buckybarnesevents - Tumblr blog

buckybarnesevents · 4 days ago

Text

Good Press (1)

Bucky Barnes & F!Reader

Written for Week 7 of Hot Bucky Summer: "Put this on."

Warnings: 18+, language, pre-Thunderbolts*, no use of Y/N, slow burn/eventual relationship

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: got struck with this little nugget of an idea and figured i would use the next few weeks of Hot Bucky Summer to play it all out. Bucky on the campaign trail must've been a trip 😂

It didn’t take him long to start thinking that maybe this plan wasn’t very well thought through. They had an assistant bring him a suit, which right off the bat left him feeling uncomfortable. The person wasn’t even his assistant, just someone else’s that had been farmed out to do Bucky’s bidding for the time being until they found him his own. He didn't like the idea of that either. Also, what was wrong with the suit he’d gone and found for himself?

The kid, who looked like he was barely old enough to drive let alone have a full grasp of who he was dropping the suit off to, stood there wringing his hands after Bucky had taken the sleek black garment bag from him. His eyes were wide, and Bucky could spot the little beads of sweat popping up along the edge of his forehead. Standing there in silence much longer would start making the kid’s collar turn a darker shade of blue from the sweat, Bucky had no doubt.

Lifting the bag a little higher so that it wasn’t hitting the floor, Bucky asked, “What’s your name anyway?”

He coughed as he tried to clear his throat. “John-Johnny. John. Um.”

Bucky lifted his eyebrows slightly, doing his best not to find amusement in the kid’s nerves. “John or Johnny?”

His face was turning red and he couldn’t look at Bucky as he forced out his answer. “Johnny.”

Bucky nodded. “Johnny.” He gestured vaguely with the garment bag. “Do you need to be here to watch me put this on, Johnny? Or were you just the drop-off guy?”

His face went from red to almost sickly white at Bucky’s question. He shook his head. “No. No I don’t. Sor-sorry. Shit. I’m just, I'm gonna...” he started to backpedal and Bucky did him the favor of not trying to stop him.

“Thanks!” Bucky called after him. “And next time tell them I can pick out my own clothes!”

When the door clattered shut, Bucky almost felt a little bad. He was probably a good kid, if not woefully unprepared for what he was walking into. As he stared at the garment bag, Bucky had a feeling that was actually one thing that he and Johnny had in common. Not that he’d ever see him again to be able to tell him as much.

Walking into the bedroom section of the rather lavish hotel they’d put him up in, Bucky tossed the bag onto the bed. He stood there and stared for a moment, hands on his hips. This was a far cry from all the places he’d been up until now. He wasn’t hiding out in a tiny apartment trying to piece his memory back together while flying under the radar. He wasn’t on a tranquil farm in Wakanda in the kind of solitude some people could only dream of. But at least he wasn’t hidden away in some lab, strapped down to a table or a chair or whatever they could find to try and contain him. So there was that. He had to admit though, as he reached and pulled the zipper on the bag, he still felt lost. No matter where he was, there was still that lingering sense of not having things quite figured out. He had yet to find all the pieces to the puzzle—he wondered if he ever would.

He didn’t want to admit it, but the shirt, pants, and jacket all fit like a glove. Even the suits he’d gotten for himself didn’t fit so nicely. He should’ve been grateful. The suit, the room, the Johnny. He should’ve probably left a little bit of room in his thoughts for gratitude. Maybe he’d get around to feeling that eventually. For the moment he was having a bit of a hard time recognizing himself. The suit felt a bit like a costume. For a moment the whole thing had him thinking of Steve. His Steve. The one who didn’t want to be the ‘Star Spangled Man with a Plan’, who just wanted to stop the bad guys. They didn’t talk as much about it back then as they maybe should have, too much going on in a warzone to get into things like that. But now that he was staring in the mirror and struggling to reconcile who he was with who he was looking at, he wished that they’d made the time.

As he was adjusting his tie into place, there was a knock at the door. He let out a deep sigh, head dropping back. He shut his eyes for a moment, not tight, just enough to block everything out for a moment so he could collect himself.

Walking towards the door to his room, he felt for the first time just how stiff the shoes they’d gotten him were. That was another reason he didn’t want people picking out his clothes—everything he owned was already broken in. So what if they were a little scuffed up? Who was going to be looking at his feet, anyway?

“I told you I know how to put on a suit.” His next sentence died on the tip of his tongue when he pulled the door open and saw that it was not Johnny standing on the other side.

You laughed, arms crossed over your chest. “Well, I'm very happy to hear that, Mr. Barnes.”

The annoyance on his face worked itself into confusion as you both stood on opposite sides of the threshold. “You’re not Johnny,” he said as he looked you over.

You shook your head, earrings making the lightest clinking sound as you did. “No I'm not.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

You laughed. “Johnny’s not your assistant—he's mine.”

“Yeah, well—”

“And I'm sure,” you cut him off, “it doesn’t seem like you need an assistant right now. Because, you know, you’re not doing a hell of a lot. But one day soon, god willing, you will actually have things to do and stay busy with. And if that happens, when,” you corrected yourself, “it will be nice to have someone around to do things for you like pick up your suits and keep your schedule in order.”

The skepticism wasn’t fading from his face. “So you’re...”

“Also not your assistant. But since you scared Johnny, I figured I would come and see how bad it was.” You made a big show of looking him up and down. “Were you this warm and welcoming to Johnny when he was here earlier?”

“I can get my own suits.”

You sighed. “Right. So that’s a yes. Lovely.” You untucked your arms so you could gesture to the expanse of room behind him. “Can I come in?”

“Who are you?”

The look on his face made it clear that you probably shouldn’t have been smiling, but it didn’t stop you. “Your own personal miracle worker and damage control agent.” When his unamused expression didn’t change, you rolled your eyes. “I’m the head of your PR department. All the front-facing events you’re showing up to, your online presence, that all rests on my back and the people on my team.”

He shook his head, confusion intensifying once more. “Online pres—”

“It’ll be easier to explain if you let me in to talk.”

He didn’t pretend to be enthused about it as he stepped out of the way to let you in, and you didn’t pretend that he had any other choice but to let you pass him by. Neither of you said anything for a moment as he shut and latched the door behind you. You took advantage of the split-second opportunity to look around the room.

They’d set him up nicely, which was more than you could say for other candidates in his position. You couldn’t help but to notice the fact that despite how nice the room was, his beat-up rolling suitcase and tattered backpack were still resting beside the sofa. The suitcase was open but it wasn’t fully unpacked—he'd clearly just been taking out what he needed as he needed it. The sight confirmed the need to send him a fresh suit.

Bucky didn’t sit, nor did he invite you to. It wasn’t surprising. Knowing you were already pushing your luck with him, you didn’t sprawl on the chair that was just a few feet away. Instead, you walked a little deeper into the room, your heels not clicking quite as loudly on the thin carpeting. The bag that you’d been holding in the crook of your arm, the one that held everything you needed to try and do as much damage control as possible for the man in front of you, landed on top of the coffee table with an audible thud.

“There’s no damage to control,” Bucky said, finally breaking the silence filling the three feet that separated you.

You chuckled. “You don’t think so?”

He held his hands out, like he was inviting you to search him for some kind of dirt someone could try and use against him. “I’ve been cleared. Pardoned. Whatever else.”

“I mean, yeah, technically.”

“Technically?”

“In the eyes of the law, sure. You’ve been pardoned. The eyes of the public, though?” You shook your head. “Believe it or not, there are a lot of people out there who don’t want a war criminal to have a seat in Congress.”

Tension rippled throughout his entire body, hands clenching into fists. His shoulders snapped back, his defensiveness undeniable even before he opened his mouth. “I’m not a war criminal. All that stuff that happened, that wasn’t—”

“I know that,” you said, stopping him before he could get himself too riled up. “Believe me, Mr. Barnes, I’m on your side. The ancient history that’s not so ancient, I know, okay?” You watched as his fists slowly unclenched. “But I’m not the one you have to convince. Some of the people out there are going to be a much tougher sell.”

He huffed and shook his head. “Jesus.”

“He can’t help you like I can right now, alright?” you joked.

Bucky’s face didn't spell out amusement, but he didn’t seem to be more pissed off. So you’d settle for that. “From the sounds of it, you’re not going to be able to help me much either.”

“I love a longshot. That’s why your campaign manager hired me.”

You couldn’t get a good read on his face as he said, “Right.”

It seemed like he might have something more to say, so you let the pause linger. When he remained silent, you picked up the conversation. “Are you going to fight me on everything? Or, you know, scare away any other staff I send your way to help you?” When he still didn’t say anything, you had to laugh. “Thanks for not lying to me at least.” You took a deep breath and crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m ready for an uphill battle, Mr. Barnes—that's what they pay me for. But my life isn’t the only one that gets easier when you decide to stop doing that.”

You allowed him to gnaw on that information for a minute. Turning, you opened up your bag and began digging through for the folder that he was going to need for the Q&A that was rapidly approaching. While there might be a few questions that came out of left field, you knew what most of them were going to be for these first few outings. You had scripts written out for a majority of the most likely possibilities.

Flipping the folder open, you thumbed through the pages inside to make sure that everything was there. You didn’t expect him to stand up there and read verbatim off the cards, but you were hoping that he would take the time between now and showtime to review it, do his best to remember the bulk so that when a question hit the air he didn’t have to fly completely off the cuff.

He was staring at you, brows knit tightly when you turned back around. You didn’t let his scrutinizing stare shake you. Instead, you held out the folder for him to take. “Some light but helpful reading material for this evening.”

“A script?” he asked as he looked through the pages.

You shrugged. “More like prompts.”

He scoffed. “Right.”

“It’s better than flying in blind.”

He snapped the folder shut and shoved it underneath his arm. “Everything that I’ve had to go through, I don’t think that flying blind into a Q&A with some reporters is going to do me in.”

A lot of your relationship was just going to be you laughing at things that he said with no intention of being funny. You’d enjoy it at least. “Yeah, okay. Maybe it won’t ‘do you in’,” you put air quotes around the words in case your sarcasm wasn’t laid on thick enough, “the way you’re thinking. You’ll survive, sure. But you’re not that guy anymore, or so you say. This isn’t life or death. This is a campaign. A lot more grey areas and a lot more things that are going to make you roll your eyes.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing that now,” he deadpanned as he stared at you.

You pointed to the folder. “Read the damn prompts.”

He sighed, not agreeing or disagreeing to follow that particular instruction. He made a small motion with his hand that wasn’t keeping the folder in place. “Anything else?”

You looked him up and down. “Suit’s alright?”

“It’s unnecessary.”

All the oxygen was going to be gone from the room at the rate the two of you were huffing and sighing at each other. “Does it fit okay?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I needed—”

“I wanna wear my own shoes.”

You laughed and shook your head. “No.”

“Why n—”

“No amount of polish will make them presentable for live television, that’s why.”

You walked around him, surveying him like a curator checking out a new piece for a museum. He turned with you at first, not wanting to have his back to you. After a few halted steps and a sharp look from you, though, he finally understood what you were doing and kept himself still.

Your steps around had landed you closer to him. As you stood in front of him, you made a small adjustment to his tie. It was then that you noticed something missing from his get-up, a small but important detail. Stepping back, you looked around the living room to see if he just hadn’t gotten around to putting it on by the time you showed up.

When you didn’t see it anywhere, you asked, “Where’s the bag this came in?”

He nodded in the direction of the bedroom. “It’s in the—hey!” He quickly walked after you as you started towards his room. “You can’t just—”

You waved him off. “Oh calm down, I’m not here to dig through your underwear drawer.”

