoherent against the pillow. His hand withdraws and a second later you feel it land against the swell of your ass, sharp and sweet. You moan, and his fingers dig into your warm skin, gripping at the flesh he’d marked up seconds before.
“Tell me, baby,” he coos, right on the edge of condescending. “S’this ass mine? Those noises? This pretty little cunt?”
“Yes,” you cry as his palm lands against you again, hot and stinging like the tears in your eyes. “S’yours, Bucky, all of it.”
With a growl, Bucky grabs one of your calves and spreads it up and over until it’s on the other side of him again. It spreads you wide open, splays you flat on your back on the mattress, your shirt rucked up and tears in your eyes, your cunt on full display for him to watch where he’s fucking into you.
He reaches down to slide two fingers over your clit, splitting your folds enough to expose it to his hungry gaze. Without breaking stride in his thrusts, he dips his head and spits directly onto it, then uses his thumb to set a relentless pace against the nerves.
You cry out as your body seizes around him, trying to channel all of the scattered points of pleasure into one linear piece. He leans down over you, watching greedily, talking through his teeth.
“You scream my name when you come, y’understand?”
There’s no room for argument—not that you’d have one, anyway. It’s been a long fucking time since anyone’s fucked you so hard you couldn’t speak properly, and you’d forgotten how much that depraved part of you loves it.
“Still so tight,” Bucky goes on. “Tell me, baby—they not have what it takes to fill you up?”
Bucky rubs you a little quicker, a little harder, hardly giving you time to come up with an answer before he continues.
“Or are you a filthy liar, huh? Maybe you haven’t fucked anybody since I made you the offer, ‘cause you knew it’d be like this. Knew I’d fuck this pretty little head so empty that all it knows when I’m finished is me.”
You can’t catch your breath. For all his stoic silences and quiet moves, you hadn’t really expected Bucky to have a dirty mouth. The surprise of everything tonight, one after another after another, makes it hard to think straight.
When his words register, you draw up tight around him, and he hones in on it like a predator. Dark eyes and whipfast movements, adjusting his rhythm in response. He shoves your thighs back open when they threaten to close, your noises rising higher in pitch as you climb toward a second, sharper edge.
The kiss he presses to your lips is comforting and cruel, drawing attention to the way your mouth has fallen open and you’re helpless to get it to close now. You can hardly keep your eyes open anymore without them rolling back, but you try, because—Bucky.
“Be loud for me, baby, c’mon. Let the whole damn building hear who owns this cunt.”
He leans up again to watch your body clench around him, and when he removes his fingers for a second and then brings them back down in a sharp, noisy slap against your clit just as he fucks up into your spot, you follow orders to a tee.
Your body goes tight as a bow, spine arched and absent of breath, a split second plateau before you sink into blinding, white hot pleasure, endless and unmooring.
Bucky fucks you through it, muttering filthy sweet nothings as you call out his name, the bed squeaking and his fingers rubbing ruthlessly over your abused clit until every last tremor has worked its way through your system—and then some.
The roughness of his movements smears your wetness across your thighs and stomach, his hips, his cock drenched in you each time he slips out and shoves back in.
“That’s it. That’s a good fuckin’ girl,” he growls, his pace drawing frantic as your muscles clench and spasm around him. “Takin’ me so well, more than I ever could’a imagined, baby, I’m—”
You whimper, watching dazed as he rips himself out of you at the last second and fists a hand over his cock between your legs. The noise follows, loud and slick from your cunt, and it only takes a handful more strokes for Bucky to shout as he joins you, his come landing hot and thick in ropes across your heaving stomach and breasts, a bit of it dripping down over your clit.
“Fuck,” Bucky groans, low and long as he collapses onto one hand above you. He takes himself through the last of it, shivering as his palm smears over the head of his leaking cock. When he releases himself, it falls to nudge against your belly, rutting lazily through the marks he’d left behind.
When he eventually falls to the side he takes you with him, your face in his hands as he sucks a kiss against your lips. It’s slower, greedier than the others; needlessly indulgent now that your other desires have each been sated. His fingers slip back into your hair and you give your last ounce of energy pressing into him until he finally pulls away.
With a final one to your temple, Bucky rolls away toward his other nightstand and fishes blindly through the top drawer, returning with a black tee clenched in his fist. He cleans you up with it, passing broad strokes across your stomach and thighs and briefly against your cunt before he wipes off his cock, then tosses the shirt in a heap to the floor to be dealt with later.
You’re both still lying half on top of the sheets, but neither of you move to get under them just yet. Your shirt has been pulled back down over your breasts but both of your hands are wandering, mapping out new territory with tentative, satisfied smiles.
You wait until the only noise in the apartment is Alpine pushing through the door and curling up by your feet to clear your throat.
“I need to confess something,” you tell him.
He grunts, his fingers apparently too preoccupied with tracing your spine to formulate a coherent response at the moment.
“There’s nobody in my apartment right now,” you whisper. “Hasn’t been all night. Or for the last few weeks at all, actually.”
Bucky’s brows twitch inward toward each other, and he takes a long glance down between your legs from where he’s laying.
“But you were already…?”
Your face heats. “Yeah. That was—that was me, too.”
“Fuck,” he hisses lowly, slipping his arms around your middle to tuck you in close. “Fuckin’ yourself right on the other side of this wall, thinkin’ about me ‘til you couldn’t take it anymore?”
“Maybe,” you allow, biting down on a smile. “I couldn’t use the vibrator though. You would’ve caught me.”
“Should bring it over with you next time,” he teases.
“Next time?”
His crooked grin fades into something a little softer around the edges, and he pulls back to look at you properly, mapping your eyes the way you’ve learned he does when he’s working up the courage for something.
“Offer’s on the table,” he rasps.
You laugh, relieved, and roll forward to press your mouths together again. He seems pleased by this chain of reactions, his chest caving to release the breath he’d been holding before as he kisses you back.
It’s easy to settle back into comfortable quiet with your doubts soothed, easy to let yourself smile because you hadn’t really expected him to be one for physical touch either. But his arm’s still locked around your middle, nose tickling the hairs at your neck, one of his thick thighs tangled with yours as the ceiling fan cools you both down and Alpine purrs at your feet.
“Can I stay?” you ask, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Would be a little offended if y’didn’t,” he mumbles sleepily against your throat. “Y’like eggs? I’ll make y’breakfast.”
“Over easy,” you confirm.
“What?” he asks. “Oh, sorry. I was talkin’ to your vibrator. She’s feelin’ a little neglected over there.”
You pinch his shoulder, grinning at the ceiling. “Asshole.”
“Mm. Am I?” Bucky hums, mouthing a kiss against your neck.
“I guess not,” you tell him carefully, “since I don’t date assholes anymore.”
He picks his tired head up off your shoulder to look you in the eye, his expression a mix of too many different things to identify any one of them before they’re gone.
“S’that what this is?”
“Offer’s on the table,” you echo.
With a shaky exhale, Bucky glances over your face again and nods to himself, then again, more firmly, to you. With a seal of his lips to your forehead, he admits, “I think I’d like that.”
He smiles at you when he pulls back like he already knows you’re thinking the same thing.
You try to at least act a little bit like you don’t already know too.
pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x bakers daughter!reader
summary: james buchanan barnes has been a thorn in your side ever since you moved to brooklyn when you were eight. you refuse to let your guard down, no matter how much his stupid good looks & incessant flirting tear at your defences
warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, flirty!bucky, stubborn!reader, slow burn, teasing, overuse of 40s slang, lots of dialogue, probs not canon compliant, bucky is a ladies man 🙂↕️, 'doll' used a lot, reader wears a dress & heels, lil bit o' jealously, bucky is down bad, suggestive content at end, heavy making out, dry humping, not beta read, barely proofread
word count: 7.8k
authors note: this one's for @phoenix-in-writing and my flirty 40s bucky peeps 🫶 post covid low has me doubting everythingggg, but i managed to birth this baby. i'm fragile so pls be kind. 40s slang meanings: necking - making out; cheesed off - annoyed; bird-dogging - trying to steal someone else's date/romantic partner.
song inspo: beware.. the south london lover boy. - raye
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, letter dividers by @/httpssturns
He's just so charismatic
And he talks as if he's doing road
And he says, "I'm too toxic for you, darling,
but when we kiss, it feels like home"
A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.
A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."
The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.
You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.
"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.
You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.
"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.
The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.
"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."
"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.
James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.
"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."
You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.
His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."
You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.
"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.
James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."
The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?
"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."
"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."
James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.
"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”
His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.
His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.
"As long as I'm your pest."
All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.
You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.
The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.
"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"
James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.
Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.
Fifteen Years Earlier
The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.
You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.
Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.
"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.
Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.
"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"
The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.
"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.
"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?
"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.
"I won't forget this, James."
When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.
One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.
It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.
Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.
"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.
"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.
You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.
Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."
"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.
"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."
A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.
Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.
"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.
"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.
She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"
Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.
You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."
Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"
Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?
"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.
Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.
"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.
What the hell was that?
You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.
The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.
"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.
"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.
"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."
"I know."
You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"
He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."
You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."
He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"
"Unwillingly."
He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.
"She was just practice."
Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."
You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."
He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.
He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"
Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.
"I'm right where I want to be."
His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.
A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.
"Look at the mess you've made, doll."
Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.
His lips are so pink.
He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.
"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.
His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.
James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.
"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."
He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.
The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.
Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?
The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.
Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.
James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.
"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."
"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.
You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.
You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."
"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."
James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.
You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."
He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.
"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.
You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.
"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.
The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.
You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.
"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.
"Again, it's none of your business."
"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.
You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."
He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.
"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.
"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.
His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"
You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."
James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."
He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."
You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"
Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.
"No, he was boring."
His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.
Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.
"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.
He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.
"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.
You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.
Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.
This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.
You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.
"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."
His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.
He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.
He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.
"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.
You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.
"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.
He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."
You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.
"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.
He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.
You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."
His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"
You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.
James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.
"Keeping you safe."
A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.
He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?
"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."
A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."
He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."
You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.
"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.
You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.
"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."
His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."
You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."
You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."
"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."
You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.
The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.
Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.
"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.
You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.
"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.
"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."
You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?
He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.
"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.
You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?
He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."
You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"
He shrugged again. "'Cause."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.
You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.
"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.
You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."
"I mean it when I say it to you."
You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.
"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.
You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.
He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."
Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?
He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.
God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.
"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"
There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.
"…What?"
He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."
A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."
He took another small step forward. "I do."
You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."
You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.
He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.
"Just—listen to me."
You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"
He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.
You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.
"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.
"What?"
"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.
He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.
"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."
Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.
"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.
You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."
"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."
You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.
"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.
His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
"You've never called me that before."
Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.
His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.
He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.
"Kissin' you feels like home."
A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.
"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.
"Taste sweet, too."
Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.
"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.
He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."
He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.
You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.
James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.
"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Tatted and Pierced!you (fem)
Word Count: 2.4k
Summary: You are tatted and Bucky especially loves your tongue piercing. When he realizes some other things are pierced, he gets a bit… obsessed.
Trigger Warnings: 18+ ONLY, MDNI. Reader has pierced tongue and nips. And tats. Grinding to mutual orgasm. Bucky sucks on the nip piercings he just discovered.
Author’s Note: Porn without plot. I don’t do it often, but I did it for @mariamorales1998, to give her dream a satisfying ending. 😘
Masterlist
The kiss began slow and tentative, but the moment his tongue brushed against yours and met the cold steel of your piercing, Bucky groaned like the contact lit a fuse inside him.
“Fuck,” he rasped against your mouth, voice low and frayed at the edges. “That thing… drives me fucking crazy.”
You smiled into the kiss, deliberately flicking the barbell against his tongue. His reaction was instant and visceral: his metal hand clamped tighter on your waist, fingertips digging in, while his other hand curved around the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him with a hungry precision.
The kiss turned molten, greedy, and unrestrained. His lips chased yours with heat and urgency, tongue dancing against yours with increasing desperation. The contrast of his cool metal hand and your burning skin only heightened everything. You could feel it in him—in the way he moved, breathed, clung to you. He was unraveling.
“You’re unreal,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to draw in air. His pupils were blown wide, devouring the blue of his irises. “The tats. The piercing. You’re like sin wrapped in fucking ink.”
Your breath hitched, lips swollen, heart racing. “And you like sin, don’t you, soldier?”
Bucky didn’t answer. He just growled and hauled you into his lap like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. One hand traced the lines of ink running down your arm with reverent fingers, the other plunged into your hair as he kissed you again, harder this time, messier. He devoured you like a man possessed, like your mouth was the only thing anchoring him to this earth.
You felt the heat rolling off him, the tension in every taut muscle as he held you, possessive and desperate. And each time his tongue met the cool metal in your mouth, his breath hitched, sharp and involuntary, like he couldn’t help the way it broke him apart.
Your body responded on instinct. In one smooth motion, you straddled him, knees pressing into the couch on either side of his thighs. The moment your weight settled over him, Bucky’s breath caught audibly in his chest. His hands flexed, one warm, one cold, gripping your hips in a touch that wavered between restraint and craving.
"You sure?" he asked, voice gravelly and raw, eyes flicking to your lips again like they were a magnet he couldn’t resist.
You answered with your mouth, urgent and unrelenting. Your kiss deepened, and your hips rolled forward with slow, deliberate purpose. He groaned, loud and broken, the sound vibrating into your mouth as his fingers curled tighter into your skin.
That piercing was driving him insane. Every time it grazed against his tongue, he responded like it shocked his system: his grip tightened, his kiss grew rougher, and he lost another inch of his control.
Bucky kissed you like a starving man tasting something forbidden. And you were more than willing to keep feeding that hunger.
Your hands tangled in the soft fabric of his henley, fingers drifting to the waistband of his jeans as you rocked against him. The friction sparked fire. His metal hand slid beneath your shirt, cool fingers skating across your ribs, tracing the tattoos with slow, reverent touches that left your skin tingling.
“You’re not playing fair,” he growled, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. His voice was thick with need, every word strained. “You get on my lap, move like that, and expect me to behave?”
You smirked, breathless and flushed. “Who said anything about behaving?”
Something in his gaze shifted, darker and wilder. The tension between you snapped tight, a taut string about to break.
Then he kissed you again, hard, almost rough. One hand knotted in your hair, the other still anchored at your waist as your bodies moved in slow, grinding synchronicity. Each movement wrung another groan from his chest, another sharp inhale through his teeth.
“Shit,” he muttered against your jaw, lips dragging heat along your skin. “You feel way too good to be real.”
You leaned in, voice low and hot against his ear. “I’m all real, baby. You’re the one losing it.”
The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a moan, deep, wrecked, and unsteady. But his hands didn’t stop. If anything, they pulled you closer, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
You were still moving on him, slow, deliberate rolls of your hips that made it impossible for either of you to catch your breath. Bucky’s hands roamed your body like he needed to memorize every inch, guiding your rhythm, reverent and hungry, worshipping every patch of bare skin his fingers touched.
His lips trailed down your jaw, warm and lingering, leaving heat in their wake. Then he dipped lower, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck. He paused at your pulse point, sucking, and your breath caught audibly. You felt his smirk against your throat, smug and satisfied like he could feel your pulse jump beneath his mouth.
You arched into him, hips grinding deeper, fingers threading into his thick hair as he bit down, just enough to make your thighs clamp around his hips. He groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been torn from his chest.
Then, without a word, you leaned back and reached for the hem of your shirt. His lips faltered against your skin, and his hands stilled on your waist as you peeled the fabric over your head and tossed it aside. His gaze followed the movement, eyes devouring every new inch of exposed skin, ink, curves, all of it, but they darkened the second you reached behind yourself, unhooked your bra, and let the straps fall.
The moment the fabric hit the floor, Bucky stopped breathing.
His grip slackened, his eyes locked on your chest. The piercings caught the low light, gleaming like temptation made flesh.
For a beat, the air hung still, heavy with heat and disbelief.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, like the words had been punched from his lungs. His voice was rough, cracked with awe. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”
You smirked, rolling your hips deliberately, grounding him back into the moment. “Still breathing, soldier?”
He didn’t speak.
His hands moved slowly, sliding up your sides, palms skimming your ribs until his thumbs brushed the metal. You shivered at the contact, the contrast of his cool vibrainium hand against your flushed breast, and Bucky exhaled like he was seeing the divine.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself. “How do you keep getting hotter?”
Then his mouth was on you again.
He kissed the swell of your breast, lips brushing heat over sensitive skin, then trailed lower, tongue flicking out to trace one piercing in a slow, maddening circle. Your back arched instinctively, a gasp escaping your lips as your hand flew to his shoulder, nails digging in.
He groaned at your reaction, deep and wrecked, then closed his mouth around one nipple, tongue toying with the cool barbell while he sucked in a rhythm that left you trembling.
“So you like the piercings, then?” you panted, head tilting back.
“I love the piercings,” he growled, voice ragged. “Fuck, I’m never gonna stop thinking about this.”
He looked up at you like you were wrecking him by simply existing.
His eyes, wide and hungry, flicked between your pierced nipples with something close to worship. Both hands cupped your breasts, warm and steady, thumbs brushing over the metal with obsessive attention.
“You’re unreal,” he whispered again, reverent like a prayer.
Then he leaned in, mouth latching onto the other nipple with aching care, licking and sucking until you were gasping his name again. His tongue swirled around the barbell, teasing it with flicks, then tugging with his teeth before soothing the spot with slow, wet strokes.
It wasn’t just desire, it was fixation.
He was obsessed with the way you tasted, the way the metal felt against his tongue, and the way your body writhed for him.
“This is insane,” he muttered, lips brushing against your flushed skin. “You—this—I can’t fucking get enough.”
You rolled your hips again, chasing friction, chasing relief, and his hands gripped you harder, his metal hand locking around your waist to keep you steady while the other molded to your breast, thumb circling and teasing the piercing as his mouth continued its devotion.
Every flick of his tongue sent a jolt of heat spiraling through you. Every deliberate, sucking pull left your thighs quivering around his hips. And every groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated straight through your core.
“Didn’t know a piercing could make me lose my goddamn mind,” he said, voice thick, breath hot against your skin. “But here I am.”
You laughed, breathless and aching, tugging gently at his hair to tilt his face up to yours. His eyes were wild, blown wide, dark with heat, reverent and ravenous all at once.
“You’re not the only one losing it, baby” you whispered.
That was all it took.
Bucky surged forward, mouth reclaiming your breast with new intensity. He sucked harder this time, tongue lavishing every inch of pierced skin like he needed to own the feeling, like he wanted to brand it into memory.
Your hips moved harder, needy, desperate rolls that chased every ounce of heat and pressure you could find. The friction was everything. And beneath you, Bucky was solid, hard, and just as wrecked. You could feel the tension in him, coiled and trembling, like he was holding back something volcanic.
But you needed more.
You needed that perfect drag of your soaked core over the thick ridge of his cock, again and again, until you were both consumed. Like you were trying to burn the two of you down.
“Fuck, Bucky…” you breathed, head falling back as his mouth closed over your nipple and sucked deep, slow, possessive. “That feels so good…”
He groaned around you, the sound low and wrecked, and it vibrated through your chest like a physical thing. Your hips rolled harder in response, grinding against him with pure instinct, chasing that sweet pressure that made your entire body hum.
“Yeah?” he rasped, dragging his mouth across to the other side, licking over the piercing before latching on. “You like how I make you feel, sweetheart?”
You nodded, breath shuddering. “Love it… can’t think straight.”
“Good,” he growled against your breast. “Don’t want you thinking. Just want you feeling me. As I feast on these.”
His hands slid down to your ass, gripping tight, fingers flexing as he pulled you harder against him. The pressure was brutal in the best way, the thick line of his cock pressed against your core through the denim, and every grind made the friction sharper, wetter, and more unbearable.
“Just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice barely holding together. “Keep moving. Keep fuckin’ using me.”
You did, in slow, desperate grinds that had your thighs trembling around his hips, your nails biting into his shoulders. His mouth never left your chest, kissing and licking between soft moans, his tongue flicking the jewelry, teeth scraping gently over swollen skin like he couldn’t stop tasting you.
You were soaking your panties, leaking through the thin fabric and marking the front of his jeans, and God, he smelled it and felt it. He groaned when you dragged yourself over him again, loud and broken like the sound had torn its way from his soul.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet for me,” he choked out, forehead pressed to your sternum. “I can feel you through my jeans, baby. So hot. So wet.”
“Shit—” you gasped, hips faltering. “Bucky, I’m gonna—”
He bit down on your nipple, just enough to jolt your body, and pulled you flush against him.
“Come for me,” he whispered, voice guttural and shaking. “Make a fuckin’ mess on me, baby. I want it.”
His voice alone shattered you.
You buried your face in his neck, groaning out his name as you moved faster, harder, your release crashing over you like a wave breaking all at once. Your body tensed, arched, then shook violently as the orgasm ripped through you, molten and consuming.
Your breath caught in your chest, eyes squeezing shut as you fell apart in his lap. He held you through every pulse of it, hands steady, whispering low, filthy praise against your skin.
“Fuck, you’re incredible.” he murmured.
You leaned back just enough to look at him and saw how wrecked he was.
You felt the hard line of him beneath you, twitching under the soaked denim, his breathing just as ragged as yours. His hair was a mess, lips swollen from worshiping your breasts, eyes dark and glassy with need. His chest was rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.
“Fuck—” he breathed, bucking into your touch. “Baby, I’m so close. Just from sucking on you—from you grinding on me like that—I’m gonna lose it.”
You continued to grind down in fast circles over him, even as your own orgasm crested and drew to its end, watching his head tip back, mouth open, neck taut.
“You wanna come for me, baby?” you whispered, voice dark silk through your own need.
His hips jerked. “Y-Yeah. Fuck, yes.”
“Then do it.”
And he did.
With a hoarse, broken moan, Bucky tensed beneath you. His head dropped forward, forehead resting on your chest as he came in his jeans, hips stuttering against your core, body shuddering with the force of it.
He groaned your name, deep and desperate, as the release took him. You felt it in every muscle of his body, the way his hands dug into your hips, the way his breath hitched, the way he collapsed back into the couch, spent and trembling.
Your hips twitched as you came down, too, thighs trembling, muscles now weak.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just held him, both of you still riding the aftershocks, tangled up in each other.
Then, finally, he looked up, eyes dazed, voice wrecked.
“Okay… now I believe you about the piercings.”
You laughed, grinning lazily as you brushed hair from his damp forehead.
“Told you,” you murmured. “They’re dangerous.”
He caught your face in his hand, kissed you like he couldn’t stop.
“No, sweetheart. You’re dangerous. I’m just lucky I survived you.”
Summary: You've loved him quietly, patiently, and faithfully. But when he makes you an offer you cannot accept, you need to distance yourself to protect your heart. Will he figure out his feelings in time or be too late?
Trigger Warnings: FwB offer; lots of angst; he grovels!!
Author’s Note: I wanted this to hurt, but I’m afraid it falls short. I don’t know, but I can't keep looking at it. (Also, I was exceedingly kind and did not, in fact, make this a two-parter and leave you with a cliffhanger. You’re welcome.)
After-Market Edit: Y'all need to TELL ME if I forget to add a "Read More"!!! I'm so sorry I missed it for like the first 12 hours. 😭 I know that's so annoying to have to scroll and scroll to get past it. I'm having an off week. (No, literally, I was taking this week "off", but finished this fic earlier than I expected so I threw it up. Turns out I'm really bad at taking time off... 😅)
Masterlist
The Ask
You noticed the way he stirred his coffee, always counter-clockwise, in three slow, deliberate loops, before tapping the spoon once against the rim of the mug. It was a small, mundane ritual that should have faded into the background of everyday life, but somehow, it became a part of your mornings too, quietly mirrored, as if syncing your rhythm to his could tether you to him.
You hadn’t even realized when you started doing it yourself, three soft swirls, a single tap, and then setting the spoon down gently beside the cup. It wasn’t conscious at first, just a silent mimicry, an unspoken yearning to belong in his space in whatever way you could.
After missions, your eyes found him without thinking. You watched his jaw and knew its language by now, the way the muscle beneath his cheekbone clenched before he spoke. A flicker of tension was a subtle warning. You’d learned to read it, telling you more than words ever could: whether things had gone wrong, whether someone got hurt, or whether something in the field had dredged up a memory he’d never speak aloud. You quietly ached for him in those moments.
But there were softer things, too, fragments of gentleness he rarely showed the world. You saw it when he crouched to pet a stray cat near the compound gate, his metal fingers brushing behind its ears with an almost reverent tenderness. Or when he leaned in when you laughed, as if your laughter was gravity and he couldn’t resist being pulled in.
You told yourself not to read into it. You tried, at least.
But you felt every brush of his hand when you passed in the hallway, every joke that only the two of you would find funny, every movie night that ended with you curled into the corner of the couch, too tired, or maybe too content, to move.
There was a rhythm to your movements and his. He'd sit close enough that your thighs touched, and never once did he shift away. He passed you the popcorn without asking. He’d already be there, waiting, when you wandered into the common room at night, remote in hand, eyes flicking up like your arrival had settled something in him. He never said stay, but you always did.
And most nights, that felt like enough. Or you convinced yourself it did.
But sometimes he walked beside you after a long day, his shoulder brushing yours as if drawn by instinct. Or he said your name, low and soft, like it was something precious in his mouth.
You would laugh, and smile, and you play it light.
But truth lived inside you like a bruise you couldn’t help but press. And in the quiet of your room you replayed every glance, every shared silence, every breath that passed between you.
You told yourself you shouldn't feel this way. That he didn’t want that, didn’t want you, not in the way you wanted him.
But wanting didn’t stop just because it was one-sided.
You longed for him in a way that didn't fit neatly into words. It lived in your body, in the softness of your curves and it slipped beneath your skin and made a home there, humming low like a secret only you knew how to carry.
You wanted more, but you swallowed it like guilt and held it down like something shameful.
And still, you stayed.
Because proximity to him, his voice, his presence, his soul, felt like oxygen. Because being even a small part of his world, even just in the shadows of what could have been, felt better than being without him at all.
You told yourself you could live with this.
But some nights, the truth whispered louder than your lies.
*****
It was so late the tower felt abandoned. Even the hum of the electricity in the walls seemed muted.
You were both still in your mission gear. The sleeves of your top were smudged with ash, your boots leaving faint, muddy prints on the pale tile of the kitchen floor. The scent of smoke clung to your skin, settling into your hair and the soft fabric that clung to the curve of your waist. You hadn’t had the energy to shower. Neither had he.
You sat across from each other at the kitchen island, elbows propped, mugs of tea slowly growing cold between your hands. His jacket hung open, and his shirt beneath was creased, marked by the weight of the vest he’d worn. His hair, damp with sweat, had fallen from its tie. Strands curled at the ends, brushing his jaw.
He looked so human in this light, and a little too beautiful.
He said something dry and half-heartedly funny about the mission: a play on words about how the extraction plan hadn’t gone to plan. You laughed, too tired not to.
He gave you the soft, crooked version of his smile that he only gave in the quietest moments. But then it faded, and you felt a shift in him before you saw it.
His gaze drifted, from your mouth, to your shoulder, to the hand you rested against your mug. It wasn’t predatory, or even overtly suggestive, but it lasted beat too long, and in that moment, something changed in the air between you, like the wind had shifted.
“Hey,” he said, his voice pitched lower and softer.
You looked up, and your chest tightened like your body was trying to warn you.
His tone was too neutral; you’d only ever heard it when he was defusing a threat he wasn’t sure he’d win against.
“You know…” He hesitated, tapping a rhythm with his thumb against the ceramic. “I was thinking… if you ever wanted to, I don’t know—blow off steam sometime. I’m around.”
You blinked.
He continued, careful and measured.
“No pressure. No strings. Just… comfort. We know each other. We’re… comfortable with one another, right?”
Comfort. Comfortable.
The words felt wrong in your gut. They were too casual, and for a moment, you didn’t understand what he was offering. And then, all at once, you did.
He said it too easily, like it was nothing. Like it was simple. Like it just made sense.
And you could see why it would did make sense to him. Because you were never more than comfortable.
Your fingers tightened around your mug, just so you could hold on to something tangible when every thread inside of you had been cut loose and you were drifting.
You couldn’t breathe.
You felt your body still and cold, the shock sinking into your bones before your mind could catch up.
He was still watching you, waiting and carefully composed, as if he thought he was being kind. Like this was a gift, something thoughtful. An offer of intimacy dressed up as generosity. And maybe, to him, it was.
Your mouth went dry. Your throat burned.
You nodded, small and mechanical, not in agreement, but in acknowledgment of his words. You didn’t trust your voice not to break. You felt the moment shift around you, irreversibly.
When you looked up again, your expression was smooth. You’d practiced calm, and you could wear it now like a mask.
“I’ll… think about it,” you said.
His shoulders eased just slightly, as if he’d been bracing for something harsher than that. He nodded back once, simple and unfazed, and leaned away, his gaze drifting to a corner of the room, the matter settled.
He didn’t press. He thought that was enough.
The least thing seemed to be enough for him.
You stood slowly, legs a little too stiff, heart a little too loud. The chair scraped gently against the tile, but he didn’t look over. You made some excuse, mumbled something about needing rest, or a shower. You weren’t entirely sure, and you didn’t hear if he replied.
You walked away, your body moving on autopilot. Down the hall, past the training room, around the corner to the elevator. The button lit up beneath your touch, but you didn’t feel it.
And when the doors closed, sealing you into that quiet, metal box, you let your breath tremble out of you. The tears didn’t fall yet, but they hovered, burning the backs of your eyes.
Now you knew there would never be more.
He didn’t see you, not in the way you’d secretly hoped and dared to let yourself believe. To him, you were soft curves and steady hands. Familiar and trusted, but not cherished.
He wasn’t offering a beginning, he was offering an end before anything ever had the chance to start.
You leaned your back against the cold wall of the elevator, arms folded tight around your middle like you could hold yourself together through sheer force of will.
Because the truth was unbearable.
You had loved him in all the ways he would never notice. And in return, he had offered you his body, nothing more.
And God help you, a part of you wanted to say yes.
Not because it would’ve made it easier, but because it would’ve meant being close to him, maybe even for long enough to pretend he was really yours.
But you knew it would hollow you out.
So you closed your eyes and let the silence settle over you, and you stood there, waiting for the elevator to carry you anywhere else.
Anywhere that didn’t contain him.
*****
You didn’t sleep that night.
The offer echoed through you long after he’d gone to bed, replaying itself over and over until it stopped feeling like words and started feeling like a wound. You lay on your side in the dark hush of your room, the moonlight catching faintly on your skin, and tried to breathe around the ache pressing against your ribs.
No strings. Just comfort.
The phrase itself seemed harmless, almost gentle. But you knew what it meant.
It would mean touching him.
It would mean him touching you.
You closed your eyes, and your mind, traitorous and tender, painted the scene for you in vivid, aching detail. You imagined the warmth of his body pressed against yours, his breath heavy and human against your neck, his hands tracing the lines and curves of you like they were something he’d always known, always wanted. You imagined him saying your name so tenderly, imagined that he’d see all of you and want you still.
You let yourself hover there for a moment, suspended in that fantasy, where your body wasn’t an afterthought and your softness was something desired. Where your curves weren’t tolerated, but revered. Where his touch wasn’t born of loneliness, but of need.
But the warmth in the dream turned cold too quickly.
Because you knew how it would end.
He would leave. Maybe not immediately, but quietly, gently, and with that careful distance he’d mastered. No mess, no fight, just a soft closing of a door you’d never see reopen.
And you’d be left behind, stripped bare, trying to gather pieces of yourself from the floor.
You knew the shape of this kind of heartbreak. It wasn’t sharp and sudden, it was slow, patient, and all-consuming. It would bleed you dry in small, invisible ways.
You knew, because you could already feel it happening.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the ache that wouldn’t fade.
You had given him your laughter, your patience, and your silence. You had given him loyalty and warmth and a quiet love. You had been steady and kind and constant. You had offered him your gentleness in a world that had rarely been gentle to him.
Your reward was an opportunity of physical pleasure. You had no doubt you’d enjoy it, no doubt he would make it good for you.
But if you said yes, if you took what little he offered, you’d be agreeing to live in fragments. You would be held only when it was convenient.
You’d spend your nights pretending that the warmth of his skin was enough, even as your heart cracked under the weight of what it wasn’t.
Because being wanted wasn’t being loved.
He’d move on eventually. To someone lighter, easier, or simpler. Someone who wouldn’t hand him her heart before he asked for it. And you wouldn’t be able to get angry when he did, because you’d agreed to the terms. Even though it would break you.
You sat up in bed, wrapping your arms around your knees, your forehead resting against them. The tears finally came, hot and quiet. They slipped down your cheek and disappeared into the fabric of your shirt.
Your chest felt hollow. He had reached in and carved out the part of you that still believed this could ever be more. Your throat was raw from swallowing sobs that refused to stay buried.
You’d spent so long convincing yourself that just being near him was enough, that his company, his smiles, the sound of your name on his breath could sustain you. That you could survive on scraps if it meant staying close.
But this wouldn’t be survival, this would be surrender.
This would be letting him take the pieces of you he wanted and leaving the rest behind. This would be letting yourself become a convenience to him, a body without a soul attached.
You’d felt that before.
You hadn’t always believed you could be loved.
Growing up, you learned early how to be useful instead. You knew how to earn your keep with silence, with steadiness, with not asking for more. The belief that wanting something tender was selfish, even shameful had followed you into adulthood.
And no one had ever chosen you before, not romantically, not openly. You had always been the safe friend, the reliable one, the comfort, never the spark. Never the first pick.
But with Bucky, you reserved hope like a flame.
He had looked at you once, in the kitchen, just after a mission, bruised and exhausted, and said simply, “You make it easier to breathe.”
You’d clung to that moment because it had felt like a glimpse of being put first, like maybe you weren’t invisible to him the way you always had been to everyone else.
But you were wrong.
You glanced toward your phone, dark on the nightstand. You didn’t need to text him. You knew he wasn’t waiting. He probably thought you’d come to him when you were ready, that you’d knock on his door in the middle of the night, shy but willing, maybe even grateful.
He probably thought it was a generosity.
And maybe it would have been, to someone who didn’t love him.
But you did love him. You loved him with a devotion that asked for nothing and gave everything. You loved him with a faithfulness that deserved to be returned, not used up.
And for the first time, you let yourself see that truth.
You deserved more than to be a resting place for someone else’s loneliness.
You deserved the same love you had been giving: an unconditional love that reached for you in the light and stayed through the dark. A love that didn’t need to be earned, or bargained for, or reduced to simple comfort.
You drew in a trembling breath, your chest aching with both grief and clarity.
You loved him, yes. Maybe you always would. But you couldn’t give him pieces of yourself just to stay close.
You wanted to be loved whole. Not just because he was lonely and you were soft and willing. But because you were you.
You wiped your cheeks with both hands and whispered to the dark, barely loud enough for the words to exist, “I can’t survive pretending I mean less to him than he means to me.”
And somehow, saying it out loud didn’t destroy you.
It saved what was left.
*****
It took you a few days to find your voice again. The words lived inside you, coiled and patient, but you hadn’t spoken them because once they existed in the open air, they couldn’t be unsaid. And there was still a part of you that wasn’t ready to feel the weight of them yet.
Late evening pressed soft and heavy against the compound walls, seeping through the windows. Almost everyone had retreated to their own corners of the building, and silence settled in. There were no meetings, no training, and you had no more excuses.
You found Bucky in the common room. He was sprawled across the couch, a half-read book resting in his lap, fingers idly brushing the edge of a page he hadn’t turned in a while. The low lamplight made his features look softer, tired but with a rare peace.
When you stepped into the room, he looked up, and expectation flickered in his eyes.
That lack of tension, lack of uncertainty broke something small and fragile inside you.
He thought you were here to say yes. And of all the things you felt in this moment, you foolishly hated disappointing him.
There was a subtle shift in his body, his spine straightened, his legs uncrossed slightly, and he leaned forward a bit. His gaze dipped, catching on your mouth before returning to your eyes, relaxed in a way that tried to hide how closely he was watching you.
