wienersoldier99 @wienersoldier99 - Tumblr Blog

I’m a nut, judge me please…

thinking about Bucky falling in love with a girl who is friends with Loki…who has recently joined the Thunderbolts. He and Bucky are close, but Bucky’s an idiot who thinks Loki’s tryin to steal his girl. (Loki’s not because girl is former TVA coworker who beat the shit out of him once.)

tag me!… I’m. LoverLoki2924

now hold on..........let me get to work

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader

wienersoldier99

It was the night before his week long business trip.

Bucky’s phone is angled low, lens pointed right where his cock disappears into you.

“Look at that, baby,” he rasps, voice thick.

“That’s it, stretch yourself on me. My perfect girl, taking me so deep...fuck—you’re gonna make me beg, doll.”

He lets the camera catch his cock glistening before you sink back down. You shift, hands on his chest, riding him into a steady grind, your clit brushing against him.

“Ride me just like that—grind down slow, yeah, baby. Fuckin’ use me, sweet girl. Give the camera something to remember.”

He thrusts up from underneath you, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room.

“Fuck yourself on it, doll. I can take it.”

His metal hand slides to your hip. He groans when he feels you tighten around him. He knows you’re close.

“Harder baby. Let it see how good you fuck me. Make the video fall in love with you too.”

You drop harder, faster, deeper.

“There it is, fuckin’ take what’s yours.”

“Just like that,“ you whimpered, your eyes rolling back as your cream starts to drip down his cock.

“You like it like this, doll? Look at you, baby, messin’ yourself all over me. Gonna fuck you full of my cum. Show the camera how bad you need to be bred.”

You clung to him, nails raking his chest as you came, pussy squeezing tight as his cum started spilling out around his cock.

“Can’t believe how much you take, baby…fuck, look at all that cum pushing out,” he rasps, voice completely shot as he zooms in on the thick mess forcing its way out around his cock.

“Gonna be dripping out of you for days, doll. I’ll be in that hotel bed watching this every night, cumming to you while you sleep. I'll be home before you stop feeling me…don’t worry, baby.”

leave me a bucky themed request :)

planetbucky-deactivated20260321

I’m literally shaking, holy shit

wienersoldier99

It was the night before his week long business trip.

Bucky’s phone is angled low, lens pointed right where his cock disappears into you.

“Look at that, baby,” he rasps, voice thick.

“That’s it, stretch yourself on me. My perfect girl, taking me so deep...fuck—you’re gonna make me beg, doll.”

He lets the camera catch his cock glistening before you sink back down. You shift, hands on his chest, riding him into a steady grind, your clit brushing against him.

“Ride me just like that—grind down slow, yeah, baby. Fuckin’ use me, sweet girl. Give the camera something to remember.”

He thrusts up from underneath you, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room.

“Fuck yourself on it, doll. I can take it.”

His metal hand slides to your hip. He groans when he feels you tighten around him. He knows you’re close.

“Harder baby. Let it see how good you fuck me. Make the video fall in love with you too.”

You drop harder, faster, deeper.

“There it is, fuckin’ take what’s yours.”

“Just like that,“ you whimpered, your eyes rolling back as your cream starts to drip down his cock.

“You like it like this, doll? Look at you, baby, messin’ yourself all over me. Gonna fuck you full of my cum. Show the camera how bad you need to be bred.”

You clung to him, nails raking his chest as you came, pussy squeezing tight as his cum started spilling out around his cock.

“Can’t believe how much you take, baby…fuck, look at all that cum pushing out,” he rasps, voice completely shot as he zooms in on the thick mess forcing its way out around his cock.

leave me a bucky themed request :)

slowburndarling

i fall to my knees every time i re-read this, it’s that sacred to me… like “MAKE THE VIDEO FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU TOO” ???? “SHOW THE CAMERA HOW BAD YOU NEED TO BE BRED” ??? are you joking me????? weirnersoldier99 i bow at your feet again and again

heldbybarnes

Had a filthy thought earlier that i needed to share. Bucky rubbing is bare dick against you clit then coming all over you and making a mess. Pulling your panties up and making you walk around all day with his cum soaking you and dripping down your thighs.

You’re not even fully awake when it happens.

One second you’re stretching in the sheets, the next you’re gasping, dragged back into your body by the slow, heavy grind of Bucky’s bare cock sliding over your clit like he owns it.

Because he does.

“Bucky—” It comes out breathless, high, desperate.

He shushes you like you’re being dramatic, mouth brushing your ear, voice still thick with sleep. “Relax, baby. M’just gettin’ myself off.”

wienersoldier99

always almost

author's note: hi guys! i've posted this on ao3, but i wanted to share it on here, just a little revamped with extra yearning!

part 2

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Bucky trusted you with the one thing he didn’t trust anyone else with.

Alpine.

“She likes the salmon stuff,” he said without meeting your eyes, handing you the silver key in your palm.

“Don’t let her trick you into second helpings.”

And just like that he was gone. You were sleepy eyed and in your pyjamas when he showed up at your door at 2am, donned in his tactical gear, eyes dark, stormy and unreadable. You barely had a chance to ask where he was going before he disappeared down the stairwell as quickly and quietly as he'd arrived. Your moments with him were always like that, fleeting flashes, like a shadow slipping past, never quite long enough to grasp.

You stood there for a moment after you shut your door, the key still warm in your hand, the silence pressing in, following you back into your apartment. You set the key down on your counter, and your feet carried you to the window. Outside, the street was still, bathed in the soft yellow hue of a nearby streetlamp. Shadows stretched long over the sidewalk, wind rustling faintly through the deciduous trees. You watched the corner where he always disappeared, your gaze lingering longer than you meant it to, waiting, maybe, though you wouldn’t have admitted it out loud. The neighbourhood always seemed to hold its breath with you until he came home from wherever he went. It was the kind of hidden pocket in Brooklyn that felt like it had slipped through the cracks of time, tucked just far enough from the chaos to be quiet, but close enough to feel the city’s pulse. Tree lined sidewalks stretched between weathered brownstones and narrow walk-ups, their bricks beige and softened by age, fire escapes rusted and tangled with ivy, window boxes overflowing in summer and bare in winter. The apartment building you both lived in wasn’t much, just four floors of creaking wood, peeling paint, and mailboxes that got stuck when you opened them. The stoop railing chipped beneath your palm, the hallway lights buzzed sleepily, and the floorboards groaned like they remembered every footstep. It was lived in. A little forgotten. And somehow, despite the fading corners and quiet hush of it all, it had become the backdrop to something else entirely, something unspoken and delicate, like a thread strung taut between your door and his.

Your neighbour was a mystery, always bundled in heavy jackets, even when the breeze was warm, with a cap pulled low over his brow like he didn’t want to be seen. Some days, he disappeared completely. When he came back, it was like the building shifted slightly, realigning itself in his presence: the soft creak of his boots on old wood, the faint trace of woodsy soap and Palo Santo that lingered in the hallway after he passed. There was something about him that never quite settled, like he was always halfway out the door even when he was home. It pulled at you in a way you didn’t know how to explain. He was a closed book you longed to read, a locked door you shouldn’t try but always wanted to open. A quiet man who said so little, and yet whose silence seemed to hum with things he didn’t know how to give voice to. And still, you watched for the rare moments when that quiet almost cracked, when something in his expression softened, when he looked at you like he wasn’t used to being seen.

When it felt like, just maybe, you weren’t the only one who wanted more.

The first time you’d been to his apartment, it was only for a second, you got his mail by mistake. You’d never seen him that close before, not really. Not like that. He stood in the doorway, a black henley stretched tight across his broad chest and thick shoulders, the soft fabric molding to the shape of muscles that hinted at raw power beneath without fully giving it away. The sleeves clung to his thick biceps and forearms, shadowing the cold gleam of his metal arm beneath the fabric, only a subtle metallic catch of light at his sleeve’s end betrayed its presence. His dark hair was longer, a little tousled, like a hand had just ran through it. His jaw was set, dusted with rough stubble. He took the envelope from your hand, fingers brushing yours in a way that felt warmer than it should have. His ice blue eyes lingered on your face for a moment longer than necessary, like he was memorizing it, and just when you thought he might look away, he spoke.