Once you were standing in front of his bed, you quickly scanned over the mattress and the floor by your feet. Not finding what you were looking for, you moved onto the garment bag. You undid the zipper all the way to the bottom and patted around until you found what you were looking for. When you turned back around to Bucky, who was still looking just as annoyed as he did the second he opened up the door to his hotel room, you had a tiny drawstring pouch in your hand. You pulled at the opening before waving for Bucky to step in closer.

It was evident that he didn’t want to, but out of all the things he was going to have the chance to fight you on in the coming weeks, he must have decided that this wasn’t quite worth it. Stepping in, he focused on your hands instead of your face as you reached into the tiny satin pouch.

You held up the tiny American flag shaped pin for him to see. A small turn of your hand had it so that it was laying in your palm for him to take. “Put this on.”

His lips curled down slightly from the straight line that they were in. Just enough of a shift to show that he thought it was a silly thing for you to notice and feel the need to rectify. Once you realized that he wasn’t going to do it, you pulled the pin from its backing with a quick flick of your wrist.

He didn’t pull away from you as you reached for his lapel, but you were willing to bet his annoyance was written all over his face. You got the pin situated, and smoothed out his suit before stepping back again.

“It’s the kind of thing people will notice,” you said when the expression on his face didn’t change.

He turned away from you, and you thought he was doing it just because he was sick of you until you realized that he was now facing the full-length mirror in his room. He tugged at his jacket, smoothing it out over his chest. He frowned as he stared at his reflection.

His eyes zeroed in on the flag in the reflection. “Monkey on a unicycle,” he muttered.

Your face scrunched as you tried to make out what it was that he said. “What’s that?”

He shook his head as he turned and faced you again. “Nothing.”

Not that you believed him, but you also knew that he wasn’t going to be telling you all of his innermost thoughts and feelings at this point. For the foreseeable future you figured you would be lucky to get more than one or two sentences out of him at a time. It was a new problem to encounter in your particular line of work. Usually you couldn’t get people to shut their mouths and that was what got them into trouble. Very few things about Bucky’s situation weren’t unique in some way.

“Right, well,” you started to walk back towards the living room area of the room, hearing Bucky’s footsteps following close behind, “if you’d like to run through some of the probable questions and answers, I've cleared my afternoon and evening for it.”

He opened the folder again. Out of the corner of his eye he could see your hand resting on the handle to the bag you’d brought with you. You were ready for him to say no and send you away—he didn’t blame you for that. As he skimmed over the questions, he couldn’t help but to shake his head. There was no point in proving your assumption wrong, so he closed the folder before looking at you.

“I’ll be fine.”

Rolling your eyes was never the professional response to anything, but something told you that dealing with Bucky was going to have both of you skirting the limits of professionalism, really stretching the definition of the word.

Positioning your bag in the crook of your arm once more, you said, “Famous last words, Mr. Barnes.”

He cocked one eyebrow. “Is that what you’re always going to call me?”

You shrugged. “Until I can honestly call you Congressman Barnes, yes.” Pausing, you smiled. “Not a fan?”

The gesture he made with the folder in his hand was a flippant one. “Does it matter?”

You laughed, more honesty in the sound than there had been lately. “Not particularly.”

The huff he let out almost sounded like something akin to a weary chuckle. It was more than you’d gotten out of him so far, so you’d take it. Maybe he’d come around, warm up to you a little. If he didn’t, it was no skin off your back. He'd be far from the first person you worked for that didn’t care much for you. Fortunately for all parties involved it didn’t stop you from being good at your job. If he gave all of this, if he gave you, a little bit of time, he’d see that.

After another few seconds of silence, you decided to see yourself out. You found it interesting, the way that he clearly didn’t want to spend any amount of quality time with you, but he also wasn’t dismissing you.

“If you change your mind,” you told him as you stepped towards the door, “or if you have any other questions, feel free to give me a call.”

“I don’t have—”

“Card’s in the folder too.”

“Of course it is.”

A quiet thunk let followed you flipping the lock on the door. When you landed yourself in the hallway you said, “If I don’t hear from you before, I'll see you tonight. Car gets here at six.”

“And you’ll be in it, I’m assuming?”

You cracked a grin. “Smart man.” You turned on your heel and began walking away. “We might still be able to do something yet!”

He didn’t give you a response—it didn’t seem like you cared for one anyway. He waited until he heard the dinging sound of the elevator arriving to take you before he shut and locked the door.

As much as he wanted to throw the folder in the trash, to take off the suit, and toss his shoes out the window out onto the street, he fought the urge to do it all. He’d done harder things before, far worse things. He could suck it up and get through this. With a deep sigh, he went and sat down on the sofa and opened the folder that you’d given him. The impeccably typed and spaced letters mocked him, but he read on anyway. There was no backing out now.

(divider by @silkholland )

Marvel Taglist (please let me know if you’d like to be added!): @late-to-the-party-81 @garbinge @artemiseamoon @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnesevents

ps i didn’t include folks who specifically had been asking to be tagged in my invisible silver liningsfic, but if you’re on that and also wanna be on my general mcu taglist please tell me! xo

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 7 #drabbles mc #bucky barnes/reader

33 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 4 days ago

Text

Barnes Family in the City | The Barnes Family AU | Thunderbolts*!Bucky x Wife!Reader

Now that Bucky is officially a Thunderbolt* you're taking advantage of the new perks. You were hoping for a new mom van, rather than leaving the family home and moving to Manhatten. But your husband always knows how to make things right.

Warnings: silly family fluff. Bucky watches Sex in the City (and is a Miranda fan, fight me). Maybe a few swears.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

HBS Week 7 - July 13th - July 19th | “Put this on.” | [Blindfolds | Lingerie | Gag/Collars] @buckybarnesevents

Masterlist | The Barnes Family AU | Hot Bucky Summer | Bucky Barnes

"James Buchanan Barnes, there'd better be a damn good reason why I just saw a real estate agent pulling away from the house." You spoke loudly over the car's bluetooth, trying to ignore Natalia and Grant in the back, fighting over a page of stickers you'd found in the trunk.

"Believe me, Doll, there is, there really is." Bucky's voice crackled back over the speaker and you hoped to god whatever reason came with a payrise because your beat up old mom-van was on its way out.

Two weeks later the house was full of boxes, Natalia had sealed all of her toys in with copious amounts of packing tape, "so they can't escape, mommy, like Andy's toys."

You'd had to go out and get more tape but you didn't have the heart to be cross, it was still cute she was worried. Grant, on the other hand, had packed and repacked his toys so many times you were worried they'd fallen through the floorboards. In the end you slowly packed them yourself, sneaking them out of his room after he'd fallen asleep.

And now moving day was finally here you were still worried you might have forgotten something in the entirely empty house.

Bucky paced the living room, one hand on his hips, one hand supporting Grant and his mobile snug between his ear and shoulder. You stopped in the doorway, watching the way he'd curled his arm around your son, so protective but so gentle. Grant tugged on the cuff of his t-shirt, but Bucky barely noticed, looking down at him smiling instead.

"Alexei, I really think we should just let the moving people take us," he sighed and looked over at you with a small smile. Down the phone Alexei continued to argue that there was space enough for everyone in his limo it they squeezed up.

Bucky's brows pinched together and you finally allowed yourself a little closer, standing on your tiptoes to kiss the little wrinkle that formed there.

Moving house was always stressful, but add in two kids, three if Walker's son was coming too, four if you counted Alexei, which Bucky often did, and it was a nightmare.

Yelena, Bob and Ava had strolled into the Watchtower with duffle bags and coffee cups three weeks ago. It was definitely going to be harder for your little family.

"Bucky," you mouthed at him, pointing to the door where the removal company had begun loading the van.

"Gotta go, Alexei, see you there." He ended the call abruptly, sliding the phone into the back pocket of his impossibly tight black jeans.

His shoulders sagged as he turned to you, kissing Grant on the top of his head and scooping Natalia up with his other arm so the couch could be carried away, much to the chargrin of your daughter who'd been tucking her teddies in for 'nap naps'.

"We'll be there soon," he sighed, leaning into you, cheek on top of your head. You weren't sure if he was trying to reassure himself, or you, but you kissed him anyway, savouring the feeling of your family squeezed together in your home one last time. Little squirming hands, milky baby kisses and the feel of Bucky in the middle, solid and real, holding you all together.

A tear ran down your cheek, "god, don't know why I'm crying we outgrew this place ages ago it's just —" you sniffled again.

"It's where we started our little family." Bucky kissed Grant and then Natalia's cheeks. "Made babies—" he raised an eyebrow and gave you a cheeky smirk

"Not in front of the kids!" You admonished with a smile of your own.

"This is our family home, it's okay to be sad, but we're going to make so many more memories. Trust me. It's not the place, it's the people."

Bucky was also so sincere on this front you couldn't argue. Instead you took Grant from him and looked at your empty house one last time.

"I know, you're right. I'm excited for the next adventure."

"That's my girl," Bucky pulled you in tight with his free arm and together you locked up for the last time.

It took a while for your little convoy to reach New York. The children were quiet, sleeping in the back, while you chatted to Bucky about how they'd been while he was away, some new recipes you were going to try, how he'd get his motorbike back from the shop in DC.

The lights went red and Alexei waved from the drivers seat of his limo. Yelena looked mortified in the passenger seat, but lifted her figners in greeting before slumping back down. The lights changed and the limo pulled away, but instead of carrying on down the i95 Bucky took a right.

"Here," Bucky handed you your sleep mask, "put this on."

"Bucky," you laughed, "I'm not tired, we're nearly there, aren't we? I'll have a nap later if I need it." You folded the little mask between your fingers and smiled at him.

"Please, for me." He gave you the briefest, pleading, look. The puppy dog eyes he reserved exclusively for you.

"Is this Staten Island? Bucky, please, I don't wanna be on Staten Island." You gave him your own pleading look and he laughed.

"Put the blindfold on. For me. And I'll take you away from Staten Island, I promise."

"Fine, you're so weird." You smiled, pulling the silky material over your eyes and sighing dramatically, after a few minutes of quiet you broke the silence. "I swear if the surprise is anywhere but actual New York I'll be so mad."

"Only New York?"

"Not Staten fucking Island…or New Jersey. If I have to leave my nice house I want to skyline, I want a view, I want to feel like I'm in Sex and the City."

"You'd better not feel like you're in Sex and the City." Bucky grouched, reaching over and squeezing your thigh. You couldn't see him coming so the movement was a shock, but the feel of his warm hand on your leg was so comforting you relaxed further into your seat.

"Such a Charlotte."

"Good." He agreed and you both laughed so hard you were worried the children would wake up.

"We're nearly here, anyway. Miranda."

"I'm not Miranda, I always thought of myself as a bit of a Samantha."

"You want to be in Sex in the City, you think of yourself as a Samantha. I've made a mistake moving us here." Bucky laughed as he brought the car to a halt and you briefly felt it move backwards as he parked, his arm on the back of your seat brushed against your shoulder and neck when he drew away, leaving his warmth lingering behind.

He took a deep breath. "Stay here."

There was the rustling of the car door, a slam and then your own door opened and Bucky was reaching over to unclip your seatbelt and help you out. You allowed yourself a moment to lean into him, trusting him to take your weight, and he held you back, his hand rubbing a path up and down your back.

"Okay, you can take your blindfold off now." He whispered in your ear.

It was warm on the street and you could hear traffic noise, but also birds, the rustle of trees. A family went by, parents shouting to wait before crossing the road, the whirr of a scooter zipping past.

"Come on, Doll, I'm excited."

Bucky stood behind you, his hands on your hips and his chin hooked over your shoulder.