You saw it all.
You’d always seen him, read him more easily than the books he left half-finished around the common room.
And you saw the quiet confidence in his posture, the quiet assumption that you’d chosen him. Not in love, but in convenience. You would make it easy. You would accept what he could give.
You hated how much you wished that could have been enough for you.
But it wasn’t. It never would be, not without breaking something vital in you.
You crossed the room slowly, every step heavier than the last, and sat beside him on the couch, close, but not touching. Your hands folded in your lap to keep them steady. You didn’t trust them otherwise.
“I thought about your offer,” you said, voice soft and carefully measured.
His eyes flicked to yours again. He nodded slowly, as though he'd been expecting this, waiting for it.
You took in a shallow breath. Any deeper, and you knew it would rattle in your chest.
“And I need to be honest with you.”
He leaned in, barely, giving you his full attention. He gave off a quiet anticipation, like he was sure this would end with you in his bed. He thought you were searching for the right words to agree, maybe set a few conditions.
You couldn’t look at his face, so you looked at his hands.
Those hands, so steady, so careful, hands you’d watched assemble and disassemble rifles at speed and throw knives with precision. Hands, cold and warm in tandem, that you’d imagined against your skin. But now you looked at them as though you’d never let yourself look again.
“I can’t do casual with you,” you said, each word slow and deliberate. “I wish I could. I wish I could separate it all. But the truth is, I’d only end up loving you more. And I don’t think I’d come back from that.”
The silence that followed was all-encompassing.
Your eyes flicked up in time to see the subtle flinch and shift of his posture. Not away from you entirely, but back, like your truth had knocked the wind out of him and he didn’t know how to brace for it.
His mouth parted just slightly, then closed again, but he didn’t speak.
His eyes scanned your face, searching for another version of this moment. Maybe one where you took it back, or where this wasn’t the truth, just nerves or second thoughts or hesitation. He was looking for something he could counter with a look or a soft word.
You gave him a small, tired smile. It hurt to make it, but you gave it anyway, because you still loved him. That hadn’t changed.
“I know my heart too well to lie to myself,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “And I love you too much to pretend that being just comfort is something I could survive.”
You watched his jaw tense, but he offered you no words.
And somehow, you weren’t surprised.
You stood slowly, your body suddenly so heavy, like your bones were made of the densest metal. You hesitated only once in the doorway, something in you needing to look back.
He was still there, still staring at you, still stunned in that quiet, unreadable way of his.
“I deserve love,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite your heart tearing open. “The kind I was willing to give you.”
For half a heartbeat, you thought he might say something. His mouth opened, a sharp breath catching in his throat like the beginning of a word, maybe even your name, but it never came.
His hand twitched, like he might reach for you, and your chest went still waiting for it, waiting for anything.
But then his gaze dropped, and the moment passed.
Whatever he almost said lived and died in that breath.
After a moment, almost too soft to carry across the room to him, you let him go, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
It hurt how much you meant it.
Because even as your chest ached and your throat burned and your vision blurred, you still wanted him to be happy. Even when that happiness would grow in someone else’s hands. Even though you'd have to watch him become the version of himself you’d only ever seen glimpses of, but for someone not you.
You still hoped he found it, because he deserved that love.
You only meant to let him see that you weren’t angry, that you hadn’t denied him out of cruelty. But you may have revealed too much, shown him how much you were breaking.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, then said, quiet, wistful, and aching, “Goodbye, Bucky.”
You turned, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You hadn’t cried in front of him, had sworn you wouldn’t. But as you escaped down the hall one tear slipped free. One silent fracture you could no longer hold back.
And you knew, with a dull certainty that settled in your heart, that he wouldn’t come after you. He never had before.
*****
The Aftermath
He sat there long after you left.
The door was still open a crack, letting in a thin sliver of hallway light. He could have moved, stood up, shut it, followed you, done something, but he didn’t. He just stared at that sliver of light like it might shift, like you might change your mind and step back through it.
He hated that he was hoping for that.
His hands felt wrong. The flesh one stayed curled too tightly on his knee, the metal one twitching uselessly against the couch cushions. His shoulders were drawn up with tension he hadn’t noticed until now, and his chest was folding inward slowly.
He didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe a soft laugh, a shy nod. Maybe, in the wild, foolish part of him he rarely listened to, you’d touch his hand and say yes.
But not this.
Your voice had been gentle, so careful it almost didn’t hurt.
“I can’t do casual with you. I wish I could. But I’d only end up loving you more.”
He didn’t know how to process that. Because looking back, it all made sense. He had been blind to every time you laughed at his jokes, every time your eyes found his like you shared some secret.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands twisted together. The air still smelled like you, a trace of something soft and warm and familiar. It clung to the cushions, to his clothes, to the hollows of his lungs.
And it hit him like a punch: you’d been sitting right there, within his reach. You hadn’t sounded angry or bitter, but your voice held a weary knowing, like you'd already made peace with the fact that he wouldn't fight for you.
And you’d been right. He hadn’t stood up. He hadn’t said a word. He let you go. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes until he saw red and black.
“How did I misread this?” he muttered under his breath, the words half-exhaled.
That was the worst of it, because physically you did want him as much as he wanted you. He could hear it in your voice, see it in your eyes, and that made this unbearable. You hadn’t walked away because you didn’t care, you’d walked away because you cared too much.
They're better off, he told himself. I’m not built for that kind of thing. Not anymore.
But the words felt like someone else’s lie, not his own.
He got to his feet eventually, pacing the length of the room, like motion might distract him from the weight sitting squarely on his chest. His hand dragged through his hair until it came loose from its tie, falling around his face.
He told himself not to think about the way you’d looked at him, right before you said goodbye. Not to linger on the softness in your eyes, like you were already grieving the part of him that wouldn’t open.
But the memory circled back anyway, again and again until it hollowed him out.
So over the next few days, he made himself scarce.
He started taking his meals earlier or later than the rest. He trained at odd hours, waiting until the gym was empty, lights dimmed and the silence so thick he could hear his own pulse.
He made himself scarce in your world.
When he passed you in the hallway (and it happened more than he’d expected) he nodded once, polite and neutral, careful not to linger or meet your eyes for too long.
He told himself he was giving you space. That it was what you wanted. That it was the right thing to do.
But when he caught the faintest trace of your perfume in the corridor, or heard you laughing from another room, warm and open and free, something twisted in his gut, sharp and cruel.
You were slipping away from him, and the worst part was that he was the one who had cut the line.
You handed him something real, something fragile and true, and he’d turned away, like if he didn’t name it or feel it, then he wouldn’t lose it.
That was always the game. Keep everything locked down: don’t reach, don’t ask, don’t want.
But this time it wasn’t working.
He could shut it down all he liked, slam the doors, deadbolt his chest, but still, the memory of you kept bleeding through the cracks.
That last, soft line you left him with rang in his ears: “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
You wanted that for him, even if it broke you. Even if it meant watching him find it in someone else.
And maybe he could find someone easier to lie to, who didn’t see right through him. But no one else would have your unique blend of softness and strength, patience and bravery. No one else would smile like you, smell like you, or look at him like you did.
So he straightened his spine the way soldiers do when their ribs are cracked, but there’s still a war left to fight, and he told himself, firmly, repeatedly, and uselessly, that this was for the best.
That if he didn’t let himself feel it, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so damn much.
*****
Sleep didn’t come easily anymore.
Not that it ever had, but now it wasn’t just the past clawing through his nights, it was you.
He lay on his back, still as stone, staring at the ceiling like he might find absolution up there. All it offered was the same silence he’d handed you.
That night, his sweatshirt had been waiting for him, hanging freshly laundered on his doorknob.
There was no note or explanation, but he knew it was from you. You were the only one he’d ever lent anything to.
One night after a mission, when your hands were shaking and your words had dried up behind your teeth. You hadn’t asked for anything, but he saw the way your shoulders curled in, like you were trying to disappear. So he’d tugged the sweatshirt over his own head, and handed it to you. You put it on with such reverence, and he remembered how you smiled up at him.
He hadn’t known what to do with that smile so he pretended it was nothing more than a simple gesture.
And he had let himself pretend that as long as you still had it, still wore it, there was some part of him you were choosing to carry.
But now it was back in his hands, because you didn’t want anything from him anymore. You had returned it like you were unbinding a thread he hadn’t realized was holding him together.
It wasn’t just a sweatshirt anymore. It was something that had touched your skin, something that had, even for a little while, lived in the hollow spaces between the two of you.
His thoughts circled like vultures: your voice, your eyes, the unbearable softness in your goodbye, it all played on repeat until it made something in him ache in a place he thought he’d numbed long ago.
You didn’t accuse him, didn’t ask him to explain himself, didn’t even call him a coward, though you’d have been right to.
You just walked away.
You were protecting yourself from him, from what he hadn’t even realized he was asking of you, and that gutted him.
He sat up and dropped his feet to the floor, elbows braced to his knees, hands curled into fists so tight the bones in his knuckles ached and metal ground against metal. There was a knot lodged behind his sternum, thick and immovable. His mouth tasted like regret, metallic and dry.
He heard your words again, soft and steady, still echoing like a ghost in his chest.
“I love you too much to pretend that being just comfort is something I could survive.”
Survive, you’d said, like loving him was a wound you wouldn’t walk away from.
And what had he offered you in return for that love?
No strings. Just comfort. Not commitment, not promise, just his body. He offered a place to pass through when you wanted a home. His throat ached. He tried to swallow around it and failed. He didn’t deserve the grace you’d given him.
You’d loved him. Maybe quietly, maybe carefully, but you had.
And he’d reduced you to convenience, a physical release. A way to take the edge off without the risk of being known. He’d made you small in his fear, when you’d been so much more to him.
He hadn’t even seen what you were offering him until it was hanging left behind on a doorknob.
He gripped fistfuls of his hair, the motion rough and punishing. He didn’t try to push the memories away this time.
You waiting up for him after missions, curled on the couch, always half-asleep but never gone until you saw he was back. You never asked for details. You just looked at him, relieved to simply see him.
You laughed when he didn’t expect it, when he mumbled something dry or dark or absurd, and you’d throw your head back, eyes crinkling, like he’d given you something worth keeping.
You touched him like he was breakable: a hand on his shoulder in passing, a brush of your fingers against his wrist when you handed him a mug. All small things, barely there, but they’d made warmth spark in his chest. He’d ignored it every time.
You made him feel human and he’d offered you nothing real. The weight of that truth settled across his ribs like stone.
He didn’t even have the energy to lie to himself anymore, didn’t try to rationalize it or reframe it or tell himself you were asking for too much.
He knew you weren’t. You were only asking for what you deserved. And you deserved to be chosen, not just needed, or tolerated, or touched in the night and ignored in the day.
He hadn’t chosen you, he’d chosen fear. He’d chosen distance and control, because loving you would have meant surrendering something he wasn’t sure he knew how to let go of.
He hadn’t said no to love, he hadn’t even seen it. It had been offered to him in hands that had only ever reached for him gently, and he had been blind to it.
He leaned back, head thudding softly against the cool wall behind his bed. He exhaled hard, eyes closing.
You’d seen something good and worth loving in him. And he’d looked at that gift and spat on it; not out of cruelty, but because he didn’t know how to accept it without breaking it.
And now your hands were gone and his were empty.
He thought the silence would be better than the weight of loving someone he might lose, thought it was safer to keep you at a distance than to risk falling short.
But he’d been so damn wrong.
The silence now wasn’t safety, it was grief.
You had offered him something so whole, something he didn’t think he deserved but now wanted more than he’d ever let himself admit.
And he hadn’t just turned it down, he’d made you feel like a placeholder and that made him sick.
He dropped his face into his hands, dragging them down slowly, like maybe he could scrub the truth out of his skin.
But it was in him now. You were in him, and it was too late.
Because when it came down to it, he hadn’t been strong enough to choose you.
And now he had to live with the echo of the love you tried to give him, that he’d thrown away like it was too heavy to carry.
*****
Bucky noticed in a thousand small devastating ways how you’d stopped waiting for him.
You didn’t linger anymore, not at doorframes, not beside the couch, not near the coffee pot like you used to, pretending to fix something or check your phone just to buy yourself a few more seconds near him. The silences between you used to hum with possibility. Now they didn’t hum at all.
You were still kind, still polite, still as warm with him as with everyone else. But the quiet intimacy that used to thread itself through your every glance, every softened smile, every half-whispered offer of “need anything?,” that was all gone.
You didn’t wait up after missions anymore. You didn’t ask if he wanted tea. You didn’t follow the sound of his voice with your eyes.
And he felt the absence of all those little things like internal injuries, unseen but slowly bleeding him out.
It wasn’t until he saw you laughing across the room with John that the ache sharpened into something undeniable.
You looked beautiful. You always had, but it was different now.
You wore something bolder that day, something that hugged your body in ways he wasn’t used to seeing, not because you’d never been beautiful before, but because now you weren’t hiding yourself. There was something deliberate in the way you held yourself, more confident, more alive.
He sat in the far corner of the room, posture perfect, jaw still, expression schooled into neutrality. But inside, he was nothing but a raw wound, watching you lean into conversation, your fingers brushing John’s arm, laughing with abandon.
He had no right to feel the way he did. And it wasn’t jealousy, though the resemblance was there.
It was despair.
Because you weren’t his. You never had been, but he lost you anyway.
And then, for just a second, you glanced over your shoulder and met his eyes.
It was fast and involuntary, a habit you hadn’t quite broken. Your gaze still sought him, but this time, it wasn’t with hope. It wasn’t with yearning. It was with a quiet, distant sadness.
You looked at him like someone who had loved him. And now you were someone who used to.
And still, your eyes didn’t blame him, just ached from mourning something you had no choice but to let go of.
You looked away and Bucky’s stomach turned.
He clenched his jaw, dug his fingers into the armrests, anything to stay grounded, to keep from getting up and crossing the room right then and there. No one noticed how hard he had to work just to sit still. No one saw how close he was to unraveling.
Because you’d been hurting, and he hadn’t stopped it. You’d been loving him, and he hadn’t seen it.
And worse, when you gave him your heart, not recklessly, but with the courage real love requires, he’d turned away. He hadn’t just missed the moment, he’d refused it entirely.
And now your smile didn’t curve toward him, your softness didn’t settle around him like a balm, and your kindness no longer reached for him first.
He had gutted something good and soft and pure.
And you had never once asked him to be someone he wasn’t. You had never asked for more than honesty, never asked to be anything more than held like you mattered.
You had loved him without condition. And when he asked you to accept less than that in return, you had been brave enough to refuse.
And now he understood that if you had been brave enough not only to love him, but brave enough to walk away when he failed to meet you where you stood, then he had to be brave enough to change.
Because what you gave him, every look, every small laugh, every moment of quiet presence, was a love that chose him every day.
And he hadn’t chosen you.
He had chosen emotional armor, because he still looked like a man who didn’t deserve peace.
But that was cowardice and you deserved more than a coward.
You deserved someone who would stand beside you and reach back when you reached out.
You were still hurting. He could see it in the way your smile didn’t stretch the way it used to, in the slight stiffness to your shoulders, in the sadness that hadn’t yet left your eyes.
He had done that to you.
He pressed a hand over his chest to feel the pain there. He didn’t know when the ache inside him had changed from guilt to something deeper, pulling at him, but it was there now, undeniably.
He loved you.
And he wanted to be the one who loved you well.
Not just someone who needed you or took comfort in your touch when it suited him.
He wanted to be the man who earned your laughter, your trust, and your time. The man who stood beside you with his hands open, ready to accept what you had to offer, and offer himself in return.
The man who chose you, finally, fully, and without excuses.
The idea of reaching for you terrified him. He didn’t know if you’d reach back or if your heart had moved too far beyond him now.
But the idea of losing you entirely, that was unbearable.
So he sat in the fear, the regret, and the love. He let it in, let himself feel it all, without running or pretending this time.
You had given him something precious. You had believed in something better within him.
And he wanted to become it, for you.
You made him want to be worthy.
And maybe, if he was lucky, it wasn’t too late to try.
*****
He paced for a long time before he left his room.
Each pass across the floor felt heavier than the last, like his body was trying to convince him that silence was still safer than truth.
But he couldn’t live in that silence anymore, not after everything he’d realized and decided.
Flowers sat on his desk. He’d bought them on impulse that morning, after seeing them in the same sidewalk stand you always slowed near. Soft blooms in the color you gravitated to, as if your hands could already imagine holding them.
He picked them up, put them back down. His hands shook with the regret of wanting something he thought he’d already lost.
He’d practiced what to say more times than he cared to admit, but each attempt sounded stiff, too clean, like he was performing grief instead of living inside it.
He looked at himself in the mirror. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed. He looked like a man preparing for war. Only this time, the fight wasn’t to survive, it was to earn the chance to love.
He grabbed the flowers, then paused.
The note was tucked under the corner of his keyboard, half-hidden, folded down to a softened square. Don’t forget to eat, okay? You’ll feel like hell if you don’t. I left your favorite in the fridge.
It was a simple domestic thing, a care most people overlooked.
He’d kept it without thinking, unfolding it again and again, fingertips finding the crease in the paper.
Now he knew why he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.
It had been a mark of your love, shown without spectacle or demand. And now it made him brave.
You were curled on the couch in the common room, staring into space. Your posture betraying a tired that wouldn’t be fixed with sleep; it lived in the bones, in the heart.
He saw the way you tensed the second he stepped inside.
When your eyes fell to the flowers in his hand your face flickered, brief and bitter, a wound you didn’t bother hiding. You turned away, eyes closing as if bracing yourself for the worst.
As if he’d brought them for someone else.
As if you couldn’t survive being hurt by him so much, so soon.
He hated himself for that. Hated that you were expecting pain where you’d once looked toward him in hope.
He took a slow step forward, then another.
“I know I should’ve come to you sooner,” he said, voice rough and low. You didn’t respond, just stared at the flowers with a wariness he’d never seen from you before.
“I brought these for you,” he added, holding them out like they weighed more than they should. “And—” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the note, holding it up gently. “I wanted to show you this.”
Your brow furrowed slightly as you recognized the paper from weeks ago, eyes narrowing in faint confusion.
“I never threw it out,” he said. “Didn’t even know why I kept it at the time. But… now I do.”
You took both, slowly, like they might disappear if you moved too fast.
He let out a breath, shaky and uneven. His heart was pounding harder than it had in any firefight.
“I think I knew from the moment I saw this note that… you loved me. And I couldn’t handle that weight—being loved like that.
“And so I offered you comfort, because I figured it was better than the nothing I felt I could give,” The words came out quieter than he meant them to, but they were the heaviest he’d ever spoken.
“But all I did was make you feel disposable—like you were nothing more than a warm body to me,” he said, slowly, shame curling at the edges of his voice. “And you’ve never been that. You’ve never been anything less than everything.”
He paused, to let you see the honesty of it in his expression.
“I thought I was protecting us, by keeping things… emotionless. Simple. But—” he looked away, for a moment, but forced himself to meet your eyes again, “I was only ever protecting myself.
“You told me you’d only end up loving me more. And I didn’t say anything. I just sat there.”
He swallowed around the lump in his throat, trying to get the words out.
“But the thing is… I think I already did. Love you… that is. I just didn’t know how to name it. I didn’t know how to let myself have something that good—something that didn’t come with pain.”
The silence between you stretched, but it didn’t feel to him like rejection, it felt like you were listening.
“You were right to reject me. You gave me a hundred chances in the quiet moments, and I missed every single one.
“And I’m so sorry that it took me losing you to finally admit that I love you.”
His throat worked around the weight of it, around the truth he should’ve said long ago.
“I had something rarer than gold—and I let it slip through my fingers. And if I’m too late, I’ll respect that.” His voice cracked and broke, still he took a quiet step forward and continued.
“But I need you to know that I see it now. You deserve someone who chooses you. Not just someone who needs you. And if there's even the smallest part of you that hasn't stopped… I’d like the opportunity to be that. If it’s not too late, I want to try to be that.”
You said nothing for a moment, but your expression cracked in the way only honest emotion does.
Your hands trembled slightly as you looked down at the note in your lap, your thumb brushing the softened edge.
Then you looked up.
“There were days I thought you’d never come,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “And there were days I almost convinced myself I didn’t want you to.”
He nodded slowly; he deserved that.
You swallowed hard. “But I loved you. I did. I still do. And the only thing I ever wanted was for you to choose… me.”
Bucky knelt at your feet, still not touching, still giving you space.
“I see everything I was too scared to face before,” he said, his voice roughened by something close to awe. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll make sure you know that. Every day.”
Your eyes shimmered, your fingers curled tighter around the note, and your smile, small, tentative, allowed hope to bloom in him.
“I’d like that,” you said softly, the words trembling just slightly. “But I’m not sure I believe you yet.”
He nodded in quiet understanding, with no protest or quick promise.
“Then I’ll show you,” he said. “As long as it takes.”
The corner of your mouth lifted, not a smile, but something that might become one.
He didn’t reach for you, but he stood there, hands at his sides, letting you see him unguarded for once.
And you both let the silence sit between you, more heavy than it used to be, more real.
It wasn’t a clean beginning. But it was an honest one.
Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected sex. A little angst.
Summary: Bucky starts to walk into his new civilian life but struggles with his painful past, while slowly building a connection with someone who sees through his walls. As the relationship deepens, he must decide if he’s ready for something more, or if he’ll hide and push it all away.
Word Count: 11.8k.
Before the government officially recognized Bucky as a victim of Hydra's manipulation, S.H.I.E.L.D. had already stepped in.
They brought in a mutant with the ability to heal not just physical wounds, but mental and emotional scars. Her mission was clear: stabilize him for civilian reintegration.
At first, he resisted. His reluctance wasn't just about pride; it was rooted in years of distrust and the belief that he had to face his past alone. The idea of a "quick fix" only fed his suspicion that she might be just another handler, another reminder of how he'd been manipulated and weaponized as the Winter Soldier.
The Blip had taken an even greater toll on him. The sudden shift in society forced him to adapt to yet another unfamiliar world, one where even the tiny constants he relied on were gone.
Steve's departure cut deeper than he wanted to admit. Bucky had thought they'd face this new world together, brothers in arms like always. But instead, Steve had left him to shoulder the weight of his demons alone. It was a wound he hadn't even begun to process, and one that made accepting help from anyone feel impossible.
Despite his resistance, her patient approach began to wear down his defenses. Bucky clung to his reserved, cynical attitude, but he grudgingly cooperated. Slowly, the barriers between them started to lower.
Eventually, once it was determined on paper that he was stable and no longer posed a threat, the government loosened its grip. His sessions with her came to an official end, and he was granted conditional release with the requirement that he continue regular therapy with Dr. Raynor.
As part of his reintegration, Bucky was "strongly encouraged" to take up residence in a carefully selected apartment building.
It wasn't long before he made a discovery: she lived in the same place. Next door. The arrangement was too convenient to be coincidental, and he couldn't shake the feeling that someone had placed her nearby as a silent support system.
----
She hadn't expected to see Bucky in the hallway of her apartment building. It had been a perfectly ordinary afternoon until she spotted him, effortlessly carrying what looked like bags of clothes in one hand while balancing a microwave over his opposite shoulder like it weighed nothing.
When their eyes met, she caught the fleeting shock on his face before he quickly masked it, his expression slipping into something more neutral.
Curious and more than a little suspicious, she approached him with raised eyebrows. They exchanged stilted pleasantries. Bucky, ever the man of few words, offered a brief explanation: the government had rented the apartment for him as part of his continued reintegration.
It felt almost too convenient. Her thoughts immediately turned to S.H.I.E.L.D., and she couldn't help but suspect they'd had a hand in this arrangement. Maybe someone wants me to work for free, she mused with a wry smile.
Their mismatched schedules during the week meant they rarely crossed paths, and for a while, their lives remained parallel but distant. Sundays, however, became the exception, though not intentionally at first.
It started one rainy weekend when the power went out in the building, and she'd knocked on his door, flashlight in hand, to check if he needed anything. She'd half-expected him to brush her off, but to her surprise, he opened the door and invited her in, muttering something about "safety in numbers" as he gestured toward his couch.
They spent the evening with candlelight between them, sharing the leftovers she'd brought over and exchanging small talk that eventually gave way to a more comfortable quiet.
He didn't share much, but he seemed content to listen as she filled the gaps with anecdotes and idle chatter.
The next Sunday, she knocked on his door to ask for sugar for a cake she was baking, half-expecting him not to have any. To her surprise, he did.
When she mentioned the cake, she noticed a spark of interest in his usually guarded expression.
Feeling a little bold, she offered to bring him a slice as thanks. He hesitated but eventually nodded, admitting that he couldn't remember the last time he'd had homemade food.
Later, when she knocked again to deliver the cake, he opened the door looking uncertain, but unexpectedly offered her coffee in return.
She stepped inside without hesitation. He was watching a documentary about the '90s, and as they sat with their mismatched mugs, the screen played a segment on music.
The first notes of Step by Step by New Kids on the Block filled the room, and she couldn't help but laugh, confessing that she used to love the song as a kid and would dance to it in her living room at five years old.
He let out a barely-there smile, the kind that vanished almost as quickly as it came. It wasn't much, but it felt significant, like the first stone in a bridge being laid.
Over time, Sundays became their unspoken ritual. Sometimes they'd watch movies or documentaries. Other times, they'd just sit together, she talking while he listened, occasionally nodding or offering a quiet grunt in response. She never pressed him to talk, and the lack of expectation felt like a relief.
Over time, she began to notice subtle changes in him. His shoulders seemed less tense during their Sunday hangouts, and he started to relax more on the couch, his posture less rigid.
Occasionally, his voice would rise slightly when he shared a rare observation or commented on a movie. Though he wasn't exactly chatty, she could tell he was trying. His words were sparse but deliberate, and his eyes met hers more often. The silences between his responses felt less heavy, settling into something warm and companionable.
----
Bucky hadn't expected her presence to become something he looked forward to. At first, their Sundays together had been a reluctant concession, born out of politeness more than any real desire for company. But somewhere along the way, things had changed. Her presence was steady, unobtrusive, and comforting, like the white noise of a fan on a hot day, something he hadn't realized he needed until it became a constant.
He appreciated that she never pushed. She didn't pry into his things or demand explanations for his silences. She just... existed beside him, filling the space with her voice when the quiet grew too heavy, but never making him feel like he had to contribute more than he was ready to give.
Slowly, he found himself relaxing around her in ways he hadn't with anyone else since Steve left. The weight on his chest felt lighter on Sundays, and he caught himself looking forward to the sound of her knock on his door.
----
As the months went by, she realized her feelings for him were beginning to change. Thoughts of Bucky started to linger beyond their casual Sunday hangouts.
It wasn't just the time they spent together that stayed with her; it was the way she found herself worrying about him on the days they didn't cross paths, or how her chest tightened when he seemed more withdrawn during their conversations.
It was hard to ignore just how handsome he was, how effortlessly he made her heart skip a beat. The way his blue eyes softened on the rare occasions he smiled, or how her breath caught when he stretched on the couch, and his shirt rode up slightly, small things that left her feeling foolish and giddy all at once.
She was falling for him, slowly and inevitably, and she had no idea what to do about it.
----
One Friday night, piercing screams shattered her sleep.
The sounds were raw and desperate, cutting through the silence of the apartment. They were coming from the other side of the thin wall: Bucky's place.
She froze, her heart pounding as she recognized the unmistakable signs of a nightmare. But this wasn't like the restless murmurs or muffled groans she'd overheard in the past. These screams were different, drenched in pain and terror.
Her stomach knotted with worry as she quickly got out of bed, moving toward the balcony the two apartments shared. A low, weathered wooden fence separated their spaces, and she hesitated for only a moment before climbing onto a flowerpot, swinging one leg over the fence, and then struggling to follow with the other, cursing her pathetic fitness level as she landed awkwardly on the other side, graceless and unstable.
Peering through the glass of the sliding door, she saw him on the floor, tangled in his sheets, tossing and turning violently. His movements were frantic, his face contorted in anguish as he thrashed against whatever demons haunted him.
"Nyet!" he cried out desperately, the guttural sound ripping through the room. "Pozhaluysta, prekrati!"
Her heart clenched at the sight. This wasn't just a bad dream; it was a vivid, visceral reliving of some past trauma. She had no doubt it was connected to his time under HYDRA's control.
Without thinking, she opened the door and stepped inside. Moving carefully, she approached him, the floor creaking softly beneath her feet.
His screams ebbed into harsh, labored breaths, but his body remained tense, caught in the grip of the dream. Slowly, she knelt beside him and, with a tentative hand, brushed his hair back from his damp forehead.
As she touched him, she sent a gentle wave of healing energy through him, hoping to ease his turmoil.
Her powers couldn't erase memories, but they could soften the edges of his distress and dull the sharpest parts of his panic. His breathing began to slow, the lines of tension on his face gradually easing as the energy worked its way through him.
"It's okay, Buck. You're not there anymore. Wake up," she murmured, despite the ache in her chest.
As her hand rested gently on his forehead, Bucky's screams subsided into soft, pained whimpers. "Bol'no..." he mumbled incoherently, his voice heavy with distress.
Despite her whispered reassurances, his body remained restless, his movements erratic and desperate as the vision held him captive.
"No... don't..." he murmured weakly, his voice trembling with conflict. His legs began to shake, the tension in his body coiling tighter with each passing second.
She hesitated, her mind racing with the risks of waking him in this state; he could lash out instinctively, putting her in harm's way.
Swallowing her apprehension, she made up her mind and knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. "You're safe," she murmured again, pouring more healing energy into him.
The contact seemed to calm him. His movements grew less frantic, though his body still flinched now and then, as though reacting to something particularly disturbing in his dream. Still, the terror's grip seemed to weaken, her presence slowly chipping away at what consumed him.
Suddenly, his eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly as confusion clouded his features.
He looked disoriented, his breathing uneven as his gaze swept the room until it landed on her. For a moment, he just stared, his expression shifting from alarm to recognition.
His shoulders visibly relaxed.
"You..." His voice was hoarse as he ran a hand down his face, piecing it together. He looked at her sitting on the floor, hair tousled, in an old nightie that kissed her knees. Her expression was a mixture of concern and awkwardness. "...woke me up."
She nodded quickly, her hands fiddling with the hem of her nightgown. "You sounded like you were... trapped in something bad," she said softly. "And you were about to wake the entire neighborhood. I couldn't just leave you like that."
Bucky pushed himself upright, moving slowly, like every muscle protested. The exhaustion clung to him in every line of his face, and his voice came out quiet and raw. "Thanks... and sorry."
"There's nothing to thank me for, big guy. You were suffering." She shrugged, trying to downplay the moment, but her next words came tumbling out unbidden. "Um... do you want me to stay? You know, for the rest of the night? In case..."
Her stomach tightened immediately. What made her think he'd want her to stay?
To her surprise, he paused, considering her offer. A small, almost imperceptible smile showed at the corner of his lips. "Actually... yeah," he admitted quietly. He shifted slightly. "If you don't mind staying close. Just for a while."
For a beat, she just stared, startled. Quickly regaining her composure, she nodded. "Not at all. I mean, look at your state. Where uh... do you want me?" Her cheeks heated the second the words left her mouth, and she immediately regretted her phrasing.
Bucky didn't seem to pick up on the unintended innuendo, or maybe he just didn't care. He tilted his head slightly, motioning toward the makeshift bed on the floor.
"Close is good," he said simply. "Just... lean against me or something," he added, curling up into a somewhat protective position as he waited for her to settle in next to him.
Swallowing her nerves, she lay down beside him, careful not to crowd him. Tentatively, she rested a hand on his side, her palm finding the steady rise and fall of his ribcage. "Like... this?" she asked softly.
Bucky didn't answer immediately. Instead, he let out a breath that sounded like a mixture of relief and resignation. "Yeah," he murmured, his hand briefly brushing hers in an unconscious gesture. "This is good."
As the silence settled between them, she stayed still, attuned to the warmth of his body and the slowing rhythm of his breathing.
He didn't say much after that, but the way his tense shoulders gradually relaxed spoke volumes. Whatever terrors had plagued him earlier seemed a little further away now.
Exhausted from using her powers, she allowed herself to relax, succumbing to sleep almost instantly.
-----
When she woke, sunlight was already streaming through the curtains, signaling it was late morning.
Something big and warm was pressed against her, enveloping her in heat and security. Still caught in the haze of sleep, her eyes fluttered open slowly. She became aware of the steady rise and fall of breathing against her back, and then of the arm draped snugly around her waist.
Her heart skipped a beat as she registered the sensation of someone instinctively pulling her closer, his hold firm yet unconsciously gentle.
He let out a low, sleepy grunt, his nose brushing against the sensitive crook of her neck as he nuzzled deeper, inhaling softly. His breath, warm and even, tickled her skin, and a quiet hum of contentment escaped him.
As the events of the previous night filtered back into her mind, realization struck her like a slap. She remembered where she was, and more importantly, with whom.
Wide awake now, her senses sharpened, and she noticed with growing alarm that he was still nuzzling her neck, his face burrowed against her. A traitorous warmth spread across her cheeks as his arm tightened around her waist, and she could feel the firmness of his chest against her back.
Panicked but trying not to disturb him too abruptly, she whimpered pathetically under her breath and began tapping his bare shoulder with hesitant fingers. "Bucky," she whispered urgently. "Bucky, wake up."
Her soft taps and whispered plea had no effect. In fact, he murmured something incomprehensible and -oh no, oh no, oh no- his hand slid just a bit lower along her side, his fingers twitching against her. Her heart thudded in her chest, her face burning with mortification.
Desperate, she abandoned subtlety and swatted the back of his head with just enough force to jolt him.
He jerked awake, blinking rapidly as if trying to dispel the remnants of a dream. His eyes, half-closed and unfocused, darted around. "Huh? What time is it?" he mumbled, his voice gravelly from sleep.
It took a moment- or several- for the reality of the situation to dawn on him.
As he shifted, his gaze landed on her and then on the proximity of their position. The arm draped around her, the way their bodies were pressed together. The lingering warmth where his face had been tucked into her neck.
"Oh. Oh," he breathed, his entire body stiffening. A flush began creeping up his neck, spreading rapidly to his cheeks. He immediately withdrew his arm, sitting up quickly. "Sorry," he muttered, running a hand through his hair and avoiding her eyes. "I didn't mean to. I didn't even realize-" He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced at her. "Are you… okay?"
She nodded quickly, trying to mask her flustered state. "Yeah, I'm fine." To distract herself, she stretched her arms lazily above her head, the motion easing the lingering tension in her muscles.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Bucky glanced around the room as though looking for something else to focus on.
The awkwardness between them lingered until finally, he cleared his throat. "So, uh… Saturday. What plans do you have for today?" he asked casually, though the edge of self-consciousness was impossible to miss.
Grateful for a change of topic, she stood up, smoothing her old cotton nightgown and brushing at imaginary dust particles. "Actually, I'm heading out to buy some clothes with a coworker. She invited me to go out to a nightclub with the gang tonight. It's been years since I've been to one."
----
Bucky's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his expression caught somewhere between intrigue and skepticism. "A nightclub? That sounds… interesting," he commented dryly, the hint of sarcasm poorly masking his curiosity. "So I take it you'll need some new threads first?"
"Yup," she confirmed. "I mean, I've got a decent sense of fashion, but I have no clue what's in style for places like that anymore. I usually just see people stumbling home in whatever while I'm walking my dog in sweatpants." She smiled wryly. "So, she's helping me look sexy for tonight."
He frowned, the expression flickering across his face before he could stop it. A beat of silence hung between them.
"Right," he said finally, his tone carefully neutral.
"Right," she echoed, eyeing him for a moment. "Anyway, since you seem… more than fine now, I should head out. I'm sure you've got a packed day ahead, like watching paint dry or maybe finally returning some of those missed calls from Sam."
She gave him a quick wave and turned toward the balcony, her steps light but deliberate.
From where he sat on the floor, Bucky tracked her movements, his gaze lingering longer than it should on the gentle sway of her hips.