“Paper bills,” he murmured, a faint curve ghosting at the edge of his mouth. Then, just like that, he was gone, door closing with a soft click.

The second time, it was to return his library card. You had been chatting in the elevator with the older lady from apartment 4B about how you wanted to read more. You hadn’t realized he’d overheard. That evening, when you got back to your apartment, you found the card taped to your door, accompanied by a sticky note.

“Heard you wanted to read more. Thought you might like this.”

No signature, no further words. Just the quiet gesture. A few days later, you found yourself standing hesitantly outside his door, the library card clutched in your hand. When you knocked, the door opened slowly, revealing him in a worn, dark flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, white cat was brushing against him at his shins. His eyes met yours, both brooding and full of quiet yearning, something he didn’t dare voice.

“Thanks for the card,” your voice soft, quiet.

He took it from your hand, fingers brushing yours gently, holding them there a beat too long before he pulled away.

“You brought it back already,” his voice low and rough, surprise softening the edge.

You offered him a nod and a small, shy smile. He didn’t return it.

“Read something good?” he asked, eyes holding yours a moment longer, like he was trying to figure out what you didn’t say.

“A few things,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he muttered, stepping back just enough to lean against the doorframe, the plates of his metal arm shifting slightly. His gaze stayed locked on yours, intense, unspoken, like he was wrestling with whether to say more or keep it all inside. You thought the corner of his mouth twitched, almost like a smile, but it never fully formed.

“Keep reading,” his voice gruff, giving a brief, almost imperceptible nod and closed the door before you could say anything else, leaving the silence thick with something unsaid, and the growing realization that maybe he was paying attention after all.

It was always almost. Almost a smile curling faint at the corners of his mouth before he looked away. Almost a question in his eyes he didn’t have the courage to ask. Sometimes, you’d catch him looking at you like you were something he’d already lost. Like he wanted to say everything all at once but didn’t know where to begin. And you’d look back like you were begging him to try.

But you never asked.

And he never said.

His apartment always felt like somewhere you shouldn’t be. And now here you were, the next morning, key heavy and unfamiliar in your hand, crossing the invisible line into a world he didn’t let anyone enter.

You fumbled for a moment before finding the lock, sliding the key in and turning it with a quiet click and slipping inside. The early light spilled softly through the windows, wrapping his apartment in a cool, tender stillness. It smelled clean, like laundered cotton and soap, but beneath that were scents that spoke as if the space was alive with the fragments of his life, the warmth of dry wood from a long extinguished fire, the faint hint of worn leather from boots or a jacket, burned coffee from the morning before, his presence known even when he wasn’t there.

Alpine greeted you with a soft meow, weaving between your legs as you moved further inside. Her silky tail flicked nervously, but she settled quickly when you crouched down, offering a gentle hand.

You poured her breakfast, the sound of salmon flavoured kibble hitting the bowl loud in the quiet living room. As Alpine ate, you let your eyes drift around the space, spartan and careful, every object with a purpose, every surface clear. It was a place that belonged to someone used to moving fast and staying hidden. You noticed the furnishings were minimal: a dark wooden coffee table stained with rings, a simple canvas armchair pushed into the corner. Your eyes caught a stack of worn books on his floating shelf, their spines cracked and pages dog eared. Titles ranged from obscure history to battered old novels, a mix that spoke of a mind both searching and restless. There was something almost tender in the way they were arranged, books he’d returned to, perhaps, like memories too precious to discard. It was a space stripped of excess, where everything had its place and no distractions were allowed, reflecting his need for order in a life that was anything but.

You reached out to scratch behind Alpine’s ears, and she closed her eyes, purring softly. Gently easing yourself up, you stepped away from her and padded curiously toward the kitchen, your eyes drawn to a woven basket resting on the island. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath your feet, the muted sunlight casting long shadows along the walls. The basket on the marble counter held plums and pears, their skin glowing softly, ripe to the touch. Tucked just beneath was a note, written in his familiar handwriting:

“Don’t let Alpine eat these. These are for you, not her.”

A teasing line, maybe. But more than that, it was softness offered. A moment that felt more intimate than any words exchanged at the door. You pressed the note between your fingers and held it there for a moment longer than necessary.

Carefully, you set it beside the basket and picked up one of the plums, cool and heavy in your hand, like something pulled from a summer dream. You didn’t eat it. Not yet.

Your eyes fell to the hallway.

You hadn’t meant to look toward it, hadn’t meant to let your steps follow, but something pulled at you. The hallway stretched out ahead, dimmer than the rest of the apartment, the walls bare but for one black and white photograph hung, an old Brooklyn cityscape, fog curling around lampposts like ghosts. Your fingers brushed the frame as you passed. You told yourself you’d just look. Just enough to satisfy the gentle ache of wondering. But your feet moved softly across the hardwood, and before you knew it, you were halfway down the hall. The air felt heavier here, more private. You slowed near the end, heart thudding a little louder than it had a moment ago.

There it was, his bedroom door. Slightly ajar.

You stopped.

Something in you knew you shouldn’t go any farther. Not out of fear, but respect. This was a foreign intimacy that neither of you dared to indulge in. You hesitated there, one hand brushing the doorframe, not quite touching the door itself. The air smelled like him again, deeper this time. Sleep warm linen and cigarette smoke, a trace of cologne he barely used.

You told yourself it was because of Alpine, because you were here to take care of her. He kept her toys in his room, obviously. But really, it was the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this glimpse inside could unravel some of the mystery.

You hovered there, breath held holding the weight of your want.

You stepped forward.

The door creaked softly as it opened, the sound barely louder than the hush that followed. The bedroom was dim and still, as if it had been sleeping too. The blackout curtains were only half drawn, letting in narrow bands of morning light that painted the sheets in long, pale gold stripes along the floor. Everything smelled like him, more concentrated here. You could almost pretend he was still here if you closed your eyes, just stepped out for a moment, just down the hall or standing behind you. His bed was unmade, coarse forest green sheets twisted at the edges, a heavy wool blanket pushed halfway down, like he’d left in a hurry. A chair sat off to one side, draped in a dark henley and a jacket that had seen better days. His gear was always neatly stacked in the corner, knives, gloves, a folded towel with rust stains that looked too much like blood. A gun laid dismantled on his desk next to a cup of cold coffee, an ashtray, a half melted candle, and a book with its spine cracked in half, splayed open on his desk.

No, not a book.

A journal.

Leather-bound, the edges worn smooth with use, the elastic band slack with time. It looked like it had been thumbed through hundreds of times. Like it knew secrets. And something in your chest twisted.

You shouldn’t.

But your hand moved anyway.

You stepped closer, peering down at the open page. Your fingers hovered over the journal for a moment, and then you picked it up. It was heavier than you expected. Warmer, like it had absorbed his thoughts.

You sat carefully on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping gently under your weight. The journal rested in your lap like it was the answer to your questions.

The pages were full. His handwriting was tight, deliberate, like someone not used to speaking out loud. A language of its own, all written in blue ink. You flipped past dates, some crossed out, some smudged, before one page made your hands still.

“She doesn't twist the chain of her necklace when the elevator takes too long anymore. Always happened around thirty seconds in. Didn’t think it would be something I notice. Funny how I still look for it."

You turned the page, fingers trembling slightly.

“She gave me my mail. Her fingers touched mine. That shouldn’t mean anything. It does. Don’t know if I deserve the way she looks at me.”

Your heart ached.

“Saw her again today. Talking to 4B in the elevator. Smile hit harder than it should’ve. Don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Another page.

“I left the library card on her door. I wanted her to look at it and wonder about me the way I wonder about her. I saw the books she borrowed on my account. One of them got me through the worst winter.”

A breath caught behind your ribs. You weren’t supposed to see this. You knew you weren’t. But now that you had, it was like a dam breaking. The pages whispered his truths in your hands.

“I leave next week. I want to ask her to feed Alpine. I’ll get her something from the market. She always comes back with fruit.”

You flipped to the next and found a more recent entry, a day ago. The last one before the rest of the pages are blank, where the ink was fresher, and the handwriting more desperate, almost frantic, like he’d been racing against time to get it all down before the feelings slipped away.