You pushed your blindfold up to find yourself on a street of brownstones, two stories with a basement and round windows. Each one was different, colour curtains, art, flowers, adorning the sills and small yards. Except for one.

The one in front was nearly swept, plain curtains tied back, a "sold" sign on its side by the railings and "Welcome Home" in the window.

"Bucky?" You turned to him, confusion written across your face.

"Well, welcome home, sweetheart." His smile was so wide it made his eyes crinkle and you gasped, looking at the house again.

"But the tower?"

"Not a home." He said firmly.

"The team?"

"Not my family."

"Oh my god." You burst into tears and turned into his arms, holding him as close as possible.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it. I can't believe it."

"I love you, Mrs Barnes." Bucky held you close and kissed your temple, "time to make some new memories."

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 7 #bucky barnes/reader #mrs elsie barnes

88 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 5 days ago

Text

don't play with love potions

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x witch!female reader

summary: bucky barnes barges into your workshop while you're brewing a love potion and when you're startled into spilling it, the containment protocols in new avengers tower are triggered—trapping you in with the super-soldier and a whole lotta love potion.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, dubcon because lust magic, sex pollen, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, Bucky pins reader's wrists at one point, finger sucking, biting, rough body play, overstimulation, cockwarming, dirty talk, degradation kink (Bucky's a little mean, and so is reader), praise kink, teasing, begging, fighting for dominance, enemies to lovers, pet names (witch, angel), aftercare, happy ending

word count: 8.9k

a/n: whew! here's my entry for week 6 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer!! i'm cutting it close to the wire, but it's been a looong week. i wasn't even sure if i'd get this done in time 😅 y'all voted for Bucky and reader to be dosed with sex pollen, and i had the idea of some enemies to lovers smut with witch!reader, so that's what i went with—and i'm happy with how it turned out!! enemies to lovers is always fun to write, and i especially loved the push-and-pull dynamic of these two. i hope y'all enjoy it!! ♡

prompt: “I need help.” | [Sex Pollen | Erectile Dysfunction | Fuck or Die]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

Your day had started off with the best of intentions. You’d disappeared into the potions workshop Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had set up for you in New Avengers Tower, and you were intent on creating a very specific kind of love potion.

Well, you couldn’t really say you’d had the best of intentions, but they were at least the most mischievous of intentions. You had a theory, and you figured a love potion was the best way to test it.

So you spent long hours in your workshop that fateful day, messing around with various ingredients and combinations, trying to mix up a strong, but relatively short-lasting love potion that would make two people unable to resist each other.

All the while, you kept John Walker and Ava Starr in the back of your mind.

The two members of the New Avengers were always sniping at each other, always sparring in the gym when they had free time, and you suspected there was something more going on there. Something that was beginning to throw off the balance of the team.

But you didn’t want to make your colleagues do anything they didn’t want to do, of course—you just wanted to give them a little push. So you made sure the potion only worked if the people dosed were already attracted to each other.

Once you thought you had the combination right, you began pouring the finished potion into glass containers. You were just thinking of ways to slip it to John and Ava, or trap them in a room and set it off, when the trouble began.

Bucky Barnes barged into your workshop—as the annoying super-soldier often did—and immediately launched into a tirade of criticism over your witchcraft.

Apparently, the hair growth potion you’d given Alexei Shostakov had worked too well, and his chest was covered in hair so thick, he was having trouble fitting into his Red Guardian outfit. Of course, according to Bucky, this was all your fault.

You would’ve rolled your eyes, if you weren’t staring in horror at the rising plume of thick, pink smoke quickly filling the workshop. Following its trail, you found shattered glass at your feet, the remnants of a bottle that had once held your love potion.

All you could do was look at the broken bottle, dumbfounded that you’d been so startled by Bucky’s sudden appearance that you’d knocked it over. You didn’t think the super-soldier had that much of an effect on you, but apparently you were wrong.

The evidence of just how wrong you were was filling the room, your potion having turned into a magical gas that was rapidly pouring into the room. As you watched it plume and expand, leaving nothing but broken glass behind, your shock was quickly replaced by anger.

The potion you’d worked on all day had turned into a gaseous fog, and there would be no putting it back in the bottle. All your hard work was going up in smoke—literally—right before your eyes, and you whirled on Bucky, ready to give him a piece of your mind.

Before you could open your mouth to yell at the blundering super-soldier, and berate him for charging into your workshop without knocking, a metal shield slid down over the door with a loud clang, locking it shut. A tinny, automated voice filled the room, notifying you and Bucky that containment protocols had been initiated.

For a moment, you were stunned into silence.

When Val had set you up with the workshop, you thought she’d been exaggerating about the protective protocols put in place for any errant witchcraft. You’d assumed it was a lie to keep you in line, so you didn’t mess with anything that could harm the others or the tower.

Apparently, she wasn’t lying (for once), and you were about to learn the hard way not to play with love potions in New Avengers Tower.

“How many times have I told you to be more careful, witch?” Bucky hissed, hurling the epithet like an insult across the span of the workshop.

Your eyes found the super-soldier through the pink gloom, giving him your harshest glare. But he wasn’t even looking at you. He was warily watching the pink smoke swelling and enveloping the room.

“And how many times have I told you not to disturb me while I’m working, soldier,” you snapped back, spitting the last word with as much venom as you could muster, which was quite a bit despite the worry in your gut. You glanced around the room as well.

The smoke was filling up your workshop so quickly, you knew you were seconds away from breathing it in, and you had a good idea of what would happen to your body once you did.

Across the room, you watched Bucky’s nostrils flare, the super-soldier dragging in a deep breath to respond to your sharp words.

For a moment, all you could think about was how grateful you were that you’d made the potion so it would only affect those who already felt attraction—even if that meant it would affect you when you were in such close proximity to Bucky.

It was your most shameful secret that you harbored secret fantasies about the annoying super-soldier, and what was beneath that black and red superhero suit he wore. More nights than you could count, you got yourself off to the idea of Bucky railing you to within an inch of your life.

So you knew the magic-induced lust would hit you like a freight train as soon as you inhaled the pink smoke. But at least you’d be alone in feeling the effects of the love potion. Because there was absolutely no way Bucky was attracted to you.

The super-soldier had made it very clear during the months you’d worked together that he couldn’t stand you.

He called you ‘witch’ every chance he got, had a problem with everything you did, and otherwise avoided you unless he was criticizing your recklessness on the last mission. There was no way he felt anything but irritation for you.

But none of that dampened your attraction to Bucky Barnes.

And you were minutes, if not seconds, away from letting him in on your deepest, darkest secret—that you wanted him. So you fortified yourself, knowing you’d have to resist begging him to fuck you for as long as possible if you ever wanted to look him in the eye again.

While the pink smoke continued filling the room, you tried not to breathe too deeply, but it soon became unavoidable. The sweet-smelling gas infiltrated your senses, and once you got your first whiff, you inhaled until your lungs were full of the magic smoke.

A delicious, pink haze fell over your mind, the edges going fuzzy while your body felt like it was floating. It was a pleasant sensation, almost like you were weightless and wrapped up in the most delicious scent you’d ever smelled.

Then, the burning ache began.

It hit you like a punch to the gut, the sudden, needy pulse between your thighs. All of a sudden, you could feel your racing heartbeat in the throbbing of your core, and your inner muscles clenched pathetically around nothing.

A whimper escaped your lips before you could bite it back, and you hunched over your worktable, your hands clutching the edge, nails digging into the wooden surface as you tried to control the urges surging through your body.

You wanted to hurl yourself across the table and into Bucky’s arms. You wanted to tear your clothes off and then his, making it easy to impale your body on his hot, hard length…

“I need help.”

The words were a gasp, a plea hurtled into the thick fog of smoke filling the room. Wildly, your eyes searched through the gloom to find Bucky. He was standing rigidly next to the door, looking like a statue made of granite for how motionlessly he stood.

“I need you to tie me up,” you said, your tone sharp with an order. Despite the state of your body—which had begun to sweat beneath your clothes from the warmth building in your core—you couldn’t bring yourself to be nice when you asked the super-soldier for help.

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his blue eyes bright in the pink duskiness of the room. He raked them down your body, seemingly taking stock of the way you were curled in on yourself.

Surely he could see you were in pain and would help you. He was constantly annoyed by your existence, but he was a good man. He would help.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get anywhere near you,” Bucky said stiffly, his gaze unreadable when it returned to yours.

A slight frown pulled down at the edges of Bucky’s mouth, but that wasn’t abnormal when he was in your presence. A quick glance down his body assured you he looked normal, as if he wasn’t affected by the smoke. So you didn’t understand his reluctance.

“Why?” you asked, huffing an annoyed sound as you stared at the super-soldier, willing him with your mind to answer.

You had to bite back a whine when you breathed in more of the smoke, the burning ache between your thighs increasing enough to make your arms start to shake. Your nails bit deeper into the wooden table.

“The effects aren’t contagious. You can touch me, you’ll be fine,” you said, trying to reassure the hesitant super-soldier, though your voice came out more annoyed than soothing. It was difficult to sound calm when you wanted to climb Bucky like a tree and fuck him.

Bucky’s knuckles cracked so loudly in the quiet room that your eyes dropped to his hands. They were curled into fists, his fingers clenched so tightly, it looked like it hurt. In fact, when you looked closer, every muscle in his body was wound tight enough to snap.

Your brain, which was trying to feed you an endless stream of images of you fucking the super-soldier, was slow to catch on to what Bucky’s body language meant.

“What…the hell is happening?” you asked, your voice wary, your eyes darting up and down Bucky’s form. Your mind was torn between appreciating his thick biceps and noticing the way his legs looked ready to pounce. For some reason, you couldn’t make sense of it.

Instead of answering your question, Bucky only clenched his fists tighter, and you could hear his knuckles crack again.

“What was in that glass you broke?” he asked, the question sounding like it was ripped from the depths of his barrel chest.

It was on the tip of your tongue to hiss back at him that you wouldn’t have broken anything if he hadn’t startled you by barging into your workshop unannounced—especially after you’d told him multiple times not to do that because the magic you dealt with was volatile.

But you managed to bite back your harsh words when a wave of need crashed through you. You could…you could smell Bucky, even across the room. He smelled like salt and man, the scent so deliciously potent, you had to close your eyes and gather your wits before responding.

“I was just messing around with a love potion,” you admitted. Your voice was thin as you tried to play it off as no big deal, though the wetness dripping from your core and soaking your clothes painted another story.

When you managed to wrench your eyes open, you found Bucky glaring at you from his side of the room.

“What the fuck—why?” he growled through clenched teeth, his blue eyes flashing with fury.

You basked in Bucky’s anger, the emotion stirring something inside you besides need. In your moment of relief, you clung to your tiny kernel of rage, shooting the super-soldier your own glare.

“I wanted to test out a theory about Walker and Ava,” you said in your most lofty tone, knowing it would only piss him off more. “You may not have noticed, soldier, but they’ve been circling each other for weeks and it’s messing with the team.”

At his sides, Bucky’s hands unfurled and curled tight again, like he was restraining himself from doing something—strangling you probably. It gave you a sick sense of satisfaction to see him reacting to your words, even if it was only out of anger.

“Why the fuck would you do that, witch?” Bucky growled, dragging your attention back to his face. He barely looked like himself, and you realized, all of a sudden, that the potion was doing something to him.

He was glaring daggers at you from across the room, his blue eyes piercing through the pink gloom still swirling in the air. The look in his gaze was wild, his mouth twisted into an angry sneer, and his body was practically vibrating with a furious tension.

Unfortunately for you, all of that rage only made Bucky impossibly hotter. He looked like your most shameful fantasies come to life, and he was standing right in front of you, only a worktable between you.