The sunlight streaming through the window caught the silhouette of her body through the thin cotton gown, and his jaw clenched as he forced himself to look away.
Then he noticed where she was heading.
"The door is that way, in case you didn't notice," he said with a smirk, gesturing toward the proper exit.
"Oh, I know," she shot back. "But mine's locked. I had to channel my inner Cirque du Soleil to get over the balcony and into your place last night."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You climbed the fence?"
"Yeah, and I'd really rather not do it again. Especially with an audience this time." She paused and gave him a pointed look. "So, how about you repay me by brushing up on those lock-picking skills and opening my door without wrecking the lock?"
A lopsided grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You're serious?"
"Oh yeah," she replied, crossing her arms. "Come on, you've got the skills, big guy. Don't tell me they're all gone now."
He let out a low chuckle, pushing himself off the floor. "Alright. Let's see what I can do."
------
Later that afternoon, she returned to her apartment with a couple of bags filled with casual clothes and a few options for tonight.
She rummaged through them, pulling out the items she thought might work for the nightclub. She wasn't exactly thrilled about the outing -it wasn't her scene- but she knew she needed to socialize more, to build connections, and maybe, find someone to distract herself from the growing attraction she felt toward her grumpy neighbor and friend.
A neighbor who, thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware of her feelings.
He didn't seem interested in her that way, and the prospect of him discovering her crush was mortifying. Besides, she knew he had been attempting to date lately, surely encouraged by Dr. Raynor.
Her mind wandered back to that evening when she'd seen him leaving his apartment with a fresh flower bouquet, heading off to meet the chirpy Asian bartender from down the street.
Or the time she'd spotted him in the hallway with a single rose wrapped in flimsy paper, his sharp casual-formal attire making him look infuriatingly handsome. When she raised an eyebrow at him, his only response was a gruff, "Tinder," before disappearing out the door.
He never shared much about that part of his life, and honestly, she preferred it that way. The thought of sitting through a conversation about whoever he was seeing, smiling and pretending to be supportive, wasn't her idea of fun.
Before her thoughts could spiral any further, she patted her cheeks with both hands, forcing herself to focus. She had clothes to sort through and a look to figure out, and she needed to stop thinking about Bucky Barnes.
After some deliberation, she narrowed her options down to two outfits but found herself hesitating.
Against her better judgment, she decided to ask for his opinion. Complicated feelings aside, Bucky was still her friend. And once upon a time, he'd been quite the ladies' man. Even if he wasn't that guy anymore, his insights could still prove useful.
She marched to his door and knocked three times. "Bucky, are you home? I have a favor to ask."
After a moment, the door swung open, and without missing a beat, she held up two hangers, waving them in front of his face. "I can't decide what to wear tonight. Can you help me figure it out? I'll pay for Sunday's pizza if you do."
She presented the options: a short black dress with a daring neckline and a red blouse paired with a matching miniskirt. "What do you think?"
----
Bucky's brows furrowed briefly before he masked his reaction with a neutral expression. The black dress was bold and undeniably sexy. Too sexy, if he was being honest. The red blouse and miniskirt weren't much better, the skirt's length leaving little to the imagination.
He knew she was asking for his advice as a friend, but something twisted in his chest at the sight of either outfit.
The idea of her going out in them, surrounded by strangers who didn't know her like he did, made him uneasy.
His grip on the hangers tightened as a faint, irrational pang of jealousy bloomed. Who the hell are these coworkers? How many guys?
But it wasn't just jealousy, it was protectiveness, too.
Bucky had spent so much of his life guarding himself from the world that the idea of her stepping out there, dressed like this, left him restless. It wasn't about the clothes, not really. It was about her. The thought of anyone getting too close or treating her as anything less than she deserved made his stomach turn.
Clearing his throat, he gave her a measured look. "Depends on what kind of vibe you're going for."
She raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her expression. "Vibe?"
"Yeah." He held up the black dress. "This says you want to stand out, make a statement. Maybe too much of a statement." Then he switched to the red blouse and skirt. "This one's… playful, but honestly, are you sure it's comfortable?"
Her lips twitched as she fought back a grin. "Are you saying they're too much?"
He shrugged. "I'm just saying you don't need all that to look good."
Her cheeks flushed at the unexpected compliment, and she crossed her arms. "You're not exactly helping me choose here," she noted with a playful huff, snapping him back to reality.
Bucky had to admit, the possibility of her going out -dating, dancing, doing anything that a single woman her age might do besides spending Sundays on the couch with him- had never truly crossed his mind.
Somehow, he'd stupidly taken for granted that she'd always be there, maintaining the easy status quo of their relationship. Ad infinitum.
But now, the reality of her stepping out of that unspoken bubble between them hit him hard.
Was he ready for something else? Not likely, not when he still felt so damn broken. And the notion of ruining what they had for a failed attempt at something deeper was unthinkable. He couldn't bear losing her because he couldn't get his act together.
So he forced himself to remain calm, even as his emotions clawed at him. The last thing she needed was his unresolved mess clouding her chance to have fun.
He took a breath, keeping his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.
"The black dress makes an impact," he admitted. "It's bold, sexy…" His gaze shifted to the red ensemble. "This one's daring too, with the shorter skirt, but…" He paused, his jaw tightening briefly. "If you're looking to turn heads, I'd say go for the black dress."
He handed the clothes back to her with a composed expression, though his thoughts were anything but.
He plastered on a faint smile, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "You'll look great, no matter what."
She accepted the hangers with a small smile, clearly unaware of the turmoil behind his response. "Thanks, Buck. I owe you a pizza," she said warmly, and without thinking, she leaned in and pecked him on the cheek.
The brief warmth of her lips caught him completely off guard. He stiffened, his chest tightening, heart suddenly pounding harder than it should. For a split second, his mind went blank, unable to process the tenderness of the gesture.
"No problem," he murmured, his voice low and rough, eyes tracking her as she quickly retreated toward her apartment.
Once her door clicked shut, Bucky let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
His hand brushed against the spot where her lips had landed, lingering there like he could hold onto the fleeting warmth.
For someone like him, feelings were a minefield: buried deep and off-limits, tangled up with memories he refused to revisit. She wasn't supposed to matter like this.
At first, she was just his neighbor, someone who stubbornly broke through the walls he tried to keep fortified.
But over time, things had changedd. Quietly at first, like the subtle tug of an undertow, until suddenly it felt like he was drowning.
He sighed deeply, his gaze locked on her door as if it held all the answers. What the hell are you doing?
----
On the other side of the wall, she closed her door with a thud, leaning back against it as her stomach twisted in knots. She replayed his flinch in her mind, dissecting it with a mix of confusion and annoyance.
Last night, he had wanted her to stay in his makeshift bed after the nightmare, and for fuck's sake, he even snuggled against her neck in the morning like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Asleep, but he did.
But now, a simple kiss on the cheek had him recoiling like she'd crossed some unspoken line.
Her heart clenched. This is why you need to stop. Whatever feelings she was developing for him, they had to go, and fast.
He wasn't interested in her that way. She needed a distraction, something -anything- to pull her away from this spiral.
Fueled by determination and defiance, she shoved aside his suggestion of the black dress. When the time came, she slipped into the skimpy red miniskirt and blouse instead.
The choice wasn't just about looking good; it was about reclaiming control over herself and her emotions. Bold cat-eye makeup followed, along with a slick of glossy red lipstick. Grabbing her purse, she stormed out of the apartment with purpose.
----
Bucky had just returned from the store, whiskey in hand, when he saw her apartment door open. He lifted his head just in time to see her step into the hallway. His breath caught.
She walked toward him with an effortless sway, the red miniskirt hugging her curves, the glossy lipstick gleaming under the hallway's dim lights. She looked every bit like a woman who was about to turn heads, and Bucky felt like a deer caught in headlights.
She smiled at him, breezing past with a casual wave. "Goodnight, Bucky," she said brightly, not even sparing him a second glance.
"Have fun tonight," he managed to say, his voice tight and strained, his throat suddenly dry.
The elevator doors closed behind her, leaving him frozen in place, nearly dropping the bottle. He swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the neck of the whiskey.
"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand down his face as though trying to rub away the image burned into his mind.
That moment -seeing her like that, knowing she was going out dressed like that-sent his thoughts into a tailspin.
He had been trying to keep things platonic, to see her as the friend and neighbor who had stumbled into his life at just the right moment.
He'd even thrown himself back into dating after... he couldn't even remember how long, trying to distract himself. To no avail.
But the truth was impossible to ignore now: he wasn't just fond of her. He wasn't just grateful for her company.
He wanted her.
And it scared the hell out of him.
----
Just as she was about to exit the building, the rusty main door lock jammed. Great.
After several increasingly aggressive attempts -rattling the knob, shaking the damn thing, and even delivering a few half-hearted kicks- she finally surrendered.
She knew who could help her and grimaced. After managing that catwalk exit showing him indifference, now she needed to crawl back to him for assistance.
Taking a steadying breath, she turned around and knocked on his door. It creaked open on its own, left ajar. Inside, Bucky was slouched on the couch, whiskey in hand, eyes fixed on the flickering screen of a soccer game.
"Hey," she called softly, trying to sound casual, hoping to mask the awkwardness of her reappearance. "Are you in the mood to roleplay a locksmith?"
He didn't startle, but there was a hint of surprise in his eyes as he turned to face her. He took a deliberate swig straight from the bottle before responding. "Again? Don't you have other neighbors to disturb at this ungodly hour?" he asked in a dry tone.
His words were sharp, but she noticed his gaze drop -just for a second- skimming her legs before returning to the bottle. The tiniest trace of frustration crossed his face, like he was annoyed with himself for looking at all.
Her stomach flipped, but she trampled the thought before it could take shape. She wasn't going down that road, not when she was about to leave. "Come on, Buck. It's getting late. I'll make you those garlic snacks you like for tomorrow's movie night, deal?"
She clasped her hands together, bowing slightly in mock pleading, only to instinctively adjust the hem of her skirt as she straightened. She saw his eyes flick down again, lingering just long enough on the exposed skin of her thighs to make her heart stutter.
Clearing his throat, he tried to sound unaffected. "And you'll buy me a six-pack. The expensive kind."
She narrowed her gaze. "Want me to clean your windows too? You know what, give me that." She took three steps, grabbed the bottle from his hand, and took a generous swig of liquor.
Screw it. If he's going to act all tough, so can I. She felt his eyes on her again as she tipped the bottle back, and the weight of his gaze, combined with the burn of the whiskey, made her feel bold. Maybe a little too bold.
He clenched his jaw as the amber liquid caught the light, the movement drawing his eyes to the curves beneath her blouse. A heat surged through him. Frustration, arousal, and something raw he didn't want to name.
"Sure," he said gruffly. "Help yourself."
She smirked, handing the bottle back. "What's with that frown? I thought we'd already cleared the phase of that staring thing of yours. Besides, sharing is caring." She wiped a stray drop from the corner of her mouth and winked. She fucking winked at him.
Bucky grunted, playing off the moment with a scowl. But his mind was racing. The way she waltzed back in, drinking his whiskey, completely unfazed by his presence, ready to go out with some random people to do whatever in a club.
He tried to reprimand himself. She was his friend, his neighbor. They had a dynamic: a light-hearted, sarcastic friendship that worked. And now, he couldn't stop wondering what it would be like to just reach out, close the space between them, and-
"It's nothing," he lied. "Just thinking about stuff I have to do with Sam." Suddenly conscious of how closely he was observing her, Bucky forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the bottle clutched loosely in his hand.
She noticed the stare this time but decided to let it pass. "If that's the case, that door's not going to open itself, so move your firm 106-year-old ass and open it, will you?" she quipped, her voice carrying a playful edge.
It was the kind of comment that would normally pass between them without much weight, but this time... she felt it hang in the air a little longer than usual.
The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a second, something playful sparked in his blue eyes. "Firm, huh?" He set the bottle down slowly, his gaze holding hers. "Seems like someone's been staring."
Heat rose to her cheeks. She cursed herself for slipping, but quickly waved it off with a flick of her wrist. She wasn't about to let this turn into any kind of flirting after all that self-coaching about self-preservation.
"Tick-tock, Bucky," she said, keeping her tone nonchalant as she raised an eyebrow and gestured toward the hallway. She added a little authority to her voice, more for her own sake than his. She had to steer the conversation back to normal.
The spark dimmed at her response. He nodded stiffly and brushed past her, tensing his shoulders as he headed toward the door. Guess I read that wrong, he told himself. It was for the best. Safer.
As Bucky knelt to inspect the lock, she couldn't help but glance at his broad back. The way his muscles flexed under the thin fabric of his shirt was almost hypnotic, her gaze briefly drifting lower before she caught herself.
Stop it, she mentally scolded, forcing her eyes to a safe, innocuous spot: a blank patch on the wall that suddenly seemed fascinating.
With a screech of protesting metal, Bucky shoved the old lock using his vibranium finger. The door creaked open, and he stepped back, making a dramatic flourish with his arm.
"There you go," he said, almost indifferent. "If you don't need anything else, I'd like to get back to watching the game."
She smiled, hoping to keep things light, despite the weird tightness in her chest. Without thinking, she quipped, "Well, go watch your soccer, then, and wish me luck. Who knows, maybe I'll meet someone!"
Bucky's hand, still resting on the doorframe, clenched slightly, the wood almost creaking under the pressure.
The pang of jealousy was immediate and sharp, a wave of possessiveness that he had no right to feel hitting him hard.
He swallowed, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to play it cool.
"Good luck," he said finally, his voice coming out rougher than intended. The strained attempt at a smile didn't reach his eyes.
Luck had nothing to do with what he wanted for her that night. He wanted her to come back alone, untouched. Just as she had left.
----
Alone in his apartment, with the TV long forgotten, he paced restlessly on the old wooden floor.
Each step echoed the anxiety eating at him. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more painful than the last. He could almost picture her with some faceless guy, laughing, dancing, or worse, kissing him.
It wasn't his place to feel this way, he knew that. But knowing didn't make it easier.
He sat down heavily on the couch, then stood again almost immediately, unable to settle. The whiskey bottle sat forgotten on the coffee table, his restlessness too consuming for even that distraction.
----
Across town, she stepped into the club, momentarily overwhelmed by its size. Neon lights pulsed in time with the heavy bass, bathing the room in shifting colors. The whiskey she'd downed at Bucky's apartment warmed her blood, taking the edge off her nerves.
She grinned, letting the electric atmosphere seep into her. Liquid courage, she thought, ordering two tequila shots when she reached the bar.
The burn of the tequila was quick and welcome, igniting a spark of confidence. She laughed with her coworkers, the energy of the room infectious, and allowed herself to be pulled onto the crowded dance floor.
The music thumped through her veins, so loud it felt like a second heartbeat. For a while, she let herself go, the weight of her thoughts about Bucky -about them-fading into the kaleidoscope of lights and sound.
Each rhythmic beat seemed to push her farther from the strange tension that had been lingering between them, leaving her free to revel in the moment.
Yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, his strained smile lingered like a ghost she couldn't quite shake.
----
Bucky found himself awake, staring at the ceiling, restless as he checked the time on his phone more often than he'd like to admit. The thought of her out there -dancing, laughing, maybe already with someone else- had him teetering on the edge of something raw and unrelenting.
Finally, he sat up from his nest on the floor with a groan, running a hand through his hair.
"Fuck it."
Patience wasn't his strong suit on the best of days, and tonight was no exception. He wasn't about to sit there letting his mind spiral, conjuring images that made his chest ache and his teeth grind.
He stood and grabbed his jacket. He wasn't being possessive, he told himself; he was just concerned. Nothing more. He'd check on her, make sure she was okay, and leave. That was it. No ulterior motives.
The cool night air bit at his skin as he slipped out of the building, heading straight for the club he knew she had gone to.
----
The monstrous neon-lit structure came into view, its pounding bass audible even from the street. Bucky melted into the shadows as naturally as breathing, years of training guiding his steps.
This wasn't a mission; he wasn't stalking a target. He was just... checking in. Just to see how she's doing, he repeated in his mind, as if saying it enough times would make it true.
Inside, the club was a sensory overload: pulsing lights, bodies moving in sync to the beat, and a sea of unfamiliar faces. Bucky's sharp eyes scanned the crowd, his pulse quickening as his search dragged on longer than he'd expected. Then, finally, he saw her.
Her movements and disheveled hair told their own story, a story that stirred something primal within him.
His gaze lingered as he watched her throw herself into the rhythm of the music, her body swaying effortlessly, her face lit up with pure abandon. The pulsing lights of the club flashed around them, but his focus was solely on her, everything else fading into the background.
The pull was undeniable. His feet moved before he could think better of it, closing the distance between them until he was standing just inches behind her, his frame towering over her.
She sensed his presence immediately, a warmth that seemed to engulf her. Startled, she opened her eyes, prepared to spin around and tell some stranger to fuck off. But when she turned, her heart skipped a beat.
"…Bucky?"
Her voice was a mix of surprise and something else. Relief, maybe? It broke through the haze clouding his thoughts.
His breath hitched as he took her in up close: the strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead, the faint sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. And then there was the feel of her under his hand. His gaze dropped to where it had landed instinctively: on her hip.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. She felt the weight of his palm against her, warm and solid, and her breath caught.
His fingers pressed into her skin just slightly, and the world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them: recognition, want, fear.
Then reality crashed over him all at once. He released her as if burned.
"Fuck," he muttered, taking a step back. "I didn't mean to scare you."
She blinked, her brows knitting together. "What are you doing here?"
His eyes darted away, scanning the crowded room as if it held an answer. "I just... needed to make sure you were okay," he admitted. His voice was low, rough. The excuse felt hollow even to him, but it was all he could offer.
Despite the awkwardness, her heart warmed.
Bucky had actually left his apartment and crossed the city just to "check" on her. Maybe her situation wasn't as hopeless as she sometimes thought. Either that, or they were due for a serious conversation about boundaries.
She smiled, trying to ease the tension. "That's sweet of you, Buck, but completely unnecessary," she said with a teasing lilt. "I can take care of myself, you know."
"Sweet?" he echoed, a hint of disbelief coloring his tone. "That's a new one for me."
He exhaled heavily, his jaw working before he spoke again, slower this time, as though weighing every word. "Look, it's... complicated. But the truth is, I couldn't stand the idea of you being here, alone, in a crowd like this."
His voice carried a rawness that caught her off guard, the admission revealing more than he likely intended.
Her teasing smile faltered as his words sank in.
There was something unspoken lingering just beneath the surface, and it was enough to make her heart ache. "Well," she said softly, her tone shifting, "I'm not alone... but if it bothered you that much, why didn't you just ask me to stay?"
Her question hung between them like a challenge, and for a moment, their eyes locked. His stormy blue gaze held hers, and she saw it, the conflict, the walls he'd built so carefully starting to crack. He wanted to say something, to let her in, but the fear of rejection or exposing too much kept him frozen.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped before he could muster a response, his defenses kicked in. His expression shut down, and he abruptly turned away, as if running from the crushing weight of his feelings.
Her heart leaped into her throat as she watched him pull back, the sudden distance between them far more than physical.
No. Don't shut me out now.
Before she could stop herself, she reached out, wrapping her hand around his gloved metal one, the cool leather stark against her warm palm.
"Wait."
He froze, every muscle in his body going tense. For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't turn around, didn't even breathe, it seemed. He stood there, caught between the magnetic pull of her grip and the ingrained instinct to retreat into the safety of solitude.
"You came all the way here just to startle me like some creep and then leave?" she joked, her voice light as she tried to break through his stoic exterior.
Her hand tightened around his, grounding him, pulling him back into the moment. He didn't move, but the strain in his body was undeniable, the silent battle raging inside him clear from the way his shoulders locked under her hold.
A long, awkward silence stretched between them before Bucky finally spoke. "Look, I don't want to make things weird between us," he said, his voice low and earnest, with just a hint of vulnerability seeping through his usually controlled stance. "But… promise me one thing." He turned slightly toward her, leaning in, near enough that only she could hear what came next. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, thick with intensity. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid while I'm not around, okay?"
His nearness overwhelmed her senses. The scent of cedar, leather, and something undeniably him filled the space between them, making her pulse quicken.
Heat flushed through her skin as she felt the full weight of his presence, intoxicating and magnetic. She cursed herself for how easily he affected her. Her resolve, the careful wall she'd built to keep things casual between them, was crumbling. At that moment, it was impossible to pretend she didn't want something more.
"Actually, Buck…" she started. "Since you're here… I'm getting tired, and I want to go home. Will you take me?" Her words hung in the air, simple but heavy with unspoken meaning.
Bucky's gaze widened at her suggestion. It caught him off guard, yet it felt inevitable, like the strain that had been simmering for too long was finally bubbling to the surface.
"Alright then," he murmured. "Let's get you out of here."
He hesitated for just a heartbeat before sliding his arm around her waist. His hand settled against her side, firm but cautious, as though he were testing the waters. The warmth of her body against his heightened his awareness of every subtle movement she made.
"Ready for the ride home?" he asked, his voice husky as he raised his other hand to hail a cab. His fingers brushed lightly against her side, an unconscious gesture that felt more like reassurance, though he wasn't entirely sure if it was meant for her or himself.
She nodded, and without another word, Bucky guided her toward the waiting car, his hand still resting on her waist as if that physical connection between them had become essential, something he wasn't willing to break.
Once inside, he slid in beside her. The backseat was tight, their thighs pressed together, and Bucky became acutely aware of every point where their bodies met. His breath came a little shorter, the heat between them almost palpable in the confined space.
"So," he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper as he turned slightly toward her, "what exactly did you have planned for tonight before I crashed the party?"
She tilted her head back against the seat, eyes closing as though she were unwinding from the pulse of the club.
A soft, wry smile played on her lips. "Dunno," she began, her tone carrying a hint of vulnerability beneath the casual delivery. "Getting loose, maybe meeting someone... and feeling wanted, for a change."
Bucky's jaw clenched, her words hitting him in a place he didn't want to acknowledge.
Feeling wanted? The thought of her searching for that validation in someone else sent another surge of possessiveness through him.
"Well," he murmured, dropping to a low, gravelly tone, "considering how much trouble I've caused tonight already..." His fingers, tentative but bold, trailed slowly along the curve of her thigh, the warmth of her skin radiating through the thin fabric of her skirt.
His touch was deliberate, slow, igniting something raw and unspoken between them. "...you'd better believe you're wanted right now."
The weight of his words, paired with the slow, burning sensation of his fingers against her thigh, made her bite her lip. He wasn't just saying it; he was showing her, in every deliberate move he made, exactly how wanted she was.
She gasped at the feel of his touch continuing upward, her body reacting instinctively as her legs parted slightly. She turned her gaze to him. "I didn't think that you…" she whispered, her words trembling with vulnerability.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, rough and low, thick with barely contained desire. "You have no idea how long I've been trying not to want you... and failing miserably." Without another word, Bucky shifted closer, his hand slipping beneath the hem of her skirt, seeking and finding the warmth he had long denied himself.
Feeling the brush of his hand on her thigh, she suppressed a moan as heat started pooling between her legs. Then her eyes darted to the rearview mirror, and she realized the driver was stealing curious glances at them. She felt a flush of embarrassment and hastily grabbed Bucky's wrist. "Wait," she whispered, nodding subtly toward the mirror.
Bucky followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the driver's prying eyes. A dark glare crossed his face as he made eye contact with the cabby. His fingers hovered on her thigh for a second longer before he reluctantly withdrew.
She quickly crossed her legs, the movement causing her skirt to ride up, offering a tantalizing glimpse of soft skin. Swallowing hard, he turned his attention back to her face, his eyes dark with want, forcing himself to remain composed for the rest of the ride.
As the cab pulled up to their building, he took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside him.
He opened the door and stepped out, offering his hand to help her exit the vehicle. The cool night air and the stillness of the street seemed to break the spell that had enveloped them, grounding them momentarily.
In the elevator, the silence between them was heavy. They exchanged fleeting glances through the mirror, but neither could hold the other's gaze for long.
The same thought swirling in both their minds: Was this all a mistake?
When finally the doors slid open, he stepped out ahead of her, leading the way down the hallway to his apartment. His footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet space, punctuated by the blood rushing in his ears.
Once inside, Bucky turned to face her, his expression a mix of uncertainty and raw, unbridled lust. "So..." he started, looking for the right words. "What happens now?"
She bit her lower lip, suddenly feeling exposed under his intense gaze.
This is it, she thought, her heart pounding hard enough to echo in her ears.
The heat between them was almost suffocating, her body prickling under the weight of his stare. "I want you to… continue what you started in the car," she confessed, her words barely above a whisper.
Relief and hunger flashed across his face as his broad frame loomed closer. Without a word, his mouth crashed against hers, the kiss rough, desperate, and possessive. She melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair, tugging gently as she deepened the embrace.
Time stilled, the world beyond his apartment fading into irrelevance as his metal hand gripped her hips. He pulled her flush against him, and the unmistakable press of his hard cock against her belly sent a rush of wetness pooling between her thighs.
When they broke apart, gasping for air, Bucky didn't stop. He trailed along her jawline, his scruff scratching deliciously against her flushed skin, before lowering to the sensitive spot behind her ear.
He nipped, drawing a soft gasp, and then soothed it with his tongue, leaving a hot, wet trail down her neck.
"Tell me what you want," he rasped, thick and hoarse with barely restrained need. The heat of his breath sent shivers racing down her spine. "And I'll give it to you. Anything. Just say the words."
Her head fell back instinctively, exposing more of her throat to his wandering mouth, every nerve ending sparking to life.
Her body moved on its own, grinding against the firm ridge of his erection, seeking friction. A breathless whimper escaped her lips, her hands roaming the expanse of his broad chest, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt as she pushed it upward, desperate to feel him.
"Bucky…" she whispered, shaky and barely audible over her pounding heart. "I- you. I want you."
He stilled against her for a split second before pulling back, his eyes locking onto hers with such fierceness that it made her knees weak.
"You have me," he murmured.
His hands moved to her thighs, lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing.
Pinned between him and the nearest wall, her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. His hips rolled against her, his hard length grinding against her soaked panties, the friction sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through her as his hands roamed the curve of her waist.
"You had to wear the damn blouse, hm?" he murmured, his tone dark and reverent all at once. He captured her mouth again, his teeth grazing her lower lip before his tongue delved inside, deepening the kiss. Her back arched into him, her body desperate for more as the tension coiled tighter between them.
Bucky's hands moved with confidence, tugging the hem of her blouse upward. Instead of wasting time with buttons, he pulled it over her head in one deft motion, the fabric whispering as it slid away. Before she could catch her breath, his fingers found the clasp of her bra at the front, flicking it open with a sure twist.
The garment was discarded, forgotten, as his gaze dropped to her newly exposed breasts. The cool air brushed against her hardened nipples, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his hands as they slid up her sides to cup her.
"You're fucking perfect," he muttered, like the words were torn from him without permission.
He leaned in, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat and lower. His mouth wrapped around one pert nipple and sucked.
The wet heat of his tongue sent a jolt through her body, her hands clutching at his shoulders for support. A soft moan escaped her, her hips rocking instinctively against him, the hardness pressing between her thighs making her ache with need.
"What about this, huh?" he murmured, his fingers roaming over the fabric of her skirt. The possessive edge in his tone thrilled her, but she couldn't resist firing back.
"You don't like it?" she teased breathlessly.
"Didn't like other men looking at you in it," he almost growled, tightening his grip. His blue eyes were stormy, fixed on her face with a mix of frustration and desire. "You put this on, asking for trouble, didn't you?"
"Well…" She smirked, a flicker of defiance in her gaze. "That was the idea, yes."
His brows furrowed, and without warning, he grasped the hem of her skirt. "So trouble, huh?" he rasped, dropping to a dangerous low.
With one sharp tug, the fabric gave way, the sound of the seam tearing echoing in the quiet apartment.
"Bucky!" she gasped, looking down at the ruined garment now discarded on the floor. "That was brand new!"
His smirk deepened, a predatory gleam in his eyes as his hands moved to her hips, his fingers hooking into the sides of her panties.
"Well," he murmured darkly, "you wanted trouble, sweetheart." With one smooth motion, he tore the delicate lace, the ruined scraps joining her skirt on the floor. "Now you've got it."
Before she could respond, Bucky lowered her to the floor and dropped to his knees before her, his broad shoulders aligning with her hips as his hands gripped her firmly.
He pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of her thigh, his gaze locked with hers.
With a steady, almost reverent motion, he pulled her panties down, throwing them aside, and then guided one of her legs up, draping it over his shoulder. His hands slid down to her other thigh, gripping and spreading her gently but firmly, holding her in place as he positioned himself between her legs.
"Stay still," he rasped, low and commanding, the timbre sending a shiver through her body.
His fingers dug into her flesh just enough to steady her, the mix of strength and care leaving her dizzy with anticipation.
"Look at you," he muttered, his gaze burning. "Fucking gorgeous."
The first brush of his mouth against her was featherlight, a tease, but it sent a jolt of pleasure straight through her core.
"Bucky…" she whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair as her knees threatened to give out beneath her.
He groaned at the sound of his name, his tongue darting out to taste her. The wet heat made her cry out, her body instinctively bucking against him.
His grip tightened, holding her in place as he worked her with deliberate strokes and teasing flicks, the rhythm driving her higher.
Then, he sucked hard on her clit.
Her head fell back, her nails scraping against his scalp as the tension in her belly coiled tighter. "Oh my God, Bucky…" she gasped, breaking.
He groaned against her. "You taste so fucking good," he muttered, before diving back in with renewed fervor.
She was trembling, her body on fire, every nerve ending alight under his relentless attention. "Bucky… I-" she tried, unable to finish as pleasure crashed over her, her orgasm ripping through her with a force that left her shaking.
He didn't stop until her trembling eased, his hands steadying her as he pressed another kiss to her thigh, his scruff grazing her oversensitive skin.
Standing, he cupped her face in his hands before capturing her mouth again, this time with a slow, simmering heat that promised this was far from over.
With one last lingering kiss, Bucky pulled away and took her hand, his calloused fingers warm against her still-flushed skin. She was still catching her breath, her legs unsteady, but he held her firmly as he led her down the hallway to his bedroom.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, his mouth was on hers again. His hands eagerly roamed her body, while hers found the hem of his shirt, tugging at it insistently.
"Not fair," she murmured against him, a teasing lilt in her voice as she pulled the fabric higher. "I'm the only one without clothes."
Bucky pulled back just enough to let her lift the shirt over his head. As the garment came off, he hesitated for a split second, his gaze dropping, a flicker of self-consciousness crossing his features.
Her eyes softened as she took in the scars that marred his chest and shoulder, where flesh met metal. Without a word, she leaned in, brushing gentle kisses over the jagged lines, trailing along the seam of his prosthetic.
"You're beautiful," she whispered against his skin.
The words made his throat tighten, and his cheeks flushed with warmth. "If you say so," he muttered.
She smiled, her fingers grazing his jaw as she kissed him again, slow and deep.
Gently, he guided her toward the bed, the back of her knees meeting the edge before she sank onto the mattress.
He followed, climbing over her with a careful but commanding grace, his weight settling between her thighs as he braced himself on his forearms.
"You're the beautiful one," he murmured, brushing over hers as his hand slid up her side, exploring every curve with deliberate care.
Bucky trailed down her neck, his hot breath igniting her as he moved lower. He found her breast, his tongue teasing a hard nipple before he drew it into his mouth.
The way his teeth grazed the sensitive peak, then suckled after, sent a jolt of pleasure that had her back arching off the bed. Her fingers threaded into his hair, holding him closer as he feasted on her, his free hand kneading the soft flesh of her other breast.
He alternated between them with relentless attention, and when he finally pulled away, he shifted his weight back onto his knees.
His hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it with a quick flick, the metallic clink cutting through the thick silence of the room. He made short work of his pants and boxers, discarding them onto the floor with the rest of his clothes.
Her eyes widened as he revealed himself, her gaze dropping to his cock. He was... big.
Bucky noticed her reaction, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. He quirked a brow, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable.
Without breaking eye contact, he positioned himself between her legs, his broad hands sliding up her thighs to spread them wider. His gaze softened slightly, his confidence faltering just enough for a faint blush to creep up his neck.
"I, uh… I should warn you," he said, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "It's been a long time since I've done this. I don't know how long I'm gonna last."
Her chest swelled at the vulnerability in his tone, and she reached up to cradle his face, pressing a tender kiss to the tip of his nose. "That's okay," she murmured with a small smile, her words warm and reassuring. "We've got all night to practice."
The tension in his shoulders eased, and he let out a soft laugh, the sound rough and filled with affection. "Well, that is certainly reassuring," he muttered, leaning down to capture her mouth again, aligning himself as he pushed into her, slow and steady.
The tight, wet heat enveloped him, and a groan tore from his throat. His body tensed, his breathing hitching as pleasure slammed into him with an intensity he hadn't anticipated.
"Fuck…" he muttered under his breath, freezing in place. His jaw clenched as he willed himself to calm down, every muscle taut with restraint.
She watched him, her hands resting lightly on his forearms. "What's wrong?" she asked with concern.
His eyes squeezed shut, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Give me a second," he rasped. "I almost -fuck- almost lost it already."
Her lips curved into a small, understanding smile. She reached up to stroke his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over his flushed skin. "Take your time," she whispered, soothing and full of patience.
His eyes opened, meeting hers, and he gave a small nod.
Pulling back slightly, he took a deep breath before pushing in a little farther. The sensation overwhelmed him again, his hands gripping her hips like a lifeline as another curse slipped out.
"Goddamn it," he growled, stopping once more, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he fought for control.
Her fingers threaded through his hair, gently scratching his scalp. "It's okay. We're not in a rush. Just... feel it, Bucky. I'm not going anywhere."
A low, shaky laugh escaped him. "You're too fucking good to me," he muttered, lifting his head to look at her again. Another breath, and he moved slowly, inching deeper this time, his body trembling with the effort to hold back.
He pushed forward again, then stilled with a hiss, cursing under his breath. Her patient touches and murmured encouragement grounded him, made him feel like he could take all the time in the world.
Finally, with a low, satisfied groan, he bottomed out, his body flush against hers. He stilled, his head dropping to rest against hers as he breathed heavily. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.
She was doing her best to be patient, to let him take his time, but the throbbing heat of his cock buried deep inside her was becoming impossible to ignore.
Her body ached for more, for movement, for relief from the unbearable tension coiling tighter with every passing second.
Biting her lip, she gazed up at him, his eyes still closed, his jaw clenched as he worked to steady himself. The sight of him like this -raw, vulnerable, and completely consumed- only made her need intensify.
Tentatively, she shifted her hips upward, a subtle roll that sent a jolt of pleasure sparking through her. The sensation drew a soft gasp from her, and she couldn't suppress the small whimper that followed.
Bucky's eyes snapped open, the sharp inhale he took betraying just how much he felt her movement. His gaze locked on hers, dark and full of warning, but there was no mistaking the desire burning behind it.
"Careful," he rasped. "You're making it real fucking hard to keep control here."
Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, her patience finally wearing thin. "Maybe I don't want you to keep control," she murmured, rocking her hips again, just enough to feel him twitch inside her.
Bucky groaned deeply, pressing his face into the crook of her neck as his composure continued to crack.
His body trembled against hers, his restraint unraveling with each passing second. "Fuck," he groaned, low and strained, teetering between a warning and surrender.
Her response was to arch her back, her body molding against his as her nails dragged lightly down the sculpted planes of his back. "Stop holding back," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. "It's like you're punishing yourself."
Her hands moved to his nape, fingers brushing softly through the short hair at the base of his skull. "What's wrong with cumming, Buck?" she whispered, her tone tender. "Let go. Next time-"
Her words were cut off by a sudden, hard thrust, his hips snapping forward and burying him so deeply inside her that the blunt head of his cock kissed her cervix. A sharp gasp tore from her throat, her head falling back against the mattress as pleasure and shock rippled through her.
When she met his gaze, his blue eyes burned with determination. His jaw was clenched, his face tight with a focus that seemed almost unshakable, as though he'd summoned every ounce of his training to suppress his body's overwhelming need for release.