“It’s been quiet lately. Too quiet. Not just the silence around us, but the kind that lives inside me, the kind I can’t shake. Since I got back from Bucharest, there’s been this weight settling in my chest. The memories come back in flashes. Fragments. Faces of the men I killed flashing in my mind, their screams still ringing in my ears. Shadows of broken bodies, desperate eyes that haunt me in the dark. And the blood, always the blood. Stained on my clothes, my hands, like it’s never going to wash away. And I pull away from her because it’s easier than trying to explain the chaos rattling in my head. Opening up means showing the cracks I’ve spent years hiding. And I see how that silence stretches between us like a wall. I want to tear it down, but I’m scared. Scared that if I let her see what’s really inside, she’ll run instead of stay. I don’t know how to close that gap without saying too much and ruining whatever fragile thing we have, or saying too little and letting it slip away. Every time I open my mouth, the words get tangled up and lost, so I just end up looking from a distance, wondering if she knows how bad I want to be close, how I’m dying to cross this line without breaking everything. She’s the one thing I want to keep safe, not from bullets or the world, but from the darkness inside me. But when she looks at me the way she does, it’s like a door cracking open in a place I thought was sealed shut years ago. A chance I’m terrified to take but desperate to grab. I want more than this, more than the silence. I’m scared I’ll never find the courage. But I can’t stop hoping. I want to stop pretending it’s okay to live without her.”

Your fingers drift lightly over his words.

Of course you’d heard of him before. His name carried weight, spoken in headlines and footnotes. A ghost of a man. The Winter Soldier. A cautionary tale.

You’d known the name before you ever knew the man.

The man that leaves his laundry in the communal machines too long sometimes.

The man that carries groceries with his flesh hand, not the metal one.

The man who checks his reflection in the lobby mirror, just for a second, like he’s reminding himself who he is now.

You thought you understood him, or at least, the version he allowed.

Quiet. Wary. Shy. Maybe broken. Maybe healing.

But this is different.

This is the truth stripped bare.

The ink feels like a secret pulse, alive beneath your touch, carrying the weight of things he only dared to write when no one else was watching. The crease in the sheets beneath your hand shifts with a quiet exhale when you stand up, leaving a faint imprint of where you sat. You close the journal, the soft rustle of the pages seems loud in the hush. A flush rises in your chest, shame or longing, you can’t tell, and the room tilts with the heady realization.

He wants what he won’t let himself have.

The thought comes quiet and sudden.

He aches, just like you do.

You’d spent so long thinking it was one sided, something innocent on your side that was blooming in the quiet of shared glances and barely there conversations. But these pages, his voice stitched between the lines, tell a different story. One that mirrors your own. One that makes your heart ache with the weight of what you almost missed.

His silence isn’t empty, it’s full of you.

You close the journal, as Alpine watches you with half lidded eyes, her tail curled neatly beside her, hoping she'll keep your secret. There’s a stillness in the air that wraps around your shoulders, heavy, like the room knows what you’ve done. You linger in the doorway, one hand brushing the frame like you’re trying to anchor yourself, like memorizing the feel of it might undo the dizziness pooling behind your eyes. You don’t look back. Not until you’re already in the hall as your breath catches at the soft click of his apartment door behind you before you lock it.

Later that night the same lock turns with its familiar soft scrape, and Bucky steps inside with the kind of silence that only comes after rain and blood.

The apartment is dark except for the thin blade of streetlight that slips between the curtains and lies across the floor like a silver scar. The air smells faintly of you, something warm, like vanilla.

He trods down the hallway, and crosses his room in three slow steps, boots scuffing on the worn floorboards, eyes set on the crease on his bed. The closer he gets, he can almost see the outline of you, knees drawn up, breath held the way his is now.

He steps closer. His hand softly grazing the sheets, afraid to smooth it out, afraid to erase where you'd been. Then he sees the journal. Exactly where he left it. Except the pages have been closed. His fingertips hover above the cover, and he doesn’t open it. He just stands there, jaw clenched, fingers clenching into a fist, trying to breathe around the ache building slowly in his chest.

He lowers himself to the edge of the bed, right beside where you were, and sits in the dark with his head bowed, elbows on his knees, trying to breathe around the sudden, impossible size of being known.

Outside, a siren wails and fades.

He doesn’t need to ask if you read it.

He already knows.

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leave me a bucky themed request :)

until-theend-oftheline

This is so beautifully written. I love the subtleness of it.

wienersoldier99

omg :’) thank you I loved writing shy bucky he’s so cutesy

until i finally die | wuthering heights

author's note: happy valentines day! can you guys tell i watched wuthering heights? i was feeling inspired by heathcliff so here's my angsty take on it with victorian era bucky <3

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The day had dragged on from the moment the sun rose over the moors. You felt the pull of him no matter what you preoccupied yourself with: rinsing dishes, threading your textiles, reading your novel. Yet your curiosity betrayed you as you peered out the window to catch glimpses of Bucky in the courtyard. Shirtless from the heat of work, dark and long brown hair damp and clinging to his neck, muscles shifting under tanned skin as he swung an axe into firewood or hauled hay bales for the horses in the barn. Sweat traced slow, glistening paths down the ridges of his back. Each time he paused to catch his breath, his head turned, and his eyes found yours. He didn't smile or look away. He simply held your eye across the distance until you had to look away. It made your palms itch, your cheeks burn, and your thighs press together beneath your skirts day after day at the way your fleeting moments with Bucky made you restless.

You wanted nothing more than to cross the yard and feel his rough hands grip your hips and pin you down onto the dirt, dust and scattered straw, skirt shoved up around your waist, legs forced apart as he came down over heavy over you. You craved the feel of his calloused palms pinning your wrists above your head. You pictured him taking you right there: deep, relentless strokes that took the breath from your lungs, thrusts that drove you back into the earth, slow, filthy rolls that dragged over your clit until you were whimpering his name as you came. You wanted to feel him break, hips grinding until you had his cock pulsing, his finish thick and filling, leaking out slow as he stayed pressed in, working you through the aftershocks of overstimulation while you fluttered and clenched tight, pulling at every last drop.

The fantasy burned so hot you could almost taste the salt of his sweat on your tongue.

Instead you retreated back into the depths of the house, only to be drawn to another window moments later as you replayed the fantasy over in your head. And there he would be again. Watching. His chest rising and falling, eyes finding yours as if he'd known exactly where you would appear.

By dusk, the tension was as taut as a string that grew only tighter as time went on. You couldn't bear it anymore. The house felt like a cage, and you needed air. You slipped out the back door barefoot, nightgown dragging in the dirt and dust across the courtyard, telling yourself you were only going to breathe, only going to walk the edge of the moors until you felt normal again.

But even as you stepped into the open, you knew he would see.

And of course he did.

You turned toward the open valley, storm clouds gathering low and dark, reflecting the turmoil you so ached to free yourself from, and you walked—fast, faster—until you began to run.

But the yearning chased you.

The rain began to hammer down in cold sheets, causing your nightgown to stick to your body, the thin fabric turning translucent and heavy, outlining every curve as it molded to your breasts, your hips, your thighs. Wind tore at your hair, whipping wet strands across your face, stinging your cheeks and turning them blush. Your breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving, lungs burning. Mud sucked you down, cold between your toes, staining the hem of your dress. The yearning pulsed through your racing heart, carrying through your veins like venom, tightening your nipples against the sodden cloth, making your thighs slick with more than just water as you stumbled to a halt at the old stone wall. You leaned against the rough moss-painted rock, palms pressing into the cold stone to ground you from the need that clawed at you. You could feel the aching incessant throb between your legs that your thighs did little to subside. Your fingernails clawed into the rock until you couldn't help it but slide a hand up under the wet fabric clinging to your body, desperate for relief. You gasped at the cold shock of your fingers as they plunged into the warmth of your folds and moved in desperate circles. Your eyes squeezed shut against the rain, and you whimpered at your own touch as you pictured him: Bucky's sweat soaked dark hair falling across his face, the hard lines of his muscles from years of hard work. And as much as you pretended, you didn't miss the unmistakable thick outline of his half hard cock straining against his trousers as though the mere act of you watching him had him aching.

"Bucky..."

The word tore from you on a gasp, chasing your pleasure, lost in the wind at first, then louder, broken.

"God, Bucky, please..."

Lightning flashed, and there he was, stepping out of the darkness ten paces away: his white button up soaked, long hair plastered to his neck, blue eyes locked on you.