Desperately, you wanted Bucky to take out all his anger on your body. You wanted him to pound his thick cock into your tight cunt with all the fury on his face, and then you wanted him to spill his seed deep in your body, growling in your ear the whole time, telling you that you belonged to him…

God, you needed to touch yourself. You needed something to stave off the throbbing ache beneath every inch of your skin. But you refused to do that in front of Bucky, not when he was standing right there and staring at you like you were little more than a bug beneath his boot.

You dug your nails into the wooden worktable you were hunched against, forcing yourself to remember your anger at the super-soldier and answer his question.

“It’s only supposed to work if both people are attracted to each other!” you cried, defending yourself, though your voice came out as a pitiful whine. Shaking your head, you tried to clear the pink fog from your brain as you muttered, “I must’ve messed up the ingredients.”

It was the only explanation you could come up with for why the potion seemed to be affecting Bucky. You still couldn’t believe he might be attracted to you, but something was happening to him. It was undeniable in the tense way he held himself.

Bucky’s rough voice sounded in the dim room, catching your attention and pulling you from your thoughts.

“You didn’t.”

The super-soldier’s words were barely discernible through the growl in his voice, and your eyes snapped up to him. Confusion drew your brows together when you saw the tortured look on his face.

“What?” you asked, your voice sounding dumb even to your own ears. But you couldn’t seem to catch up with what he was saying.

Bucky looked away. You watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed, fighting the urge to sink your teeth into his neck. You didn’t understand the impulse, only that you wanted to taste the salt straight from Bucky’s skin.

“You’re gonna make me say it?” he asked harshly, his eyes flicking back to yours before skating away, looking around the room as if searching for an exit you knew didn’t exist. He looked like he’d rather die than say whatever it was.

You were about to tell him you didn’t understand, but a wave of need crashed over you so strong, your knees wobbled and nearly gave out. You slumped further over the worktable, a whine building in your throat.

The pink smoke wasn’t dissipating, the magic overwhelming whatever ventilation system was installed in the tower. If anything, it was growing thicker, stronger, and along with it, the need to have something inside you became excruciatingly painful.

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, not knowing if you were begging him to answer your question or to fuck you. Your eyes searched for his through the gloom, and despite the thickness of the fog, you could see Bucky’s face perfectly.

He looked devastated, his eyes filled with a concern you’d never seen directed at you as they raked over your hunched form. His arms were shaking, and his fists had curled so tightly, his knuckles had all bled white. He looked as wrecked as you felt.

When a rough sound came from his throat, your thighs trembled dangerously and your core clenched with need. Between your legs, your skin was sticky with sweat and desire, and all you could do was look at him pleadingly.

“I’m attracted to you, witch.”

If you’d been struck by lightning, right there in the tower, you would’ve been less shocked than you were by Bucky’s confession. It hit you like rolling thunder, an awareness spreading through your body as your heart raced in your chest.

The insistent, pounding pulse between your thighs grew even more ravenous, your body shuddering as your pussy clenched hard around nothing. With a groan, you bent over your worktable, pressing your heated forehead to the cool wood.

Then you laughed.

The sound was scratchy and half-hysterical, filling the room with ridiculous peels of laughter. You couldn’t believe it—couldn’t believe Bucky was being serious. All you could do was laugh. It was either that or cry. Or beg him to fuck you.

So you laughed, and you couldn’t help but notice Bucky didn’t join in.

When you were able to get enough control of yourself, you tipped your head to the side and looked at Bucky across the room, still standing as motionless as a statue.

“No, there’s no way,” you huffed, laughter still bleeding into your voice. Your shoulders were shaking and you wiped tears from your cheeks, unable to lift yourself up off the table.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched hard, and you couldn’t be certain, but you thought you saw a faint pink flush in his cheeks. Before you could puzzle over what that meant, the muscle in his cheek popped and distracted you.

He must’ve been grinding his teeth something fierce, and you wondered fleetingly what he was thinking. You wondered if he’d take back what he’d said, admit it was a joke. But he didn’t.

“How long is this going to last?” Bucky asked finally, seemingly trying to change the subject.

You were so busy trying to figure out what might be running through the super-soldier’s mind that you answered unthinkingly. “A couple of hours, or until…”

Images of Bucky fucking you filled your head again and you trailed off, getting lost in the fantasies for a moment.

“Until what?” Bucky snapped, his eyes finding yours. There was a desperation in his gaze that you’d never seen before.

Errantly, you wondered what emotion you’d find in his eyes if you sank down on his cock. Would he stare at you with the same intense desperation, needing to come, or would his gaze fill with arrogant satisfaction.

You closed your eyes against those thoughts, unable to look at him while you answered his question.

“Or until we do something about it, ok?” you said, your words a pitiful whine as they spilled from your lips. Your nails dug into the wooden worktable again as you attempted to ground yourself, but it barely worked. “I’m trying really hard to control myself over here, soldier.”

Bucky was silent for a long minute, and you focused on the sound of your breath. You tried to keep them even, tried to slow your racing heart, tried (and failed) to ignore the thrumming pulse between your thighs.

Then, Bucky growled, “Don’t.”

Your mind, which had wandered into a fantasy of Bucky bending you more fully over your worktable and fucking into you from behind, had lost the thread of the conversation. You lifted your head, looking at the super-soldier with confusion.

“What?” you asked dumbly.

That muscle in Bucky’s cheek popped again, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. You could tell it was taking him a great deal of effort to be patient with you, but somehow he managed.

“If it makes this torment end faster, don’t control yourself, witch.”

Something in the distant recesses of your mind bristled at the implication in Bucky’s words, that it was agony to want you as badly as he did. But the rest of you fixed on the fact that his words sounded like an invitation—and it was one you wouldn’t pass up.

Rising up off your worktable, you stood for a moment on shaky legs, then took an unsteady step toward the super-soldier. When he shifted toward you, you broke into a sprint, rounding the table and running across your workshop before launching yourself into his arms.

Bucky caught you easily, and you wasted no time. Your lips crashed down on his and you kissed him with all the ravenous need raging through your body.

With a growl, Bucky turned and pressed you into the wall beside the door, kissing you just as fiercely. His tongue invaded your mouth as if he owned it, taking possession of your body as he kissed you deeply, thoroughly, licking your moans from the back of your throat.

You could feel his thick cock pressing into the slit between your thighs through your clothes. He was twitching and throbbing and you ached to get him inside you, but for the moment, all you could do was kiss him and touch him.

The hunger in your core was satisfied with that, for a short while anyway.

Your hands were everywhere at once, skimming up his broad biceps and tangling in his hair. Your nails raked down the back of his neck, your fingers tugging impatiently at his superhero suit.

You rolled your hips against his, grinding your hot center down on his thick bulge, and you moaned miserably into his mouth as the need grew desperate again.

“I don’t want to hurt you, witch,” Bucky rasped against your mouth, and you jerked back, shocked by the care in his voice.

His eyes were pained as he held your gaze, and he looked so agonized and noble, you could only roll your eyes.

“You’re not gonna break me, soldier,” you promised, ducking your head and dragging the flat of your tongue up the column of his throat. When he made a rumbling, guttural sound, you sank your teeth into his neck, smirking when his hips kicked between your thighs. “Just shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

With a low roar, Bucky’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he pulled you in for another devastating kiss. His hands tore at your clothes until they were nothing but shreds, falling from your body to land in a pile on the floor.

Then he dropped you down to your feet, and helped you remove his suit. Your movements were frenzied, desperate, and when he was finally bare, the two of you crashed back together.

Bucky hauled you over to the closest worktable, clearing everything off with the sweep of his arm. If you’d been in your right mind, you would’ve been furious, but the lust pounding through your body was too needy to care what he might’ve broken.

You just wanted him on top of you, inside you, surrounding you, overwhelming you. You kissed him harder, your hands tangling in his hair and yanking him closer, your mouth devouring his.

A needy whimper slipped from your lips and Bucky swallowed the sound hungrily. Then he was laying you down on your back on the cool wooden surface of the table, and he was climbing on top of you. So much of his heated skin was touching yours that you moaned into his kiss.

He broke away, sucking and nipping at your jaw, then down your neck while his hands groped greedily at your tits. He kneaded your soft flesh and plucked at your nipples, wringing mindless sounds of pleasure from your lips. He ducked down, sucking on your nipples until you were squirming beneath him.

All the while, your fingers clutched at his soft, brown hair, holding the super-soldier close. Of their own accord, your legs wrapped around the backs of Bucky’s thick thighs, and you felt his cock, hot and heavy, lay against the soft folds of your pussy.

“Bucky, I need your cock,” you whined, barely sounding like yourself. You sounded like a weak, pitiful creature, so you yanked hard on Bucky’s hair to remind him—and yourself—that you were just as fierce as him.

The super-soldier, however, barely reacted. He was busy inhaling greedily at the pulse point in your throat, and groaning when the smell of your skin invaded his lungs.

You let out a keening, desperate whine, your hips rocking beneath his big body, and you yanked on his hair again, even harder to get his attention. The super-soldier huffed a sound of annoyance, biting into your skin at the base of your throat until you went limp beneath him.

“Be a good little witch and I’ll give you my cock,” Bucky rumbled into your skin before licking and sucking his way back up your neck.

At his words, you tensed, something close to a hiss spilling from your lips. You yanked on his hair until you could look him in the eye, and you gave him a glare. “Now, soldier.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, his face twisting into a snarl as he shifted onto one arm. Reaching between your bodies, he lined up his thick cock with your tight hole.

Still holding your furious gaze, he dragged the head between your messy folds a few times, until you were whimpering pathetically beneath him.

“You want my cock so bad, witch,” he ground out, the muscle in his cheek popping with fury. “Then fucking take it.”

With that, he impaled you in one swift thrust. He filled your tight hole with every inch of his thick cock in a hard, powerful thrust that had you stretching around him to accommodate his size.

Blinding, pain-edged pleasure tore through your body as he split you in half, and an orgasm detonated suddenly in your core. It crashed over you in unrelenting waves, your body bowing up off the worktable as a scream ripped from your lips.

Above you, Bucky grunted, his hips grinding between your thighs as he rocked into your clenching pussy. He was staring down at you with something like wonder in his face.

“Did you just come on my fucking cock, witch?” he growled, his hips drawing back before slamming into you again, driving his hard length deep into your cunt. “Such a needy fucking slut, huh, coming on your soldier’s cock so fast?”

You sobbed your pleasure, nodding your head as tears spilled down your cheeks. It was so good, the feeling of Bucky’s cock filling you up. His pounding thrusts only made the pleasure spiral higher, dragging out your release for what felt like forever.

Finally, the waves of pleasure started to ebb, but instead of satisfying the burning, magical ache deep in your core, your release only spurred you on. In a matter of seconds, you felt like you hadn’t come at all, the desperate need in your body building again.

You clung to Bucky desperately, your nails digging into the warm, golden skin of his shoulders as your legs hooked around the backs of his thighs. You used your leverage on his body to hump your hips up against him, meeting his brutal thrusts as the sound of your bodies coming together filled the room.

“More—Bucky, I need more,” you hissed, writhing beneath him, trying to take him deeper. You wanted to feel his cock pounding against the end of you, his balls slapping your ass. You slid your hands down his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his ass. “Fuck me harder, soldier.”

Bucky gave a feral roar, burying his face in your neck, and then he was fucking into you even harder and faster, moving beyond what should be possible for a normal human man. A scream wrenched from your lips, and you rolled your hips desperately as your pleasure built.