"Next time," he murmured, rough and deliberate, "I'll make it last." His hips snapped forward again, hard and precise, pulling a cry from her as her body arched beneath him.
He grit his teeth, ragged. "I'm not… a fucking boy. I won't just… soil myself. I won't do that to you, doll."
She blinked up at him, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for air, the meaning behind his words sinking in. His old-fashioned masculine pride wouldn't let him lose control, wouldn't let him spill before ensuring her satisfaction.
Her lips parted as a rush of understanding -and desire- flooded her. Sliding a hand down between them, she touched herself, her fingers finding her slick folds and swollen clit.
His thrusts faltered slightly as he realized what she was doing, his eyes widening briefly before darkening with renewed hunger. "Fuck, doll…" he rasped, hoarse and laced with awe as he watched her.
Her fingers moved with purpose, working in rhythm with his powerful thrusts. The added sensation sent sparks of pleasure racing through her body, her moans growing louder as she climbed higher.
"Bucky," she gasped, her free hand clutching at his back as the tension coiled tighter, every nerve ending alight. Her movements grew more frantic, and she cried out as the release she craved finally shattered through her, her walls clenching hard around him.
That was all it took. With a guttural groan, Bucky's restraint broke, his hips slamming against hers as he buried himself deep, spilling into her with a force that left him trembling. He collapsed against her, his breathing ragged and uneven, his body a heavy, satisfying weight on top of hers.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their labored breaths. Finally, he lifted his head, his damp hair clinging to his forehead as he looked at her with a mixture of relief and adoration.
A soft smile curved her lips as her hand caressed his stubbled cheek. "You okay?" she asked gently.
Bucky nodded, his steel-blue eyes searching hers, vulnerability flickering beneath the surface. "Yeah," he murmured. "Are you?"
Her answering smile was all the reassurance he needed. "More than okay."
He exhaled shakily, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. Slowly, he rolled onto his side, pulling her against him, his arm wrapped securely around her waist.
For a while, they lay in silence, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest as their breathing gradually evened out.
The intimacy of the moment settled over them like a warm, safe blanket. But even in the calm, she could still feel tension in his body, something that he hadn't quite released.
"What's on your mind, Buck?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated. "I'm just… thinking."
Her brows knitted together. "About what?"
Bucky sighed, his hand pausing its movements along her back. "About how much of a goddamn mess I still am," he admitted. "I don't know what I'm doing half the time, and most days, it feels like I'm one bad decision away from falling apart again." He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. "But then there's you."
She remained silent, letting him gather his thoughts.
"I can't stand the idea of you with someone else," he continued, almost bitter, as if the confession cost him. "It's selfish, I know. You deserve someone who's got their shit together, not someone like me."
Her heart ached at his words.
She reached up, cupping his cheek and turning his face so he had no choice but to look at her. "Bucky," she said firmly, despite the emotion swelling in her chest. "You're not a mess. You've been through hell, and you're still here, still trying, and that says more about who you are than anything else."
He sighed, his hand moving to cover hers, holding it against his cheek. "It doesn't change the fact that I'm fucked up."
"Maybe," she conceded gently, leaning closer. "But it doesn't have to be forever. You just need time. And you're not alone in this."
His stormy blue eyes searched hers, raw with emotion, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue. But instead, he pulled her down, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was reverent and full of unspoken promises.
A faint breeze filtered through the open window, carrying the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the distant hum of the city settling into the night. He closed his eyes, exhaling deeply, the tension seeming to drain from his shoulders.
They lay together in the quiet, her head resting against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her shoulder. The silence stretched, comfortable and warm, until he spoke again.
"I don't deserve this," he murmured, the words so low she almost missed them.
She pressed a kiss to his pulse point. "You don't have to," she replied softly. "Just let yourself have it."
summary: grief, trauma, and a broken heart is an unstable platform for a relationship to thrive on, and neither you nor bucky ever made it clear what your relationship actually was.
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, rough/angry sex, angst, hurt, panic attacks, anxiety, misunderstandings, yearning, comfort, shame rooms, depictions of violence and death, thunderbolts semi movie spoilers, timeline is set from end of civil war to thunderbolts, happy ending
word count: 11.5k
a/n: good luck to everyone who reads this!!!
masterlist
・・・・・ Queens, New York; 2023
“This is what you fucking wanted from me, right?” Bucky grunted from behind you, but you can’t speak.
You have a million things you want to say to him, but none of them are right. Bucky wouldn’t listen to you even if you tried to explain.
You’re shoved into the pillow beneath you, only moans ripping from your throat— the only sound that you can produce in response to his question.
The only other noise between the two of you is the sound of skin slapping against skin as he pounds you from behind. The grip he has on your hips is bruising, and not in the way you usually enjoy it.
He’s mad, and it’s your fault.
“I asked you a question. Answer.”
His hand comes down on your ass, smacking it so hard you can’t help but moan, knowing that he left a mark on your body that will last. Your body will always react to him, even when you know you’re in the wrong— when you know you should be apologizing. When you know the last thing the two of you should be doing right now is fucking.
You can’t help it. Your body will always call for him, always yearn for him, sing when his fingers touch you.
“No— No,” you finally managed to choke out, tears brimming in your eyes.
You’re not crying because you don’t want him. Not because he’s hurting you. Not because it’s too rough. You’re crying at the realization.
You know this is the last time.
This will be the last time you’ll feel his cock so deep inside you— the delicious angle of it dragging up and down that sweet spot inside you that he always hits so perfectly. You know you won’t be able to feel his hands all over your body again. He won’t give you a second chance, not after this. Not after the conversation you just had.
Despite it all, you can’t find it in you to tell him to stop. The pace he has on you is punishing, and you feel guilty for even finding some sort of pleasure in how he’s taking you.
This will be the last time that you'll have him near you. This is the last time that he will stand your presence, to even look at you with the last remaining patience left in his body. This is the final time that you will be able to have him, in any sort of way. He'll walk away from you. You'll be alone after this, after he's done.
You know deep down he would stop if you told him to. He would never disrespect you like that. No matter how angry or hurt he is, he would never do anything to hurt you. You saw it in his eyes before he took your clothes off— the chance to back out. You were the one to remove the first article of fabric, to give him the outlet that he was craving for.
“No?” he echoed, sarcasm dripping in his voice. “You’re a fucking liar.”
Your fingers curl around the pillow and sheets beneath you for purchase— something to hold onto. He’s fucking into you so deep, barely leaving the tip of his cock in before sinking all the way back in without any hesitation. There’s no break.
Bucky rarely had you on your stomach. It’s his least favorite position, he said. He despised the fact he couldn’t see your face. He wanted to see every single emotion of pleasure he brought to you. Bucky hated that you were easily able to hide every single moan and whimper when he took you from behind.
There’s no connection, he told you one night as you laid in his arms. He whispered it to you like it was a secret as he ran his hands through your hair. He liked holding you against him, enjoyed the fact he could have easy access to your lips, and lock eyes with you.
Yet, he put you like this from the beginning.
Bucky was radiating an intense amount of heat, but you had never felt so cold. You were freezing in this room, even though you were both panting and sweating against each other.
Your heart was shattering with each thrust of his hips. You’re craving him. Some sort of intimacy. You want him to hold you, even though you know you messed up. Just something for you to hold onto for the night before he disappears forever.
You know he’s close to the edge. You know his tells like the back of your hand. His thrusts are getting messier. Less rhythmic. His breathing is growing shallower, moans are becoming lower. There’s a slight tremble in his body against yours every time he connects with you, and his fingers are digging into your flesh to keep you in place right where he wants you.
You weakly try pushing yourself on your elbows, tears finally slipping down your face. Tears that you weren’t brave enough to let fall during your conversation earlier. Tears that you knew would take forever to dry up when he finally left you.
“Bucky,” you whimpered, your voice coming out broken and raw, “Bucky— Kiss, please—“
A vibranium hand is roughly tangled in your short hair, shoving your head back into the pillows underneath you.
“Shut the fuck up,” he moaned, hips stuttering.
You feel the familiar warmth of his release coat your walls in thick spurts. Bucky’s body shudders behind you, but he doesn’t blanket you like he usually does after he cums. No— he forces himself to pull out of you, leaving you cold, empty, used.
Your heart is still racing as you slowly push yourself up. You can feel the remnants of him leaking out of you as you listen to the rustling sound of Bucky beginning to dress himself.
“You don’t get to cry now,” Bucky muttered.
You pull your bottom lip in between your teeth to stop yourself from making any noise. You turn your head to look at him, watching him pull his pants over his hips. His back is turned to you. You can see his face through the vanity.
“Bucky,” you whispered, a breath escaping your lips. “Please. I’m sorry—“
“You’re sorry because you were caught,” he cut you off, looking at you through the mirror. “Not because you actually regret anything.”
“Buck, please. Just hear me out,” you pleaded.
“You don’t get to call me that,” he hissed at you, roughly grabbing his jacket from where it was discarded on the edge of the bed. “I don’t ever want to see your fucking face again, do you hear me? You disgust me.”
Your lips parted, silent tears dripping down and staining the bed sheets beneath you. You can’t breathe. You can only watch him as he moves towards the door to your bedroom.
“Do you mean that?” you manage to force out as his hand touches the door knob. Your voice cracked, thick with emotion.
Bucky hesitates, for just a moment. He still hadn’t turned to face you. You watched as his shoulders square off, his body becoming guarded against you. .
“I meant what I said earlier. You’re no better than H.Y.D.R.A..”
You’re left on your bed, naked, alone, with silent tears streaming down your face. Your body is cold, even though he was just here with you moments ago. Your ears are still ringing with the echoing sound of the front door of the apartment slamming shut with his final exit.
・・・・・ Wakanda; 2016–2018
The room is below freezing. As a breath escapes your lips, you can see a cloud form before your face. You shook your head in disapproval, rubbing your arms as you went to turn up the thermostat.
“Bucky?” you called out, watching the numbers hit a comfortable 73 degrees in the room. “Did you eat all your food? Was it enough? Do you want more?”
As per usual, the soldier doesn’t answer you. You always try anyway– you hope that the day will come that he’ll talk to you. You let out a sigh as you move throughout the room. He’s not at the table, but neither is his plate. Your eyebrows furrowed.
Usually, you have to go towards him and badger him to try to eat a little bit more. You have to tell him that it’s okay to eat. He barely eats as it is, and you’re not sure if it’s because he doesn’t think it’s okay to eat or if he’s trying to hoard the food for another day.
Your eyes fall on him in the corner of the room. He’s purposely making himself look smaller as he picks at pieces of the food in front of him. Yet, you see he’s not even touching the walls with his body. Like he’s almost afraid to take space.
You take a few steps, experimental. His eyes flicker to you, and you stop in your place.
“You know you can eat at the table, right?” you asked, voice soft.
He gives you one single nod.
“You don’t want to?” you guessed.
There’s no gesture of a response this time, but you can assume his answer from his silence. You sighed once more, and moved again. You tried to ignore the way his body stiffened as you came closer to him– a stranger– and took a seat beside him, back pressed against the wall, but there was enough space between the two of you so he could still breathe.
You picked up the least appetizing food on the plate, the small loaf of bread, and broke it in half.
“By the time I finish eating my half, you better be finished eating your food otherwise I’m telling Steve and Sam to come back early from their mission in Osaka to yell at you,” you warned him, putting the other portion of the bread down on the plate.
You keep your eyes off of him, giving him the privacy he may or may not need to eat his lunch. You take small nibbles on your bread, eating slowly on purpose.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him finally move. He takes bigger bites than you.
“Why aren’t you in Osaka?” he spoke.
You’re shocked, but you try not to let it show. You give Bucky a smile, then gesture towards your body.
“I’m still injured from Berlin. King T'Challa did a big number on me when I tried to stop him from getting to the Quinjet, remember? Stevie won’t let me be deployed right now. Besides, I don't think our gracious King would let me leave Wakanda until I was fully healed anyways.”
“You’ve worked with Steve for a while?” Bucky asked. He sounded hesitant. Almost afraid of you. It made sense. You were a stranger to him, yet Steve dropped you off to take care of him without any explanation.
"I rehabbed Steve," you shrugged. "When he came out of the ice, I brought him up to speed with the new world around him. I was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, not an Avenger, but S.H.I.E.L.D. went to shit so I just... did some odd jobs for a bit. Steve asked me for help when the Avengers went to shit… and since I’m on the run for helping him, and have nothing better to do, I figured I might as well rehab you, too."
“Why?”
You turned your head to look at him, finding that he’s already looking at you. You give him a smile, leaning your head back against the wall.
“I was given a second chance in life,” you tell him. “You deserve one, too. And a third. And a fourth. I’ll give you as many chances as you need, so don’t stress out too much, Buck. Life is good. When you’re well, I’ll take you to my favorite bakery in New York.”
Bucky’s looking at you with confusion in his eyes. There’s a mixture of disbelief and distrust as well, but you don’t blame him. Steve gave you the full rundown on Bucky’s entire past. There’s nothing that you don’t know about the man.
You know every detail. The nitty, gritty, gory details that you know Bucky wouldn't tell you himself. You read the files yourself. Steve gave you the option to back out, and he said there would be no judgement if you thought you wouldn't be able to handle the amount of trauma that Bucky had.
You gave Steve a smile, and said that Bucky would be in good hands, and Steve could do what he needed out in the world.
You stay by Bucky's side the entire time, giving him the space that he silently requests for. You don't push when he pulls away from you. You don't question where he stops answering. You simply give him the options that he never had before.
And it seems to confuse him all the more.
“Why do you try so hard for me?” Bucky asked again. A longer, fuller sentence this time, but he was still asking the same thing he did before.
You were sitting in his room. It wasn’t a mealtime. You were here of your own volition, with your computer in your lap. You were doing some background work for Steve and Sam, feeding them information while they were on the field.
Bucky was watching you from his place on the ground. He still wasn’t comfortable enough to use his bed— so you made him a cot on the floor. Just a simple spread of two blankets, and one pillow. He started using it after two weeks.
You lowered your laptop screen, looking at him.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” you asked, flipping the script on him.
You watched as his face contorted with surprise. Bucky’s lips parted, eyebrows furrowing. His mouth closed as he took in a deep breath, and swallowed thickly.
“I’m not a good person,” he said, his voice thick.
“Neither am I,” you replied, smiling at him. “I think the only good person amongst us is Steve. Sam, too. But that’s a bit of a debatable fact.”
Bucky’s lip twitched slightly in what almost became a smile, and you mentally celebrated the improvement. The flicker of new emotion, even if it was subtle and brief.
“I’m sure I’ve done worse than you,” he said after a few moments, looking down at his hand. He clenched his fist opened and closed, and you were sure he was reliving some sort of memory or nightmare in the few seconds that passed between you two.
You shrugged. “It’s all relative. I’ve committed horrors that some people will never be able to forgive. That I won’t be able to forgive myself for. But that doesn’t mean others can’t forgive you.”
Bucky stayed silent for the rest of the day, and you’re sure he’s thinking about your words until late in the night.
The next morning, you exit your room to find him standing in your hall. He doesn’t say a word, but he follows you as you go on your early morning walk.
From there, the two of you spend more time together. Bucky started to seek you out on his own, looking for you when you don’t come to him first.
In the beginning, your time together is spent in silence.
Your walks turn into full on hikes with the healing soldier. The only noise between you two is the nature of the native animals of Wakanda. You two sat together on cliffs, looking over the city as you would eat breakfast that you had stolen from the kitchen before you left on your walk. You both keep walking through the plains without any sort of plan or route— and you often get lost.
When it’s time to head back to the palace, it’s Bucky that takes you by the hand and leads you towards the right path.
Bucky started to eat meals with you at the table. Not just snacking, but full meals. The first time he asked you if there was more food in the kitchens, you jumped to your feet, and ran down the hall with tears in your eyes.
You ate seconds with him, silent tears streaming down your face. Bucky let out the first laugh you’d ever heard from him during that meal.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“Shut the fuck up and eat!” you sniffled, wiping away your tears quickly.
Bucky would watch you train with the Dora Milaje once Shuri cleared you of your injury. He watched you get your ass handed to you multiple times over as you tried to get your footing against these warriors, raising an eyebrow at you when you returned to him with bruises and scrapes.
“Don’t laugh,” you muttered as he handed you an ice pack.
“Well, they’re not holding back on you, and the worst you’re getting is a bruise,” he said.
“Why do you sound impressed? Are you messing with me right now?” you accused, digging your fingers into a developing knot in your shoulder.
“I am impressed,” he told you, making you stop and look at him with suspicion. “I didn’t really see you fight in Berlin. I understand why Steve asked you for help.”
Bucky would give you pointers with just the two of you alone. Even with just one arm, Bucky was a force to be reckoned with. He was itching to move, and he was more than happy to help you out.
There weren't many places where you needed help, he said. You were simply out of practice from the injuries you sustained. You also had small tells that he noticed— things that you were shocked he caught onto. Bucky taught you how to fix those tells so no one would be able to use them against you again. Your sparring matches with the Dora Milaje got longer, harder— and you gained their respect almost overnight thanks to Bucky.
You still couldn’t believe Bucky’s sharp eyes when it came to your movements. The last person who noticed your weaknesses was your sister, who studied your moves like her life depended on it.
Because it did. For her, at least.
The first time you left on a mission, you didn’t tell Bucky. It slipped your mind. Steve came into your room in the middle of the night, waking you up. You didn’t even know he returned, but he and Sam needed you. You barely had a chance to brush your teeth before you were shoving your body into your gear, meeting them at the launchpads to leave.
You received a high pitched static through your earpiece barely an hour on the field. You almost thought the mission was compromised, and all three of you were royally fucked. Well, you were compromised. You were just lucky it wasn’t anyone that wanted to harm you.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” he said, voice distorted slightly from wherever he had hijacked the frequency from.
“Bucky?! What the hell—“
“Why didn’t you say you were leaving?” he cut you off.
“Why are you on my channel right now?” you hissed, trying to keep your voice low and avoid raising attention to yourselves.
“When will you be back?”
You paused. Even through the distortion, you could hear it. The vulnerability thick in his voice.
“Four days,” you answered.
“I’ll wait three.”
The static finally cleared the comms, and Steve and Sam raised an eyebrow at you. They all heard it. You were in as much disbelief as they were.
When you returned in two and a half days, you brought a digital calendar for his room. You started marking down your mission dates the second you heard you would be out, and would update it remotely if something ever changed. You didn’t want Bucky to panic on you again.
You watched as Wakanda healed Bucky in a way that you didn’t know was possible. Two years in this place brought peace to a man who knew seventy years of war.
You were able to see as a smile would slowly grow on his face, as he began to talk more on his own. As the title of White Wolf was bestowed upon him by the Wakandans.
You enjoyed festivals with Bucky many times over. You dragged him down the streets of Wakanda, the two of you wide eyed and completely innocent to the culture around you. Both of you would dress in cultural garb, gifted to you by Shuri and T'Challa so you would blend in with the crowds around you. You would stay out late into the night, sometimes until the sun rose into the next day.
You would share different foods together. By this point, the locals all knew the two of you. They would give you discounts upon discounts for foods and different items of wares, or forego charging you all together. They would joke for you to tell the King about their shops in exchange for their services.
Bucky would watch as you would get your hair braided by the local girls in the village during these festivals, sitting beside you as flowers were woven into your hair.
“It’s a shame,” he murmured, touching your hair as you walked away from the girls.
“What is?” you asked, hands clasped behind your back.
“Your hair would be prettier like this if it was longer,” he told you, his hand dropping to his side.
You paused, trying to push away the pounding feeling in your chest. You looked away from him— ignoring the look of contentment and peace on his features. He looked so happy at that moment.
“I cut it for missions,” you murmured.
“That’s why it’s a shame,” he said, nodding. “You’d look nice with longer hair.”
From that point, Bucky started picking flowers during your morning walks together. He would present them to you, and you would carry them with you.
You don't remember when it happened, but Bucky stopped handing you flowers. He began to put them directly into your hair with a small smile on his face. If there was another flower that caught his eye during your hike, he would add it to your hair. If any of the flowers began to slip, he would stop you and adjust them before you both continued onwards.
You had an entire drawer of dried flowers saved from your walks together. Preserved in time, each one carrying more emotion than the other. Each flower contained a different memory of him.
A memory of not just someone you were helping out because Steve asked you to, but someone you considered as your friend. Someone that relied on you for guidance and support. Someone that you turned to for assistance when you couldn’t ask Ayo for help. Someone that you went to because you simply felt like it. Someone you wanted to spend time with because you enjoyed his presence.
Someone that you felt guilty for falling in love with.
Bucky was a man that was healing.
Falling in love with him now— taking advantage of him at his most vulnerable would be fucking shameful of you. You wouldn’t let your emotions show, you wouldn’t let him know. You didn’t want to cloud his judgement as he was finally getting a grasp on who he was as a person, as he was finally gaining autonomy over himself.
You hid your heart under your sleeve, continuing to spend your days with him with chains and locks tightly guarding the feelings that you desperately wanted to let free. You wouldn’t allow them to come out.
Not when Bucky finally knew peace, not when he finally felt okay with himself. You wouldn’t throw a curveball in his direction, and betray him. You wanted him to view you as someone safe, someone he could trust. You didn’t want him to think you expected anything from him.
If the timing was right, if he had ever expressed interest on his own— maybe. Just maybe, you would allow yourself to melt into his embrace. Only if he made the move first, if he decided that he wanted it. Wanted you.
You never got the chance to find out.
The Outrider soldier you were fighting with had just vanished into nothing before you. Dread filled your stomach, and you turned to sprint across the battlefield. You needed to be sure. Terror was clawing at your every sense.
You ignored the deep gash in your torso, white, hot pain burning through your body. It didn’t matter right now. Bucky met your gaze.
Bucky, who was disintegrating before your eyes. Bucky, who was staring at you with wide eyes. You could feel everything. You saw the panic on his face, the fear.
Then, he was gone.
Steve wrapped his arms around you before you could fall to your knees at Bucky’s ashes, his body shaking as if he was afraid that you would disappear next.
You both sat there, trembling. Hearts racing, the two of you watched as dust began to float around you in the wind.
・・・・・ Present, 2027
“Wake up!” Yelena hissed at you, hitting your leg with her foot.
Your eyebrows furrowed as your face twisted with discomfort. Your head was pounding. Not just from the explosion, but from everything that came before that. The guards that filtered through the vault. Having to climb up an elevator shaft with strangers that you had attempted to kill moments prior. The sonic cannon that assaulted your ears. The impending doom of almost being incinerated. The strange battle between assassins and soldiers that had varying targets.
You forced your eyes open, momentarily discombobulated as you took in the scene around you. Your hands shoved into the cement beneath you before you took a sitting position. Your vision steadied after a few moments, and you froze.
You looked down at yourself, then at the others. The rope that had been used to ‘tie’ you up was so loose that you could just slip out of it. The others were tied together tightly, wrists bound. Alexei was even secured with a metal pipe.
“Bucky, do you really think putting a piece of string around her body was really enough?” John sarcastically asked.
Suddenly, you remembered what even put you in this position in the first place.
He blew up your fucking get away car.
You don’t look at him, keeping your head down. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, watching you. Waiting to see what you’ll do or say. You won’t do a single thing– not to him, at least. You owe him that much.
“They are both Avengers, that is why! He gives her the respect she is due!” Alexei boomed.
Your eyes snap at the super soldier, and you give him a single warning look. You shake your head once. He doesn’t seem to understand.
“You fought together during what seemed to be the end of the world, yes? You, especially! With my little Natasha! I saw you on the news a few times.”
“I wasn’t– I’m not an Avenger. Never was,” you grunted.
“Can we talk about something else?” Yelena cut him off. “Like the fact that we need to find Bob?”
You let the others do the speaking, trying to calm down your thundering heart. You couldn’t hear their words. It was being filtered out, muffled by the sound of erratic beating between your ears as you kept your eyes trained on your feet. Even staring at the ground was difficult. Your vision was getting shaky.
When was the last time you were in the same room as Bucky? When was the last time he was this close to you? It had been almost five years at this point, you think. Four years and ten months if you were to be precise.
Bucky warned you– told you to stay out of his line of sight. Is that why he blew up the fucking limo with the people that you just gained a kinship with?
It was the only reason why you ended up working for Fontaine as one of her fucking agents, doing her dirty work– doing what you did best and getting paid for it. You were a machine for these past handful of years. The perfect soldier, just as you were raised to be. You were certain your parents were singing your praises from the seventh circle in hell.
Best of all, you could stay out of the light. Just as Bucky told you to do. Out of the light, where he was. Where he was meant to be— just like you always told him he should be.
This was supposed to be your last mission. You found some cabin in the woods in Oregon that you were going to move to. Remote, out of the way. Something that reminded you of Wakanda without the people and the culture. You had saved enough money, lived frugally enough to be able to live comfortably for the rest of your days. You worked out a plan with Val that if she needed you, you could be pulled back onto the field every once in a while for more expensive hit missions again.
You can only follow everyone else numbly when they start shifting towards the jet that Bucky had brought, and you distinctly hear that you’re heading back to New York.
In the jet, everyone’s flittering about.
Alexei’s messing with tech that he’s in awe about seeing, Yelena is whacking his hands away and telling him not to focus before going back to Bucky to help him navigate.
Walker is going through the rations, muttering about being starving while Ava looks at him with disgust when he offers her some food. She settles for a med kit, deciding to take care of her scrapes and cuts instead.
You weren’t even tied up, but the walls were closing in on you. Your skin didn’t feel like your own, and your gear was beginning to melt into your body in a way that you couldn’t claw off fast enough. Your heart was outside of your body, and your lungs were in a different continent.
You clenched your fists, trying to ground yourself as your fingernails dug crescent shaped indents into your palm, but it was to no avail. Your hands weren’t your own. You weren’t seeing through your own eyes. Your body wasn’t yours, and you couldn’t stop the encroaching feeling of helplessness that you desperately tried to pretend wasn’t there.
“Hey.”
Your head snapped up, seeing Ava in front you.
“Are you coming or what?” she asked, eyebrows furrowed at you.
Vaguely, you noticed everyone was already moving outside– and you forced yourself to suck in a breath of air. You could only give her a small nod before moving your weight onto your feet, following her out the jet and towards the tarmac. You didn’t even realize the jet had touched the ground.
You’re moving to board the back with Ava when Alexei rounds the corner, grinning at you.
“Avengers should catch up!” he said, a hand coming down to your shoulder, pushing you to the carriage. “It is nice to talk with an old buddy!”
“What?” you breathed. “No, Alexei, it’s fine. You’ll be more comfortable sitting up there–”
“Go, sit with your friend!” he exclaimed happily, shoving you to the front. “I will sit back here with my daughter and her friends!”
You barely had any time to protest before Ava closed the doors to the back of the truck, locked it, and phased into the back. You stood out there, the vehicle’s engine coming to life.
You have no choice. There’s a mission that needs to be done, and one hour of discomfort isn’t a reasonable explanation to put lives in danger.
You pull open the door, sliding into the seat beside him. Once you’re situated, Bucky finally takes off down the road towards New York.
You keep your gaze trained out your window, elbow against the door as you cover your mouth and nose with your hand. You’re trying not to breathe so loud, in fear that he’ll hear you. Hell, you’re not trying to breathe at all. There’s a high chance that he’ll throw you out of a moving vehicle. Blow this truck up, too, if you’re really unlucky.
You force your body to sit still, even though all you want to do is bounce your leg up and down anxiously. Under your gear, your skin is prickled with goosebumps. You’re still trying to get your body back. It still doesn’t feel like yours. It’s probably left in the vault, incinerated with the rest of Val’s shit.
Bucky smelled exactly the same as you remembered. Even with you trying not to breathe, even with your palm covering your nose, you can smell him.
In this enclosed carriage, with the AC running, you were surrounded by the scent of Bucky. The familiar smell of cedarwood mixed with honeyed soap and a hint of coffee. There’s the extra layer of leather and metal that he always carries around with him that you adore, and the underlying nostalgic scent of his natural skin– the heady scent of musk and salty sweat after the theatrics he had pulled on the road hours ago.
Gunpowder clings onto him faintly, and you can feel heat softly radiating from his body– the vibranium arm attached to his left side is still cooling down. It takes longer on hotter days like this. You wonder when the last time he calibrated it, or if he even remembered to get that done. He would always forget. You used to do it for him.
There’s one smell that’s missing.
The scent of you on his skin.
You closed your eyes, pushing the revelation far away from your mind. Your eyes are beginning to sting with unshed tears that you thought had long been cried away. You didn’t think being close to him like this would have this kind of effect on you again.
“Your hair is longer.”
Your breath gets caught in your throat, your eyebrows furrowing. You slowly turn your head to look at him. To really look at him.
You’ve seen him on the news. On your phone, in articles. You would smile to yourself before moving on with your day, happy that he seemed to find his place in the world. But right now— he looked miserable.
The years had seemed to take a toll on him. There were lines on his face that weren’t there before. Slight bags under his eyes that indicated he hadn’t slept well in a while. His skin was duller, less life to them.
You wonder briefly if it’s because of dealing with the government in the way he is. Politics aren’t an easy feat, but he’s Bucky. You don’t doubt that he’s doing well, that he can manage somehow. He was always the better one between the two of you.
Bucky’s hair was a bit messy, but you would give him the benefit of the doubt, and say it was from the fact he just rode in on a motorcycle and took down several military vehicles by himself. The dark brown locks are longer, too. Not short, like the way you had cut them in your bathroom in Brooklyn after Steve left.
How he trusted you with scissors close to his face and neck, and closed his eyes while you carefully took care of him. You even shaved down his beard, and he had stubble for a while. It had all grown out now.
Yet, Bucky was more handsome than you could recall.
The years of absence had only made your heart grow fonder for him. You wanted nothing more than to smooth the line between his eyebrows. You wanted to slap a face mask on his face, dose him with melatonin, and ask him why the hell he hadn’t been sleeping. You want to wrap him up with blankets and play with his hair, run your fingers against his scalp, and cradle his face in your hands as you hold him close.
You don’t tell him that. You don’t have any right to.
“That’s what happens when you don’t cut it,” is what you said instead.
A smile cracked onto his lips, and a small chuckle rumbled through his body. “You don’t say?”
You take in a breath so slow it doesn’t shake, and return your eyes back to your window. You don’t trust yourself to keep looking at him. Your tears might fall if you do. You swallowed the lump in your throat, and cleared your throat softly.
“You look good,” Bucky said after a few more moments, breaking the silence once again.
“I was just in a car that got blown up, so I don’t really believe that,” you muttered, fighting the smile that threatened to creep up on your face.
“I didn’t know you were in there,” he said, almost sounding defensive.
“If you did, would you have used that disc grenade?” you murmured.
“Of course not,” he replied immediately.
You paused, confusion settling deep into your bones. Why not? This man was supposed to hate you. He made that clear when he walked away from you. The words were caught on your throat, a million scenarios racing through your mind as you tried to pick apart your last conversation. You couldn’t make sense of him.
“I didn’t know you worked for Val,” he said, changing the topic. Then, a deep sigh escaped from his lips. “Well, I didn’t know where you went at all. No one did.”
“You told me to get lost,” you reminded him, your voice so soft you were certain a normal person wouldn’t have been able to hear you. But he wasn’t normal. He was your Bucky, and he was always able to pick up every single shift in your mood.
“I didn’t—“ he cut himself off, swallowing thickly. “I was mad. I didn’t mean it.”
You’re numb. Your chest hurt. Your sternum was caving in on itself, you think. It had to be. Or your head was finally experiencing some sort of tumor pressing on your brain, and this was your last hallucination before you died.
Bucky wouldn’t say these words to you. There was no reality that you would exist in where he would even tolerate speaking to you again, let alone admit that he took back the words he spat in your face with pure malice.
“That’s not what you said when you walked away,” you managed to force out.
“I know what I said.” The grip Bucky had on the steering wheel tightened at the same time his jaw clenched.
Heavy silence sits like a wall between the two of you. You don’t respond. You don’t know what to say. He continues to drive, not another word leaving his lips. The two of you listen to the muffle conversation from the group in the back, listening to them bond over the weapons they carry on their persons.
You lean your head against the headrest, closing your eyes tight. You forced air to enter and exit your lungs.
One more mission. Just one more, and you can leave. Maybe Oregon would be too local— Bucky’s reach would be able to grab you from there. You’ll leave the country as a whole.
Bucky’s eyes fell on everyone in the attic, heart erratic in his chest. His eyebrows furrowed, taking a quick headcount. He barely whispered out your name, a bit breathless from having to fight his way out to even get to Bob’s room.
“Where is she?” he asked, everyone turning to him. They’re all still trying to process their own horrors.
“I— I haven’t seen her yet,” Walker stuttered, still disoriented.
“She’s here?” Bob asked, surprise all over his features.
“Fuck,” Bucky cursed, turning back towards the mirror that he came from, ignoring the shouts from the group he left behind. “Just wait there!”
Bucky raced back through his rooms, trying to find an entrance towards yours. He ignored his horrors— he’d already made his peace and settled with himself. He knew you still struggled.
Back in Wakanda, when he finally managed to find his voice, he’d asked you why you spent so much time helping him. You told him that there was no one there to help you. Over time, he learned.
You opened up to him about your militaristic freak of a family back in Wakanda. You told him about how you were raised in a camp, not a home.
You grew up with drills that your parents put you through from the second you could walk. You had a gun in your hand the moment your hands were strong enough to grip the metal.
You were the middle child of three, and the three of you were raised to see each other as competition. You fought each other daily. You were tested and tortured. Whoever was deemed the winner of the day was spared the punishment of your parents. The two losers would be subjected to horrors that you couldn’t even repeat to Bucky. He never asked you to elaborate.
One day, without warning, your parents dropped you all in the middle of the forest. Another training exercise, you all thought. You were wrong.
Only one would survive this test— this sick and twisted game. You never told Bucky the details of how you came out the winner, of how everything went down. He knew the aftermath.
How you killed your own parents out of revenge, grief, anger— and how they both praised you for it. They told you you were perfect. You were the best soldier they raised— that this was the outcome they wanted. That their death was exactly what they planned for. You fell right into their trap without knowing it.
Bucky finally reached the first room, eyes focused on the woods. He would get the backstory today, it seemed. His eyes fell on you.
You were younger. Your hair was longer than it was right now, braided back into two and reaching down to your hips. You were dressed in camo, face painted to blend in with the woods. You had a sniper rifle strapped to your shoulder, and a pistol in your hand. Your jaw was clenched tight, your breaths slow and even.
Another dead body lay right beside you— your older brother’s body. He just tried killing your little sister by stabbing her to death with his brute strength. You shot him clean in the head. His eyes were still wide open, his blood soaking into the dirt of the forest beneath him.
You saved your little sister from him, but for what? You two were in a standoff. Both of you, guns drawn, pointed at each other. All for a fucking game. A hunt. All because your parents pit you together because you had the misfortune of being born into this kind of family.
Your little sister was the spitting image of you. Her cheeks were slightly fuller, eyes a bit rounder. She looked a little bit more innocent.
Her hand was shaking. Her breaths were a bit more shallow than yours. There was a hesitant look in her eyes, and you saw it. You saw the way your sister lowered her gun, just slightly.
“I can’t do it,” you whispered, a tear sliding down your face and ruining the camouflage paint. Quickly, you shifted your gun to point at your own temple.
Bucky watched as your sister’s eye’s filled with pure panic, fear— and her hand shifted slightly. She raised her gun once more. Her trajectory changed, and two gunshots filled the forest.
One, to shoot your gun out of your hand. The second, to shoot herself.
Grief immediately filled your features as a scream ripped through your throat. Birds were disrupted from their hiding places in the trees, rustling out of the leaves and taking to the sky.
Her body dropped to the forest floor as you rushed to grab her, pressing your hand to her wound as you cried. You were trying to stop the bleeding, even though you knew nothing you did would work. You knew she was dying in your arms.
“No, no, no, no!” you kept repeating, taking the pack off your back to try and find something to help her.