Bucky took a step forward, boots sinking in mud.

You froze at the sound, whipping your head to meet his eyes, hand stilling as the rain on your cheeks mixed with hot tears of mortification. The thin fabric left nothing hidden in the flashes of light. You yanked your hand free, arms wrapping around yourself like a shield.

"Go." The word came sharp over the wind. "Go back to the house."

He didn't move. Rain poured off his shirt in rivulets.

"You were calling my name. Like you needed me."

Tears and rain burned your eyes.

"I said go, Bucky."

"Why?"

He closed the distance slowly, stopping just out of reach. Water dripped from his lashes onto his rosy cheeks.

"Why push me away when your body is begging for the opposite?"

"Because this—" You gestured wildly at the storm, at yourself drenched and exposed, at the space between them. "This is madness. The walls of that house, I cannot breathe! It is going to ruin me. Ruin us.”

"It will not. Not if we do not let it."

You flinched as lightning lit his face, unable to bear the pain that flashed in his eyes.

"Do not. Do not make this harder."

Bucky stepped closer now, rain lashing you both cold. You were close enough that your chest pressed against his.

"Harder than watching you touch yourself to thoughts of me, then shove me away like I am poison?"

"You are poison. You are everything I want and everything I cannot have. If I let you in tonight I will never let you go. And we shall both end up destroyed," your voice cracked.

He reached out, slow, careful, brushing wet strands of hair from your cheek.

"Then let me destroy you. Let me stay. Let us be damned.”

He reached down and lifted your hand, the one that had succumbed to temptation moments prior, bringing it to his face against his cheek, relishing in your touch for a moment. Slowly, deliberately, he turned your palm down. Rain dripped from his lips onto your knuckles. The scent of you lingered on your fingers, faint but unmistakable even in the rain, and you watched his pupils grow.

"Bucky—"

He didn't answer. Instead, he brought your fingers to his mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue curling around each finger. His eyes never left yours as he savoured the taste of you.

"Stop...please..."

He sucked deeper, teeth grazing the pads as he slowly pulled them back, then released them with a slow, wet pop.

For a heartbeat, you let the pleasure consume you before you shoved his hand away, hard, stumbling back a step into the mud.

“You feel it too…this place is strangling us."

"No," the word tore out of you.

"No, Bucky. It is you who is strangling me. Go. Please.”

Your words had his face flicker raw, then gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold that matched the rain before he straightened.

“As you wish,” the words a gentle steel.

“But do not pretend this mends anything. Do not pretend your heart will not call mine tomorrow night when the silence becomes too heavy to bear.”

He turned then, shoulders heavy under the weight of your decision and began walking back toward the faint glow of the Heights.

Your sob caught in roll of thunder.

“Bucky—”

He paused, but didn't turn around. His voice followed, almost carried away by the wind, low and rough, almost resigned:

“Tomorrow you will call my name again…and I will come. And you will send me away again. And the day after that. And the next. And I will always follow you until I finally die of it.”

He walked on without waiting for your reply.

As you watched him disappear from the moors and into the storm, you knew that tomorrow the sun would rise, the house would fill with the same suffocation, and you would endure it as you always had.

And you knew the walls were not what trapped you.

It was the promise of tomorrow.

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #angsty #angst #james bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #victorian era bucky #james buchanan barnes #bucky #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes angst

wienersoldier99

always almost - this time for sure

author's note: heyyy guys sorry i lowkey disappeared ive been crazy stressed but i hope you guys enjoy! i also might branch out and write for some stranger things characters bc im getting the itch esp from the finale :o (ps: thank you guys for the requests! i've actually gotten quite a few so if i dont get to all of them im sorry <3)

part 1

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He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what you think.

He wants to ask.

But he doesn’t.

So he waits.

Six days pass.

Long enough for the crease in the sheets to fade, but not enough for the feeling to leave the room. It lingers in the quiet hum of the radiator, in the ghost of your touch still folded into the pages of his journal, in the way Alpine curls on the windowsill, waiting, as if she knows the space in his heart is one that only you can fill.

He knows the times you leave your apartment, so he starts timing his own exits to follow just after, never early enough to cross paths. Sometimes he stands behind his own door, forehead resting against the cool wood, counting each quiet step you take away from him. He even times his laundry trips for late at night, when the hall is empty and the building feels quieter, though every creak of the floor makes his heart skip, hoping you might appear.

The silence stretches.

The thought about leaving crosses his mind. Maybe he could stay at Steve’s. But even the thought pulls on the thread connecting him to you, a tether stretched thin and taut, threatening to snap with the smallest tug. He can’t imagine the empty space his absence would carve between you. Because for the first time in a long time, someone saw him. Really saw him. And maybe you hated what you found. Maybe the words sat heavy in your chest. He couldn’t help but wonder what page made you pause the longest. What if the things he wrote, the darkness, the ache, the wanting, were too much. What if you read him differently now? What if you don’t look at him the same way? It’s the innocence in your eyes that undoes him. The way you look at him like he hasn’t already ruined something. Like he’s still worth looking at that way. He can’t bear to imagine it fading from your eyes, his last piece of hope, never to be seen again.

His throat tightens. His fingernails dig into his palm.

The air between your apartments feels different, thicker now. He tells himself it’s better this way. To give you space.

But on the seventh day, he ran into you. He’d miscalculated. He’s halfway down the stairs, hood up, cap low, when the front door of the apartment building opens. You came back early from the market. He thought he still had half an hour. You usually linger around the flower stall. At least, that’s what he’s come to believe, piecing together habits from the glimpses he allows himself.

There you were, startled, a canvas tote of groceries slung over one arm, a bouquet of daisies in the other. You made your mind up quicker today. Your eyes go wide when you see him. You stop short. And for the first time in days, your eyes meet.

He freezes, not daring to break the fragile moment. He catches the slight tremor in your hands as you clutch the flowers, your hair messy from the breeze, the only sound being the crinkle of the wrapper they were sold in.

You open your mouth like you might say something, but you close it again.

Then he nods. Barely. Just a dip of his chin, tight and unreadable. He steps past you, shoulder brushing yours softly in passing. Not a word. Not a glance back.

But you stand there, the summer air rushing in from the street, watching him disappear out the front door.

That night, he doesn’t sleep.

He sat up in his bed. The silence presses in too tightly. The walls feel closer than usual.

He contemplated just going over to your apartment, torn by the late hour, the desire was burning at him, hot and bright against the night.

This time for sure.

But then he hears it.

Your laughter.

Soft and sudden, muffled through the thin wall you share. It’s light, unburdened, and something in it makes his breath catch. Maybe you’re reading something funny. Maybe you’re on the phone, talking to someone who knows what to say to make you laugh. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe it’s someone who didn’t waste the chance he had. The thought presses heavy in his heart. He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the wall like it might somehow bring him closer to you.

He doesn’t know.

And not knowing makes him feel like he’s chasing something that was never his to begin with. For a moment, it almost feels like things are okay. Like the sound alone might stitch the ache inside him closed.

But it doesn’t.

He knows he has to leave again, early tomorrow, before the city wakes. Just a couple days this time. A clean job, they told him. Quiet, in and out. He moves around his apartment like a man wading through water, slow and uncertain. He packs lightly as always. Just the essentials. But when he steps into the kitchen, he stops. Alpine is curled on the counter, blinking at him sleepily. He runs a hand down his face, exhales through his nose. Then, quietly, he walks to the little drawer by the sink and pulls out the spare key. He hesitates with it in his palm, thumb running over the worn, rough edges of its teeth. Then, grabbing a notepad from the counter, he writes:

"If you're willing, would you look after her again? The salmon stuff’s in the cabinet. I got her a new toy last week, little grey mouse with a bell. She’s not too fond of it, but maybe she’ll come around. I’ll be back soon."

No mention of the journal. No mention of what passed between them in the silence. Something simple. He tucks the key and the note into a clean envelope and slips it gently under your door. And for the first time in seven days, he lingers. He stands outside your apartment for a moment, head bowed, metal fingers flexing once in the empty air before he walks back to his apartment.