“Ya got such a greedy cunt, huh, witch?” Bucky rasped in your ear, growing more furious with every word. “I already made you come and you want more already? Is that how this is going to be—you make demands and I’m meant to be your mindless soldier who fulfills them?”

Before you could respond, Bucky pulled out of you, breaking free from the hold of your legs and leaving you crying out pitifully at the loss of him. He flipped you over so your front was pressed into the unrelenting surface of the worktable, shifting so his legs caged in yours.

The super-soldier pressed you flat to the table, then slid back into your pussy. Grabbing your arms, he held your wrists pinned to your lower back so you couldn’t move. All you could do was take him, take his cock as he fucked you without mercy.

His hips slapped hard against your ass, the smacking sound filling the room, and his heavy balls teased your clit with every rough thrust. He held himself up with his metal arm planted beside your head, and you shifted to press your lips to his vibranium thumb, pulling it into your mouth so you could suck on it idly.

“I like this better, witch,” Bucky rumbled in your ear, splitting you open with his cock as he fucked you into the table. “Having you at my mercy—and having you do what I tell you for once in your fucking life.”

A moan slipped from your lips, sounding like an agreement even to your ears. You didn’t know what Bucky was doing to you, but you felt yourself slipping deeper into the pleasure filling your body. All you could do was take his cock, feel it pounding into your cunt, and it felt glorious.

You never wanted it to end, never wanted him to stop fucking you. So you didn’t protest his words, even as they turned filthier. There was a meanness in his tone that had you clenching even tighter around his cock, your body loving the way he spoke to you.

“You’re so much sweeter like this, witch,” he growled in your ear, his hand tightening around your wrists as he fucked you in deep, hard thrusts. “I think I like you best like this—when you’re so drunk on my cock, you can’t talk back.”

It didn’t even occur to you to respond to Bucky. You just sucked on his thumb harder, flicking your tongue over the tip lazily. Sharp sounds of pleasure spilled freely from your lips, drool trickling from your mouth and pooling on the worktable beneath your cheek.

Bucky lowered his big body down on top of you so he was nearly crushing you. His scruffy jaw rasped over your cheek before he nipped at the lobe of your ear.

“Fuck, your cunt’s sucking my cock so good, angel,” he rumbled, his voice getting rougher as he fucked you harder. “You feel so good—why do you feel so fucking good, witch?”

The super-soldier sounded tormented, and you understood the feeling. It wasn’t fair that it was so good with him—better than it had ever been in your fantasies. You had to believe it was the potion, because you didn’t think you’d survive if it wasn’t.

“Oh fuck, ‘m gonna come,” Bucky rasped above you, burying his face in your shoulder. “Gonna come inside your tight fucking cunt, witch—ya ready for it?”

“Yes,” you sobbed pulling away from Bucky’s thumb and catching his eye over your shoulder. “Make me come, soldier, make it end.”

Bucky’s blue eyes glinted with something dangerous as they raked over your face. “Beg me, witch,” he growled, his words so gruff you could barely understand them. “Beg me to make you come.”

Your heart lurched in your chest and something deep in your soul rebelled against the command. You were a powerful witch, you didn’t beg anyone for anything.

But you knew Bucky well enough to recognize the stubborn set of his jaw, and the ruthlessness in his gaze. You held his stare for a long moment, trying to fight the need to give in, but ultimately your desire won out.

“Please, Bucky,” you rasped, the words rough like you’d dragged them from the pit of your being. “Please rub my clit and make me come.” The pleading spilled more freely from your lips the more you spoke, your need urging you on. “I need it so bad—I need you, Bucky, please!”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, and you thought you caught the hint of a grin. But then he picked up his pace and you were lost.

Your eyes rolled back in your head as Bucky rutted into you, pounding you into the table until your hips hurt and your cunt was clenching tight around his hard length.

When it was almost too much, Bucky reached under you, freeing your hands so he could slip his warm fingers between your thighs and rub your clit. It took only a few rough strokes before you were coming apart for him.

You came with a piercing scream, your release overwhelming you as pleasure ravaged your body. It blotted out everything else besides Bucky and his cock—his perfect cock that kept fucking you while he chased his own pleasure.

“Fuck—fuck, take my come, angel, take it deep in that sweet cunt,” Bucky growled, his words cutting off in a loud grunt as he shoved his cock deep inside you. His teeth sank into your shoulder, biting you and muffling a roar against your skin as he came.

His hips pressed flush to your ass, fucking you shallowly as he unloaded himself in your pussy. You felt his cock twitch, and his warm come filling you up and you trembled in pleasure, basking in the sensation while you writhed beneath him.

Time stretched like taffy as you both reveled in your pleasure, and you didn’t know how long it had been by the time Bucky let out a last, shuddering groan. He collapsed on top of you, though he was careful not to crush you.

You thought it was over, but you’d barely heaved a sigh of relief before warmth began to prickle beneath your skin again. The heat spread quickly, like your release had only taken the edge off before it came back stronger, headier.

“Ba-Barnes,” you whined, squirming beneath Bucky, your hips rolling when you felt him harden inside you. “I don’t think it’s—oh fuck.”

The super-soldier pulled his hips back and snapped them forward, burying his stiff length in your already well-used pussy. You trembled at the almost unbearable sensation of his hard cock dragging against your sensitive inner walls, a mindless moan slipping from your lips.

“I’m sorry, witch,” Bucky mumbled into your neck, his hips pumping faster and faster. “But I don’t think the magic’s worn off—fuck, ‘m not done with you yet.”

All you could do was sob your pleasure, your hands reaching back for him, needing something to ground you as he sent you flying all over again. He buried his face in your neck, groaning as he set a brutal pace, fucking his come deeper inside you as he fucked you into the table.

“Fuck, witch, what’d you do to me?” he rasped into the hollow beneath your jaw, his scruff tickling your neck. “I’ve already emptied my balls in your hungry cunt once, and I can’t stop—can’t stop until I fill you up until your belly’s bulging with my seed.”

“Bucky, yes,” you cried, lifting your hips so he could sink even deeper inside you. He was so big and hot and heavy inside you, and you wanted his come, you wanted him to fuck you and fill you up until you couldn’t take anymore. “Give me more, soldier, I need all of you.”

At your demand, Bucky growled, the sound not entirely happy. It seemed to spur him into moving.

Pulling out of your greedy hole, he flipped you over and spun your bodies until he was stretched out on his back on the worktable. He stared up at you, wonder and fury blazing in his blue eyes as you impaled yourself on his cock, taking every inch of him inside your hot cunt.

The position had Bucky’s cock pushing even deeper into your cunt, and you threw your head back, savoring the feeling of being filled by his thick length. It wasn’t until Bucky gave your ass a sharp spank that you refocused on the super-soldier.

“If you want more, you’re gonna have to do some of the work, witch,” Bucky rumbled with a smirk, reaching his metal arm back and laying his head on it, propping himself up so he could watch you squirm on his cock. His other hand rested on your hip, anchoring you to his body. “Bounce on your soldier’s cock, angel, lemme see what a slut my sweet witch can be.”

It wasn’t in your nature to follow commands blindly, but even you couldn’t resist the desire to do exactly what Bucky had said. So you writhed above him, spurred on by his words as you rocked your hips experimentally, feeling his thick length shift inside you.

Bucky’s jaw clenched and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, his eyes going molten as he watched your hips hump on his cock. It was intoxicating, watching him unravel for you, and you realized you couldn’t get enough. You wanted more.

Planting your hands on Bucky’s broad chest, you lifted your hips and slammed back down. The super-soldier groaned loudly, his eyes sliding closed with bliss, his hips rising up off the table to meet your bouncing body.

Leaning down, you let your mouth brush teasingly against Bucky’s, pulling away when he tried to capture your lips in a bruising kiss. You laughed softly as you retreated, your hips lifting up and slamming back down at a relentless pace.

“You want a slut, soldier?” you asked in a sultry voice, your tone only a little bit mean. “I’ll show you such a good time, you’ll be begging to get back inside my cunt even after the potion’s worn off.” You nipped at his lower lip, moving away again before he could catch you for a kiss. “Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll even let you fuck me again—without the magic.”

Something in Bucky seemed to snap and he let out a furious roar, his face contorting with rage. Quick as a flash, he grabbed your hips and, using his super-soldier strength, he bounced you on his cock like you were nothing more than his own personal fleshlight.

“You think I’m the one that’s gonna be addicted after this, angel?” Bucky growled meanly, fucking into you harder—so hard you had to cling to his arms to hold on. “You’re gonna be so drunk on my cock, you’re gonna be crawling back to me, begging to be my slut, witch.”

Bucky sat up suddenly, his metal hand curving around the back of your neck and his other arm banding around your lower back, holding you pinned against his body. His blue gaze was furious as he stared deep into your eyes, stealing your breath with the intensity of his look.

“You’re going to beg me to make you my fuck toy, angel,” he promised, his fingers tightening around your neck with a possessiveness you didn’t know he was capable of—and it had you gasping with excitement. He smirked smugly at the look on your face. “Just you fucking wait.”

You wanted to protest Bucky’s words, but you were slack-jawed with pleasure. The position of his body, and the rolling, deep thrusts of his hips had you barreling toward another release. Your clit was rubbing against the base of Bucky’s thick, perfect cock and all you could do was tip your head back and moan.

“Fuck, Bucky, just like that, I’m gonna come,” you whined, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his biceps. You clung to him like he was the only thing between you and death, all while he sent you hurtling toward a release that you knew would be devastating.

“Do it, witch,” Bucky growled, his voice harsh. His chest heaved with effort as he bounced you on his lap. “Come all over your soldier’s cock—show me what a good, filthy slut you are for me.”

Despite yourself, his command had your release crashing over you, you body going rigid and your eyes rolling into the back of your head. A broken scream left your lips. All you could feel was wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure rocking through your every limb, leaving you shaking and gasping.

Distantly, you were aware of Bucky roaring as he rutted into you, his cock twitching as he came deep in your cunt. You felt his warmth filling you, sating something in your soul that you weren’t sure had anything to do with the love potion, but you didn’t bother thinking about that just yet.

You let your release roll through you, reveling in the pleasure and clinging to your soldier all the way through it. He held you just as tight, his face buried in your neck, sucking greedily on your skin as you rocked together until the waves of pleasure finally ebbed.

With a weak cry, you collapsed against Bucky’s chest, both of you slumping down to the table as you caught your breath. You lay sprawled across Bucky’s broad form, his warm hand resting on your lower back, your bodies still joined where his cock remained inside you.

For the moment, the magic-induced heat in your blood had abated, but you could still feel it at the edge of your awareness. It was giving you a reprieve, but it was biding its time until the potion would have you fucking again.

“I thought you said this need would end if we did something about it,” Bucky grumbled, his chest rising and falling beneath your limp body as he caught his breath. “I can still feel it—what do we have to do?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” you whined, burying your face in Bucky’s sweaty chest.

That was a mistake, because you inhaled the full brunt of his scent, making your mind go hazy around the edges. It was so good, and your body still felt so sated from your orgasm that you could feel your walls crumbling.

You didn’t have the energy to keep them up, and you felt emotion slip into your heart. Without meaning to, you let yourself be vulnerable in front of Bucky, not caring for once about appearing like the strong and formidable witch that you were.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled into his skin, defeat making you feel heavy. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been messing around with love magic—I’m so fucking stupid.”

Embarrassment rushed in as soon as the words were out, and you tried to pull away while keeping your face hidden so Bucky couldn’t see your shame. But he shocked you by tugging you right back to where you were. He held you tight to his chest and brushed a kiss to your damp forehead.