Your sister grabbed your hands with the last of her strength, stopping you. You both knew your attempts were useless. You both studied the anatomy of the body— she knew exactly where she shot was fatal.
“It’s okay,” she forced out, meeting your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you babbled to her, cradling her face. “I’m so sorry— I’m sorry—“
“I love you,” she croaked, giving you a smile.
You only sobbed louder, watching the light die out of her eyes. You collapsed over her body, trembling, and holding her tight against you until her blood stained your bones and mixed into your own.
And the scene replayed.
Bucky moved into the next room. He paused— he recognized this room. This was Steve’s apartment. He went through Steve’s things after the last battle, after Steve made his choice.
The sound of the door opening caught his attention, and he turned.
“I’m just saying, doll,” Steve said, letting you in first before he followed in behind you, “the movie was good. You’re just not a hopeless romantic.”
“I am a hopeless romantic,” you fired back, taking your shoes off and putting them on the rack. “It just wasn’t realistic. She chose a broke man for what, Steve? Made no sense.”
“She chose the one she loved, baby,” Steve corrected.
“And he’s broke,” you replied.
Steve sighed, shaking his head. Still, he had a smile on his face as he watched you. There was pure love in his eyes for you.
You had a bouquet of flowers in your hand that Steve took from you as you shrugged your jacket off. You smiled at him, grateful. When you took the flowers back, you stepped up on your toes to press a kiss onto his lips.
Steve’s hand came around the small of your back, holding you tight against him. Your free hand came around to hold the side of his neck, stabilizing yourself against him. There were smiles on both of your faces. When you parted, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, and you hummed in happiness.
Bucky tried to ignore the way his chest tightened at the sight.
You moved towards the kitchen, looking for a vase as Steve turned on the lights of your shared apartment. A normal night for the two of you. You arranged the flowers beautifully, looking happy with yourself as you placed them at the center of the dining table.
Bucky was momentarily confused. It looked normal enough. What was so shameful about this night? The two of you looked happy. You both got ready for the night, changed into pajamas, and met back onto the couch.
You were cuddled up against his side as he watched TV, scrolling through your phone. His arm was around you, rubbing circles into your hip.
“You really think you’re a hopeless romantic?” Steve suddenly asked you.
“Why are you bringing this up again?” you asked, a teasing lilt to your voice. You shifted your head to look up at him.
“I mean… I just don’t see it,” he said softly. “I’m not saying you’re not romantic. I know you love me, but… I can’t help but feel—“
“Steve,” you cut him off, sitting up. His arm slid off of you and he turned to look you in the eyes. “Are we talking about this again? Seriously?”
“We never even really talked about it,” he argued, his voice a bit weak. He knew you were getting upset. “You always dodge the topic. You don’t want to talk about it.”
“Because there’s nothing to talk about!” you exclaimed, putting your phone down to give him your full attention. “I don’t want to argue about what if’s with my boyfriend on our third year anniversary!”
“You don’t even cut your hair anymore,” he said. “Natasha told me that you drunkenly confessed to her one time that you don’t want to cut your hair because he once told you he wanted to see your hair long—“
“Steve, didn’t you hear what I just said to you? I don’t want to argue with you on our anniversary!” you stressed, almost begging him. “Can you please drop it? On any other night, I will talk about this with you. Literally any other night. Just not tonight, please.”
“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice hard as he ignored your pleas. “If Bucky were still here, would you still be with me? Or would you have chosen him instead?”
“Would you choose me or Peggy if you had the option?” you immediately demanded from him.
Steve’s eyes widened. Your apartment was silent for a few moments, save for the background noise of the television that was forgotten by the two of you. You both stared at each other. Steve in disbelief, you with stubbornness in your eyes.
“That’s— that’s not fair,” he whispered, swallowing thickly.
Your exterior cracked instantly. Stubbornness vanished, and your shoulders slumped. You let out a sigh, burying your face in your hands for a moment as you tried to calm yourself down. You were about to cry.
“You’re right. It’s not,” you admitted, your voice cracking. You lowered your hands, looking him in the eyes once again. “Why don’t you understand me, Steve? I love you so much. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t love you. I do. I really do. And— and I know you love her. I have accepted that you will always love her the same way that I will always love him. I loved him in utter silence. From afar. I watched him heal and get better. I loved a broken man that never looked my way and I was okay with that. I made my peace with it. And he’s not coming back. He never fucking will, Steve. I’m trying to move on with my life. Can you stop rubbing it in my face?”
Steve’s staring at you, the weight of your words sinking into his soul. He looks horrible, regret all over his face for even opening up this conversation.
You let out a shaking breath, your chest rising and falling erratically as tears fall from your eyes. You angrily wipe them away, getting up from the couch.
Steve whispers your name, reaching to grab your wrist, to stop you— to try to comfort you. It comes out pained, but you can’t even look at him. You snatch your hand back from him, making your way to the bedroom you share with Steve, to just get away from him for a moment as more tears continue to fall.
Bucky observes Steve for just a moment, watching his friend bury his face in his hands and let out slow, deep breaths. Then, Bucky moves to follow you.
You’re sitting in front of your vanity, rifling through your drawer. A pair of scissors are in your hands after a moment of searching. You hesitate, for just a moment. Then, you grab a piece of hair, chopping it off above your shoulders as your tears stain your cheeks.
Bucky forces his feet to walk on, mind racing as he breaks a window into the next room. He knows this place. He instantly recognizes the faint smell of vanilla and flowers.
His eyes fall onto the glass case of pressed Wakandan flowers that are on the wall, proudly on display. There’s mementos of the Avengers somewhere in your apartment. You have Steve’s art book on the coffee table. Natasha’s widow bites are on the mantle. One of Tony’s first Iron Man helmets are on the shelf.
Your friends, people that you have loved and lost, all here with you, in your little apartment in Queens.
And you’re there. Not just the remnants of the past. You.
You’re sitting on the couch of your old Queens apartment in your gear. Your lip is busted from the Sentry throwing you around in the Watchtower not too long ago. There’s a cut above your eyebrow from colliding with John too hard and hitting his gear the wrong way, and maybe a thousand other injuries that he can’t see under the thick material of your tactical gear.
Your knees are pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your legs. You look small right now, eyes trained on the movement before you. Unable to tear your gaze away, stuck in the shame and regret of your past.
And he knows exactly what this night is.
Bucky doesn’t make a sound as he goes to your side. The couch dips as he takes a seat beside you, eyes on the side of your face. You don’t acknowledge him, don’t even give him the time of day. His chest hurts, but he can’t blame you.
The stage resets.
Bucky’s opening your door with a key to your apartment that he’s had for a while now— you have one to his, too. It was for safety at first. Over time, it had turned into easy access to each other for your nightly escapades with each other.
You jolted at the sudden appearance. You were at the dining table, watching videos on your phone as you ate takeout by yourself. A simple dinner for a quiet night alone.
Bucky didn’t text you. He didn’t tell you that he was coming over. Normally, he would let you know that he was on his way. Even if the two of you didn’t end up doing anything, he would at least give you a heads up.
“Hey,” you said with a smile, turning to face him. “I thought you were hanging out with Sam tonight—“
“So you fuck me to get over my best friend? Is that it? Is that all I’m good for?” he demanded, and your smile fell. “Answer me!”
“What?” you whispered, taken aback. “Buck, slow down—“
“You couldn’t even have the decency to tell me that you two were together?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “I had to find out from fucking Sam?”
“How the hell did Sam know?” you asked, shocked. “Everyone who knew is—“
“Dead? Gone? Off the grid?” he cut you off, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. “Yeah. So you thought you could hide it.”
“Hang on. I wasn’t hiding anything,” you said, standing to face him fully.
“Do you think you can just use me?” Bucky demanded, shocking you.
Your eyes widened at the raw emotion. Your lips parted, and you reached a hand out to him. To touch his hand. To try to comfort him, to do something— anything. He smacked it away instantly, shocking you.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growled at you, and you recoiled instantly, taking a step back.
“Bucky,” you muttered, your voice shaking. “Let’s talk. Please. There’s a misunderstanding here. I wasn’t hiding— There’s nothing to hide.”
“I was at my fucking lowest when Steve left. I thought— I thought it was the same for you. That your friend left you, too. That you were also trying to cope with the grief of losing everyone— everything.” Bucky was shaking, anger coursing through his veins. “That you got no fucking answers— but no. You were fucking me because you were mad that your boyfriend chose a woman he kissed once in the forties over you. And you know what? I don’t blame him.”
You stared at him, mouth agape. Hurt and pain were all over your features. You were trembling, too. But not from anger. You were in shock.
“Am I disposable to you?” he whispered, your eyes widening.
“No! Of course not—“
“Worthless, then?” he cut you off, voice rising.
“Bucky, never—“
“Because I feel pretty fucking worthless right now,” he told you, meeting your eyes. His voice was trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
You can’t speak a single word to him. Your eyes are searching all over his face, and you’re silently pleading with him to try to understand you. To remind him that he knows you. That he knows who you are and that you would never—
“You used me,” he said, swallowing thickly.
“No,” you denied, your voice small.
“You’re no fucking better than H.Y.D.R.A.. Using my body for what you want, just to throw me away later.”
“No,” you said again, begging. “Bucky, no—“
“I’ll show you what it’s like to be used.”
Bucky grabbed you by the arm, dragging you into your bedroom. The door slammed shut a moment later, and it started all over again.
On the couch, Bucky takes a moment to look at you. You have your chin on your knees. You’re exhausted.
“How many times have you watched this?” Bucky finally asked you, leaning back against the couch cushions.
“I don’t know,” you whispered, and Bucky feels his heart shattering in his chest.
He drags a hand down his face, taking a deep breath before he forces himself to his feet. He stepped in front of you, blocking your view from himself as the memory of a younger, stupider him started to blame you for shit that he couldn’t work out on his own.
Bucky kneels down, going eye level with you. You still were looking past him, watching the last fight between the two of you.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice soft.
“Where?”
“To save the world. Where else?” he tried joking with you.
“I’m not interested in saving the world, Bucky,” you whispered back, shaking your head. “I’m so tired.”
Bucky let out a sigh, closing his eyes for just a moment. He looks down at the floor, racking his brain for something. Anything.
“How about the bakery we used to go to every Sunday morning?” he offered, then saw your eyes flicker towards his direction. “They have a new mocha cake flavor. I haven’t tried it yet. Have you?”
“I haven’t been there in years,” you revealed. Your fingers absentmindedly picked at your thigh holsters, just to busy yourself a little bit. One of your anxious habits.
Bucky moved to rest his hand over yours, forcing your eyes to meet his once more. Forcing you to look at him again.
“Really? I go there all the time,” he told you. “I sit there and drink an iced coffee and order that loaded croissant you first got me when we went together. You know— the one with the jalapeños and bacon bits.”
“… Why?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“Because I miss you,” he answered, the confession leaving his lips without any hesitation. “You… You left so fast. I came back here two days later. Your apartment was already up for lease. Your number was disconnected. Your cards were turned off. It’s like you never existed.”
“I don’t get why you would care so much,” you muttered, looking away from him as you pulled your hand away.
Bucky caught it once again, intertwining his fingers with yours. Your name fell from his lips, your eyes meeting his in surprise. He said it so tenderly. So gently. With affection that he had kept guarded in a box locked up and tucked away.
“Can I get another chance, please?” he whispered, and your eyes widened slightly. Bucky wet his lips, letting out a shaking breath. “You told me that you would give me as many chances as I needed. And I fucked up badly on this night.”
“It was my fault for not telling you,” you whispered back. “You felt betrayed. I— I didn’t tell you.”
“I didn’t hear you out,” he said, shaking his head. “I should’ve.”
You stared at him. Bucky watched as you searched his face for answers that you needed years ago, answers that he should have provided you with when he had the chance, when he had you in his arms but was too afraid to tell you how he felt.
“I will repent for the rest of my life for what I said and did to you,” he promised, squeezing your hand. “This will be the last battle, I swear. If you want me to leave you alone after this, I will. But we have to go. I can’t leave you in here to watch this shit show over and over again.”
Relief surged through his body as you shifted, your feet moving to touch the ground. You stood, and Bucky led you out of your last shame room, and back towards everyone else.
“Let me do it,” Bucky sighed, taking the antiseptic from your shaking hands. “Sit down on the bench.”
You didn’t fight him. You had no more fight left in your body. From pulling Bob out of the void, to the press monstrosity outside— you were completely spent.
The Watchtower was a mess. Glass was everywhere, furniture was broken, but at least there was a well functioning medical bay. The entire group of you were in here, all of you licking your wounds as you all tried to make sense of the last twenty-four hours of your life.
The stinging pain of alcohol pulled you out of your thoughts as Bucky pressed the cleaning agent into your wounds, and your eyebrow furrowed in pain.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s fine. Are… are you okay?” you asked, mustering the courage to look up at his face.
Truth be told, his injuries had mostly cleared up by now. Just as they always had. But you’re not asking about that, and he knows you’re not.
“I’ll probably enroll into therapy again, if you want me to set you up with someone, too,” he joked.
“I didn't even tell you everything,” you said, frowning at him. “What makes you think I’ll tell a stranger?”
“Well, I didn’t even tell my therapist everything. I was thinking of dumping everything on Sam, actually. Make it his problem,” Bucky shrugged.
You paused, thinking it over. “Sounds like a good idea, actually. I haven’t talked to him in a while… Might be good for me to reach out.”
“You should. He asks about you, every once in a while. Asked if I’ve heard from you— even if it’s a whisper or a rumor,” Bucky said, his voice soft. “He misses you, too.”
“I didn’t exactly trust Sam to keep my location a secret after he blurted out to you that I was in a relationship with Steve,” you muttered, a scoff escaping your lips. “He knew that we were sleeping together, too. He knew that you and I were doing it because we needed an outlet after everything we lost.”
Bucky’s hands stopped, and he pulled back to look you in the eyes. Shock is all over his face.
“He knew?” he asked, in disbelief.
“Bucky— I knew Sam longer than I’ve known you. Of course I told him,” you frowned at him. “And then the asshole went around telling shit that wasn’t his to tell. I still don't know how he knew me and Steve were together, if I'm being honest."
“Would you have told me?” Bucky asked you, and it’s your turn to pause.
You weigh his words carefully, taking in the look on his face. He’s not mad. Not upset with you. He’s not looking at you the same way Steve did on your anniversary. It’s not accusatory. Bucky’s curious.
“I would’ve,” you whispered honestly, nodding. “But I didn’t think we would ever progress past just the… sleeping together. So I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. I didn’t want to ruin the little of you that I managed to have. I didn’t realize that I would lose all of you in the process.”
Bucky let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. Momentarily, you believe you’ve pissed him off with your response. That you’ll get a repeat of that night in your apartment.
You watched him carefully, your lungs stopping in your chest as you waited for his response. You wait for the explosion, for the yelling, the accusations— then, he looked at you. His eyes meet yours.
Bucky’s still not upset with you. In fact, there’s affection in his eyes that you can’t believe you’re seeing again. He looks the same way he always did when he hovered above you, murmuring praises about how good you were to him. It was the same way he looked when he held you afterwards, making sure that he didn’t hurt you during the time you spent together.
This was the same way his eyes would light up when you came over to his apartment with food from his favorite restaurant after a particularly bad therapy session. How he sighed in delight and told you that you were the best, and how you always read his mind.
And, without you knowing, the same way he looked at you in Wakanda as you walked ahead of him with your hair full of flowers that he picked. Flowers that he deemed were good enough to decorate your head, but still not more beautiful than you.
“Can we start over?” Bucky whispered to you, hands moving to cover yours.
“Start over and do what?” you whispered back, trying to will your voice to stay even.
“I think that we have a good chance to do this right. You and me,” he said, releasing a breath. “Without grief or trauma defining… us. Defining our relationship— what we are to each other.”
“If there’s no trauma or grief, then what is there?”
“Love, sweetheart. You don’t believe in love? You were pretty adamant when you told Steve you were a hopeless romantic, you know,” he said, a soft teasing tone in his voice as he squeezed your hands.
You could only let out a laugh in response, shaking your head. You cringed, unable to stop your body from the visceral reaction. You hated that memory- hated that night. You and Steve didn't talk for two days after that fight.
“You saw that? Did you— You saw the whole thing?”
“I saw the entire thing,” he confirmed, nodding. “And I’m sorry. I… I told you that you were using me, and I didn’t even know that you loved me from the start.”
“I hid it from you,” you murmured. “That isn’t your fault.”
“Then let’s call it an oversight on both our ends,” he said, giving you a small smile.
“Do you really think this could work?” you asked, sighing deeply. “Us?”
“Hypothetically speaking, yes. Realistically speaking? A thousand percent. But only if you want it. Only if you want me. Only if you’ll allow me to love you in the way that I definitely do not deserve to have you.”
Just like that.
Bucky isn’t pleading with you. There is no pressure. He had simply opened the door to his heart, and he’s standing on the other side for you to join him.
The answer is on the tip of your tongue as you feel your eyes sting with emotion. You’ve cried so much in the past day, you’re surprised you haven’t passed out from dehydration.
Your vision is beginning to blur from your tears as you look at him— look at his face.
He’s patient. Watching your every move with bated breath. His gaze is gentle, as if he is anticipating and ready to forgive you for rejecting him.
Your throat is locked up as a tear finally slips down your cheek. Bucky’s eyes never leave yours, but his hand moves to cradle your face. His thumb brushes away the wetness, clearing your face.
And you nod. Small, subtle, but you know he sees it. He always sees it. He always sees your every move.
Bucky’s shoulders drop, relaxed as he reaches for you, arms wrapping around you. He’s holding you to his chest, and you can hear it— the inconsistent sound of his heart beating in his chest. You can feel the anxiety in his bones as he keeps you firm in his grasp, head tucked under his chin.
A moment later, you bring your own arms around his torso, fingers clutching onto his shirt tight. Bucky shifts, pressing a series of kisses to the top of your head.
You close your eyes, allowing yourself to finally melt into his arms. Years of yearning and silent love has brought you here, with him. The pain is still present, but is beginning to chip away with each of his words as you listen to him whisper to you—
A/N: this is a love letter to my dearest @houseofhyde, I hope whatever is wrong with me helps cheer you up, my love. I love u <3. The title was Hyde's idea too, the numbers I chose are the diagnosis code for generalized hyperarousal/hypersexualization.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word count: 8.5k
Warnings: dub-ish con (sex pollen)?, SMUT!! (p in v, face fucking, mating press, oral (m receiving), overstimulation (m&f), tears of overstimulation, begging?, beefy bucky looking that feral is its own warning, BCB (big cock bucky), size kink?
Summary: How many times has Steve told you not to touch weird shit in old labs?
Easy mission. In and out. Get intel, meet at the extraction point, get in the Quinjet and make it back to the compound in time to get pizza delivered from Donatello's, watch trashy TV while Sam talking shit about said trashy TV, and pass out on the couch.
At least, it would've been, until Joaquin decided to touch whatever definitely not innocuous shit he found in one of the labs and, in an attempt to get Bucky's old HYDRA expertise, made the small vial explode into a puff of pink smoke right in front of his face.
You were sweeping the lower lab levels when the comms crackled.“Oh wow, this stuff is so old.”
You groaned. “That sounded like the voice of a man about to do something stupid. Joaquin, do not—” And then you heard Bucky choke, cough, and groan like he was about to twist Joaquin's neck like an old farmer would do to a chicken before dinner.
You jogged around the corner, footsteps echoing in the old no-so-sterile halls, and met up with both of them bumping straight into Bucky's chest in the process, making him grunt at the impact.
"Oh, hi." You smiled at him like you always did: sweetly, kindly, like you weren't trying to hide the fact that you'd rearrange the tiles on every subway station in New York if he asked you to. "You guys okay?"
Joaquin shrugged and nodded, "Just got some old school glitter all over grandpa."
Bucky gave you a breathy "yeah, all good." before all of you nodded your heads in agreement and moved along.
You got to another wing of the old base, and the three of you got stopped by a heavy reinforced door preventing you from moving further into the hallway. “You gotta be kidding me,” Joaquin sighed, smacking the reader with the heel of his palm.
You leaned in to inspect it, raising a brow. “Looks like the power line’s fried in this section. We’ll have to backtrack through—” You didn’t finish, because Bucky swayed out of the corner of your eye.
Not dramatically, not theatrically, just enough that your hand shot out, instinctively catching his elbow. “Woah, hey,” you blinked up at him. “You good?” He didn’t answer.
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp, deeper, as if the air had suddenly gotten heavier around him. His pupils were… wide. Obscenely, almost. Swallowing the blue.
Joaquin noticed too. “…Uh. Sarge?”
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Once. Twice. Like he was trying to blink something back into order.
“I said I’m fine,” he rasped, voice low and not fine at all. But his shoulders trembled, he felt the fabric of his shirt start to cling to him like he’d just stepped out of a sauna, the collar of the tac vest becoming chafy and uncomfortable.
You felt heat radiating off him—like his skin was cooking under the surface. Bucky inhaled sharply, not a normal breath, a slow, wrecking, deep inhale, eyes closing as he tumbled back, bracing himself on the wall.
“…Buck?” Your voice came out softer this time. You could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and the way his eyes were having a hard time focusing. His head lolled from side to side against the cold steel wall until you steadied his face to look at you. "Hey, talk to me."
"I feel—" He couldn't get words to come out, the throughts were there but his tongue felt heavy, like it wanted to give away secrets his brain hadn't allowed it to."I think I'm sick." And God, the way that you took a glove off and put the back of your hand to his forehead just barely helped relieve the heat his body was producing.
Heat that went up a degree or two when you touched your cheek to his forehead, and he inhaled the sweet scent of your skin. Nothing perfume-like, or lotion, just… you, right at the space where your neck met your shoulder, like the smell of you had hooked him by the throat and reeled him in.
"You're burning up." He felt a whine bubble in his throat when you pulled away to talk to Joaquin. "What exactly was in that lab?"
“…Okay. So remember that old glitter? Could’ve been, uh—bio-aerosol? Or something from that weird Cold War pheromone vault section?” It was almost cartoonish the way Joaquin's face formed into a wince. A very "we're so fucked and he's gonna kill me" wince.
You stared. “You mean sex pollen.”
“…I did not want to be the guy to say that out loud.” Both of you turned your heads to the sound behind you, not quite a growl, or a moan, but something animal and hurt.
"Okay, how long do we have?" Your mind was going a mile a minute. "Is he gonna die before we get back?" You walked back to crouch in front of Bucky, looking for his eyes with yours. “Hey,” you murmured, guiding his gaze back to you, “look at me.”
His breathing stuttered. “You shouldn’t—” he croaked, voice shredded raw. “I don’t—this isn’t—”
“I know,” you whispered. "Can you hang on until we get to the jet? Bruce and Tony must have something that can help." All you got back was a nod.
After talking the long way out, you managed to get back to the team, Steve's face like a worried mother hen when he saw the three of you, Bucky insisting on walking on his own, telling Joaquin to stand between the two of you.
Steve jogged down immediately. “What the hell happened?”
Bucky jerked back like Steve reaching for him was a knife being drawn. “Don’t,” he bit out—voice shredded, almost unrecognizable.
“Why do you look like you’re about to pounce on something?”
Steve pulled his hand back, palms up, tone softening instantly. “Okay. Okay. Not touching you. Just talk to me.” Joaquin stepped forward like he was testifying in court.
“So—fun story—turns out Cold War Russia kept, um… let’s call it biologically weaponized pheromone particulate in some of the older R&D labs and—”
Sam blinked, looked directly at Bucky, then you, then right back to Joaquin when he almost couldn't contain his laughter. “So he just inhaled airborne horny juice.”
Steve’s face did every emotion at once. Concern. Fear. Confusion. A level of Catholic repression so strong it could’ve powered a city. While Sam just exhaled through his nose like someone who was seconds away from clocking out of reality.
Your body went still.
"I just— I need to lie down, and—" You reached out to help him onto the jet, but his hand shot our making you jump back. "Don't—" He sighed, trying to level his voice. "Just stay away from me."
You'd be lying if you said that didn't hurt a little. Like having the guy you've been pining over for the past two years tell you to buzz off didn't sting like lemon and rock salt on an open wound.
Okay, it hurt a lot.
It was visible the way that you retreated back into yourself, like it would protect you somehow. "Copy that."
Steve’s jaw ticked, Sam looked down like he suddenly found the floor very, very interesting, Joaquin winced like he’d just watched someone get smacked with a folding chair.
“Wait—” His voice cracked, caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly. The verbal equivalent of throwing a sheet over a shattered glass and calling it clean. “We need to get you stabilized. That’s all that matters.”
“No. Don’t—don’t do that.”
You swallowed. “Do what?”
“That.” His eyes held yours, unsteady, and almost pleading. “That look. Like I pushed you into traffic.”
Steve took one step forward, voice gentle. “Buck, she’s just giving you space—”
“I don’t want space,” Bucky snapped. "I want—" Another wave of whatever the compound was hit him, and he doubled over in pain. Steve helped brace him and held a hand out to stop you when you instinctively stepped forward to help.
“Let’s get him on the cot,” Steve murmured to Sam and Joaquin, gentle, smooth, easing into triage leadership.
Sam mumbled to Steve on the way there. “We gotta get him to the medbay before his bloodstream goes full Discovery Channel.”
The flight home was torture in slow motion.
Bucky sat hunched forward on the med-cot, elbows braced against his knees, hands fisting and unfisting like he was holding on to the last thread of himself. Every breath shook. Every exhale came rough, uneven, punched through clenched teeth. The fever didn’t just burn—it crawled. Beneath his skin, along his spine, curling up behind his ribs like it was trying to get out. And every time the jet hit the slightest patch of turbulence, every sway of the cabin, every shift in yourbreathing—he reacted. His head would lift like he was tracking you by sound alone, pupils blown wide, like you were the only oxygen in the room.
And you—God—you sat across the jet from him, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold you steady, eyes tracing the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but him. Because looking at him meant seeing the raw need he was fighting to keep contained. It meant seeing him hurt.
After briefing Tony and Bruce, and getting a “That man inhaled weaponized lust dust?” said over a pair of glasses and raised brows, Tony locked Bucky in a super soldier-proof room with bulletproof glass windows and an amazing vitals monitoring system. But if you asked for Bucky's opinion, the quarantine quarters were sterile in an unsettling way.
The lights were too bright, the sheets were chafy and uncomfortable against his skin, and everything was too white and clean. He managed to sweat through a shirt already, pacing around like a cautionary tale, and was on his way to doing so a second time. Not even the AC was able to help cool him off.
His eyes kept flicking—to the glass. To you, every few seconds, like his body knew exactly where you were even when he forced himself to look away.
Bruce was scrolling through old SHIELD and Hydra files on a tablet, voice low, clinical, steady.
“The compound works by hijacking limbic and hypothalamic pathways,” he murmured. “Drives instinctual bonding and reproductive compulsion. Increases cortisol and dopamine at unsafe levels. If we don’t neutralize it, he could go into cardiac stress within the next 12 to 24 hours.”
Your stomach dropped.
Tony glanced over. “But hey, great news. He won’t die from horny. Probably. Unless he, you know—” he mimed an explosion near his chest. “Pops like an over-microwaved hot dog.”
Steve glared. “Tony.”
“What? Humor is how I cope with things trying to kill us. Or in this case, trying to rail someone into a medically concerning state.”
“He’s getting worse,” you whispered. “His breathing’s all over the place. The pacing isn’t helping anymore. We can’t just let him ride this out.”
Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Bruce is working as fast as he can—”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Bucky's voice snapped through the intercom, ragged and pained, and incredibly frustrated.
The room froze for a second. Steve flinched just slightly—guilt flashing across his face, Bruce and Tony looked up, and Sam turned around from where he was, back facing the windows Bucky was now bracing his hand on.
And Bucky—
Bucky had turned around, from his pacing back and forth, and settled in front of the glass walls. His chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. His jaw was set, eyes blown wide and dark, and sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin.
What stopped you dead in your tracks wasn't that, though. It wasn't his shirt starting to get soaked through, it wasn't his forehead shiny with sweat, it was the fact that the sweats he changed into did absolutely nothing to hide the state he was in.
You hadn't meant to look, but like the moon pulls the tide, your gaze found the almost offensive tent he was pitching in his pants. Long, heavy, solid, straining against fabric that was doing absolutely zero work as a barrier—just pressed up the left side, the outline unmistakable.
Your pulse thundered behind your ribs like your heart wanted to sprint out of your chest and run to him. Steve—poor, earnest, helpful Steve—instantly jerked his head away like he’d just accidentally opened a stranger’s bathroom door.
“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, eyes locked firmly on the ceiling tiles. “Yep. Okay. Yep. We’ve reached that stage. Great.”
Sam spoke, turning back around, voice flat and so exhausted it could have been legally declared a sigh. “Yeah, I’m not making eye contact with any of that. I’m barely managing my own dignity today.”
Tony lifted his coffee mug like a toast to misery. “We’re all fighting for our lives right now, Wilson.”
Joaquin muttered something that sounded like holy mother of thirst traps, and immediately shut his mouth when Sam elbowed him.
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and burning and so far past okay he had lapped the field. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped, voice hoarse. “There’s no reason for me to be locked up like some—some feral animal. I said I’m fine.”
“Bucky,” you murmured, tone unimpressed. “Your heart rate is at one-seventy and you are five minutes away from humping the corner of the room.”
“I’m fine.” He snarled the word like it personally insulted him.
He turned again—another pacing lap, another moving target distracting you from the actual problem. Or making you focus on it, depends who you ask.
Swing.
Swing.
Your eyes followed it like it had its own orbit. With every step he took, his breathing got worse, and his cock bobbed and swung with the movement. Did they even bother to get him a pair of boxers? For god's sake.
You tried to look away and failed. Spectacularly.
Bucky stopped mid-step when he noticed. Tilted his head once he followed your gaze, and then slowly focused his back on you, like he was studying you. The same way a jaguar tilts its head before crushing a prey's skull between its teeth. So slow, you felt it in your knees.
He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt—lifting it—exposing the deep, carved lines of muscle, the stretch of his abdomen, the line of hair disappearing down—
You nearly whimpered.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice shredded, “now imagine what it feels like." Oh, you did. "Inside my skin. Constant. Pressure. Heat. And I can’t fucking touch anything because the second I do—” The thing is, Bucky didn't know every word out of his mouth at any given moment would, in fact, find its way to burrow under your skin.
Each word from his mouth meant another step towards the glass that was separating you both.
And against your better judgement, you had imagined it. You've imagined your hands wrapped around it, you've imagined the weight of it on your tongue, you've imagined it so far in the back of your throat that—
"Stop breathing like that—I can hear it.”
Your breath caught, like a well trained animal obeying its master. "I'm not breathing in any different way."
"I can smell you too." And that made your brain short circuit. "It's sweet, and—" He groaned, letting his head fall forward. "Fuck, you smell—" Not even Stevie Wonder could've missed the drool that was pooling on his bottom lip and falling onto the floor.
“Wanna taste it. Lick you open right here on the floor. Tongue-fuck your pussy until you can’t remember your own name.”
When he lifted his head again, it felt like the entire world narrowed to just you two. With thick super soldier proof glass in between.
His breath fogged the glass at the same time his eyes narrowed at yours, looking for a sign that he was affecting you as much as you were affecting him. “You’ve thought about it.” Damn him, James Barnes and his ability to read you like a book written in a language only he could speak. “Oh, sweetheart.”
It's almost like he could hear your thighs clenching together. “You smell like you’re already wet—fuck.” Definitely not what you wanted him to announce over intercom to the entire team, but the blush creeping up your neck really didn't allow you to focus on anything other than the image in front of you.
Bucky Barnes, in a heathered grey shirt that he was sweating through, with a sinfully thin pair of sweatpants that could be an HR violation if anyone didn't know the contect of why anyone in the room with eyes could tell that was a perfect outline of his hard cock swinging around like it owned the place.
With previous icy blue eyes that were now blown black with lust, looking at you like you were the next meal of a very starving beast. A beast that was frothing at the mouth at the though of the taste of you.
“You smell warm,” he murmured. “Like your skin would taste soft.” He continued, like taunting you was making anything better and not just riling both of you even more. “And you’re trying so fucking hard not to move,” he said, voice breaking into a whisper. “Not to come closer.”
"You're not exactly making it easy."
Another wave hit him and he winced. "I can't think with you here." He swallowed hard. "All I see when you're near is just your back hitting plaster and your legs around my hips.”
His breathing fractured—like something inside him had finally tipped past reason into pure, raw instinct. “I wish this glass wasn’t here,” he said, teeth gritted like the words hurt. “I’d have you on your knees already… drooling around my cock.”
The air left your lungs. The more he talked the more it felt like one of those moments in the late summer into fall, where the pool is too cold and you jump in anyway. The moment where your lungs feel too small and the atmosphere feels too much and all you can really do is hyperventilate and try to breathe the shock away.
“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he said, like he was discovering something and confirming it all in the same breath. His tongue dragged over his bottom lip without him thinking—messy, desperate. “You’d open your pretty mouth and take me all the way down just to make me stop begging.”
“You’d look up at me while you did it,” he murmured, fever-slow, obscene in how sure he was. “Eyes wide, tears in the corners, letting me fuck your throat until you couldn’t speak.”
“Stop making me picture it.” It was barely above a whisper, really. You're not sure anyone heard it over the sound of both of you breathing as hard as you were.
The drool slid from his lip again—slow, heavy—hanging for a moment before it fell to the floor. He didn’t notice, he couldn’t. His hips shifted—just a slight forward roll—and you bit your lower lip so hard you nearly bruised it.
Bucky's voice cracked down the middle. “Fuck—please—” His metal hand scraped against the glass, fingers curling. “I need— I need to— I need you—” He swallowed, jaw trembling, breath stuttering like holding himself together physically hurt. “Just let me wreck you,” he whispered.
He asked like your answer would ever be no. Like being that close to him without having him inside of you didn't physically hurt sometimes. Like you didn't have vivid dreams of his teeth on the bare skin of your ass and his hand wrapped around your neck like jewelry that belonged in the Louvre.
Steve stepped in between you two, ushering you away from Bucky. "That's enough."
Bucky’s head snapped toward him, eyes blown wide and dark like storm clouds about to break “No,” he snarled, voice rough with panic instead of anger. “No—don’t—”
Bruce came forward, gentle hands on your shoulders. A doctor moving someone out of a blast radius. “Come on,” he murmured, soft. “Give him a second. His vitals are spiking—he needs distance to stabilize.”
“He doesn’t need distance,” Bucky barked, hands slamming against the glass—palms flat—every tendon in his arms standing out in painful, shaking relief.
“He needs her.”
“Buck. You need to stop.” Steve kept his voice low, even. “Listen to yourself.”
Bucky’s chest was heaving—breaths quick and hot and uneven. "I'm sorry, fuck— I—" He didn’t look at Steve, didn’t look at Bruce. He didn’t look at anything except you as Bruce’s hand eased you back.
“Don’t take her away. Please. Please—” Bruce kept moving you carefully, slowly—gentle pressure between your shoulders.
You tried to go about your night.
You really did.
You showered. You changed. You sat on the edge of your bed with your hair still damp, staring at the wall like it might offer you a door out of your own head. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—forehead pressed to the glass, voice cracking when he said please, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re falling and they already know the ground is going to hurt.
You lay back, staring blankly at the ceiling. You tried to count your breaths—steady, even, controlled. But your breathing only reminded you of his. That ragged, uneven, burning inhale that came when he was trying to keep himself from breaking.
You turned onto your side. Then your back again. Pulled the blanket up. Pushed it off. You tried to be rational. To be logical. To be the good, responsible, emotionally stable adult in this situation.
But there was something tugging at you, something far deeper and quieter than lust. Something warm and sore and impossible to ignore.
So you did what any sane (not) person would do, and snuck away from your quarters, through the corridors, and into the med bay to be alone and unsupervised with a super soldier under the influence of super soldier viagra mixed with preworkout to say the very least.
The med bay was washed in low overnight lighting, the kind meant to soothe but doing absolutely nothing to calm the electricity tangled in the air. Bucky had been pacing for long enough that it was surprising the floor hadn't given in to the shape of his path.