Inside yours, you hear it, the soft shuffle, the swoosh of an envelope slipping beneath your door. You don’t move right away off the couch. You stare at the rectangle of white paper, something in your chest caught between hope and something heavier. You walk over, pick it up, and read his handwriting. Your fingers hover over the words, brushing the indentation of the pen like it might tell you what he didn’t say out loud this past week. You don’t know what you were expecting. A confrontation, maybe. But this throws you more than anything else would’ve. A soft reentry into the space between them. You leave the key in the dish by the door, fold the note carefully, and head to your room to tuck it into the drawer where you keep your most worn-in novels, the notes he had left you before, and letters you never had the courage to send.

Of course they were all about him.

The ones where you pretended you were writing to him, even though you never wrote his name or signed them off. Just little notes full of almosts: almost said, almost sent, almost brave. You told him about the light in your apartment that keeps flickering. A song that reminded you of him. The screaming you heard from his apartment that one night in May at 3 A.M from a nightmare he had. You hadn’t meant to hear it. But you did. You wrote all of it down. Not to send, but to keep. Because keeping it felt safer than risking the look on his face if you ever let him see it. And maybe that’s the cruelest part, the irony of hiding your words away while reading his, of tracing his secrets with your fingers while yours stayed folded in a drawer, untouched. You told yourself it was different. That his pages were left for you on purpose, but you knew that wasn't true, and the guilt feels heavier than any words you could have spoken aloud.

And in the quiet moments just before dawn, the soft click of his door and his careful footsteps down the hall told you he was gone.

When the morning came, you tried to keep yourself busy for as long as you could. You’d cleaned your apartment top to bottom, even the baseboards you usually ignore. You’d gone to the cafe on the corner, lingering too long in the shop, even after the ice in your coffee melted, repotted the daisies, put on music, then turned it off when every song felt like it was about waiting, folded your laundry twice, matching socks that didn’t need matching, smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there.

None of it worked.

The anxiety stayed tight in your chest, and every task you finished left space for the same thoughts to rush back in.

I’ll be back soon.

Soon was a word that stretched and shrank depending on how hard you stared at the clock.

And by the evening you couldn’t sit still anymore. So you grabbed the key and crossed the hall before the fear could catch up. Alpine would need feeding soon. That was reason enough.

You slipped the key into the familiar lock.

The apartment felt weighed down by the heavy, summer storm overcast sky pressing against the windows, casting a muted, silvery-grey wash that barely stirred the shadows in the corners. The lights remained off, leaving the room wrapped in gentle gloom. Alpine appeared at your feet with a soft, tentative meow, pausing to sniff at the toy mouse lying forgotten near the leg of the chair. With a flick of her tail, slow and deliberate, she stepped over it and made her way to you, settling down beside your feet with a faint air of detached acceptance, as if to say: he meant well. You watched her for a moment, the quiet gesture stirring something uneasy inside you. You wanted to believe it was true, that he meant well, but the weight of the week’s silence pressed heavy against your chest, twisting hope and doubt into a single knot you couldn’t untangle.

You knelt down, pouring fresh food into her bowl, the same way you did last week, the soft clink of kibble hitting the cool metal.

As Alpine began to eat, your gaze drifted across the living room to his coffee table, where something caught your eye: a paperback. You paused, brows knitting slightly.

Wuthering Heights.

The book you borrowed from the library on his card.

He bought a copy.

Your heart raced as you approached the table. You noticed a page dog-eared at a passage he had clearly marked. You flipped to the makeshift bookmark, the same passage you read weeks ago stared up at you, now with a faint penciled underline felt like a message meant only for you:

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

The words blur for a moment as your chest tightens. You try to swallow, but your throat doesn’t quite cooperate. It’s too much and not enough. It’s everything he couldn’t say out loud, offered here in someone else’s language, but the meaning is unmistakably his.

You glance down the hallway, wondering if more answers are waiting for you somewhere else. You tell yourself you won’t go down the hall, but the resolve to stay away dissolves almost as soon as it forms. Your feet know the way. Your body moves before your mind can catch up. And even though you don’t know if what you’re going to find will comfort or undo you, you don’t stop.

You’re in his room before you can second-guess it again. The sheets on his bed are rumpled, a dent in the pillow where his head rests. Drawers are cracked open, half-closed like he couldn’t decide what to take. His metal arm that he tries not to talk about has left faint indentations on the wooden desk, just barely visible in the right light under his lamp. The journal is there. Waiting. Your hand hovers for a moment, almost trembling. This is a line you shouldn't cross twice. But you can’t help but wonder if these pages will say what the book only hinted at.

You pick it up and open the cover, hoping to find him waiting there.

"Tried to sleep. Couldn’t. Every time I close my eyes it’s her face. It makes me ache. I think it hurts worse because she’s just ten feet away."

You exhale, blinking hard. This was from just last night.

“I was coming down the stairs when I saw her slip into the elevator just as the doors began to close. She hasn’t said anything. I haven’t either. It hurts."

A pause.

"Got Alpine a toy. She doesn’t care for it. That tracks."

That one made you smile.

A breath catches in your throat as you notice it. Tucked near the back, a page folded once, as if it didn’t want to be found right away. You unfold it slowly. The handwriting is slanted slightly, like always. But the tone—this is no longer a man writing into the void.

This one’s for you.

If you’re reading this again, it means I asked you to take care of Alpine. You saw it. I know you did. You came into the room I don’t let anyone near. You sat right here. Read everything. Every line I meant to keep hidden until it didn’t matter anymore. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Part of me wishes you hadn’t read it. Wishes I could rewind time, hide the damn journal better. Pretend I still had control over what you see. Guard those pages, protect the parts of myself I’m still learning to face. But that part’s small, and scared, and full of all the old habits that tell me I’m too much, or not enough, or some mix of both. The rest of me hopes it meant something to you. I’m still trying to believe I can want something and not ruin it. But I wanted you to know. Even if you walked out and never looked back. I had to write it. Because you’ve been in every thought of mine lately, and I didn’t know how else to say it. I want you. I’m scared I’ll mess this up, hurt you in ways I can’t fix. If it’s too much and you walk away, I get it. But if there’s even a little part of you left, please just let me know.

You read it twice.

Heart racing, you head back to the living room, the journal suddenly weighing heavily in your hands as you sit down with it on his couch. Alpine curls against your side, purring low, and you open the passage again unbeknownst to you that he was closer than you thought.

The city is ready for slumber when he returns: subway tunnels groaning slow, bakery window blinds shutting, the sky just beginning to bruise with purples and blues. He walks the last few blocks instead of riding the train all the way, duffel slung low over his shoulder, boots scraping on the damp sidewalk. He tells himself it’s just to clear his head. But it’s not. He just needs more time to prepare for whatever’s waiting.

Or not waiting.

The hallway smells like rain and someone’s burnt toast when he trudges up the stairs. He slows at your door, doesn’t stop, doesn’t look, but the air shifts around him like it knows something he doesn’t yet.

His key turns in the lock. The apartment is still except for you standing up from his couch doe eyed and caught in the headlights of his eyes.

He drops his duffel by the door, breath caught somewhere behind his ribs. He doesn’t bother turning the lights on.

He takes one step inside and the dim glow from the streetlight through the window catches the side of his face. A thin line of blood is dried from his hairline, down his temple, cutting a bright red path over the sharp line of his cheekbone.

You make a small, choked sound, half surprise, half something closer to panic.

“You’re—” Your voice cracks. “You’re early.”

He huffs something that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt.

“Yeah. Mission wrapped faster than expected.”

You’re frozen for a second, eyes wide and flickering between his face and the blood. Your cheeks flush hot, you can feel it, the sudden rush of heat that has nothing to do with the apartment being warm. You weren’t ready for this, for him, real and solid and bleeding in the doorway, home earlier than expected.

“You’re bleeding,” your voice cracks, nothing like the calm you’re trying to reach for. You cross the space between you too fast, hands reaching out, fingers brushing his arm, his shoulder, careful but urgent. “Just—sit down Bucky—please.”

He lets you guide him, sinking onto the couch with a quiet grunt that twists something low in your chest.

You drop to your knees in front of him,

“How long has it been bleeding?”

“Not long, stopped about 20 minutes ago,” he murmurs, but his eyes are half-lidded, voice rougher than usual, trying to blink away how pretty you look kneeling in front of him.

“Let me see,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. Your throat feels tight, panic clawing up the back of it. You reach up between his legs to press your fingers gently near the wound to tilt his head.