“It was a foolhardy idea, but you’re not stupid, witch,” he murmured into your hair, his calloused fingers stroking up and down your spine in a surprisingly soothing gesture. “Were you acting like an arrogant idiot? Yes. Were you being reckless? Definitely.”

You snorted, the sound derisive in the quiet of the room, and Bucky squeezed the back of your neck firmly until you went silent again. He heaved a sigh, then continued speaking, so quietly you weren’t sure if you were even supposed to hear him.

“I have a soft spot for reckless idiots apparently.”

The two of you let those words linger in the air. It almost didn’t seem possible, that Bucky Barnes had a soft spot for you, but he’d just said as much. It took you a moment to believe it, but when you did, you lifted up and pressed your mouth to his in a sweet kiss.

Bucky groaned softly, his hand cradling the back of your head while you kissed, each of you exploring the other the way you hadn’t earlier. When his tongue slipped into your mouth, you whimpered, feeling his cock harden inside you and reigniting the spark of lust.

“What do we do?” you whined when you pulled away to gasp for air. Your eyes found Bucky’s, giving him your best pleading look. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Bucky let out a soft breath, cupping your cheek in his warm palm, his thumb brushing your cheek comfortingly.

“We ride it out, angel,” he said gently, tipping your head down until your forehead pressed to his. “We hope you were right that it’ll wear off in a couple hours.”

Unbidden, tears gathered in your lashes and leaked from your eyes. It was exquisite torture, feeling Bucky’s hard cock inside you, and you rolled your hips even as you cried softly.

“I’m sorry, Bucky, I’m so sorry,” you whimpered, emotions rushing through you that you didn’t understand, mixing with the heat of the magic into a heady, overwhelming mix. You clung tighter to Bucky, apologizing over and over again even as you rocked against him.

Bucky rolled you over onto your back, holding you cradled against his chest as he loomed over you. He kissed the tears from your cheeks and fucked you in slow, deep thrusts that set off sparks of pleasure in your core.

“Ya gotta be strong for me, angel,” Bucky rasped against your cheek, kissing away your tears as quickly as they fell. “Where’s my headstrong, reckless witch who was demanding more from her soldier just a little while ago?”

A wet laugh bubbled from your lips, and you turned your face, kissing Bucky, feeling endlessly grateful that the super-soldier was being so patient with you. That he was showing you he liked every side of you, even the ones you thought annoyed the hell out of him.

The longer you kissed your soldier, the more you were able to sink into the building desire burning in your blood. Your legs hooked around the backs of Bucky’s thighs, and he groaned in pleasure when you lifted your hips, meeting his thrusting cock.

Your fingers sank into Bucky’s brown hair, twisting mercilessly in the strands and yanking on him roughly, your hips moving faster as you urged him on.

“Fuck me, Bucky,” you whined against his mouth, swallowing his grunts of pleasure. “Use me like my body is your own personal fuck toy, make me drunk on your cock, make me a mindless slut for you, soldier.” You pulled back, catching Bucky’s eye and shooting him a wicked smirk before murmuring, “That’s an order.”

With a low, rumbling growl and a wolfish grin, Bucky grabbed your thighs and hiked them up to your chest, folding you in half and pinning you to the worktable while he pounded into you. His cock sank deep inside you, mercilessly bullying your cunt with every thrust.

“Don’t order me around, witch,” he rumbled, though there wasn’t as much heat to his words as there had been earlier, and they were further softened by the look of reverence in his eyes. “You’ll take my cock like a good little slut and you’ll fucking thank me for it.”

“Thank you, soldier, thank you,” you gasped, writhing beneath Bucky’s bigger body. You yanked on his hair, dragging him down for another filthy, messy kiss, and he fucked you harder, both of you racing toward another release.

Together, you tipped over the edge, losing yourselves in each other. You moaned against each other’s mouths as you both came apart, your bodies entwined so tightly, you barely knew where you ended and Bucky began.

Without you noticing, the last wisp of the pink smoke that had once filled the room finally filtered out, and the containment protocols locking the door were lifted. But it would be a long time before the effects of the love potion wore off.

You and Bucky kept going at it for another few hours, fucking late into the night and making each other come until both of you finally passed out from exhaustion.

When you woke, Bucky’s cock was still inside you, and your first instinct was to roll your hips. A moan slipped from your lips at the delicious drag of him inside you, his hard length twitching in your pussy.

It took your tired mind a moment to realize the magical heat in your blood had finally disappeared, and you slumped back down on top of Bucky. You were sprawled on top of his chest, his breath stuttering on a groan as he roused.

Turning your face up, you pressed a kiss to the scruffy underside of Bucky’s jaw. “It’s finally out of our systems, soldier,” you murmured, knowing he’d be able to hear you.

Bucky grunted, his arms tightening around your waist. You could feel his hips lift slightly beneath you, fucking deeper into your aching cunt, managing to wring even more pleasure from your body.

“Mm, are you sure, witch?” he rumbled in a teasing tone, his hips bucking more noticeably beneath you. Your inner walls clenched weakly around him, as if urging him on. “Because your sweet cunt’s calling to me, begging me for another load.”

You tried to huff a laugh, but the sound devolved into a helpless mewl as you felt him move inside you. The slide of Bucky’s cock in your pussy was made easy by all the come he’d emptied inside you, and you could feel new wetness leaking from your hole at the idea of him spilling his seed inside you again.

Lifting up only enough to find Bucky’s lips, you kissed him lazily before pulling away to tease him back.

“I told you you’d be addicted to my cunt after the potion wore off, soldier,” you murmured against Bucky’s mouth, your lips curved in a smile. “Do you think you’ve been nice enough that I should let you fuck me?”

“I think I’ve been very nice to you, witch,” Bucky said, the warmth of a grin in his tone. “And don’t act like you aren’t dying to fuck my cock again, angel.” His hips lifted up off the table, bouncing you on his hard length.

“Fine, fine,” you said, trying for a teasing tone, but it came out too breathy. Your fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, and you kissed him more deeply. “Fuck me, soldier, and make it good, because after this, I’m gonna need so much food and water—and to sleep for a few days.”

Bucky chuckled against your mouth. “You got it, witch,” he said, fucking up into you in long, deep strokes that had you seeing stars. Your pussy was sore from all the pounding you’d taken earlier, but that made the pleasure all the more decadent.

You and Bucky writhed together on the worktable, your bodies exhausted but still craving more—wanting at least one time without the magic clouding your minds. You kissed as you came together, your releases blistering and deeply satisfying as they burned through you, your moans filling the room.

After, you and Bucky were so tired, and it was so late, that you didn’t speak as you stumbled off the worktable. He helped you tug on his undershirt, since he’d ruined your clothes when he’d torn them off you, then he pulled on some pants.

Leaning against each other for strength, you made your way through the tower to the kitchen, grabbing some food before heading to Bucky’s room. There, you ate and then tumbled into bed together as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

In the morning you’d have to talk about the state of your relationship, but it was nice to simply exist quietly together. You’d spent so much time arguing with Bucky, that it meant more to feel safe and secure enough with him not to talk than if you’d filled the air with mindless chatter.

So you remained silent as Bucky wrapped you up in his arms, holding you tight to his chest in his bed. You tipped your face up for a brief kiss, and then settled down, letting yourself savor the comfort of his body.

You fell asleep quickly, a smile on your face as you gave in to the exhaustion and bone-deep satisfaction you felt. Even if you didn’t have any of your love potion left, it had been a good, meaningful day.

Thanks to a barging super-soldier and that broken container in your workshop, you learned a few lessons about witchcraft: Drink lots of water before brewing love potions. Make sure to store potions in unbreakable containers.

And don’t play with love potions unless Bucky Barnes was close by—just in case you needed a little help. Thankfully, after that day, he was never too far away. He was your soldier and you were his witch. Forever.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 6 #bucky barnes/reader #witchywithwhiskey

2K notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 5 days ago

Text

What's a Little Sex Pollen Between Neighbors?

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 7.8k Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)

Content/Warnings: SEX POLLEN-DRIVEN DUBIOUS CONSENT; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; alternating POV sections

Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.

It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.

But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 6 #bucky barnes/reader #buckets and trees

2K notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 16 days ago

Text

Aromantic Bucky Bingo

Aromantic Bucky Barnes is back with a mini bingo! The round will go for six months, with various card size options (3x3, 4x4 & 5x5) available.

This is another stress free event, there's no pressure to create. It's all about having fun! The round starts on the 25th of August, aka Aromantic Spectrum Visibility Day (ASVD).

Please sign up here.

Rules and FAQ: here

AO3 Collection: AromanticBuckyBingo

Round dates: August 25th, 2025 - February 25th, 2026

#other events promo #othereventspromo

38 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 18 days ago

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Joaquín Torres/Sam Wilson Characters: Sam Wilson (Marvel), James “Bucky” Barnes, Joaquín Torres (Marvel) Additional Tags: Sex Pollen, Threesome - M/M/M, Bottom Joaquín Torres (Marvel), Top Sam Wilson (Marvel), Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Bucky Barnes, Blow Jobs, Big Dick Bucky Barnes Summary: Bucky’s being short-tempered after a Hydra raid; when Sam and Joaquin find out why, they offer to help.

This is a fill for @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer Week 6: using the “I need help” & Sex Pollen prompts as well as my @julybreakbingo: B3 - “I don’t want things to change.”, B4 - “Why does it even matter?” N1 - Sexual Tension & O4 - “What the hell is your problem?” squares.

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 6 #polizwrites #Bucky Barnes/Multi #sambuckquin

3 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 19 days ago

Text

Tangled Desires - Chapter 2

AN: Roll up for chapter 2 of Tangled Desires and our Older Reader x Ex’s Best Friend Bucky, my week 6 entry for Hot Bucky Summer by @buckybarnesevents. This week’s prompt - I need you. Catch up with part one here

Beta’d by @sleepysongbirdsings

Likes are loved, but reblogs are golden.

Header by me and dividers by @firefly-graphics

If you want to be on my tag lists, please fill out this form

Master List | HBS Master list

Summary: You and Bucky plan another date.

“What shouldn’t be allowed?” he whispers into your ear.

You somehow manage to turn in his arms and gesticulate up and down his body. “This,” you reply. “It’s very distracting.”

His grin broadens. “Is that so? I wonder how long I can keep you distracted?”

You open your mouth, but the only noise that comes out is a squeal as he slings you over his shoulder and heads back to the bedroom. Suddenly you’ve forgotten what you were worried about.

Relationship: Ex’s Best Friend Bucky Barnes x Older Single Mom Reader

Word Count: 2k

CW: Flirting, Developing relationship, Dating, Implied Sexual Content, Confused feelings.

As much as you would have loved to have stayed all night at Bucky’s, you know you have to go home. Gabi’s a good friend, but you don’t want to push your luck by making her wait until late morning before she returns the twins.

You and Bucky kiss lazily at the door as you wait for the Uber – which he insists on paying for – and it would be so easy to say fuck it and go back inside, but no matter how much of a good time you’ve had, you need to put the kids first. On the journey home you shoot Gabi a text to let her know that she can bring them back at whatever time in the morning. Then, for the rest of the car ride, you trade texts with Bucky.

“I don’t care if I sound desperate - when can I see you again? 🥺

“Bucky – I’ve been gone five minutes 😆”

“That’s six minutes too long. But seriously, is there any possibility?”

You swipe out of the message thread to open your calendar – although you aren’t sure why when you have all the major dates memorised anyway.

“The kids are with Lee for the weekend on the 18th. I’ll have Friday evening, all day Saturday and Sunday morning free.”

“You’ve not got anything planned, then?”

“No plans at all, besides catching up on housework and my tv shows. I suppose I could allow you to distract me from all of that. 😝”

“You never know – I might be able to help 😘”

You grin down at your phone and shake your head to yourself – this man is too good to be true.