His hair clung to his temples, damp and curling where it stuck. His breath came in harsh, uneven bursts, chest rising too fast, like his lungs couldn’t catch air fast enough to match the fire under his skin.
Every few steps his metal hand flexed involuntarily, fingers clenching like he needed something—someone—to hold on to.
He didn’t see you.
He was somewhere inside the fever.
“Fuck—” he grit out, stopping long enough to brace both hands against the wall, muscles in his back rippling as he bowed his head, throat exposed to the floor like he was trying to bleed the heat out of himself.
He took another step—stumbled—caught himself on the exam table— and then something in him just broke. He dragged his hand up his chest like he was trying to tear the heat out of himself, jaw clenched so hard a vein pulsed at his temple.
Your voice came out softer. “Buck.” He froze completely. He had hallucinations of your voice earlier that day, sweet little mewls you'd let out if you were there with him to siphon them out of you, while he tried to take care of the issue on his own.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes found you. And something in his entire body gave out. His breathing stuttered—hard—like his ribs were suddenly too tight to contain the relief.
He took a full, instinctive step toward you—body moving before thought—and then something in him seized. The sensible part of his brain stopped him from getting closer to the glass.
"Get out of here."
Your brows furrowed in confusion. "Bucky, I—"
"Get the fuck out of here." He doubled over in pain again. "It hurts worse when you're so close and I can't—"
Your voice came out thin—fragile—almost unrecognizable to your own ears. “Bucky… I’m begging you. I can’t just stand out here and watch you suffer.”
"It wouldn't— I could—" If his brain started leaking out of his ears, you wouldn't be exactly surprised. "It's not safe for you." He flinched like the words actively hit him.
"You'd never hurt me."
"You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't be able to."
He was still bent over, hand braced on the wall, every muscle in his back trembling from restraint. His breath dragged ragged through his chest, sweat rolling down his sternum in a slow line that made your own pulse stumble.
“I’m begging you,” you whispered. “Let me help.”
He shook his head once—sharp—like the motion hurt. “Don’t sound like that—”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me.” The words tore out raw, like he’d ripped them straight from the center of him.
The room went quiet for a moment, and you had yet another brilliant idea that wouldn't get you in trouble bigger than you could handle at all. Your feet moved you to stand by the control panel, and his head snapped up—eyes blown wide, panic flaring under the fever.
“Don’t do that. Don’t come in here. I’m telling you—I can’t—” You typed in your override code with steady hands, changed a single setting in the lock, and despite Bucky's protests, the door hissed open, and you bolted into the room before it latched closed again.
“I’m not leaving you alone in here.” Bucky grabbed you by the arm and attempted to open the door, not knowing you locked it from the outside.
"Are you insane?!" He didn't sound angry, he sounded terrified. Terrified of not being able to hold back from everything he wanted to do to you.
You moved toward him—not with impulse, but with a quiet, controlled resolve that came from somewhere deep in your chest. Bucky didn’t step back this time. He just watched you, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you if he needed to. He didn’t. So you let your palm settle against his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was hot—fever-hot—but under your hand the fire shifted, softened, just enough to change from a burn to an ache. The air left him in a long, shaking exhale, like your touch let him breathe for the first time in hours.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, not in collapse, but in relief. A small shudder went through him, his ribs expanding against your hand as he tried to steady himself. You could feel his pulse hammering, fast and uneven.
“It’s a little better,” he murmured, voice rough against your collarbone.
“Not enough,” you said quietly.
He shook his head, and you felt the motion against your skin. “No. Not nearly enough.”
Your thumb traced a slow, grounding arc just beneath his sternum, the simplest touch offered as reassurance. His metal hand hovered near your hip, not touching you, shaking with restraint. Every part of him was working to not grab, not pull, not give in to instinct.
“Bucky,” you murmured. Your hand slid up, fingers brushing the line of his collarbone before you cupped the side of his jaw. His skin was hot beneath your touch, flushed. “Let me help.”
His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing like the words physically hurt.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.” Your voice stayed soft, steady. “I know you. I know you would never hurt me. And I’m standing right here choosing you.”
His breath caught, a shaking inhale that didn’t quite make it all the way in. You leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop you—even now—and pressed your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.
He made a sound—low, involuntary—something between a groan and a gasp, his grip tightening on your hip without meaning to. The heat of him was overwhelming now that you were fully inside his space, and when you shifted closer, your thigh brushed the unmistakable, urgent press of him against the front of his sweats.
He jolted—like the contact shocked him—but he didn’t step back.
You whispered against his jaw, your lips barely moving. “Let me help, Buck.”
His breath stuttered, chest rising too fast against yours.
“Please,” you whispered, the word soft and warm and devastating. “Let me take care of you.”
His resolve buckled—not shattered, not broken—but gave.
You slid your hand down, slow and deliberate, until your palm hovered at the waistband of his sweats. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on yours—wide, dark, waiting.
So you touched him.
Your palm cupped him through the fabric, the heat and weight of him filling your hand instantly. He let out a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest—raw, ragged, helpless. His forehead fell forward until it nearly touched yours, his breath shaking against your cheek.
You kept your touch slow. Gentle. Controlled. No teasing, no sudden movements—just steady pressure, your hand molded to him through the soft cotton, up and down in a rhythm meant to soothe the fever thrumming under his skin.
His fingers dug into your hip—not hard, just anchoring.
“Sweetheart—” His voice was barely a voice, just breath and need. “If you—if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna—”
You kissed his jaw again, slower this time.
“That’s the point,” you whispered. His breath collapsed against your neck and you stroked him again—firmer this time.
The roughness in his breathing started to shift, not easing but changing, gathering into something more focused, less chaotic. But the fever was still burning too hot, crawling under his skin like an electric current with nowhere to go.
So you sank to your knees.
The floor was cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the heat bleeding off of him. Your fingers found the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. His head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud, chest heaving as he tried—failed—not to look down at you.
You freed him from the confines of the fabric, and he sprang forward—thick, flushed, already leaking, and twitching with need. Your breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him properly for the first time.
He let out a strangled groan so loud it echoed off the sterile walls. One hand reached down blindly, threading through your hair like it was the only lifeline he had left. He whispered your name like a curse, like a prayer, like salvation.
Your tongue flattened against the underside of him first, tracing the thick, pulsing vein that ran along the length of his cock. You felt him twitch in your hand, heard the harsh stutter of his breath above you as his grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting. When your lips wrapped around the flushed, leaking tip, Bucky actually whimpered.
“Fuck—” he choked, hips jerking despite himself. “Jesus, baby, that mouth—”
You hollowed your cheeks and took more of him, inch by inch, until your lips kissed the base and your throat fluttered around him. The way he gasped—it was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.
“God, you’re—fuck, I knew it, I knew you’d take me like this,” he hissed. “So good. So fucking good. Like you were meant for me.”
His knees almost buckled.
The sweat rolling down his chest gathered at the sharp lines of his abdomen, and he looked down, glassy-eyed and wrecked, watching his cock disappear past your lips over and over. You stroked what you couldn’t fit, twisting your wrist, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth to join the obscene, wet sounds echoing off the walls.
He didn’t last long.
He couldn’t—hadn’t been touched in hours, hadn’t let himself feel anything in months, maybe years, and now here you were, mouth full of him, eyes blown wide with submission and need, and he could feel the fever receding under your touch, like you were the cure he didn’t deserve.
His head slammed back against the wall again, both hands in your hair now as he held you there, not forcing—just anchoring—just begging. “Just a little more, baby. Just—fuck, I’m so close, please—”
“It’s still bad, isn’t it?” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.” You rose up just enough to press your mouth to the inside of his thigh—soft, slow, intentional—then looked up again, voice thready but determined. “Take what you need from me, Bucky.”
You take him into your mouth again—no hesitation this time, no slow pacing. You hum around him; you don’t even realize you do it. His whole body jerks—hips twitching forward, instinct overriding restraint for a split second.
His hips roll forward—slow at first, testing, like he’s afraid of how much he needs this. But when your hands grip his thighs and you pull him closer, the last of his restraint just… slips.
“Sweetheart—” His voice drops, a gravel-soft moan. “Okay. Okay, I—shit—”
His rhythm finds you, and it pushes his cock inside of your mouth over and over again, bruising the back of your throat, making your eyes water.
Bucky, on the other hand, was losing his mind. He feels like this could only really be a fever dream. The vision before him being one that he only saw seconds before waking up in a sticky mess of his own cum in his room some nights.
“You have no idea—” A thrust, shallow but desperate. “I’ve wanted—” Another, deeper now, hips stuttering. “God—this—this—” He chokes on your name.
Your moan around him sent him right to the edge.
He came hard, with a broken cry that echoed with pain and relief and something that sounded suspiciously like your name. Hot, thick ropes spilled onto your tongue, down your throat, and you took every drop, swallowing around him while his body trembled, legs unsteady, heart thundering behind his ribs.
He looked down at you afterward, wrecked beyond recognition, jaw slack and pink lips parted like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“…holy fuck,” he rasped.
You didn’t even need to say anything—your eyes said it all. Your fingers curled tighter around the base of him, guiding him back to your lips, already red and slick with spit and the remnants of his release. You pressed a slow kiss to the tip, and Bucky swore under his breath, hips twitching.
“You’re still hard,” you murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. “You need more.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—head cocked, eyes wild and glassy, like he was still fighting himself even while his cock throbbed in your grip, fully hard again. His breath hitched when you opened your mouth, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of him again, licking him like you missed it.
That was all it took.
A rough groan tore from his chest as his hips surged forward, pushing himself back into your mouth. You moaned around him, taking him deeper, your throat already used to the stretch. His grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady this time—not pushing, not yet, just anchoring as he began to roll his hips, slow at first, dragging himself against your tongue.
But he couldn't hold back. Not when you looked like that. Not when you made those sounds.
“Open wider,” he grit out, voice almost guttural. “Let me—fuck, let me use your mouth.”
You did. You relaxed your throat, looked up at him through heavy lashes, and let him have it.
He began to thrust—deep, slow at first, but building with every breath. Each time he bottomed out, your throat flexed, gagging just a little, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. And he loved it. Ate it up like a man starved.
“Shit—shit, baby,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Look at you—taking it so fucking well, like it’s what your mouth was made for.”
He was leaking again, throbbing inside you, grunting with every pass of his cock down your throat. You could feel him fighting the edge again already—his whole body shaking, hair falling into his eyes, thighs tense beneath your hands.
He came again. Harder this time. The first shot hit the back of your throat as he choked out your name like it was the only word he knew. His hips didn’t stop moving. Even as he emptied himself into your mouth, he was still hard, still needing.
When he finally stilled, breathing like he’d just run ten miles, he looked down at you—ruined, wrecked, flushed—and exhaled your name like a plea.
“I still need more.”
Your lips were swollen, spit-slick, eyes glossy and dazed as you slowly released him from your mouth with a wet pop. Bucky was panting above you, flushed all the way down his chest, body still trembling from his second orgasm—and still hard. Angry and flushed and leaking again, like his body didn’t understand that two should’ve been enough.
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, but your gaze never left him. Not for a second. And he looked down at you like he was about to fall to his knees. Or break through the floor. Or both.
Then you stood.
Without a word, you reached for his wrist and guided him—slowly, steadily—toward the exam table. The padded med bed sat cold and untouched, the thin clinical comforter shuffled under your grip as you leaned against it and looked over your shoulder at him.
His hands were on your hips before you even breathed, gripping you like you were the only tether he had to this fucking world. He yanked your sleep shorts and underwear down in one swift, rough motion, groaning when he saw how wet you were—slick, glistening, thighs trembling.
“All this for me?” he muttered, almost in disbelief, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds. You gasped—more from the weight of it than the tease.
“I’ve been yours,” you panted, looking back at him over your shoulder. “You just haven’t fucked me like it.”
That did it.
He lined up and shoved in with one brutal, gorgeous thrust—splitting you open on his cock so deep you almost screamed. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the med bed, fingers clawing at the sheets as your body struggled to accommodate him. He was thick, long, heavy—and unrelenting. No time to adjust. No warning. Just full.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed, bottoming out inside you. “You feel like heaven. Hot, tight—fuck, I can feel your pussy fluttering already—”
You were already trembling under him, already dripping down your thighs. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back gently, just enough to murmur in your ear as he rocked into you.
“You wanted this,” he growled. “Wanted to help? Mmm? Did you? Or did you just want an excuse to have my cock inside of you?”
You whimpered, unable to speak—your brain blank, body overstimulated, mouth falling open.
“Say it,” he snarled, thrusting harder. “Tell me you begged for this cock.”
“I—I begged for it,” you gasped. “Bucky—oh my God—you’re so—fuck—you’re so deep, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he said, and then he was railing into you—brutal and beautiful and ruthless—his cock driving into you so hard your toes curled and your walls clamped down around him. Your stomach was pressed to the cold med bed now, knees buckling as he fucked you through it, chest bouncing with every thrust.
“Please,” you sobbed. “Please don’t stop—”
“Never,” he growled. “I’m not stopping until you’re filled up and leaking for me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until they smell me on you.”
His rhythm faltered.
You could feel it—how his thrusts turned erratic, his breath shortened into harsh, broken gasps against your skin, every nerve in his body set to burn. He was so deep inside you, so swollen and throbbing, and even though he’d already come twice, he was barely holding on now, just riding the edge with ragged desperation.
“Too—fuck—can’t—” he growled, hips snapping hard and fast as his chest collapsed against your back. “You’re gonna—ahhh—milk me dry, baby.”
You barely got a gasp out before he slammed into you one last time and bit down on the curve of your shoulder—hard.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled. It was animal.
Teeth sinking into skin just below your neck, like claiming you was the only thing keeping him alive. The sting of it only made your orgasm crash harder, clenched around him like a vice just as he spilled inside you—thick and hot, cock pulsing violently through the aftershocks, moaning into your skin like it broke him.
But Bucky didn’t pull out.
Didn’t move away like someone who just had his third orgasm in less than an hour. No—he collapsed over your back for a moment, panting, shaking, and then lifted his head, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted.
You gasped as your spine straightened, as he manhandled you into the center of the bed with strength that made your head spin.
“I need to see your face,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low. “Need to watch you come around me this time.”
He flipped you over, sweat-slick hands gripping the undersides of your thighs and pushing them up, folding you into a tight mating press before you could even think. Your knees were practically pinned to your chest, legs spread wide, cunt exposed—wet and puffy and already leaking with him.
Bucky looked down at you like a starving man finally given permission to devour. And even though his cock was still twitching from the last orgasm—sensitive, too sensitive—he lined himself back up, and pushed inside again with a groan that bordered on agony.
“Fuck, fuck—hurts so good,” he panted, hips rolling slow this time, deep. “Too much. Too fucking much, but I can’t stop.”
You moaned, head thrown back, fingernails digging into his arms.
“Look at me,” he growled. “Want you looking at me when I fuck you full again. Want you remembering who did this to you. Who made you this wet. This messy.”
His hands pressed your thighs deeper, nearly folding you in half, angle so intense you could feel him in your stomach.
“Feel that?” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked. “That’s me. Right fucking there.”
Your fingers reached for him, tangling in his sweat-damp hair, needing him closer. He dropped his forehead to yours, breath mingling, mouths nearly brushing as his cock dragged slow and deep inside you—wet and squelching from how much he’d already spilled.
“Tell me you want it,” he panted. “Tell me you want more.”
“I want it,” you breathed. “Want everything.”
His cock twitched at the sight. At the mess he’d already made of you.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“Fuck, look at this pussy,” he groaned, lining up again. “Stuffed and still begging for more. You’re leaking down the backs of your thighs and I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”
Then he slammed back into you.
You whined, mouth falling open, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his sweat-slicked biceps. The sound of his cock driving into you, the wet slap of skin against skin, was obscene—echoing off the cold med bay walls. Each thrust was brutal, hungry, unrelenting.
“Yes,” you gasped, back arching, eyes wide and wild. “Fucking ruin me, Bucky.”
He snarled like you’d just handed him a license to break you.
“Gonna stretch this pussy until I mold you to the shape of my cock,” he growled, sweat dripping from his temples as he drove deeper, harder, each thrust punching a breath out of your lungs. “You were made for this. For me. Just like this.”
Your thighs trembled where he held them pinned. Your cunt clamped down on him like your body didn’t want to let go, and it made him growl—low, animal, primal.
“I can feel you squeezing me—fuck—milking my cock.”
“Because you’re fucking perfect inside me,” you moaned, wrecked. “So fucking deep, Bucky—I feel you in my throat.”
He didn’t let up. He wanted you boneless. Brainless. Gone. He needed you raw and crying and fucked full. His balls slapped against your ass, cock driving into the tight, wet clutch of you over and over, chasing the next high like a man possessed.
“Gonna breed you, baby,” he whispered in a wrecked, breathless voice. “Wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll be dripping with me for days. Wanna see your belly swollen from how much I put in you.”
You cried out—clenching around him like your body wanted that, like it needed it.
His thrusts turned downright feral, pounding into you so hard the med bed squealed beneath your bodies. You held onto him like you’d fly off the earth otherwise, like he was the only real thing in the universe.
“You’re mine,” he snarled into your ear. “This pussy? Mine. This fucking body? Mine.”
“All yours,” you sobbed, overwhelmed and blissed-out. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” He pressed your legs even tighter to your chest, bent down until his chest was against yours, and fucked you into the bed like the world was ending.
You didn’t know how long it had been.
How many times he’d come. How many times you had. You were shaking, soaked, stretched so wide around him that it felt like you were being fucked into another dimension. Your thighs burned from being pinned open in the tightest press imaginable, your body locked beneath his. Sweat pooled between your bodies, his skin slick and hot, his muscles trembling with effort.
You sobbed when he thrust again—slow, deep, dragging the head of his cock along every oversensitive inch of your cunt.
“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice broken. “I can’t—I can’t—”
“You can,” he groaned, still moving inside you. “You are.”
Your tears were hot as they spilled down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. From bliss. Pure, ruined, brain-melting pleasure that had nowhere else to go but out through your eyes.
And still—he didn’t stop.
He couldn’t stop. Not when your walls were fluttering around him again, your cunt choking his cock like your body was begging for one more release.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked beyond repair, “I can’t—fuck—I’m so close—again—”
You were babbling now, hands clawing at his back, words slurred through cries. “Please, please, come again—fill me up, Bucky, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
That shattered him.
His hand found your jaw, gripping it firm but careful, tilting your face to the side, tears still streaking your flushed cheeks. His mouth dropped to your jawline, teeth grazing your skin before he bit down—just enough to make you cry out. To mark you. To claim.
His lips dragged against your wet cheek, breath hot and ragged as he whispered filth directly into your skin.
“You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else,” he growled. “No one else’ll ever fuck you this deep. No one else’ll fill you like I do. You’ll think about this—every time you sit down and feel me leaking out of you.”
You gasped, your pussy clenching tight again, and that made him snarl.
“Oh, you like that,” he panted against your cheek. “You like knowing I’ve come in you three times and I’m still fucking going—filling you to the brim like this pussy belongs to me.”
“It does,” you sobbed. “It’s yours—it’s only yours.”
He bit down again—right beneath your cheekbone—and his hips bucked hard, cock twitching, and then he spilled inside you again.
Hot, thick, endless—your body taking it all, your womb aching with how much he was pumping into you, filling you again and again like some primal need had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.
You clung to him, nails dragging down his sweat-slick back, body convulsing with overstimulation, your own orgasm cresting again, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, wet between your legs and everywhere else.
And through it all—his voice stayed right in your ear.
Sunlight filtered through the high, frosted windows—gold and soft, painting long lines across the floor and sterile white counters. Machines hummed faintly. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to the air, but it was dulled now, overpowered by the unmistakable smells of sweat, sex, and fabric softener.
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before they even turned the corner.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, tablet in hand, “if he exploded in the middle of the night, it’s your fault, Rogers. You’re the one who insisted on the glass enclosure.”
“He didn’t explode,” Steve replied, voice calm but tight. “But we need to check his vitals. And see if the fever’s gone for good.”
“And you don’t think maybe knocking first would be—”
The door hissed open.
Tony stepped in first, looking up from his tablet. Steve followed—and froze halfway through the threshold.
There, on the exam bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped around each other like two vines too stubborn to separate, were you and Bucky.
Naked.
Dead asleep.
His arm was slung over your waist, metal hand curled possessively around your hip. Your leg was draped over his. His nose was buried in your neck. One of your hands was splayed on his chest, and both of your mouths were parted in very unflattering, very loud, synchronized snoring.
And the sheets?
The sheets were barely covering anything.
“Oh Jesus,” Steve hissed, immediately turning around so fast his shoulder knocked into a tray of sterile wipes. “Nope. No. That’s—nope.”
Tony took one look, blinked, and quietly said, “So the mating press was successful.”
Steve groaned. “Tony.”
“What?! They’re alive. They’re breathing. No heart attack. Just a—y’know—thorough night of… clinical bonding.”
“Stop talking.”
Tony didn’t stop talking. He just raised the tablet and started typing. “Gotta say, though, Barnes is kind of a legend.”
Steve made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a choked-off scream. “I am not listening to this.”
“You know,” Tony continued, ignoring him completely, “most guys tap out after two. Maybe three if they’ve got performance enhancers. But your boy over there looks like he went five, maybe six rounds. Give the man a medal.”
Steve was red in the face now. “Tony.”
And on the bed, completely oblivious, Bucky grumbled something about peaches and tight little throats in his sleep, nuzzled deeper into you, and pulled you even closer.
Tony paused.
“…okay, maybe a warning label instead of a medal.”
a/n: as always, if this is buns don’t perceive me!!!!
okay this has absolutely nothing to do with bucky and i know it’s not what i usually post, but if you see this — please take a sec just to sign this petition for the women of south africa: Women For Change
i come from south africa, and gender-based violence here is terrifying. it’s not just something you hear about in passing—it’s constant. it’s everywhere. it’s so normalised in so many communities that girls are taught from a young age to just expect it. to be careful. to live scared.
every single day in south africa, at least 15 women are murdered. 117 women report rape to the police daily—and that’s just the ones who come forward. around 95% of GBV cases go unreported.
you grow up learning to keep your head down. to send your location. to not leave your home at night. to plan your walk outside. and no one really helps. no one in power is treating this like the disaster it is.
that’s why this petition matters. it’s trying to get GBVF (gender-based violence and femicide) declared a national disaster, which would force the government to take it seriously, allocate proper resources, and make protection and justice a priority—not an afterthought
i know this isn’t what most of us come to tumblr for. and i know how easy it is to scroll past things that feel “far away.” but i’m not asking for likes or reblogs. just a signature.
literally just your name. 10 seconds. if even a few people reading this sign, it could make a difference. it could push the number up enough to be seen. it’s one step closer to the kind of change women here desperately need.
word count | 12.3k words
summary | you suggest taking a break from your deeply attached boyfriend. he reacts poorly and things somehow get worse from there.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, age gap relationship, clingy!bucky barnes, loser!bucky barnes, crack fic, major co-dependency, dark humour, SATIRE, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of noncon unprotected sex, noncon kiss, they’re both very physical, bucky is very touchy and grabby, lots of toxic behaviour, suicide threats, gun violence, manipulative bucky, toxic bucky, reader lowkey likes it, reader is toxic as well, mj, darcy and yelena cameo
a/n | yall this is a completely satirical and unserious fic, pls do not take anything that happens in here seriously. anyway i want to thank @superbassbuck @iamthatonefangirl @pinksplace and @houseofhyde for all being present and encouraging when i came up and spiraled with the concept of loser bucky threatening to kill himself to keep you. yall real asf for that, and especially paul for harassing me and lowkey motivating me to finish it. finally i am free from the shackles that bind me (this fuckass fic)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.
Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.
James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.
He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.
Because you had.
You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.
Even with his corny ass mustache.
It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.
It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”
Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.
And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.
Even more so, his big dick.
If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.
And, yes, there were red flags.
The texts, for one.
In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.
He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.
It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.
It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.
And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.
You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.
Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.
You really, truly believed that.
And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.
You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.
And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.
You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.
james barnes (bucky)
Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm
You
lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm
james barnes (bucky)
Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm
Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm
Doll? | 10:39pm
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.
You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.
But it didn’t stop.
By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.
You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.
More messages had piled in.
james barnes (bucky)
Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm
Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm
Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm
“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.
You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.
“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”
“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”
You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.
“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”
Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.
MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.
Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.
“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.
You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.
You
just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm
he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm
and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm
james barnes (bucky)
Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm
I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm
You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.
“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.
You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.
“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.
She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.
“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”
“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.
Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”
MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.
You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.
james barnes (bucky)
When are you heading home? | 11:02pm
Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm
It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.
You
im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm
and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm
You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.
You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.
Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.
james barnes (bucky)
I will, sorry. | 11:06pm
Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm
Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm
You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.
The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.
Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”
They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.
“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”
You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.
Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”
You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”
Darcy laughed beside you.
“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”
“—Michelle, please.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”
You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”
“Mm-hm.”
Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.
“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”
You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.
Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”
“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.
“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”
You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.
MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.
Then your shoulders dropped a little.
You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”
“Dump him.”
“Dump his old creepy ass.”
MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.
“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”
Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.
MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”
You turned your head slowly. “A break?”
“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”
You frowned faintly, listening.
“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”
You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”
“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”
Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.
Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.
A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.
“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.
The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.
You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.
It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.
The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.
There he was.
Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.
He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.
He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.
When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.
The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.
“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.
“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”
He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”
A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.
He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.
Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.
“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”
He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.
“Another one?” he murmured.
He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”
“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.
He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”
Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.
He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.
He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.
You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.
“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”
“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”
“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.
He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.
He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.
“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.
“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.
“Bucky, please—”
“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”
As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”
An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.
As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.
Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.
He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.
“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”
“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.
Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.
“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.
Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.
“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.
You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.
Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.
Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”
With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.
“You ready for me?” he murmured.
You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.
Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.
You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.
He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.
“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”
“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.
You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.
“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.
As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.
He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”
He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”
“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.
“I got you, doll,” he whispered.
And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.
You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.
He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.
“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”
He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.
Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.
His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.
Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.
“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”
You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.
“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”
“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.
The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.
He needed more.
Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.
The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.
Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.
For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.
But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.
He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.
He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.
“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.
You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.
“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”
You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.
Then his next sentence caught your attention.
“Think you should move in with me.”
He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.
You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.
He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.
“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”
He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.
“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”
You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”
He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”
The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.
His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.
“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”
You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.
Something important.
It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.
Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.
“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”
He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.
He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.
“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”
It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.
His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.
“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”
Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”
You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.
You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.
He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.
He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”
His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”
The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.
His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.
“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.
It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.
Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.
He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.
“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”
You said nothing.
Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.
You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.
You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.
And so began the silent treatment.
Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.
He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.
You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.
He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.
“You know I love you, yeah?”
You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.
His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?
You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”
He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”
“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.
He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.
At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.
You had no idea where that came from.
His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.
You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.
Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.
But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.
Let him think that.
“A break?”
The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.
Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock.
Perfect timing, doll, I just—
Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.
He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”
You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”
“—so you’re breaking up with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.
“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”
“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.
He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”
“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”
You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.
You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four.
When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.
“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.
“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”
You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.
“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.
He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.
You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.
“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”
You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.
“Bucky, what are—hmph—”
Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.
His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.
What the fuck.
He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.
“Mmph—Bucky—”
“I love you,” he emphasised.
Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.
“And you love me.”
Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.
“I need you, doll.”
And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.
Slap. Slap. SLAP.
Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.
You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.
“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.
It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.
“Don’t.”
The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.
Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”
You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.
“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”
Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.
“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”
His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.
You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.
“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”
You scoffed.
Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.
And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.
You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.
His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”
You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.
“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”
He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”
Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.
“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”
“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”
“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids.
Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”
And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.
Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.
“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”
He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.
“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”
He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”
You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”
He turned around.
And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.
You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.
“What the fuck!”
But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”
He ignored you.
“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.
You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.
“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”
“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.
And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.
He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”
“Oh my God.”
“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”
You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.
But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”
“You counted?”
“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”
You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.
His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”
You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”
“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”
Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”
The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.
“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”
You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.
Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”
“Wait—what?”
You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”
His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.
“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”
“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”
“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”
“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.
Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.
Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.
“For fuck’s sake—”
He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.
You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.
Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.
He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.
You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”
His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—
But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.
In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.
Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.
“He pulled out a gun?”
Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.
The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.
Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”
“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”
Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”
You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”
She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension.
“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”
You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.
“Girl.”
“What?” you said defensively.
“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”
You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”
Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”
“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.
“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”
You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating?
“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”
She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”
“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”
Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.
“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”
“I probably sounds insane.”
“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”
She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”
You stared at her.
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.
Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.
“He must have a big dick, huh?”
The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.
You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”
“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”
“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”
“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.
You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.
She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”
You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.
You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.
“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”
Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”
“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.
Then your phone rang.
You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.
You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.
“Hello?”
Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.
“He what?!”
The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.
“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”
Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.
“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”
You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”
You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.
“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”
Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”
“Tell me about it.”
Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.
You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.
The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.
But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.
The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.
Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.
He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.
His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.
Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.
And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.
There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.
The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.
Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.
The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.
“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”
You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.
He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.
The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.
When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”
His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.
And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.
Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.
You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.
“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.
You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”
“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”
You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”
“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.
You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.
“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”
A beat of silence.
Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”
pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 11.3k words
summary | when your boyfriend offers to play the stranger who picks you up at a bar, you expect a little dirty talk—not a full performance, a running camera, and the dirtiest night of your life.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, rough sex, established relationship, roleplay smut, manhandling, roleplay sex, filmed sex, degradation/praise, overstimulation, fingering, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f!receiving), facial, fake cheating, teasing!reader, mean!bucky, flustered!bucky, bf!bucky, bucky is down so bad, smut with feelings, bucky has a cam kink now, horny and in love, porn with the tiniest bit of plot, or no... actually I'm lying, there's really no plot.
a/n | this has been sitting in my drafts since oct, enjoy. inspired by that episode of modern family where claire and phil roleplay strangers in a hotel bar.
likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
you do NOT need to read the previous parts to read this one
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @omi-resources
You stood near the end of the counter, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of something you couldn’t even remember ordering.
The condensation dripped between your fingers, cool and slick, grounding you in the low-lit noise of the bar. Your heel was propped on the brass rail, dress riding up just a little, enough to feel the air against your thigh.
The place was alive tonight. Warm with pressed bodies and old wood, the kind of Friday-night hum that vibrated through your ribs. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly against exposed brick, casting everything in shades of pink and amber.
It wasn’t your scene, not really, but you’d promised yourself you’d try. A little lipstick. A short sequence dress. A half-commitment to pretending you weren’t already imagining the silence of your apartment, the relief of kicking off your heels, the familiar weight of his arms around you when you got home.
But then you felt it.
A gaze sliding over your skin like a warm hand before it even touched you. Your neck prickled. The hair on your arms stood. The strange gravity of someone looking shifted the air around you before you even turned.
Then the voice came from behind your left shoulder, cutting through the bar’s chatter like a blade.
“Didn’t think a girl like you would be here alone.”
You turned.
The man beside you was tall, broad-shouldered under a dark coat that looked expensive in a simple way. His hair was neatly cut, dark, with a hint of grey catching the neon light. Stubble lined his jaw, sharp and clean, his eyes were blue, electric even in the dim haze—and they carried this confidence that bordered on predatory.
You gave him a slow once-over. From his boots to his jaw, letting him feel the weight of your attention. Then, casually, you turned back to your drink. “I’m not alone.”
He didn’t leave. You could feel him smile before he spoke again, the warmth of it bleeding into his voice.
“Boyfriend?”
You nodded.
“Is he here?”
You shook your head, taking a sip of your drink, something citrusy and sweet that burned pleasantly on the way down.
“Then you’re alone.” His voice was soft, like he was stating a fact you’d been trying to ignore.
You huffed a laugh before you could stop it, surprised sound that slipped out like a traitor. You sipped again, buying a second, then glanced sideways at him. “That’s not really how it works.”
He leaned in, close enough that his cologne reached you first; clean, soapy, undercut with something warm and woody. It was good. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer just to breathe it in.
“Maybe not,” he said, “but I’ve got a feeling your boyfriend doesn’t appreciate you the way he should.”
You looked at him then, skeptical, one eyebrow lifting. “You know my boyfriend?”
“No.” A grin spread across his mouth. “But if he was doing his job, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”
Your lips curved… again, against your will. A small, reluctant acknowledgment that the game was already in play. You shifted, angling your body slightly away, a polite distance that said I’m not interested even as your eyes lingered a beat too long.
He didn’t take the hint. He took a step closer, filling the space you’d left, and the heat of his body wrapped around you like a second skin.
His gaze traveled over your face, not crude, not hungry in the cheap way. Appreciative. Attentive. Too attentive, like he was memorising the curve of your jaw, the way the neon light caught the gloss on your lips.
“I’m flattered,” you said, keeping your tone light, easy. “But like I said—I’ve got someone.”
“Yeah?” His voice dropped, almost a murmur. “Is he here?”
You let out a slow exhale, a half-smile tugging at your mouth. “We’ve been over this.”
He smiled back, smaller this time. A quiet acknowledgment that yes, you had, and he didn’t care.
“You’re drinking alone,” he said, each word placed with care. “Dressed like that. Smiling at me.” He paused, tilting his head, letting the silence stretch. “You don’t strike me as the loyal girlfriend type.”
Your jaw tightened, just a fraction. You turned toward him fully now, elbows finding the bar.
“I’m very loyal,” you said, voice steady. “He’s just not the jealous type.”
He let the word sit, “oh,” slow and dry, laced with amusement. Then, “So he’s a fucking idiot.”
You blinked.
The laugh that escaped you was real this time, warm and surprised, your shoulders loosening despite yourself. You shook your head, a little smile you couldn’t suppress curving your lips.
“That’s one way to put it,” you said.
He tilted his head, eyes catching the soft curve of your smile, and holding it like a prize. A low, appreciative hum escaped him as his gaze dragged down your body, the kind of look that felt like a touch you hadn’t consented to but couldn’t bring yourself to stop.
“You let your girl come out here looking like that,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something rougher, “on her own, with guys like me walking around?” His tongue swept across his bottom lip as his eyes traveled back up to yours. “He doesn’t care. That’s what I’m hearing.”
You didn’t respond. Instead, you brought your glass to your lips, letting the cool liquid slide over your tongue, buying yourself a beat of silence. You could feel the weight of his attention pressing against your skin.
Then he lifted two fingers at the bartender, a lazy, confident gesture.
“Get her another,” he said, without breaking eye contact with you. “Whatever she’s drinking.”
You held up a hand, palm out. “I’m good, thanks.”
“I insist.” His words were soft but firm, and his eyes stayed locked on yours, daring you to look away first. “Your boyfriend can be mad later.”
You tilted your head, letting yourself study him in return. Really look this time. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his chin, and the barely-there dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when his smirk deepened.
He leaned in again, closer now, under the pretense of the music swelling around you. His lips hovered near your ear, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath before you heard his voice.
“I’ll be honest,” he said, each word a carefully placed stone in the path he wanted you to follow. “I’m not here for the small talk. You don’t want me—fine. I can take no.” A pause. “But if you do… just say the word.”
The new drink landed in front of you, the glass slick with condensation, a thin river of water pooling on the dark wood. You glanced at it, then back at him. He hadn’t looked away once, not even to blink.
You gave him a flat look, but your fingers still curled around the rim of the fresh glass, betraying you. “You’re really pushy.”
He shrugged, unhurried. “I’m direct.”
“Same thing.”
“I’d argue it’s different.” His voice dropped, conversational now. “Pushy guys don’t take no for an answer. I’m just giving you a chance to be honest with yourself.”
You lifted the drink to your lips, more to buy time than anything else. The liquid was cold and sharp, citrus cutting through the warmth blooming in your chest.
“I mean, he can’t be that good,” he casually added, as if commenting on the weather. “You’ve checked your phone three times since I walked in. Not once did it light up with his name.”
Your gaze dropped to your hand, fingers tightening on the glass until your knuckles paled.