He doesn’t flinch, just watches you with that steady gaze that sends a nervous rush of butterflies because you can see it: the faint tension in his jaw, how much it’s costing him to hold still for you, and knowing he’s doing it for your sake only makes your heart beat harder.

You get up to fetch a cloth from the kitchen, soaking it with warm water before coming back and sitting next to him on the couch.

“You should’ve gone to a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” he says quietly. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make this fine!” It comes out louder than you meant, edged with the fear you’ve been swallowing since the door opened. You press the cloth to his forehead with careful pressure to wipe the dried blood away and he finally winces, just once.

Your eyes sting. You blink hard, refusing to let the tears win.

“I thought you were coming back tomorrow,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I thought I had time to prepare for—I wasn’t ready to see you like this.”

“I’m okay. Just a cut.”

You shake your head.

“You’re bleeding on me,” you manage, voice breaking. “You’re bleeding and I’m scared and you’re not allowed to do this to me and you've been avoiding me all week and—”

His hand finds your wrist, warm despite everything, thumb brushing over your racing pulse.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

You do, even though it hurts. His eyes are focused on you, dark and tired and piercing but impossibly gentle.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he says, voice low, rough at the edges. “I was…giving you space. After the journal. After everything you read.”

Your throat tightens.

“You think I needed space from you?”

He exhales, slow.

“I thought you might. Some of it—the things I wrote—they’re not… easy. I didn’t want you looking at me and seeing only the worst parts.”

You let out a wet, incredulous sound.

“I didn’t read anything that made me want to look away. I read things that made me want you more, Bucky don’t you see the way I look at you?”

His fingers tighten around your wrist, not hard, just enough to feel the tremor running through him too.

“I stood outside your door every night,” he admits quietly. “Listened for you. Timed my steps so I wouldn’t run into you. Thought if I stayed far enough away, you’d realize you were better off.”

“That’s stupid,” you whisper, tears spilling over now, but he wasted no time reaching to brush them away. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, the trace of a smile.

“Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”

“I shouldn’t have read your journal, I’m sorry,” your voice breaking, gazing down at the floor, but he reached for your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize. You were in everything I wrote, even when I tried not to let you in. And when I read—God, even then—it was like the whole world was whispering your name back to me. I couldn’t stop.”

He shifts then—careful, closer.

“I wanted to knock. A hundred times,” his voice soft.

“I would’ve opened the door, you know that,” your voice barely above a whisper.

“I kept thinking,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, rough with everything he’s held back, “that if you saw it all, the nightmares, the blood on my hands, the parts of me that still feel broken, you’d stop looking at me like that. Like I could be good for you.”

You shake your head against his palm, tears slipping free again, but these ones feel different—relief more than fear.

“I’d never stop,” you tell him, the words thick in your throat.

His breath catches, sharp and audible. For a second his eyes close, like the words are too much, and when they open again they’re glassy, the blue brighter with unshed tears he won’t let fall.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t make you wait in the dark,” he says, voice cracking on the last word.

“I don’t want someone else,” you answer immediately.

“I don’t think I know how to feel anything that isn’t you, you're the first thing I've felt since—” his voice cracked.

“Then why didn’t you say something?” your voice tinged with half hurt, half wonder.

He swallowed, his answer squeezing tight in his throat.

“Because you make me forget how to speak. Because when you look at me like this, I forget every defence I’ve ever built. And I’m not used to being seen that way, not without it hurting.”

“Does it hurt now?”

He shook his head once, voice barely a breath.

“My head? Yeah.”

You give a wet laugh, and his follows as you place the cloth on the coffee table as you finished wiping away the blood.

“No. Not the way it used to. It hurts in the way that makes me want to reach for you anyway.”

You watched him, breath caught as his gaze traced the shape of you with deliberate slowness, lingering at your lips, and back up to your eyes again.

“Tell me to stop, and I will. I only want what you want.”

“Please, Bucky, just kiss me,” you breathe a shaky whisper.

His gaze holds yours with an intensity that makes the world beyond them blur and fall away. The light catches the shadow beneath his lashes. There’s a slight tremble in his hand as it lingers against your cheek. His lips part just a fraction as he looks down at yours, breath warm and steady against your skin with a quiet confidence that he’s finally here, finally close, finally letting himself want without apology. With a purposeful lean, he closed the distance between you, and your lips met, gentle at first, until he moaned with a softness that barely contained the storm raging beneath the surface. His hand slid from your cheek, trailing down to cradle the back of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair with steady, possessive certainty. His breath mingles with yours, hot, slow, and heavy. His voice, low and rough, breaks the silence between you, barely more than a breath against your mouth.

“You’ve been mine, even when I didn’t say it,” his voice low as his flesh palm, warm and callused, slides slow along your waist, metal fingers cool and steady at your hip, guiding you with gentle pressure until you’re shifting forward. You rise without thinking, letting him draw you in, knees settling on either side of his thighs until you’re straddling him fully. His head tips back slightly against the cushion to keep your gaze, his eyes flickering with wonder and a hunger he’s finally allowing himself to feel.

“You were my new dream. The one good thing I let myself hope for when everything else felt impossible,” he whispers, lips brushing yours as the words spill out.

Your hands find his shoulders, then slide up to frame his face, thumbs tracing his cheeks, careful around the fading bruise of exhaustion under his eyes.

“And you were mine.”

“Then stay,” he says, simple and devastating. “Stay right here. Let me keep you.”

You kissed him again, his breath mingled with yours, every inhale drawing you in, every exhale letting you feel how much this cost him to keep gentle. He kissed you like a man who’d waited too long and was terrified of breaking what he’d finally been given.

When he pulled back again, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his thumb stroked once along your cheek.

“I want to get this right,” he said quietly. “I want to be good for you.”

He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then held you close, one hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles.

“I’ll take care of you. Tonight. Tomorrow. However long you’ll have me, doll.”

“I’ve wanted to hear you say that for so long,” you admit, voice barely there.

“Then I’ll spend every day making sure you never have to wait to hear it again,” he says, low and certain.

The room grew quieter, though the city beyond the walls carried on as it always did, sirens, traffic, lives brushing past one another, unaware that, in the safety of his embrace, you finally let yourself believe the longing between you was real, reciprocated, and yours to keep.

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leave me a bucky themed request :)

taglist

@resting-confused-face @severerebelearthquake @lovinqbella @slowburndarling @bellesmith628

wienersoldier99

having this flop is killing me yall

gerz-s

always almost - this time for sure

part 1

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He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what you think.

He wants to ask.

But he doesn’t.

So he waits.

Six days pass.

The silence stretches.

His throat tightens. His fingernails dig into his palm.

The air between your apartments feels different, thicker now. He tells himself it’s better this way. To give you space.

You open your mouth like you might say something, but you close it again.

Then he nods. Barely. Just a dip of his chin, tight and unreadable. He steps past you, shoulder brushing yours softly in passing. Not a word. Not a glance back.

But you stand there, the summer air rushing in from the street, watching him disappear out the front door.

That night, he doesn’t sleep.

He sat up in his bed. The silence presses in too tightly. The walls feel closer than usual.

He contemplated just going over to your apartment, torn by the late hour, the desire was burning at him, hot and bright against the night.

This time for sure.

But then he hears it.

Your laughter.

He doesn’t know.

But it doesn’t.

Of course they were all about him.

And in the quiet moments just before dawn, the soft click of his door and his careful footsteps down the hall told you he was gone.

None of it worked.

The anxiety stayed tight in your chest, and every task you finished left space for the same thoughts to rush back in.

I’ll be back soon.

Soon was a word that stretched and shrank depending on how hard you stared at the clock.

And by the evening you couldn’t sit still anymore. So you grabbed the key and crossed the hall before the fear could catch up. Alpine would need feeding soon. That was reason enough.

You slipped the key into the familiar lock.

You knelt down, pouring fresh food into her bowl, the same way you did last week, the soft clink of kibble hitting the cool metal.

As Alpine began to eat, your gaze drifted across the living room to his coffee table, where something caught your eye: a paperback. You paused, brows knitting slightly.

Wuthering Heights.

The book you borrowed from the library on his card.

He bought a copy.

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

You pick it up and open the cover, hoping to find him waiting there.