There’s an earthquake happening around you, dragging you from the depths of slumber. A screaming earthquake. You groan as you open your eyes and regret telling Gabi ‘whatever time’, although, as you blearily take in the time on your bedside clock, it is after 9:30, so it isn’t too unreasonable. It’s not the kids fault that you didn’t drag your ass to bed until almost three am.

“Ssshhh,” you whisper out theatrically. “I’m playing Sleeping Lions.” However, it doesn’t work.

“Mommy, Mommy!” Cassie shouts, trying to pull your arm away from your head where you were using it to dull the sounds assaulting your ears. “Gabi helped me bake brownies and then we ate them all while we watched How to Train your Dragon.”

Isaac launches himself up into the air and lands on his back next to you, making the whole bed judder. “I’m Snotlout! Oi! Oi! Oi!”

“Okay, you Viking heathens.” Gabi appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a knowing grin on her face. “Take your bags back to your rooms and unpack. Then you can tell your Mom everything while she has her breakfast.”

There’s some pouting, but the twins grudgingly agree. They tumble out of your room and towards theirs, and as soon as they’re out of earshot Gabi looks down at you. “I held them back as long as I could, but they were somehow awake at 6:30am. At least it means they should go down early tonight - I was still trying to settle them at 11 pm.”

“That sounds about right,” you groan as you flop onto your back, your arm thrown over your eyes to block out the light. However your friend isn’t done with you and pokes you in your bicep with a pointed finger.

“Hey, stop lazing around. Go shower and I’ll put some coffee on. I didn’t babysit your gremlins for free. I demand payment in stories and gossip.”

You throw a pillow at her.

You’re not normally emotional when you wave the kids off for their weekend with their father, but when it gets to 6 pm on the 18th, you’re feeling a little tearful as you wave at Cassie and Isaac as they head off in the back of Lee’s car.

Forty-five minutes later you end up texting Gabi to tell her to be more subtle about her curtain twitching.

Fifteen minutes after that a black Ford Mustang pulls up outside your house and Bucky gets out. He’s not dressed as formally today, although he’s still in a suit. It’s taupe in colour and his shirt is a pale grey with thin white stripes running down it. Even from here he looks delicious and you’re certain that Gabi isn’t the only person peering through their curtains. He virtually skips up your drive, holding a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers, and your heart jumps in your chest. God, you feel like a princess in a fairy story.

When he reaches you, standing in the doorway with a massive smile on your face, you drag him inside as quickly as possible, before any more of your neighbours see. As soon as the door shuts you reach up on your toes to kiss him on his cheek.

“Hi,” you say breathily, a shy smile on your face.

“Hey to you too, sweetheart.” He lifts up the flowers and you take them from him, lifting them to your nose to smell them. “I hope you like them.”

“They’re lovely. Thank you. I’d best put them in a vase. Come on through.”

You lead him to the kitchen, and while you grab a vase from a cupboard and find a pair of scissors to trim the stems, Bucky grabs a couple of wine glasses and the corkscrew. He perches himself at your breakfast bar, pouring some of the wine out to breath as you arrange the flowers.

“You get the kids off okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. They love their weekends with Lee. I’ve got to say that as much as I love my kids, I love their weekends with him as well. Gives me a bit of space and ‘me-time’, you know?”

“No,” he replies, “but I can imagine. You deserve a break every so often.”

“If only I had someone to spoil me,” you add coyly.

With the flowers sorted, you place the vase on your window sill and return to preparing dinner. It’s nowhere near as fancy as your date the other week, but you will get to spend the whole night together. And tomorrow night. It’s that fact that hangs unspoken and heavy in the air between you, while you trade small talk.

It doesn’t take you long to finish cooking. It might just be pasta, but because it’s for two adults, and you don’t have to cater to child tastes, you do add ingredients you don’t usually get to use. In the end it comes out as some bastardisation of a puttanesca and you try not to think about what the neighbourhood gossips might say about what you and Bucky have got going on.

When you finish eating, you move to the couch and by now, the energy between you feels electric. You continue the conversation, even though you know you’re rambling, trying to fill the silence before it stretches too thin. However, when Bucky plucks your wine glass from your hand, placing it on the coffee table alongside his, you stop mid-flow, your mouth open in an O shape.

He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone, before he leans in and kisses you, slow and filthy. You arch up into his touch, eager to feel his hands over your body and in no time at all there are no clothes separating you.

The wine glasses remain untouched for the rest of the night.

You wake early the next morning and you don’t know why. By all rights you should be sleeping the sleep of the totally exhausted, but you’re inexplicably restless. Creeping out of bed so as to not disturb Bucky – who looks far too innocent, yet also far too tempting as he sleeps – you grab a t-shirt from your drawer to slip on and head towards the main family bathroom down the hall, that the twins use as their own. You might as well put this energy to use.

It’s hard to resist the urge to laugh, though. It’s barely 6:30am and you’re scrubbing the inside of the bath to remove the stubborn soap scum that comes for the ridiculous bubble bath Cassie prefers, despite the fact that you have a gorgeous man lying in your bed. Thirty minutes pass and their bathroom is sparkling, but your brain is still whirring, questions circling around in your head.

What is this thing with Bucky? Some kind of ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement? Or is it something more? And where’s it going? Was he planning to be around for the long haul, a fixture in your life? The twins’ lives? You know you should actually talk to him about it, but it’s just easier to lie back and attempt to be nonchalant about the whole thing. Will you come across as desperate if you try to bring it up on what’s effectively a second date? Especially when you don’t actually know what you want his answer to be. Why is this so difficult?

You go back and forth in your thoughts as you decide to tackle the laundry closet in the hallway, its upper shelves piled high with spare towels and bedding. Or course, being distracted, things don’t go to plan. You tug at a towel that’s at the bottom of the heap, intending to pull it out to place on top, but it snags and pulls the rest of the stack with it. You cry out in frustration as towels fall around you. To make matters worse, a couple of them dislodge the laundry detergent and softener and you quickly stretch up to stop them falling as well. Towels are easy to clear up but these, not so much.

However, now your balance is off. You’re leaning forward, hips against the washer and arms stretched above your head. You can’t stand back upright without taking your hands off the laundry products, nor can you push them back onto the shelf at this angle. You’re stuck.

You let out a loud curse, momentarily forgetting that you have a house guest. That is until Bucky’s voice calls out sleepily from your room down the hall. “Sweetheart? Where are you? Are you okay?”

You sigh and drop your head between your arms. “I need you,” you call back plaintively, defeated by physics. “I need help.”

He appears from your room, black boxer briefs slung distractingly low, one hand scratching his rib cage and the other covering a yawn, and on your landing, your legs almost give out. It has nothing to do with your stressed position though.

“Shouldn’t be allowed,” you mutter under your breath and you swear his grin is in direct response. However, he doesn’t leave you hanging. He comes up behind you and reaches over your back to take the detergent and softener from your grip and place them back onto the shelf. You try to ignore the way it feels to have him plastered against you, but you’re only human, and then of course he makes it worse by gripping your hips and pulling you back against him, nuzzling into your neck.

“What shouldn’t be allowed?” he whispers into your ear.

You somehow manage to turn in his arms and gesticulate up and down his body. “This,” you reply. “It’s very distracting.”

His grin broadens. “Is that so? I wonder how long I can keep you distracted?”

You open your mouth, but the only noise that comes out is a squeal as he slings you over his shoulder and heads back to the bedroom. Suddenly you’ve forgotten what you were worried about.

Once Bucky’s had his way with you – twice –, and you’ve had your showers and breakfast, he manages to talk you into delaying your housework in favour of heading out into the city. He tells you about a new art exhibit at the museum and while you’re not an art fanatic, you agree that it would be nice to go and do something that doesn’t come with bright colours and even louder noises, which is what your weekends normally consist of. He insists on ordering a taxi instead of getting the bus, because there’s no point in using either of your cars, given the lack – and expense – of parking downtown.

As the taxi speeds its way along the freeway, you lean into Bucky’s side, your arms wrapped around the one of his that’s trapped between you, and his hand draws idle patterns on your thigh. It would be too easy to get used to this, and you realise that’s what you’re scared of.

Chapter 3

Tag list: @christywrites, @alexakeyloveloki, @wolfsmom1, @doasyoudesireandlive,

@sonatabee-blog, @goldylions, @galactusdevourerofworlds, @apenny4thots,

@crayongirl-linz, @nicoline1998enilocin, @king814318, @blackhawkfanatic,

@strawberrylore, @scram1326, @hhiggs, @athene-noctua08

@km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky, @kmc1989, @kombatfather1796

@peaches1958

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 6 #late to the party 81 #bucky barnes/reader

34 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 19 days ago

Text

Our Endgame [SamBucky]

When Bucky is hit in the face with an unknown pollen, Sam is the only person he trusted enough to go to for help.

👑 SamBucky [MCU]

👑 Explicit | 2.7K | 1/1

👑 Hot Bucky Summer 2025, Sex Pollen, Summer of Sin 2025, Fuck or Die, Post Thunderbolts, Top Sam/Bottom Bucky

✍️ Posted: 2025

@buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer Week 6 - "I Need Help" | Sex Pollen

~~*Read On Ao3*~~

“Bucky,” Sam said simply as he answered the call, trying not to let the rage he felt at the whole thing with the “New Avengers” take over. He knew it wasn’t Bucky’s choice, and Bucky was too good of a guy to leave the others in the lurch.   

“Sam… I need help,” Bucky said, voice weak, and the super soldier sounded winded. All these things sent off every alarm in Sam’s mind, and he was already on his feet, heading towards his suit.

  “What happened?” Sam demanded, keeping his voice steady as he let the suit enfold his body.

  “On a mission, I got hit with some pollen. Fuck, I feel like I’m burning from the inside, nothing we try in the med bay is working.” Bucky sounded exhausted, even in his usual tone of voice, Sam could pick up that Bucky sounded scared and that was something Sam hated to hear.

 “Where are you?” Sam was an inch away from leaping out of his apartment window and flying as quickly as his wings could carry him to Bucky’s location.   

“Shit, I’m almost to your place. I couldn’t stay in the tower, the others mean well but fuck. They can’t help me with this,” Bucky said, and relief washed over Sam, and the suit disengaged, leaving Sam in his usual running gear. Sam dropped the call when a knock came from the front door. Sam bolted to the front door and yanked it open with his heart in his throat as he took in the ragged, slumped form of Bucky against the door frame.

 “Hey,” Bucky said, weakly lifting his metal arm in greeting before he wavered on his feet, and Sam stepped forward to brace the unsteady man.

 “Fuck man, you look rough. You shouldn’t be on your feet!” Sam fretted as he pulled Bucky into his apartment properly and hauled the stumbling soldier over to the couch and carefully set him down.

 “Shit you weren’t joking about the heat,” Sam swore as he felt the heat radiating from Bucky’s slumped form.

 “Tell me about it,” Bucky tipped his head back and placed his metal hand over his eyes, hissing in relief at the cold metal on his heated skin.

 “You said something about a pollen? Shouldn’t you be in quarantine?” Sam asked, hovering in front of Bucky, suddenly unsure what he was supposed to do. His training never covered unknown pollens after all.

“Nah, it’s not contagious, we did all the tests, but it's in my system and it needs to be…” Bucky paused as if trying to find the right wording. “Worked out.”

“Worked out how?” Sam narrowed his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest as he stared Bucky down, who suddenly wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Sam swore he noticed a blush forming on his cheeks.