“That’s not really any of your business.”
He leaned his elbow on the bar, turning more fully to face you. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back a chuckle. “It’s a little bit my business, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “especially if I’m about to spend the rest of my night thinking about those pretty legs wrapped around me.”
Your eyes snapped to his, a jolt of heat lancing through you at the crudeness. You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression schooled, even as your pulse hammered against your ribs.
“You always talk to women like this?” you asked, your voice steady, a thin shield.
“No.” He said it simply, without hesitation. “Just the girls who pretend they don’t want it.”
You scoffed, but you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. “You’re an asshole.”
He tilted his head, considering the word like a wine he was tasting. “Confident,” he corrected, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “And maybe a little desperate.” His eyes held yours, a challenge and an invitation all at once. “Can you blame me?”
His eyes dipped lower for just a second, dragging over the obvious curve of your cleavage, the bare expanse of thigh you’d half-heartedly crossed. When they came back up, his pupils had swallowed nearly all the blue, leaving only a thin ring of color.
“If I were your man,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something gravelly, “I’d never let you out of my sight. Let alone out of the house dressed like this.” A pause, his gaze flicking down again. “That’d only be for me to appreciate.”
You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. “You really think negging my boyfriend’s gonna make me want to fuck you?”
“No.” The word camwe out confident. “But I think you’re already thinking about it. And that’s got nothing to do with him.”
The air between you tightened like a drawn wire. You hated how right he felt. How every time he leaned in, your body seemed to sway toward him, a magnetic pull you couldn’t quite override.
You didn’t meet his eyes right away. Instead, you let your gaze drift to the condensation on your glass, tracing a path through the droplets with your fingertip. Let him sit in his confidence. Let him think he was winning. Even if he kind of was.
“So,” you said after a beat, your voice dropping to a murmur that was almost lost in the pulse of the music, “how exactly would you be better than my boyfriend?”
He didn’t hesitate. Not a flicker.
“I’d actually pay attention,” he said, and his voice had gone quieter, it felt like a secret meant only for you. “I wouldn’t let you walk around looking like this unless it was for me. I’d keep you so satisfied you’d never even remember his name.”
You laughed softly, low and skeptical, a sound that caught in your throat. “That so?”
“Yeah.” The word was a breath, a promise. He leaned closer, and you caught the faint rasp of stubble against his jaw as his mouth hovered near your ear. “I’d learn your body like a map. I’d make you beg without even touching you. I’d ruin every other man for you just by how good I fuck you.”
The words landed like sparks on dry tinder, igniting something low in your belly. You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve told him to get lost, laughed in his face, walked away.
Instead, you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, your chin lifting in quiet defiance.
“You rehearse this shit, or is it just off the cuff?”
A grin spread across his face. “I can show you if you want.”
You took another sip, letting the cool liquid coat your throat. And then you felt it, his knee, sliding slowly between your thighs, pressing against the inside of your leg with unhurried pressure.
“I think,” you said, lips brushing the rim of your glass, your voice steady even as your skin hummed, “you’re full of shit.”
“I think,” he countered, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath at your cheek, “you’re hoping I’m not.”
And you didn’t say anything for a second too long. The silence stretched, filled with the thrum of bass and the thud of your own heartbeat.
His smile widened, slow and triumphant.
“Just one night,” he said, soft as a murmur. “That’s all I’m askin’.”
You exhaled, the breath shaking just a little. “God, you’re really committed to this.”
His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “Could say the same about you, sweetheart.”
Your eyes lingered on him longer than they should have. Longer than was safe. The neon glow from the sign behind him painted his jaw in shades of pink and blue. The way he stood; loose, confident, like he owned every inch of space around him, made your mouth go dry.
You were past the point of denial now. You didn’t even try to cover the way your thighs pressed tighter around his knee every time he leaned in, the way your breath caught when his voice dropped. Every word he whispered, every glance, it was crawling under your skin, planting something hot and unruly inside you.
You let out a slow breath, your chest rising and falling as you held his gaze. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, the slight curve, the faint wetness from where he’d licked his lips, then back up to meet his.
“Fine,” you said softly, the word barely audible beneath the thrum of the bar’s music. “Just one night.”
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t question it, didn’t gloat, at least, not out loud. But the shift in him was unmistakable. His shoulders straightened, his jaw tightened, and that smirk curved at the corners of his mouth. It was a look that said I knew it. I knew you’d break.
Then his fingers wrapped around your hand; big, warm, a little rough, calloused in a way that made you wonder what he did for a living. He pulled you up from your stool in one clean, fluid motion, and you felt the sudden loss of the barstool’s support replaced by the solid heat of his body close to yours.
Your drink was still half-full. Your dignity back at that bar. Didn’t matter.
His hand didn’t just hold yours, it led. Gripped with purpose, not carelessness. His thumb pressed into the soft webbing between your index and middle finger, and you felt the pulse in his palm, steady and strong.
Out of the bar, past the crowd jostling at the door, through the heavy oak door and into the night air that hit you like a slap, cold and sharp after the suffocating heat you’d been sitting in.
The temperature difference made your skin prickle, your nipples tightening beneath your dress. But it didn’t cool you down. If anything, it made everything more electric, more alive.
He glanced back once, just long enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, you caught the flicker of heat behind his gaze, the tension in his jaw.
The parking lot was mostly empty. You hadn’t even registered which one was his, too busy trying to slow your heart down, too busy wondering what the hell you’d just agreed to.
He didn’t give you time to second-guess it.
Before you could reach for the door handle, he turned you.
One quick, smooth movement, your back hitting the cool metal side of the car with a quiet thud that echoed in your chest. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, your eyes going wide, your hands flying up instinctively.
Then his hand came up, gripping your jaw, his fingers curving around the bone just beneath your ear. He tilted your face up toward his, forcing your gaze to meet his, and you saw the raw hunger there, barely leashed.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he murmured.
It was all mouth and hunger and heat, his lips crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back for hours and the dam had finally broken.
The first contact was almost bruising, a desperate, claiming press that stole your breath and left you reeling. His mouth was warm, tasted faintly of whiskey and salt, and the scrape of his stubble against your chin sent a shiver down your neck.
He kissed like a man who knew what your mouth would taste like. Who’d imagined it in vivid detail, over and over, until now, finally, it was real. His tongue slid in, exploring, tasting, taking, just claiming what he wanted. His fingers held your jaw in place, like he didn’t want you pulling away. Like he didn’t want you thinking.
Your knees buckled.
Your hands flew up, gripping the front of his shirt, the fabric soft but warm, the muscles beneath taut and steely. You fisted the material, trying to anchor yourself to something solid as his mouth moved against yours. His chest was hard against your palms, his heartbeat a rapid drum beneath your fingers.
You weren’t kissing him back at first. You were just trying to keep up. Trying to breathe.
But he didn’t let you. He didn’t give you space to gather yourself.
He licked into your mouth like he was starving, like every second without your taste was agony. A groan rumbled low in his throat, a sound that was equal parts relief and torture, and it vibrated through you, settling somewhere deep in your belly.
His hand slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, fingers curling behind your ear, tilting your head just slightly to deepen the angle.
The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, the way his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear. The cold night air bit at your bare legs, but you barely felt it, all you felt was him, all you tasted was him, all you heard was the wet sound of the kiss and your own ragged breathing.
When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, throbbing, wet with the evidence of his claim. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
A thin string of saliva connected your lips, glistening in the streetlight, unbroken until you finally parted them with a shaky exhale.
You didn’t even realize your nails were still digging into his shirt until you felt him exhale against your mouth, a warm, shaky breath that fanned across your sensitive skin.
He didn’t say anything.
Just pressed his forehead to yours. Let you breathe. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheekbones, his breath still uneven. You could feel the tremour in his frame, the barely restrained hunger still simmering beneath the surface.
Then he stepped back, opened the car door like nothing had just happened and waited for you to climb in.
The elevator ride was barely two floors.
Maybe three. You didn’t know. You didn’t remember stepping inside, didn’t remember pressing the button, didn’t remember the doors sliding shut behind you.
All you remembered was his hand on the small of your back, the firm, pressure of his palm against the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide, pressing just hard enough to steer you forward.
And when you reached his door, his grip tightened. Those fingers dug into the flesh just above your hip, and you felt the tremour in his arm, the barely restrained tension coiling through his muscles. Like he was already fighting himself not to ravage you in the hallway.
The key turned. The lock clicked.
And the second the door swung shut behind you, it was over.
He was on you.
There was nothing smooth about it. No romantic glide across hardwood floors to a couch you’d never reach. No whispered sweet nothings.
This was fast.
His coat hit the floor before the door fully closed, followed by the jingle of keys dropping somewhere near his shoes. Your purse slipped from your fingers, landing near the entry table with a dull thump you barely registered.
His hands found your hips first. Then your ass, grabbing handfuls of flesh through the thin fabric of your dress. Then your back, sliding up the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing into the muscles on either side. Then your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, and you gasped against his mouth.
He couldn’t decide where to touch first, so he touched everything.
God, his mouth was everywhere too.
At your jaw, teeth scraping along the sharp edge of it. At your throat, tongue dragging hot and wet over your pulse point. At your collarbone, lips sucking a bruise into the hollow just above where your dress dipped. Anywhere your skin peeked out, he was ther.
He was like a fucking bear. Big, warm, all-consuming, surrounding you with heat and muscle and the faint scent of whiskey and leather and male. And you weren’t complaining. Not even a little.
Your back hit the nearest wall with a thud that rattled the picture frame beside you. The impact forced the air from your lungs, and you gasped, head falling back against the plaster. The dress rode up under his grip, the hem bunching around your hips, cool air kissing the bare skin of your thighs.
Your leg lifted instinctively, wrapping around his hip, heel digging into the firm curve of his ass to anchor him to you. He groaned into your neck and the sound vibrated through your skin.
“Mmm,” he muttered against your throat. His lips brushed your pulse as he spoke, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Does your boyfriend touch you like this?”
A breathy laugh escaped you, surprised and amused despite the heat flooding your veins. You tilted your head back further, giving him more access, and your fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.
“You really hate that guy, huh?”
He pulled back just far enough to look you in the eye. Dim light from the kitchen filtered through the apartment, catching the sharp blue of his gaze, the dilated pupils, the flush creeping up his neck.
“I think he’s a goddamn idiot,” he said, voice low and rough. “Letting a girl like you walk around wanting this kind of attention. Dressed like this, looking like you do.” His grip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “If you were mine—”
You cut him off with a kiss. It was teeth and tongue and a sharp bite against his lower lip that made him hiss, and then you pulled back, breath short, lips slick.
“But I’m not yours,” you said against his mouth, the words barely a whisper.
And god, the look he gave you.
His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking near his temple. His right hand came up, fingers curling around your throat as his thumb pressed gently against the hollow beneath your jaw, feeling your pulse flutter like a trapped bird beneath his touch.
“Not yet,” he rasped, the words a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through his chest into yours
He didn’t guide you so much as haul you toward the nearest surface.
One hand clamped under your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, while the other gripped your ass hard enough to make you gasp. The world blurred; a flash of dark cabinetry, the hum of a refrigerator, the faint citrus scent of cleaner, and then your back hit the edge of his kitchen island.
The impact knocked a quiet, breathless gasp from your lungs. The granite was cold against your skin through your dress, a sharp shock against the heat blazing through your body. The edge dug into your lower back, a hard line of pressure that should have been uncomfortable, but it barely registered.
Not with the furnace of his body pressed so close. Not with the way he was already shoving the hem of your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric with impatient hands, like the dress itself had personally offended him.
“Fuck,” he breathed out. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking near his temple as his eyes raked down your body. His fingers curled into the hem and yanked it higher, past your hips, past the damp lace of your panties, baring you to the cool kitchen air. “Look at you.”
His voice dropped, as his hands slid under the bunched fabric to grip your bare hips. His fingers dug into the curve of bone, hard enough to leave crescents, and a shiver of anticipation rolled through you at the thought of feeling those marks tomorrow.
“Can’t believe your man lets you walk around like this,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin of your thighs. “Dress so short I can see the curve of your ass with every step you take. Tits practically spilling out, begging for attention. You’re a walking invitation, sweetheart.”
“He trusts me,” you shot back, grinning despite the wildfire racing through your veins.
“He’s a fucking idiot,” Bucky grunted, and then he lifted you like you weighed nothing, hands under your thighs, a single smooth motion that had you gasping as he set you on the cold granite counter.
Your ass met the stone, a jolt of cold against the heat between your legs, and you braced your palms flat on the surface to steady yourself. “Should’ve locked you up before someone else got to you.”
Your thighs spread instinctively to keep your balance, opening yourself to him like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes dropped between them like he was starving, dress rucked up around your waist, panties damp and clinging.
His hands followed his gaze. Fingertips found the soft inner flesh of your thighs, tracing lazy patterns, goosebumps rising in their wake. His thumbs brushed the edges of your panties, teasing,. His mouth hovered just above yours, close enough that you could taste his breath, warm and slightly sweet with the whiskey from the bar.
“Bet he doesn’t even touch you right,” he murmured, his lips barely skimming yours with each word. “Bet he doesn’t make you beg. Doesn’t know how wet you get from just being told what to do. Does he, sweetheart? Does he know how your body responds to a firm hand?”
You didn’t respond. Your tongue felt thick, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.
His fingers hooked into the crotch of your panties, and he shoved the damp fabric aside with two confident strokes. Then one finger traced the length of your slit, gathering the wetness that had been pooling there since the bar. The sensation made you jerk, a sharp inhale hissing through your teeth.
“Fuck,” he hissed, almost to himself. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared at where his hand disappeared between your thighs. “Yeah. This is mine now.”
You clenched around nothing, your body responding before your brain could catch up, a desperate, empty ache blooming in your core.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say this pussy’s mine for the night.”
A grin tugged at your lips, defiant even now. You dragged your nails up the length of his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath the fabric of his shirt. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”
He let out a low chuckle. His hand slid from your throat to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he dragged you into another kiss, a reclaiming of territory already conquered.
His other hand slipped lower, fingers teasing at your entrance, slick with your own arousal. The tip of his finger pressed in just barely, and then withdrew.
“Yeah,” he murmured against your mouth, the word a breathless, cocky whisper. “And you’re about to let me prove it.”
His fingers were still between your thighs, barely moving now. Just resting there. A lazy pressure that kept you teetering on the edge of desperate, your hips twitching involuntarily against his palm.
Every time you tried to grind down, he pulled back just enough to deny you, a cruel little game he played with the patience of a predator.
His other hand trailed up your side, slipping beneath the rumpled dress to brush the curve of your waist. His fingertips traced the ridge of your ribs, then swept higher, grazing the underside of your breast with a featherlight touch that had your spine arching.
And then he murmured, voice low and wrapped in velvet, “You ever been filmed before, sweetheart?”
Your breath caught. Lodged somewhere in your throat like a stone.
Your body said yes before your brain even processed the question, your thighs tensed, your nipples tightened, a fresh pulse of heat bloomed between your legs. But your mouth hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your face.
“Filmed?” The word came out breathless, barely audible over the thudding of your heart.
“Mmhmm.” His voice was soft now, coaxing. His lips ghosted over your jaw as he spoke, hot and teasing. “Wanna see how goddamn pretty you look like this. Want to watch you later—legs spread, begging for it, that messy little sound you make when you cum. You ever seen yourself like that, honey?”
You couldn’t answer. Your mouth was dry, your pulse hammering so loud you could hear it rushing in your ears.
He kissed your neck, his lips parting against your skin. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive tendon just below your ear, a sharp little pressure that made you gasp.
His hand stayed between your legs, just touching, his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers slick and still, the heel of his hand grinding lazily against your clit. Keeping your blood hot. Keeping you pliant.
“C’mon,” he whispered, the word a hot puff of air against your throat. “Let me keep it. Just for me. I won’t show anyone.” A pause. His lips brushed the hollow of your collarbone. “Just wanna remember how you sounded when I made you cum. Just wanna have something to jerk off to when you go back to that sorry excuse for a boyfriend.”
Your lips parted. Your heart was in your throat, beating against the base of your tongue.
He pulled back just enough to look at you—and fuck. Those eyes. Half-lidded, dark as sin, glittering with something between hunger and tenderness.
This was for him. Just because he wanted to own this moment. To freeze it, preserve it, revisit it whenever he pleased.
“Please,” he added, the word a low murmur that crawled down your spine. “Let me watch you fall apart. Let me have something to remember you by when you’re gone.”
And just like that, you broke. You nodded once, a small, jerky motion that felt too fast and too slow all at once.
The look on his face turned downright pleased. A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips, pleased and satisfied.
He stepped back, pulling his hand from between your legs deliberately slow that bordered on cruel. The absence was sharp, almost painful—you whimpered, a soft, instinctive sound that slipped out before you could stop it.
He heard it. His lips parted like he might say something, but instead he just let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
He reached into his jeans pocket and tugged out his phone. The screen blazed to life, casting cold light across his angular features. He swiped it awake with one thumb, eyes never leaving yours.
You stayed on the counter. Legs spread. Dress bunched up around your hips, the fabric twisted and forgotten. Panties still pushed to the side, damp and useless.
But before you could process what came next, he handed you the phone.
“Hold this,” he said. “Keep it steady. And don’t stop filming until I say so.”
The weight of the device settled in your palm, the screen angled toward him. Your fingers trembled, but you gripped it tight.
His hands slid under your thighs, palms warm and calloused against your skin, and he pulled you to the edge of the counter with a single, effortless motion.
“You’re really gonna let me eat you out on camera?” he muttered. His thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. “Look at you. Spread open, holding the phone, panting for it like a bitch in heat. What would your boyfriend say if he saw this, huh?”
A shiver rolled through you. You let out a shaky breath as you leaned back on your elbows, your legs falling open even wider.
“He doesn’t need to know,” you murmured.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest, through the air between you, through your bones.
“No, he doesn’t.” Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the tender flesh where your legs met your hips. “But I will.”
He lowered his head, his breath hot against your slick skin.
“Now keep that camera steady, sweetheart. I want to see your face when I make you forget your name.”
And then he was on you.
His tongue hit you like a brand. It dragged from the slick entrance of your cunt all the way up to your clit in one long, agonizingly slow stroke, tasting you like he was savouring every inch. The flat of his tongue pressed firm, parting your folds, and when he reached the top he circled once, lazy, before dipping back down.
You gasped. Your back bowed off the counter, your spine curling like a struck wire. One hand scrambled for the edge of the granite, fingers scrabbling for purchase, while the other fought to keep the camera steady, pointed directly down at him, at the way his mouth was devouring you.
He moaned into you.
A deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your clit, through your thighs, through the aching core of you. Like he was the one being pleasured. Like your taste was the only thing that could satisfy him.
“Goddamn,” he muttered against your flesh, his breath hot and damp. His tongue flicked out, lapping at your clit with a lazy stroke. “So fuckin’ sweet. Sweetest thing I’ve had in my mouth in months.”
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening and chin slick. The camera caught every detail.
“Bet he doesn’t even taste you, does he?” His voice was a low, rasping cruel whisper. “Bet he just shoves it in and pumps away like a jackrabbit, leaves you lying there wet and wanting.”
You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form a single word. Not when his mouth wrapped around your clit again, sealing tight, and he sucked, once, hard, a sharp vacuum of pleasure that punched a cry from your throat. Then he eased, softening into slower licks, his tongue tracing figure-eights around the swollen bud.
Your thighs trembled, clamping around his head. He didn’t seem to mind. He moaned again, the vibration traveling straight through your cunt and up your spine.
“Bet he doesn’t even know how to touch you here—” His metal thumb pressed into the soft, sensitive spot just beside your entrance, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your heat. “—or how wet you get just from a little attention. Look at you. Dripping. Making a mess all over my face.”
You whimpered. A high, broken sound that felt torn from somewhere deep in your chest.
His metal hand slid up your thigh, the cool vibranium tracking a path of goosebumps across your flushed skin. Then, without warning, two fingers pushed into you. A slick, effortless slide that made you gasp again.
He didn’t pause. Didn’t give you time to adjust. He just pumped them in and out, a steady rhythm that matched the circling of his tongue. His fingers crooked, searching, and when they found that spongy spot inside you, he pressed hard and held.
You didn’t mean to make the sounds you were making.
They poured out of you like confession, gasping, keening, helpless little moans that you couldn’t hold back. Your head fell back, your hips lifting off the counter, chasing his mouth and fingers like you’d lost all sense of self-preservation.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your wet skin, his lips brushing your clit with every word. “So desperate for someone who isn’t even your man. Fuck, he must be so boring.”
You whimpered, your hips grinding against his face.
His fingers curled again… just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His tongue never stopped. It circled and flicked and pressed, relentless.
“You think about this?” he went on, “When you’re lying next to him at night, do you think about someone else doing this to you? Someone who actually knows how to use his mouth?”
You shook your head, trying to deny, but your body betrayed you, your hips rocking faster against his hand.
“Yeah, you do,” he said, and he laughed, a low, breathless sound against your cunt. “You think about it all the time. I think you’d let me do anything just to feel good for once. I think you’d let me fuck you right in his bed while he’s at work, and you’d still smile like a good girl and kiss him goodnight.”
His fingers fucked into you, slow and steady, his tongue circling your clit in tight, focused strokes that left no room for thought. The pressure built in your belly, impossible to ignore.
“You close?” he asked, his voice hoarse and knowing.
You nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. Too far gone to pretend. Too far gone to care.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His lips were glistening, his jaw slick, his pupils blown wide and black. And then… smirking, that wicked curve of his mouth, he glanced toward the camera.
“Let’s show him, yeah doll?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s show him how you cum for someone who actually knows what he’s doing. Let’s give him something to think about tonight.”
And then he sucked your clit again—hard—while his fingers pumped faster, deeper, curling with ruthless precision.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—”
You came.
It was raw. Violent. Your hips jerked off the counter, your thighs clamping around his head like a vise. The sounds that tore out of you were ragged and broken, a string of curses and pleas that blurred into incoherence.
Your vision went white, your whole body seizing, and he didn’t stop. His tongue kept stroking, his fingers kept pumping, fucking you through every last wave of pleasure until you were twitching and shaking, oversensitive and gasping.
He groaned against your clit, like he loved it. Like he was drinking it down.
You barely had time to catch your breath. Barely had time to register the aftershocks still rippling through your thighs before he was climbing up your body, his lips slick with your release, his chin wet, his eyes dark with something animalistic.
His hand snatched the phone from your trembling grip, like a predator claiming his prize. The other hand clamped around your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he dragged you toward the edge of the kitchen island.
He angled the phone down, the camera aimed directly at your cunt, glistening, swollen, still slick from his mouth. Your dress was bunched around your waist in a crumpled mess, and your panties were long gone, ripped off somewhere between the counter and the floor.
“Gonna let me fuck you now?” His voice was a mocking drawl that made your toes curl. “Even though you’ve got a boyfriend waiting at home? Probably wondering where his sweet little girl is.”
You blinked up at him, still dazed, still floating on the aftershocks of your orgasm. But you played along. You nodded slowly, your lips parting, your eyes half-lidded. Like a good girl. Like a stupid little slut who’d already crossed every line and couldn’t find her way back.
You watched like a hungry bitch in heat as he unbuckled his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet kitchen, and shoved his pants down his thighs with one hand. His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a wet sound that made your mouth water. The head flushed dark, already slick with pre-cum.
Your voice didn’t work anymore. All the clever retorts, the smart mouth answers—gone. Your legs parted on pure instinct, your hips tilting up in silent invitation.
He clicked his tongue.
“Such a dirty girl,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Cheating on your boyfriend like this. Letting a stranger stretch your pretty pussy open in his kitchen. On his counter. While he films it.”
He positioned himself at your entrance, just the head pressing, teasing, not pushing in yet. Your breath hitched. Your whole body trembled.
“Tell me what you are,” he said, the camera still fixed on where he was about to enter you.
“I’m—I’m a dirty girl—”
“Louder.”
“I’m a dirty girl.”
“And?”
“And I—I want you to fuck me.”
He smiled, satisfied.
And then he pushed in.
Thick and slow. Letting you feel every filthy inch as he sank into you, stretching you open inch by inch. The burn was exquisite, a sharp, delicious ache that made your jaw drop and your eyes roll back. You clenched around him, too sensitive, already fucked-out from his mouth, and he groaned, an animal sound that vibrated through his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips seating flush against yours. “Tight little thing. Feels like you were made for this. Made for my cock.”
He pulled back just enough to look down at where you were joined, angling the phone to capture every detail, the way your cunt gripped him, the slick shine of his cock as he dragged out, the desperate flutter of your muscles.
And then he started to move.
His hips dragged back and slammed in again with bruising force. The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. The second made you cry out, loud and raw, your voice cracking in the empty kitchen.
He groaned harder at the sound.
“Look at that,” he rasped, his voice wrecked with pleasure. He angled the camera down again, zooming in on where he split you open. “Fuckin’ made for it, huh? Look at how pretty she takes it.”
He shifted his weight, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, the angle changed, deeper nowand your back hit the counter hard as he picked up the pace. The slapping sounds filled the room.
“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, breath ragged, the phone still steady in his grip. “Gonna cum on this cock like the fucking slut you are? Let your boyfriend watch it later? Think he’d wanna see what a whore you are when no one’s watching?”
Your eyes rolled back. Your mouth hung open, drool threatening to slip down your chin. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
He slapped your clit, a bright flare of pain-pleasure that made you jolt.
“Answer me.”
“Yes—yes, fuck, I—please—”
“Please what?”
“Please let me cum—I need—”
He thrust harder, faster, the angle punishing. His free hand pressed down on your lower belly, making you feel every inch of him inside you.
“Look at the camera,” he commanded, his voice a growl. “Look at it and tell him who’s making you feel this good.”
You forced your eyes open, found the lens, stared into it with glassy, tear-streaked eyes.
“You,” you gasped. “You’re making me—”
“That’s right. Me. Not him. Me.”
He lowered his mouth to your ear, still fucking you, his breath hot and ragged.
“Now cum for me. Cum for the camera. Let everyone see what a good little slut you are.”
The orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden and impossible to stop. Your back arched off the counter, your walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, groaning as you tightened around him, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release.
“That’s what I thought”
He pulled out suddenly, an abrupt emptiness that made you gasp, your body clenching around nothing, desperate to keep him. The whine that escaped your lips was pathetic, high and needy, and you didn’t even have the shame to swallow it.
But Bucky didn’t give you a second to recover. His metal hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you upright before your head stopped spinning.
“Up,” he ordered, his voice tight and ragged. “C’mon. Up, baby. I’m not done with you.”
Your legs were jelly. Your bones had turned to water. But he hooked his hand under your thigh and lifted you off the island like you weighed nothing, sliding you down until your bare feet hit the cold tile floor.
Your knees buckled immediately. You were shaking, ruined, still dripping down your thighs in sticky trails, your dress bunched around your waist, while he steadied you with a hand on your hip.
“You’re a mess,” he muttered, not even pretending to hide the pride in his voice. His metal fingers traced the curve of your hip, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Bet he’s never fucked you dumb like this, huh?”
Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted. But he didn’t let you stay there. He spun you around, grabbed your hips, and bent you over the counter like a doll, your tits pressing flat against the cold marble, your cheek smushed against the cool stone, your legs spread wide before you even realized what he was doing.
The camera was still rolling. And he aimed it directly at your ass, at your dripping cunt, at the mess he’d made of you.
“There we go,” he rasped, his voice a rough purr behind you. “Much better view. Look at that, fuckin’ dripping for me. Like a little faucet.”
You gasped as his hand came down right across your ass cheek. The crack echoed in the kitchen, and your skin bloomed with heat instantly. Your hips bucked forward, pushing your tits harder against the marble.
“Stay still,” he grunted, his metal hand pressing into the small of your back, pinning you down. “Be good and take it. Don’t make me tell you twice.”
And then he was sliding back in.
No teasing. Just one sharp, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He filled you completely, the angle brutal, the stretch exquisite. Your mouth fell open on a silent scream.
He didn’t wait. He started moving immediately, punishing strokes that made the counter shake. His hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you open for him.
“Fuck, baby—so tight like this,” he groaned, his voice strained, wrecked. “Like you’re trying to milk me dry.”
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear.
“Bet he’s never seen you like this. Fucked out. Bent over. Filmed like a little slut.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving them into you along with his cock. “What would he say if he saw this video? Huh? If he watched you beggin’ for my cock with your makeup running, your pretty little pussy creamin’ all over me?”
Your only answer was a broken moan. Your hands scrambled uselessly across the marble, searching for something to hold onto.
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The stretch in your neck sent a shiver down your spine.
“What would he say, huh,” Bucky panted, fucking into you harder now, the slapping sounds wet and filthy, “if he saw how much you love it? If he saw that look in your eyes—that fucked-out, starved look you get when I’m deep inside you?”
Your third orgasm was building, coiling low in your belly, your pussy aching with overstimulation. The marble was digging into your hips, leaving red marks on your skin, and you didn’t care. You wanted more. You wanted him to break you.
“Say it,” he grunted, snapping his hips faster, his hand wrapping around your throat from behind to pull your head even farther back. “Tell the camera what you’re doing.”
You choked on a sob, tears welling in your eyes.
“—Cheating,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat. “I’m cheating on him—fuck, fuck—please don’t stop—”
He groaned like he could’ve fucking died from how good that sounded.
“That’s it, baby. Say it again. Let the whole world know what a filthy little whore you are.”
You were already crying, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation, your body trembling as you struggled to hold yourself up on your elbows. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through you, your clit rubbing against the marble with every movement, building that pressure higher and higher.
“Say it again,” he growled, his cock buried deep inside you. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“—Cheating,” you whispered again, breathless, voice cracking. “I’m cheating on him.”
“Can’t hear you.”
“I’m cheating on my boyfriend,” you moaned, choked and messy, the shame in your voice only making it hotter. “Letting some stranger fuck me in his kitchen.”
He groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second, his grip tightening on your throat.
“God, you’re perfect. Fucking perfect. Say my name.”
You didn’t even think. The word fell from your lips like a prayer.
“Bucky—”
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the kitchen. Your body rocked against the marble with every brutal thrust, your tits sliding across the cold surface, nipples dragging against the stone, your breath fogging the counter in ragged clouds as he fucked you faster.
The hand on your throat dropped down your body to between your legs, metal fingers finding your clit with brutal precision. He rubbed you in rough, tight circles, no gentleness, just enough pressure to make your vision blur.
“Wanna cum again for me, baby?” he panted behind you. “Wanna cum on a stranger’s cock while your boyfriend’s out there probably textin’ you right now, askin’ if you’re okay?”
His fingers pinched your clit and you cried out.
“Answer me.”
“Yes—fuck, yes—”
“Use me,” you begged, the words torn from somewhere deep, broken and desperate. “Please, just use me. I don’t care—I don’t care about anything—just fuck me—”
That did it.
He slammed in harder, faster, his groans turning into guttural snarls, his hips slapping against your ass with a force that left your skin stinging. His metal fingers on your clit were relentless. You were babbling words that made no sense, just sound and breath and need, your voice cracking as that third orgasm tore through you like lightning striking bone.
You clenched down so hard his rhythm stuttered.
“Oh fuck—fuck, doll—”
He pulled out suddenly, just in time, the loss of him leaving you gasping and empty. His hand left your clit and wrapped around his cock, jerking himself with messy, desperate strokes, the camera aimed down at the mess he’d made of you.
“On your knees,” he barked.
You dropped without hesitation.
Your knees hit the cold tile with a dull thud, your body limp and pliant and ruined. Your makeup was smudged into dark raccoon circles around your eyes. Your lipstick was blurred. Your thighs were still slick with your multiple releases, sticky and gleaming under the kitchen lights.
You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, chest heaving, every inch of you screaming used.
He pointed the phone down at your face, capturing every detail.
“Jesus fuck—look at you,” he panted, his voice hoarse, wrecked. His grip on his cock was tight, the veins standing out against his skin. “Fucking look at you. Makeup ruined. Hair a mess. Cum drippin’ down your thighs. And you’re still lookin’ at me like you want more.”
You blinked up at him slowly, your tongue sliding across your lower lip, tasting the salt of your own sweat. The corner of your mouth lifted… just enough to tease. Just enough to let him know that yes, you wanted more. You wanted everything.
His breath hitched.
That was all it took.
He groaned deep from his chest, his hips snapping forward as he jerked himself harder… and then he came.
“Fuck—fuck—”
Thick, hot ropes hit your lips. Your cheek. Your tongue.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just let it land wherever he gave it, your mouth open like a fucking invitation, your eyes locked on his the entire time. One streak landed on your chin, another across your nose. You held still like a good girl.
He moaned like he was in pain, his chest heaving, his arm trembling as he kept the camera steady. His other hand milked the last drops out, stroking his tip right against your tongue, smearing the rest across your bottom lip.
“Gonna remember this forever,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The way you look right now. On your knees. Covered in my cum.”
You swallowed what landed in your mouth. The taste of him, salt and heat and something musky, spread across your tongue.
You held eye contact… and then licked your lips. Slow. Sweet. Like you savoured every drop. Your tongue swept across the mess on your cheek, your chin, collecting every trace of him.
And then you smiled and winked at the camera.
He groaned again. His arm dropped. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You’re unreal. You’re fucking unreal.”
He took a shaky step back, running his free hand through his hair, his chest still heaving.
“Get up,” he said, softer now. “C’mere. Let me kiss you.”
You were barely dried off when he dragged you into bed, still flushed in the cheeks, towel hanging low on his hips, clinging to the sharp cut of his waist. He flopped onto the mattress with a grunt that vibrated through the sheets and immediately reached for you like a heat-seeking missile.
You allowed him to wrap himself around you, his chest warm and damp against your back, arm tight across your middle, legs slotting in behind yours like puzzle pieces.
He was trying to hide. Burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing slow and deep like he could disappear into your skin. And despite being genuinely so fucked out after three orgasms, your thighs still aching and your core still humming, you couldn’t help yourself.
“‘Gonna remember this forever,’” you murmured, pitching your voice low and rough, mimicking him. You dragged the words out, dramatic and breathy. “God, baby. The drama. Are you sure you’re not secretly a director?”
He groaned The kind of groan that started in his chest and rolled out like thunder. He dragged the covers over both your heads, cocooning you in darkness and warmth, like it might smother the shame.
And you.
“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your shoulder.
You laughed, the sound swallowed by the blanket fort. Your body shook against his, and he tightened his grip in response, pulling you impossibly closer.
“You were so into it,” you continued, turning your head just enough to speak into the darkness. “Like, really committed. Tell me, what are you gonna do with that video? Are you planning an OnlyFans debut? Get some extra cash to spoil me with?”
He squeezed your waist in warning,, deliberate press of his fingers into your soft skin. You ignored him completely.
“I personally think we’d make a lot of money,” you said, your tone almost dreamy. “With your dick and my tits, we’d be famous in no time. Think of the branding. Think of the content.”
He lifted his head just enough to find your ear. “Please,” he said, low and gruff, “shut up and let me spoon you into silence.”
You hummed, basking in victory.
“You were so serious,” you whispered into the quiet. “The dirty talk? You’re gonna start submitting audition tapes to PornHub next, aren’t you? I can see it now—‘James.B.B, 107, 6’2”, specializes in roleplay and cum facials.’”
He groaned again, but it was quieter now.
You could feel his smile against your skin. He was trying not to let it show,but you knew it was there. Just like the soft kiss he pressed behind your ear, his lips lingering.
“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?” he muttered, his voice warm and entirely fond.
You turned in his arms, shifting until you faced him. The blanket still draped over your heads, cocooning you in shared heat and the faint scent of sex and soap. His whole body was relaxed in that way he only ever got after sex, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolved.
You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your fingertips. You kissed his nose.
“Not a chance, stranger.”
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. And then he kissed you anyway, a kiss that tasted like contented surrender. His hand slid up your spine, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath evening out.
You laid there for a long, quiet minute, his arm slung heavy across your stomach like an anchor, his breath slowing behind your ear into that deep, rhythmic cadence that meant he was drifting.