"Tried to sleep. Couldn’t. Every time I close my eyes it’s her face. It makes me ache. I think it hurts worse because she’s just ten feet away."

You exhale, blinking hard. This was from just last night.

“I was coming down the stairs when I saw her slip into the elevator just as the doors began to close. She hasn’t said anything. I haven’t either. It hurts."

A pause.

"Got Alpine a toy. She doesn’t care for it. That tracks."

That one made you smile.

This one’s for you.

You read it twice.

Or not waiting.

His key turns in the lock. The apartment is still except for you standing up from his couch doe eyed and caught in the headlights of his eyes.

He drops his duffel by the door, breath caught somewhere behind his ribs. He doesn’t bother turning the lights on.

You make a small, choked sound, half surprise, half something closer to panic.

“You’re—” Your voice cracks. “You’re early.”

He huffs something that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt.

“Yeah. Mission wrapped faster than expected.”

He lets you guide him, sinking onto the couch with a quiet grunt that twists something low in your chest.

You drop to your knees in front of him,

“How long has it been bleeding?”

“Not long, stopped about 20 minutes ago,” he murmurs, but his eyes are half-lidded, voice rougher than usual, trying to blink away how pretty you look kneeling in front of him.

You get up to fetch a cloth from the kitchen, soaking it with warm water before coming back and sitting next to him on the couch.

“You should’ve gone to a hospital.”

“I’m fine,” he says quietly. “I’ve had worse.”

Your eyes sting. You blink hard, refusing to let the tears win.

“I thought you were coming back tomorrow,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I thought I had time to prepare for—I wasn’t ready to see you like this.”

“I’m okay. Just a cut.”

You shake your head.

“You’re bleeding on me,” you manage, voice breaking. “You’re bleeding and I’m scared and you’re not allowed to do this to me and you've been avoiding me all week and—”

His hand finds your wrist, warm despite everything, thumb brushing over your racing pulse.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

You do, even though it hurts. His eyes are focused on you, dark and tired and piercing but impossibly gentle.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he says, voice low, rough at the edges. “I was…giving you space. After the journal. After everything you read.”

Your throat tightens.

“You think I needed space from you?”

He exhales, slow.

“I thought you might. Some of it—the things I wrote—they’re not… easy. I didn’t want you looking at me and seeing only the worst parts.”

You let out a wet, incredulous sound.

“I didn’t read anything that made me want to look away. I read things that made me want you more, Bucky don’t you see the way I look at you?”

His fingers tighten around your wrist, not hard, just enough to feel the tremor running through him too.

“That’s stupid,” you whisper, tears spilling over now, but he wasted no time reaching to brush them away. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, the trace of a smile.

“Yeah. I’m starting to get that.”

“I shouldn’t have read your journal, I’m sorry,” your voice breaking, gazing down at the floor, but he reached for your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

He shifts then—careful, closer.

“I wanted to knock. A hundred times,” his voice soft.

“I would’ve opened the door, you know that,” your voice barely above a whisper.

You shake your head against his palm, tears slipping free again, but these ones feel different—relief more than fear.

“I’d never stop,” you tell him, the words thick in your throat.

His breath catches, sharp and audible. For a second his eyes close, like the words are too much, and when they open again they’re glassy, the blue brighter with unshed tears he won’t let fall.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t make you wait in the dark,” he says, voice cracking on the last word.

“I don’t want someone else,” you answer immediately.

“I don’t think I know how to feel anything that isn’t you, you're the first thing I've felt since—” his voice cracked.

“Then why didn’t you say something?” your voice tinged with half hurt, half wonder.

He swallowed, his answer squeezing tight in his throat.

“Because you make me forget how to speak. Because when you look at me like this, I forget every defence I’ve ever built. And I’m not used to being seen that way, not without it hurting.”

“Does it hurt now?”

He shook his head once, voice barely a breath.

“My head? Yeah.”

You give a wet laugh, and his follows as you place the cloth on the coffee table as you finished wiping away the blood.

“No. Not the way it used to. It hurts in the way that makes me want to reach for you anyway.”

You watched him, breath caught as his gaze traced the shape of you with deliberate slowness, lingering at your lips, and back up to your eyes again.

“Tell me to stop, and I will. I only want what you want.”

“Please, Bucky, just kiss me,” you breathe a shaky whisper.

“You were my new dream. The one good thing I let myself hope for when everything else felt impossible,” he whispers, lips brushing yours as the words spill out.

Your hands find his shoulders, then slide up to frame his face, thumbs tracing his cheeks, careful around the fading bruise of exhaustion under his eyes.

“And you were mine.”

“Then stay,” he says, simple and devastating. “Stay right here. Let me keep you.”

When he pulled back again, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his thumb stroked once along your cheek.

“I want to get this right,” he said quietly. “I want to be good for you.”

He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then held you close, one hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles.

“I’ll take care of you. Tonight. Tomorrow. However long you’ll have me, doll.”

“I’ve wanted to hear you say that for so long,” you admit, voice barely there.

“Then I’ll spend every day making sure you never have to wait to hear it again,” he says, low and certain.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

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taglist

@resting-confused-face @severerebelearthquake @lovinqbella @slowburndarling @bellesmith628

always almost

author's note: hi guys! i've posted this on ao3, but i wanted to share it on here, just a little revamped with extra yearning!

part 2

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Bucky trusted you with the one thing he didn’t trust anyone else with.

Alpine.

“She likes the salmon stuff,” he said without meeting your eyes, handing you the silver key in your palm.

“Don’t let her trick you into second helpings.”

When it felt like, just maybe, you weren’t the only one who wanted more.

“Paper bills,” he murmured, a faint curve ghosting at the edge of his mouth. Then, just like that, he was gone, door closing with a soft click.

“Heard you wanted to read more. Thought you might like this.”

“Thanks for the card,” your voice soft, quiet.

He took it from your hand, fingers brushing yours gently, holding them there a beat too long before he pulled away.

“You brought it back already,” his voice low and rough, surprise softening the edge.

You offered him a nod and a small, shy smile. He didn’t return it.

“Read something good?” he asked, eyes holding yours a moment longer, like he was trying to figure out what you didn’t say.

“A few things,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper.

But you never asked.

And he never said.

Alpine greeted you with a soft meow, weaving between your legs as you moved further inside. Her silky tail flicked nervously, but she settled quickly when you crouched down, offering a gentle hand.

“Don’t let Alpine eat these. These are for you, not her.”

Carefully, you set it beside the basket and picked up one of the plums, cool and heavy in your hand, like something pulled from a summer dream. You didn’t eat it. Not yet.

Your eyes fell to the hallway.

There it was, his bedroom door. Slightly ajar.

You stopped.

You hovered there, breath held holding the weight of your want.

You stepped forward.

No, not a book.

A journal.

You shouldn’t.

But your hand moved anyway.

You sat carefully on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping gently under your weight. The journal rested in your lap like it was the answer to your questions.

You turned the page, fingers trembling slightly.

“She gave me my mail. Her fingers touched mine. That shouldn’t mean anything. It does. Don’t know if I deserve the way she looks at me.”

Your heart ached.

“Saw her again today. Talking to 4B in the elevator. Smile hit harder than it should’ve. Don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Another page.

A breath caught behind your ribs. You weren’t supposed to see this. You knew you weren’t. But now that you had, it was like a dam breaking. The pages whispered his truths in your hands.

“I leave next week. I want to ask her to feed Alpine. I’ll get her something from the market. She always comes back with fruit.”

Your fingers drift lightly over his words.

Of course you’d heard of him before. His name carried weight, spoken in headlines and footnotes. A ghost of a man. The Winter Soldier. A cautionary tale.

You’d known the name before you ever knew the man.

The man that leaves his laundry in the communal machines too long sometimes.

The man that carries groceries with his flesh hand, not the metal one.

The man who checks his reflection in the lobby mirror, just for a second, like he’s reminding himself who he is now.

You thought you understood him, or at least, the version he allowed.

Quiet. Wary. Shy. Maybe broken. Maybe healing.

But this is different.

This is the truth stripped bare.

He wants what he won’t let himself have.

The thought comes quiet and sudden.

He aches, just like you do.

His silence isn’t empty, it’s full of you.