The warmth of his body curved around yours, the sheets tangled around your legs, the faint hum of the city through the window, it was almost enough to lull you under too.
Almost.
Which is exactly why you struck.
“Okay,” you said, your voice sweet as honey. “Give me your phone now.”
He tensed immediately. His arm tightened across your stomach, and you felt the shift in his breathing.
“...No.”
You twisted in his grip, frowning, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him.
“James.”
He sighed, like it physically pained him to hear his name on your lips in that tone. The sound dragged out, full of protest, and he pulled the pillow over his face.
You didn’t let up. You tore the blanket off both of you, sitting up fully, then turned to face him with the kind of look that told him exactly where this was going. A look that said I’m not asking.
“I just want to see how I looked,” you cooed, letting your voice go syrupy and coaxing. “For science.”
“You looked perfect,” he muttered from beneath the pillow. “You don’t need to see it.”
“Oh, but I do,” you teased, already reaching past him toward the nightstand where he’d abandoned the phone. “Because someone got real creative with angles tonight. I wanna see what Christopher Nolan-level filth you captured.”
He tried to pull you back down under the covers, his arm snaking around your waist, but you fought dirty. You squirmed, laughed, dug your elbow into his ribs until he grunted and loosened his grip. There was some wrestling until you finally managed to straddle his hips, pinning him down, and snatched the phone from the nightstand.
“Aha,” you declared, waving it like a trophy. “Siri, show me the porn.”
He groaned from beneath the pillow. “You’re a freak.”
“You love it.”
You unlocked the screen with his passcode, your birthday of course, and found the video right there in his most recent gallery. It wasn’t buried in a folder, wasn’t hidden behind a password.
“Jesus Christ, you didn’t even try to hide it,” you murmured.
You tapped play.
The sound alone was enough to make you both flinch.
Your own moan filled the room, echoing off the walls. The video opened on a shaky shot of the kitchen island, granite cool and sleek under the dim light, your legs splayed wide, his hand wrapped around your thigh.
You looked down at him slowly. His eyes were squeezed shut, the pillow still half-draped over his head, his cheeks flushed dark. For a guy who had fucked you within an inch of your life thirty minutes ago, he looked deeply, profoundly embarrassed.
“Oh my god,” you said, pausing the screen on his face. There he was… eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hair a wild mess, that filthy, knowing smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Who is he? Why is he so serious? Is this an Oscar campaign? A sizzle reel for his breakout role in Eat Pray Fuck?”
“Stop it,” Bucky mumbled.
But you kept going.
“Look at you. Sergeant Pornstar. All intense and broody. Grunting like you’re about to break the fourth wall and fuck the audience too.”
He peeked out just enough to glare at you, one blue eye visible above the edge of the pillow, very unamused. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“You’re so hot when you’re pretending not to be a freak.”
He huffed, but his ears were pink. The tips of them, visible above the pillow, turned the colour of a ripe strawberry.
You tapped further into the video, scrolling through the shots. Paused again. Leaned in closer to the screen.
“Wait—” You squinted. “Did you zoom while you were inside me?”
He huffed, and buried his face in the pillow like he could escape through the mattress.
“You did. Oh my god, you adjusted the focus on my ass. You framed the shot like it was a nature documentary.”
“Stop watching it,” he moaned.
“Never. I’m gonna turn this into a gif. A screensaver. My new phone background. Every time I get a text, I’ll see your constipated orgasm face.”
That did it.
He moved faster than you expected. The phone flew out of your hand, skidding across the bed, and he tackled you back down onto the mattress, his weight pressing you into the pillows.
It didn’t hurt. Not with him laughing into your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he tried to wrestle the phone out of your reach. His fingers fumbled against yours, and you shrieked as he pinned your wrist above your head, still laughing, still muttering, “You’re the fucking worst,” and “I hate you so much right now.”
He got the phone eventually.
And as he pinned you to the bed with both wrists above your head, his body draped over yours, sweat-slick and smiling, he leaned down and kissed your cheek. A whisper of lips against your skin.
“I’m deleting that video first thing tomorrow,” he mumbled, his voice fond.
You smiled up at him, your chest rising and falling against his.
“Sure you are, Sergeant,” you whispered, your eyes glinting in the dim light. “Right after you jack off to it one more time.”
He collapsed beside you with a huff, his body sinking into the mattress like it weighed twice what it did, limbs heavy and warm as he pulled you into his chest. His arm slung around your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he exhaled a long, tired breath.
The kind of breath that said finally, peace.
He was wrong.
“So,” you whispered against his collarbone, “since I let you pick this time, I get to choose the next roleplay.”
He sighed again
You ignored it completely.
“We could do the delivery guy thing,” you murmured, a yawn stealing the edge off your words. “Like, you show up with a package and I answer the door in just a towel, dripping wet, all innocent and flustered. And you’re just standing there, all stoic, but you have to fuck me on the spot. Right there against the doorframe. Package forgotten on the mat.”
He didn’t respond. His breathing was slow, like he was trying to will himself into unconsciousness.
So you kept going.
“Or—or we could do the ‘I’m your best friend’s girlfriend’ angle,” you said, your voice dropping into a dreamy cadence. “You’re not supposed to want me. But you catch me in the shower at a party. The bathroom door’s cracked open, and instead of leaving, you just… watch. Then you step inside, still fully dressed, and pin me to the tile.”
“No,” he mumbled, the word muffled against your skin.
Before you could continue, he rolled on top of you, his body a warm, solid weight pressing you into the mattress. His mouth found yours, a kiss that was clearly meant to shut you up. His tongue swept against your bottom lip, and for a moment you let yourself sink into it.
But only a moment.
You broke the kiss with a soft, teasing hum. “What about the corrupt cop thing?” you whispered, your lips still brushing his. “You pull me over on some empty road at midnight. I’m nervous, hands shaking as I hand you my license. And you shine your flashlight in my face, look me up and down, and tell me I was speeding. Then you lean down, voice low, and tell me there’s only one way I can get out of the ticket.”
He kissed you again. Harder this time. A grunt built in his throat, muffled against your mouth, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheek like he could physically hold your words in.
You chuckled against his lips.
“Ooooh. Or the one where I’m drunk and stumbling out of a party,” you said, your voice breathless. “You’re the older guy who tells me to get in the car. You drive me home in silence, but I fall asleep in the passenger seat, my head lolling against the window. So you carry me inside, and tuck me into.”
He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your pulse point, his lips pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Go to sleep, please,” he muttered.
“—but I wake up,” you continued, your fingers threading into his hair, “and you’re standing in the doorway. Watching me. And I’m so grateful. So vulnerable. So willing—spread out on the bed in nothing but his oversized shirt, legs parted just enough, looking up at you with those sleepy, trusting eyes. And then you just… take what you want.”
His whole body shuddered against yours. His hips pressed into your thigh, and you felt the unmistakable stir of interest against your skin. His cock, already half-hard from the images you’d painted, twitched as if responding to your words directly.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, the words rough, as he pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your neck.
You hummed, “I think you like it.”
He didn’t answer. He just pulled you tighter, his arm wrapping around your waist like a vise, his other hand sliding under your head to cup the base of your skull. He kissed your temple, then closed his eyes.
“No more talking,” he whispered.
You grinned against his chest. “Not even the professor one?” you teased. “Where I’m failing your class and you offer extra credit in the form of—“
“I will gag you.”
You snorted, the sound warm and muffled against his skin.
“That’s a yes, then.”
He groaned again, long and suffering. But you felt it, the curve of his lips pressed against your hair, the soft exhale of a smile he tried to hide.
And eventually you let him fall asleep. Wrapped around you, his body a shield of warmth and muscle, his breath evening out into the deep, slow rhythm of rest. His cock still twitched against your thigh every few minutes, a stubborn reminder of all the images you’d planted in his head.
You smiled into the dark, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and finally let yourself drift.
a/n | i fear i would let bucky barnes film me with an iphone 7 in a kitchen with bad lighting and call it art.
Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected Sex. Brat-taming (Bucky). Edging/Orgasm Denial. Power Play. Overstimulation. Spanking. A sprinkle of Degradation. Nipple play. Dub-con Elements (induced paralysis).
Summary: Bucky made the rules, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t break them. And when he does, she’s more than ready to make him pay for it.
Word Count: 5.7k.
note: I just had to do this. Out of all my versions of Bucky, this is the only one who deserved it -so far-.
Also, I know it's unlikely that a simple taser could paralyze him, but come on, play along.
Bucky never planned on coming back after that first time.
It was supposed to be a one-time thing, a simple, unspoken exchange that neither of them would dwell on. He’d walked into the bakery to pick up the crew’s lunch, and by the time he walked out, his hands weren’t the only things covered in flour. He figured that was it. A lapse in judgment. A moment of weakness.
And yet, here he was. Again.
The scent of fresh bread and warm sugar wrapped around him as soon as he stepped inside. The bell above the door chimed, and he saw her glance up from behind the counter. He didn’t miss the way her lips parted slightly when she recognized him, how her breath hitched in that barely perceptible way that made his cock twitch. She recovered quickly, though, offering him a polite, almost indifferent smile, like she wasn’t squeezing her thighs together under that frilly apron, like she hadn’t begged him to fuck her in the back room not even a week ago.
He smirked.
He sauntered toward the counter, tossing his gloves onto the surface with a lazy flick of his wrist. His vibranium fingers tapped against the display case absently as he pretended to glance over the pastries. "You know," he drawled, tilting his head, "I think I'm developing a sweet tooth."
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Is that so?"
"Mm." He nodded, dragging his tongue across the inside of his cheek. "Keep finding myself coming back here. Weird, huh?"
She snorted, shaking her head as she reached beneath the counter for the already-prepared order for the workers. "Yeah, real weird. Almost like you have a job that sends you here regularly."
He liked this little game they played, this dance where she pretended his presence didn’t affect her, and he pretended he wasn’t counting down the hours until he saw her again.
"Convenient, isn’t it?" He leaned against the counter, letting his gaze flick over her slowly, deliberately. "Guess I’ll just have to keep coming back."
She rolled her eyes, setting the bag of sandwiches in front of him with a little more force than necessary. "Try not to strain yourself."
He chuckled, reaching for the bag but making no immediate move to leave. Instead, he let his fingers graze hers in a way that wasn’t exactly an accident. She tensed, just for a second, but it was enough for him to notice. He could see it in the way her pupils dilated, in the way her chest rose ever so slightly as she inhaled.
Yeah. She wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted him to think.
Good.
He stepped back, slow and measured, still smirking as he adjusted the bag in his grip. "See you around, muffin."
And just like that, he was gone.
----
The visits kept happening.
Sure, the foreman had asked him to handle the lunch pickups a few more times, but even when he didn’t, Bucky found reasons to stop by. Maybe he needed a drink. Maybe he was suddenly interested in croissants. Maybe he was just bored.
The excuse didn’t matter. The outcome was the same.
He’d show up, she’d pretend not to notice him lingering too long, and by the end of the day, he’d have her pressed against a wall somewhere, muffling her breathy moans against his lips.
Not that he was thinking about it too hard.
It was casual. No expectations, no obligations. She got off, he got off, and they both moved on. Just as he told her, the only thing he can offer her at the moment.
So why the fuck was he in front of the community center, squinting at a stupid flyer about free baking classes?
He stood there for a long moment with his arms crossed, his jaw ticking as he stared at the neatly printed words. "Learn to bake! Free classes every Tuesday & Thursday evening! No experience necessary."
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, shaking his head at himself. This was stupid. And yet…
The class was across the street from the bakery. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to sign up. He’d learn something, sure. Might be useful. But more importantly, he’d get to spend more time with her. And -if he was being honest- he wasn’t entirely thrilled about the idea of some random asshole getting too comfortable around her in a class full of strangers.
He knew how men were.
And he was the only one allowed to make her squirm.
Bucky smirked, turning toward the entrance with a sense of purpose. This was going to be fun.
----
He had expected her to be even a little flustered when she saw him walk into the class on that first day. Maybe she’d stumble over her words, maybe her eyes would widen in surprise, or -if he was lucky- she’d pull him aside and demand to know what the hell he was doing there.
But she didn’t.
She looked right at him, blinked once, and simply said, “Find a seat, we’re about to start.”
That was it. No reaction. No acknowledgment of their situation. Just... professionalism.
He hated it.
Not that he wanted special treatment. But it irked him that she could turn it off so easily like she didn’t spend countless nights milking his cock, moaning his name like a prayer. It was almost insulting.
So, naturally, he made it his mission to get under her skin.
It started small. Little things.
When she instructed them to knead their dough for ten minutes, he’d lean back against the counter after five and smirk. “Pretty sure my hands are strong enough. You wanna check?” just loud enough for the class to hear, just enough to make a few people chuckle.
If she ignored him, he escalated.
In the second class, when she passed by his station to inspect his work, he pressed the pipping bag in a very suggestive way and smeared some frosting on his hands. Then, he licked a slow, deliberate stripe of buttercream from his knuckle, watching her reaction closely.
She didn’t waver. Didn’t blush. Didn’t react at all.
And that pissed him off.
By the lack of reaction, he knew she was holding back. And if she was holding back, that meant she cared. At least a little.
Which meant he had to push.
By the third class, the students were catching on to his antics. A few laughed along with him, some just shook their heads, but one particular moment set something off in her.
She demonstrated how to pipe pastry cream onto cupcakes and showed them the proper wrist movement. It should have been a simple, uneventful lesson.
Then he had to open his mouth.
“Real delicate touch there, sweetheart,” he drawled, leaning forward on the counter, flexing his forearms against the surface. His voice was smooth, too smooth, dripping with mock appreciation. “Bet that comes in handy for other things, huh?” A few students gasped. One let out a choked laugh.
And she?
She froze. Just for a split second.
Bucky saw it, the slight tightening of her grip on the piping bag, the way her lashes fluttered, the flicker of heat behind her composed expression.
But when she turned to him, her face was perfectly calm. And that was when he knew he was in trouble. Because instead of snapping at him, instead of rolling her eyes or brushing him off like she had before, she smiled.
“Oh yeah, it’s actually really, really handy. You’ll see, eventually.”
-----
When the class ended, she just looked at him with a neutral stare. "Barnes, a word? Since you are more than capable, be a dear and help me carry the supplies to the storage room, will you?" he nodded, grabbing almost all the stuff that was already clean into a couple of boxes and followed her toward a dimly lit hallway.
When they reached their destination, the door shut behind them with a soft click, sealing them off from the rest of the world in the storage room. The scent of flour and vanilla lingered in the air, mixing with something heavier: the unspoken tension crackling between them like a live wire.
Bucky dropped the boxes onto the floor with a dull thud, dusting his hands off on his jeans before turning to face her. She was already watching him, arms crossed, chin lifted in that quiet, unreadable way that made his hackles rise.
"What do you think you’re doing in my class, Bucky?"
His smirk was instant, practiced. "Learning."
She scoffed. "Don’t give me that crap. You made it very clear what our thing was: fuck buddies, no strings, no extra credit." Her expression remained impassive, but her words hit sharper than he expected. "So why the hell did you sign up?"
Bucky bristled.
Yeah, fine. Maybe he overstepped. Maybe this was a little more than what they agreed to. But something about her tone, about the way she looked at him like he was some inconvenient disruption instead of the man who had her coming undone in his hands, made his jaw clench.
His smirk turned sharper, edged with something almost mean. "Well, let me remind you. I may not be the perfect student, but at least I’m honest about who I am." He took a step forward, and his voice dropped just enough to make the space between them feel too small. "You, on the other hand, acting all high and mighty just because you’re wearing a teacher’s badge..." His voice carried, echoing in the empty room as he loomed over her.
She narrowed her gaze, pressing her lips into a thin line.
"Oh, don’t worry," she said, voice deceptively sweet. "I’ll teach you a lesson, alright."
Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh, slow and deliberate, before tilting his head down to look at her. "A lesson, huh?" he repeated, his voice thick with mockery. "Sounds like you wanna play principal for a day." He shifted, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Well, go ahead then. Show me what you’ve got."
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Which, if he was being honest, kind of turned him on. He could feel it, the twisted little thrill beneath his irritation. A part of him craved this, to have her undivided attention, to see what she thought would be enough to discipline him. It was a fucked-up kind of want, born from the way she brushed him off in front of her students, pretending like he was just another guy instead of the one who made her tremble behind closed doors.
But he’d be damned if he admitted it aloud.
Instead, he held her gaze, waiting. Daring her to make the next move.
He barely had time to process the sigh that left her lips before she spoke. "Just be useful and give me that bucket over there. Unlike you, I still have things to do."
His brow quirked, amused by the audacity of it, but he humored her, rolling his eyes as he turned to grab it. "Yeah, yeah, princess. Don’t get your apron in a twist."
And then was when she did it.
Years of perfect training, years of being Hydra’s fist, a ghost on the battlefield, an apex predator in human skin… and yet he didn’t see it coming.
The zap of electricity hit him hard, sharp and unforgiving against the side of his neck. His entire body locked up instantly, and his nerves short-circuited as every muscle seized at once. His breath caught in his throat, his vision blurred at the edges, and before he could do anything, before he could even curse her name, he felt himself falling.
But she didn’t just let him collapse, no. She guided him down. Lowered him carefully. Like he was something fragile, something that mattered.
It was almost insulting.
His chest hit the floor first, then his head followed, resting against the side of his arm, his vibranium fingers twitching as they struggled to respond. He wasn’t unconscious, far from it. For the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes was vulnerable.
And she? She simply stood up, walked toward the door, and locked it. The click of the deadbolt sent a slow, crawling shiver down his spine.
Well, shit. Maybe he should have taken this class more seriously.
Bucky let out a strained growl, and his breath was uneven as he fought against the lingering paralysis in his limbs. "You backstabbing vixen," he bit out, roughly but undeniably amused beneath the indignation. "Using a fucking taser on me?"
Despite his predicament, despite the absolute betrayal of being taken down so effortlessly, his eyes still flicked to her legs as she moved. He also took in the way her skirt hugged her curves, the sway of her hips as she stalked toward him. Even flat on his stomach, and his nerves still tingling from the electric bite, he was Bucky Barnes. Cocky, stubborn, and utterly incorrigible.
That arrogance barely had time to settle in before she reached for something on the nearby shelf. A ruler.
Not one of those flimsy plastic ones. No, this was an old, thick wooden ruler, the kind meant for use on chalkboards. Or as he will discover, putting cocky super-soldiers in their place. His brow furrowed slightly as she turned back and closed the space between them, ruler in hand, with an unreadable expression.
Then, without hesitation, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and yanked them down -underwear included- leaving his pert, pale ass bare to the cool air of the storage room.
Bucky’s spine stiffened.
“What the fuck-?!” His face contorted in a mixture of outrage and mortification as his body betrayed him, heat prickling beneath his skin as the reality of his situation dawned. He tried to move, to push himself up, but the taser’s aftershocks still hummed through his system, leaving his muscles sluggish and uncooperative. The best he could do was shift slightly, but even that only served to expose himself further.
Then she spoke.
"You'll learn today, Sarge,” she mused, tapping the ruler lightly against his bare skin as a warning. “That you might be the fearsome Winter Soldier out there on the streets…” The ruler pressed against the curve of his ass, not hitting, just…resting. Teasing. “But I’m not afraid of the needy man who came in his pants not too long ago after just a little grinding."
Bucky froze.
Heat flared in his chest, creeping up his neck, and across his cheeks. She did not just say that. His mind flashed back to the bakery’s back room one afternoon, to the way she had ridden his clothed cock with desperate little whimpers, to the sticky, shameful mess he had left behind, the evidence of just how easily she had undone him.
His fingers twitched against the floor. His face burned.
“Y-you…” His voice faltered, but before he could string together something -anything- to claw back his dignity, she pressed the flat side of the ruler firmly against his skin. The sensation sent a jolt through his gut, and his stomach coiled tight with something unnameable. Humiliation? Frustration? Anticipation?
He didn’t have time to figure it out. Because then-
Smack!
A sharp, biting pain bloomed across his sensitive flesh.
He gritted his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache, curling his hands into fists as he swallowed the instinctive whimper threatening to escape his lips.
“You don’t get to talk if I don’t talk to you first.”
Smack!
“I won’t tolerate this bratty attitude inside these walls, won’t have you jeopardizing my job just because you can’t control your mouth.”
Smack!
"You think you’re so rough, huh?" She leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something syrupy sweet, something dangerous. "Newsflash, Sergeant: you're just a bratty, horny little thing who needs to be put in his place."
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Each sharp crack of the ruler on his ass sent a fresh sting through his body, each strike perfectly placed, each one burning a little hotter than the last.
His thighs tensed, his hips shifted, as if his own damn body was reaching for it, arching into it despite himself. His cock twitched against the hard wooden floor, and fuck, that was a problem.
His breath hitched, the telltale prickle of unshed tears burning at the corners of his eyes, not from pain, not really, but from how fucking overwhelmed he felt.
He didn’t know whether to curse her or beg for more.
And judging by the way she was watching him, ruler poised for another strike,
She knew it.
“Muffin, p-please…” Bucky choked out between sharp, stinging smacks, his voice raw with something he couldn’t name, something that tasted too much like desperation.
The floor beneath him was merciless, rough wood pressing into his chest, his hardened, pierced nipples rubbing harshly through the fabric of his shirt. Every jolt of sensation, every sharp crack of the ruler against his skin, fed into the unbearable pressure coiling low in his stomach. Shame and arousal twisted together like an inseparable duo. And fuck, his cock was aching, straining, leaking, trapped between his trembling body and the cold, unyielding ground.
She tutted, watching him squirm beneath her. “Since you used the magic word -please- I’ll humor you,” she cooed.
Her icy fingers, smoothed over his scorched skin, caressing the very spots she had punished. Bucky’s breath hitched. The contrast between the sting of the ruler and the gentle chill of her touch was almost unbearable, a heady mix of pain and comfort that made his thighs twitch. His body, traitorous and weak, leaned into her hand, silently begging for more.
“Are you going to behave around me?” she asked, in a sweet, knowing tone.
His throat worked around the lump forming there, as the humiliation and need kept dancing inside him. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, to reclaim his dominance, to snarl something cocky, hurtful, something that would undo the growing control she had over him.
But instead-
“…Yes, Muffin,” he whispered. It was barely a breath, barely more than a surrender. “I’ll behave. I promise.” The words felt foreign, bitter on his tongue, but they left his mouth without hesitation. And the worst part? He meant them.
Because the desire to please her, to earn her approval, to make her touch him again, was overwhelming. His cock throbbed against the wooden floor, shamefully wetting it with pre-cum.
She must have noticed, because she reached down, wrapping her fingers around his aching length with a grip that was mocking and possessive.
“What’s this?” she mused, giving his hard, neglected cock a deliberate squeeze.
Bucky’s entire body jerked at her touch, a choked, pathetic moan escaping his throat as his hips bucked helplessly into her hand.
“Are you turned on because I put your bratty ass in its place, hmm?”
His cheeks burned at the realization.
Yes. He fucking was.
The evidence was right there, dripping onto the floor for her to see.
She clicked her tongue, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “Look at the mess you’re making.” She stroked him slowly, deliberately, gripping just firm enough to keep him on edge. “I think I’ll have to teach you a lesson about taking care of the establishment’s property, Sarge.”
His still-paralyzed body betrayed him, his head thrashed side to side in a futile attempt to regain control. But she was in charge now. And she was going to prove it.
“You defied my authority in front of the class today,” she murmured, tightening her grip for emphasis. “You can fuck me stupid in whatever situationship bubble we have, but I’m going to make sure that what has been transpiring in my classroom won’t happen again” Before he could process what she meant, she moved, flipping him onto his back with just enough force to remind him of how little power he had at this moment.
He sucked in a sharp breath, as she studied him—watched the way he twitched under her gaze, helpless and humiliated. Then, with calculated ease, she reached up, pulled the elastic band from her perfectly pinned bun, and-
Tied it at the base of his cock.
Bucky’s lungs stalled, a strangled whimper tore from his throat as the tight constriction bit into his swollen flesh, cutting off the blood flow.
Fuck.
His cock pulsed violently in protest, the restriction making his entire body thrash, but she didn’t stop there. No. She lowered herself, grazing her lips through the tip of his deep red, neglected length, and kissed it. A high, desperate sound tore from Bucky’s throat before he could stop it, and his hips jerked upwards as if begging for more.
She licked slowly, teasingly, flicking her tongue along his leaking slit, gathering his shameful arousal before pulling back just enough to watch him fall apart beneath her.
“F-fuck, Muffin-“ His voice cracked, and his muscles coiled tight as the heat surged through his body, building his orgasm. But then-
Nothing.
His release, -so close, so inevitable, so fucking unbearable- never came.
His eyes shot open, and his breath ragged as the realization hit him. She was denying him, trapping him on the edge and refusing to let him fall.
She tilted her head, with mock sympathy. “What is it, Sarge?” she asked, feigning innocence. “Does the bratty little soldier need to cum?”
Bucky’s throat bobbed, his eyes wide as he struggled to form words. But before he could beg, before he could even think of it, she pressed her lips on his throbbing cockhead once more and purred. “Well… you won’t get to.”
His entire body convulsed, and his mouth fell open in a silent scream as the her words penetrated his brain.
She leaned in. “If you had paid attention in class, you’d know that it’s physically impossible until I remove the tourniquet from the piping bag.” She explained with amusement while swirling her tongue around his leaking tip.
Bucky’s eyes rolled back, and his muscles tensed violently as his cock twitched uselessly against the unrelenting knot, pulsing with the orgasm that would never come. His body shook, his skin flushed, and his desperation got humiliatingly obvious.
He whimpered, something raw and desperate spilling from his throat as his cock throbbed violently, aching under the unrelenting pressure of the tight band still restricting him. Every pulse was torture, every slick twitch a reminder of just how thoroughly trapped he was in the pleasure she refused to give him.
“I-I’ll behave, Muffin,” he pleaded, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Fuck, I’ll drop the classes if that’s what you want, just, please…”
The admission burned him, but he’d lost any sense of shame earlier, at the moment his cock started dripping all over the floor. He needed her to touch him, to finish this, to let him fall apart, and he didn’t care what it took.
But she?
She simply tilted her head, unmoved, watching him like he was some fascinating little puzzle she was still piecing together.
“I’m not convinced,” she mused, softly. “After all, you’re the fearsome Winter Soldier, and I? Just a simple baker.” She let the words linger, let them sink deep into his buzzing, over-sensitive mind, before shifting her focus -completely ignoring his tortured cock- and zeroing in on his chest.
Bucky barely had time to process before she moved, sliding the fabric of his shirt up, up, up, exposing the broad plane of his scarred torso, the dark ink of his tattoos, and-
The silver bars piercing through his already-hardened nipples.
He twitched violently at the first brush of cool air, and his breath stuttered, clenching his hands into fists against the floor.
She smiled. “I have to make a point, you know.”
Then, with agonizing precision, she dragged her fingers over one of the piercings, then letting her nails scrape just barely against the sensitive flesh.
Bucky’s entire body jerked.
“F-fuck!” The strangled cry tore from his throat, hips buckling helplessly into nothing as his cock twitched pathetically, still bound, still denied. His nipples had always been sensitive, but this, this was too much.
And she knew it.
She leaned in closer, ghosting her warm breath over his exposed chest, watching the way he trembled beneath her.
“Poor thing,” she cooed, toying with the pierced nub, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger before giving it a sharp little tug.
Bucky shouted, the noise wrecked, broken, and fuck, fuck, fuck- his cock ached so badly he could barely think. His hips lifted uselessly, but she kept her focus above, kept him on the razor’s edge of something devastatingly unsatisfying.
Then, without warning, she lowered her head and took one into her mouth. He choked on air, arching his back sharply as her hot tongue laved over the hardened bud before sucking, teasing, biting just enough to make his thighs tremble.
Every little movement sent sharp, electric pleasure bolting straight to his cock, a cock that was still trapped, still denied, still leaking helplessly onto his lower belly.
“F-fuck, Muffin-” he gasped, in a high and wrecked tone, as his chest heaved beneath her mouth when she moved to the other nipple, repeating the same exquisite torture.
His thighs shook again, his muscles locked, and his cock twitched violently… but his orgasm remained agonizingly out of reach.
She stared at his wet, tender nipples, the silver bars glistening under the dim light, and hummed in satisfaction. Then without a word she moved, straddling him, settling her weight over his hips, pressing herself down against his aching, trapped cock.
Bucky’s vision blurred at the sudden slick, teasing friction of her pussy dragging along his length, sending a jolt of pure, blinding ecstasy through his still-paralyzed body. His hips bucked involuntarily, chasing more, chasing anything, seeking relief that he already knew she wouldn’t give him.
“Ahhhn… just, please,” he moaned, voice thick with need, desperation, surrender. Then, through the haze of pleasure, something darker surfaced. His teeth clenched, “If you know what’s good for you-”
She cut him off immediately.
“Poor, defenseless Sergeant,” she mocked, in a tone drenched with sickeningly sweet amusement as she slammed herself down onto his cock, impaling herself fully in one smooth motion.
Bucky’s head snapped back, and a hoarse scream tore from his throat as her slick heat swallowed him whole, gripping him like a vice.
“See,” she continued, settling herself above him, grinding her hips to fully seat herself on his fat cock, “you don’t get to threaten me, Sarge.”
She began to ride him mercilessly, bouncing with wild abandon, taking exactly what she wanted from him.
“This is a valuable lesson,” she panted, rolling her hips as her fingers dug into his tense, flexing abdomen for leverage. “I’m going to discipline you so every time you think about disrespecting me in front of other people…” Her nails scraped down his stomach, and her pussy clenched tighter around him as she rode him harder. “…you’ll start leaking like a fucking faucet.”
Bucky’s back arched violently, his body betraying him completely as each ruthless downward thrust drove him closer, closer, closer-
“F-fuck, Doll!” he howled, his voice raw, wrecked, echoing off the walls. “Y-you’re killing me here!”
Each intense, wet slide of her inner walls around him had him spiraling, hovering right at the edge of relief, his entire body coiled so tightly he thought he might snap apart. The sight before him, her breasts bouncing despite being confined by her bra, her moans and panting filling the room, the sheer fucking confidence in the way she rode him like she owned him…
It was too much.
A pathetic, broken sound left his lips as she used him, took him, denied him.
“Shut it.” Her voice was sharp, cutting through his haze of pleasure. “I gave you tons of opportunities, and you kept pushing further and further.” She leaned forward, pressing her chest against his, and her breath came hot and heavy against his ear. “This is what you get for being horrible to me.”
Bucky whimpered, and his hips trembled beneath her, as his cock twitched violently inside her tight heat.
“I won’t take the hair tie off your cock,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his sweat-damp skin, “you won’t get to cum.”
His eyes flew open, and his breath stuttered.
“Me, on the other hand?”
Her fingers slipped between them, finding her swollen, needy clit, and she moaned loudly, circling it in quick, precise strokes as she chased her own release. “I’m gonna cream all over your fat, bratty cock.”
Bucky’s whimpers of pleasure morphed into anguished wails as she rode him mercilessly, grinding down harder, clamping around him tighter with every roll of her hips.
“P-please,” he gasped, his voice breaking with desperation. His cock was throbbing, pulsing, aching, each squeeze of her pussy only made the pressure worse, worse, worse-
“I can’t- I’m going to- Ahh, FUCK!”
But nothing happened.
His body wanted to cum, needed to release the unbearable tension, but the hair tie held firm in place, trapping him in a state of endless, excruciating denial.
She, on the other hand…
Her rhythm stuttered, and her movements turned erratic as her moans grew desperate, and her brows knitted together tightly as she neared her climax. “So big, so fat, Sarge,” she mewled, trembling as she rode her orgasm out over him, soaking him with her slick.
Each pulse of her pussy sent pain-pleasure waves radiating through his cock, threatening to tear him apart. Bucky was shaking, thrashing, begging-
“Fuck!” he gasped, his voice wrecked beyond recognition. “Stop, I can’t-”
Despite his pleas, he couldn’t deny the way her praise sent a twisted thrill through him. It fueled his ego, his need to please her, even as his body screamed for release.
And finally, after what felt like an eternity, she lifted herself, sliding off his cock with a wet, slick sound. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, and his entire body trembled as he stared up at her. His eyes were glassy, his nipples red and swollen, and his shaft almost painfully engorged.
She looked him over critically, tapping her finger against her lips as if thinking.
Then, without warning… she spat.
A slow, deliberate string of saliva landed on the tip of his cock, glistening, mixing with his pre-cum, adding more slick to his aching, desperate length.
His gaze snapped down, staring at the wetness on his cock, with his pulse hammering. She smirked.
Then, kneeling beside him, she wrapped her fingers around his twitching, neglected cock and started jerking him off. “Do you wanna cum?” she asked, mockingly sweet.
Bucky’s breath hitched, and his hips bucked wildly into her grasp.
He nodded quickly, so quickly.
“T-thank you, Muffin,” he whispered with gratitude and lingering lust. “I promise, I’ll be good for you.” Even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were hollow. Deep down, he knew he’d push her again. Provoke her again. And oh, when he’ll regain control of his body…
She tightened her grip, stroking him harder, faster.
“Beg for it.”
Bucky snapped.
“Please, Muffin, please let me cum!” he whined, pleaded, and sobbed. “I need it so fucking badly! I can’t take it anymore! I’ll do anything- please, PLEASE let me finish!” his body shuddered violently as he begged.
She hummed, pleased.
“Alright,” she murmured. “Since you begged so pretty.” She pulled the hair tie free. “Cum for me, Sarge.”
And the instant the band snapped free, the dam burst.
Bucky’s cock erupted, thick ropes of hot cum splattered across her hand, his stomach, and pooled messily onto the floor beneath him. His back arched violently, and every nerve in his body was ignited as an earth-shattering orgasm tore through his entire body.
A guttural roar ripped from his throat, his hips jerked wildly, and his cock twitched and pulsed nonstop as if making up for every second of denial.
“Ah, ah, ah- YES!” he howled, as his vision blurred at the edges, the intensity of his orgasm consumed. “FUCK, IT FEELS SO GOOD!”
His body convulsed, the aftershocks hitting hard, every lingering stroke of her fingers making his overstimulated cock twitch helplessly in her grasp. He had never felt so wrecked, so drained, so utterly destroyed, and yet…
He was already thinking about the next time.
She held him just a little longer, letting his final weak spurts dribble down his spent shaft before finally, slowly, releasing him.
And then -without a single word of praise or sympathy- she wiped her cum-coated hand on his shirt.
Bucky barely had the energy to glare, but his jaw clenched, his cheeks burned, and a fresh pang of humiliation mixed with the post-orgasmic bliss.
Her eyes flicked over his wrecked form. “I estimate the taser’s effect will wear off in about half an hour,” she said matter-of-factly, brushing invisible dust off her skirt as if she hadn’t just broken him into pieces. “So,” she continued, leaning down just enough to press a single teasing peck to his damp forehead, “you have plenty of time to reflect on your behavior.”
With that, she straightened, adjusting her skirt back into place, retrieving the wooden ruler from where she had left it, and placing it neatly back on the shelf. Then, without looking back, she turned on her heel and strode toward the door.
She just…left.
Bucky watched her go, helpless, spent, ruined, still lying in a pool of his own cum on the floor.
His breath was uneven, his body still tingled, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at the ceiling, floating in the limbo between debauched satisfaction and simmering frustration. But as the post-orgasmic haze began to clear, as the sting of humiliation faded beneath something darker, sharper, his thoughts slowly began to shift.
Her parting words echoed in his mind.
The taser’s effects will wear off soon.
And when they did?
Payback’s a bitch, Muffin. And she wouldn’t see it coming.
Why do writers apologize for long fics? why aRE YOU SORRY FOR FEEDING US POOR, SORRY SOULS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK WE COULD EVER DREAM OF READING?? DO MICHELIN STAR CHEFS APOLOGIZE FOR COOKING THE MOST DIVINE FOOD EVER MADE??? DO THEY APOLOGIZE FOR NOURISHING OUR BODY AND SOULS????
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