Later that night the same lock turns with its familiar soft scrape, and Bucky steps inside with the kind of silence that only comes after rain and blood.

Outside, a siren wails and fades.

He doesn’t need to ask if you read it.

He already knows.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

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Bucky's text pops up on your screen:

“Need the latest markup notes asap, mind running them up?”

You grab the folder and step inside his office five minutes later, the door closing behind you with a soft, deliberate click.

Bucky doesn’t look up from the page he’s signing. White shirt stretched tight, tie loose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his black and gold arm thats been the subject of every filthy thought you’ve had this morning.

"I already have a copy of the notes on my desktop. Lock the door for me, sweetheart."

You reach back and twist the deadbolt, a familiar action the past few weeks.

He clicks the pen before setting it down and finally meets your eyes.

“I just wiped the next sixty minutes off my calendar. No meetings, no press, no one knocking. That hour belongs to me.”

He doesn’t move toward you.

“Which means you belong to me.”

He lifts the vibranium hand, flexes two fingers once.

“Up on the desk. Now.”

Your heart is hammering as you set the files down and sit up on the mahogany as he makes space for you before he steps between your knees.

“You thought I didn’t notice? Every goddamn meeting this morning I’d sign a page and your eyes would lock right here," his voice husky as he flexes his metal fingers in front of your face.

He ghosts his fingertips over your lips, tracing, lining.

“You sat third row left, remember? I signed my initials on that rider and I saw you. I clocked every single time you shifted in your seat, every time you pressed your thighs together like that would hide how wet you got just because I moved these fingers. You’ve got a thing for it, don't you, baby?”

He slides his fingers past your lips, slow, deliberate, letting the vibranium fill your mouth. You suck slow, tongue swirling around his index finger and middle finger.

“Look at you, mouth ready before I said a word. That’s real obedience. And obedient girls get to cum all over Daddy’s hand.”

He slides his fingers free, dragging the wet metal slow across your bottom lip, then gives the desk one deliberate sweep with his flesh hand, sliding everything off in a quiet rustles, clinks and thuds.

He leaned you back and your skirt rides up.

“Show me how wet you are," his voice flat, absolute.

You hesitate half a second.

“Now, baby. Lift it. I’m not asking twice.”

You pull the fabric up, slow, revealing the soaked black lace clinging to your pussy. He hums, low and satisfied, hooks one finger under the waistband, and peels them down your legs in a single slow drag.

“These are mine now. You don’t get them back.”

He balls them up, putting them into back pocket.

"Now show me what I've been thinking about all morning."

You reach to spread yourself open, swollen lips parting with a wet sound, clit throbbing, pussy fluttering on empty air.

He watches, his blue eyes stormy and dark.

“Look at that...all from watching me sign papers?”

He spreads your thighs wider and lines his metal fingers up against you.

He doesn’t push in yet.

Instead he traces you slowly, feather light, up and down, letting the vibranium glide through your wetness, just teasing, barely there.

You try to chase him, aching for more pressure, but he pins your hips flat against the desk with his flesh hand.

“Stay still, sweetheart.”

He dips lower and traces your entrance, teasing the rim.

“Tomorrow, when you’re back in that same chair at 9am, watching me sign the next stack, you’ll still feel me right here.”

He sinks his fingers deep in one smooth thrust, gold plates catching the light before they disappear inside you.

You whimper, the stretch burning cold.

“Shhh, baby I know. Cold at first, then it feels like fucking heaven, doesn’t it?” He drags them out slow, back and forth, knuckles grinding.

“Takin’ Daddy so well on this big desk where I sign bills all day.”

He gives you one, two, three slow, filthy strokes, until the metal plates whirred as he began curling viciously on the way back in, cufflinks cold against your thigh.

You grind up against him again, and he stops.

“Move again and I pull out and make you fuck yourself with your own fingers. You'll be crying in thirty seconds when you realize your fingers will never feel like mine."

Only when you're still he starts again. Long, slow strokes, curling hard on every pull back so the plates scrape that spot exactly once before disappearing.

“Learning yet?” he murmurs.

“You move when I move you."

Again.

“Yeah right there,” you gasp.

“Right there?”

He pulls his fingers out, bringing his thumb up to your clit and starts tracing slow, nowhere near enough to let you tip over.

“Hold it. You know the rules. Don’t you dare cum yet. You wait for my word. Count for me. Out loud. Ten seconds. If you cum before ten, I stop and we start over tomorrow night.”

“One…” Your voice cracks.

His thumb circles, steady, cruel.

“Two… three…”

By five your nails are clawing into the hard ridges of his wrist.

“Six… seven…eight…”

Your back arches off the desk.

“Nine…”

You let a whimper escape, knowing what’s coming.

“Ten.”

He slams his fingers back inside you, curls, and you cum hard, messy, over the vibranium, the desk, his rolled sleeve.

“That’s a good girl. Look at all that cum on my fingers baby.

He doesn’t stop. He just keeps fucking you steady.

“Give me another. One more, sweetheart. Want my fingers dripping with you so I can taste how sweet you are before I fuck you with my cock next.”

leave me a bucky themed request :)

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #congressman bucky barnes #congressman james buchanan barnes #need that #mmmmm metal arm #im sorry yall #hes so daddy vibe idk

It was the night before his week long business trip.

Bucky’s phone is angled low, lens pointed right where his cock disappears into you.

“Look at that, baby,” he rasps, voice thick.

“That’s it, stretch yourself on me. My perfect girl, taking me so deep...fuck—you’re gonna make me beg, doll.”

He lets the camera catch his cock glistening before you sink back down. You shift, hands on his chest, riding him into a steady grind, your clit brushing against him.

“Ride me just like that—grind down slow, yeah, baby. Fuckin’ use me, sweet girl. Give the camera something to remember.”

He thrusts up from underneath you, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room.

“Fuck yourself on it, doll. I can take it.”

His metal hand slides to your hip. He groans when he feels you tighten around him. He knows you’re close.

“Harder baby. Let it see how good you fuck me. Make the video fall in love with you too.”

You drop harder, faster, deeper.

“There it is, fuckin’ take what’s yours.”

“Just like that,“ you whimpered, your eyes rolling back as your cream starts to drip down his cock.

“You like it like this, doll? Look at you, baby, messin’ yourself all over me. Gonna fuck you full of my cum. Show the camera how bad you need to be bred.”

You clung to him, nails raking his chest as you came, pussy squeezing tight as his cum started spilling out around his cock.

“Can’t believe how much you take, baby…fuck, look at all that cum pushing out,” he rasps, voice completely shot as he zooms in on the thick mess forcing its way out around his cock.

leave me a bucky themed request :)

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #congressman bucky barnes #congressman james buchanan barnes #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #james buchanan bucky barnes

Texting Congressman Barnes

It starts innocently.

You’re on your couch, legs tucked under you, laptop on your thighs, finishing notes.

One last text.

You: Line 14 still good for tomorrow?

His reply is instant.

Bucky: It’s perfect.

Bucky: You’re still up?

You reply just as quick.

You: Trying to wrap up your speech for tomorrow.

Bucky: You work too hard, sweetheart.

You: I have deadlines…can’t slack.

Bucky: Deadlines aren’t real if I say they’re not.

You: Haha very funny.

Bucky: You laugh…but I bet your mind isn’t on deadlines.

You bit your lip softly as the three dots appeared while he continued to type.

Bucky: I haven’t stopped thinking about last week. About how my good girl looked cumming on my cock the second her boss told her to.

Your breath stops.

Bucky: You really think I’m ever getting any work done when all I hear in my head is you begging “Daddy, harder” while I had you spread on my desk? Such a greedy little thing.

You: Bucky…

Bucky: [photo]

He’s at home. Low angle, phone aimed down. His shirt is bunched slightly. His metal hand is palming his length straining against his slacks, fingers curled tight enough to make the seam ride the ridge of his cock.

Bucky: Look how hard you make me, bunny. You’re gonna take care of it, aren’t you? Driving me outta my mind.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

A voice note this time.

Bucky: If you’re not riding me in the next fifteen minutes I’m dragging you into the office tomorrow, bending you over the committee table in front of everyone, and showing them why you walk funny after our “late-night briefings.”

Another text.

Bucky: Move.

You’re already sliding out of bed.

You: On my way, Congressman.

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