  “Yelena is calling it ‘sex pollen,’ and while I hate the Sci-Fi of it all, that seems to be an accurate name. The downside is that if it hasn’t worked out of me in 24 hours… Let’s just say I don’t think my serum will be able to stop it from burning me alive from the inside.” Bucky ran his flesh hand through his hair, fingers trembling, and he refused to look at Sam.

Sam’s mind stalled for a moment as he absorbed the new information before he sank heavily down onto the couch next to Bucky.

 “Well shit,” Sam stated bluntly making Bucky give a strangled laugh.  

“In a nutshell. Alexei offered this up as a team bonding experience, that’s when I launched myself out the window.” Bucky chuckled, it was funny now that he was far away from the idea of a team orgy to save his life. Not to mention, he could now recall the look on Walker’s face, which was always a bright spot in Bucky’s day.

“Then you came here, you come to me,” Sam said slowly, and Bucky swallowed hard, fiddling with his jacket sleeve. He ached to take it off because he felt like he was in a sauna that was only getting hotter.   

“I trust you,” Bucky shrugged helplessly, it was an instinct at this point in his life. He trusted Sam more than anyone else.   “Buck,” Sam swallowed hard. The trust of Bucky Barnes was a hard thing to earn and an easy thing to shatter. Sam refused to shatter that trust, and besides, Bucky was a very good-looking man, and Sam had very much noticed well before now.

 “I won’t be offended if you say no,” Bucky said quickly, trying to backpedal as the realization that Sam could turn him away suddenly dawned on him.

 “I just want to make sure that this is you saying this and not just the affects of this fuck or die pollen has on you.” Sam laid a hand on Bucky’s thigh, wincing slightly at the heat wafting off the other man.

 “I would have preferred to take you out to dinner first, but I had hoped one day this would be our endgame,” Bucky admitted quietly. It was a secret he held close to his chest as he refused to ruin the friendship he and Sam had worked hard to create.   

“Our endgame, huh? Such a sap,” Sam teased, making Bucky give a short laugh as their bodies turned towards each other, like they were stuck in each other’s orbit.

“What exactly needs to happen to make sure this pollen doesn’t kill you?” Sam asked curiously and fought back a smile as Bucky’s blush deepened.   

“…You have to come inside of me,” Bucky muttered and Sam’s cock twitched in his sweatpants.  

 “Is that so?” Sam lowered his voice as he smoothed his hand up higher to boldly cup Bucky’s erection through Bucky’s tight jeans. Bucky moaned softly, hips rocking up as his flesh hand came down to grip Sam’s bicep. Sam rubbed his hand up and down, feeling the other’s cock throb from underneath the denim.

Bucky’s breathing was hitching as his fingers dug tighter into Sam’s skin, but not tight enough that it would harm Sam. Bucky was always careful with his strength when with Sam, and Sam adored the subconscious way Bucky pulled his strength back. Sam applied more pressure to Bucky’s crotch, and his lips quirked up when Bucky’s head fell back as he let out a long moan as his hips jerked and a wet spot began to form under his palm.

 “Damn Bucky,” Sam whistled lowly as Bucky gasped quietly for air, fingers spasming from where they were gripping Sam’s bicep as he came down from his orgasm.

 “My body is on a hair trigger at the moment,” Bucky admitted, eyes closed as his breathing evened out.

  “I can see that,” Sam teased before he rose to his feet and wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist, hauling the other man upright.

 “What?” Bucky peered up at Sam, still a bit hazy from his orgasm, but leaned trustingly against Sam nonetheless.

 “I’m not going to fuck you on my couch,” Sam stated simply as he led them into his bedroom.

 “Our first time should be on a bed, huh? Yet you call me a sap,” Bucky teased as he slumped down onto the large mattress, working his jacket and black shirt off as the heat that had settled a bit since his previous orgasm, Bucky knew it would roar back quick enough.

 “If you wanted me to bend you over the couch, you could have just said, I thought you would rather a mattress to rest your old man bones,” Sam snarked, making Bucky roll his eyes before his mouth went dry as Sam pulled his tight workout shirt off.

“You can bend me over the couch next time,” Bucky suggested, making Sam pause before he laughed as he stepped closer so he was standing between Bucky’s sprawled legs and popped the button on Bucky’s jeans. Bucky leaned back and lifted his hips, hissing slightly when Sam tugged his soiled jeans and underwear down.

 “Damn,” Sam swore lowly as Bucky’s cock was already hard and an angry red colour even through Bucky had just come minutes previously.

 “I know,” Bucky covered his eyes with his metal hand with a sigh before moaning when Sam wrapped his calloused fingers around his shaft and began to stroke. Bucky collapsed back onto the mattress, shuddering at the sensations of Sam’s skin against his and his hips jerked as cum spurted over his stomach as he came for the 2nd time since he entered Sam’s flat.

Sam hummed under his breath. Sam knew this was the effect of the pollen, but as he watched Bucky come undone with a few touches from him, it made him feel rather smug. Sam ditched his sweatpants, unashamed of his nudity and how he was half-hard already, he nudged Bucky up further onto the bed and settled between Bucky’s spread thighs, kneading the tense muscles there until they relaxed and Bucky slumped into the soft sheets with a little noise.

 “I got ya, Buck, everything is going to be fine.” Sam crooned as he held back a wince as he watched Bucky’s cock swell rapidly as Bucky planted his feet so his knees were bent on either side of Sam’s hips. Sam placed his hand in the middle of Bucky’s chest, gently brushing the dog tags to the side as he dipped down and pressed his lips to Bucky’s.

Bucky sighed into their first kiss, dragging his flesh hand down Sam’s spine as he rocked his hips up, rutting their erections together, making Sam moan quietly into the kiss. Sam shifted his hand from Bucky’s chest to his right hip and pressed him into the mattress. Sam was strong, but Bucky was a super soldier, so when Bucky allowed himself to be pinned down, it sent a thrill through Sam.

Sam leaned back, breaking their kiss to reach into the side table to pull out a bottle of lube. Bucky was breathing heavily as he watched Sam drench his fingers with lube, his eyes half-lidded as he swallowed, as heat flared almost painfully in his veins as Sam pressed his slick fingers between Bucky’s thighs.

 “Sam,” Bucky groaned as the slick digits coated his twitching rim with lube before they pressed in steadily. Bucky’s knees fell open to the sides as he lifted his hips, the heat subtly cooling as Sam’s fingers stretched him out and rubbed at his insides in a way that made Bucky see stars as cum spurted from his cock, softening for a moment before it returned to hardness again.

Bucky was breathless from his orgasm, but he felt like he wanted to sob as the heat barely abated, and he was actively trembling now, even as Sam carefully stretched his fingers wide.   

“Sam, fuck, hurry up,” Bucky demanded in a hoarse tone of voice as he reached up to clutch at the back of Sam’s neck.

 “Easy Buck, I said I got you and I meant it, I just refuse to hurt you,” Sam said steadily and calmly, Bucky’s ground point in the storm of heat that was burning through his body.

 “Sam,” Bucky pleaded, and something Sam saw must have convinced him that it was time to rush.

 “Fuck,” Sam muttered as he gently withdrew his fingers and hurriedly coated his cock with lube before he gripped Bucky's thighs, pressing them down further making Bucky lift his hips desperately as the fat head of Sam's cock brushed over his twitching hole.

 “Sam,” Bucky moaned, eyes rolling up into his head as Sam pressed the head of his cock inside of him. Sam couldn't pull his gaze away from where his cock was spreading Bucky’s pink rim wide and just how well Bucky was taking his cock as Sam entered him inch by inch.

 Bucky moaned, body trembling as he was filled by Sam and the drag of the other man’s cock against his insides made Bucky’s cock spurt a few ropes of cum and the burning heat seemed to subside at a slow, but steady pace.

Sam didn’t pause until he was fully inside of Bucky, their hips pressed firmly together and Bucky’s cock half-hard instead of fully hard which Sam took as a good sign. Sam couldn’t risk curling his fingers around the back of Bucky’s neck and up into the messy brown hair and pulled.

 “Oh!” Bucky gasped as Sam pulled on his hair in a way that made his toes curl and his hole clamp down around Sam’s cock. Sam grinned as he pulled on Bucky’s hair again, earning the same wonderful reaction.

 “Good boy,” Sam couldn’t stop the praise that fell from his mouth and stilled for a brief moment when Bucky came once more, breath coming in rough, hitched gasps as his body arched violently.

A slow smile crossed Sam’s face and began to move his hips, properly fucking Bucky now as he lowered his lips down to Bucky’s ear.

“You’re such a good boy for me Buck,” Sam praised in a low, husky tone and Bucky let out something akin to a sob as he came again, helpless to it as his hole spasmed around Sam’s cock, it urged Sam to drive his hips forward harder and faster knowing Bucky could handle it.

 “Sam, Sam!” Bucky chanted, sounding completely out of it as his body writhed and bucked from his place pinned under Sam. Sam groaned low, full of love and lust, as he gave Bucky what he wanted so desperately.

 Sam used his hold on Bucky’s hair to yank Bucky’s head back and kissed him fiercely as he started to come. Bucky gave a soft whine into the kiss, thighs pressing against Sam’s sides before they fell open as Bucky’s whole body went limp as Sam’s cum filled him and finally the unbearable fire in his veins faded completely.

Sam carefully untangled from Bucky’s hair and smoothed the damp strands from Bucky��s flushed face before cupping the dazed-looking man’s cheek.

 “How do you feel?” Sam asked as he braced himself on his other hand so he wasn’t resting all his weight on the other one. Sure, he knew Bucky could handle it, but that didn’t mean Bucky wanted to feel his weight at the moment.

 “Cold,” Bucky said with a smile, and Sam let out a breath of relief.

 “We should get you to the tower so you can get checked out, just to make sure this worked,” Sam said, worry climbing up his throat, but it faded when Bucky laughed softly.

“You really want to go now? You want me to go back to the others with your cum dripping out of my ass?” Bucky teased and Sam felt his cheeks burn and he realized the idea of Bucky going back to his mess of a team with Sam’s cum still inside of him was actually doing it for him. Bucky raised an eyebrow when he felt Sam’s cock twitch inside of him, Bucky ran his flesh fingers over Sam’s head fondly.

  “Didn’t know you were that kinky. We can work with that,” Bucky smirked before laughing when Sam gave a soft punch to his ribs before Sam carefully pulled out, leaving Bucky dripping his cum just like Bucky had said he would and collapsed onto the bed next to Bucky.

  “Jackass,” Sam rolled his eyes, but the idea had merit, leaving his claim on Bucky each time he went back to the tower. Bucky blinked as Sam’s arm curled around him and tugged him closer until Bucky’s head was resting on Sam’s chest, and the steady beat of Sam’s heart echoed through Bucky and calmed him down from the intensity of the effects of the pollen.

Bucky all but melted, uncaring about the soreness in his muscles as Sam’s fingers carded through his hair.

 “You owe me dinner, by the way, I want to be properly wined and dined, you know,” Sam said, breaking the soft silence of the room. Bucky barked out a laugh in disbelief.   

“I am literally dripping with your come right now, and you want to be wined and dined?” Bucky said, normality settling back in as he and Sam began to banter in their usual pattern, and this time it truly felt like coming home.

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 6 #sinqueen69 #Bucky Barnes/sam Wilson

6 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 27 days ago

Text

Either The Darkness Alters Or (adjusts itself to midnight) | Bucky Barnes x Bob Reynolds (Bucky x The Void) | Oneshot 3k

When Bob accidentanlly inhales a mysterious substance, The Void steps in. But is it protecting, or punishing? Bucky has to find his way back to Bob for answers.

Warnings: 18+ for language, slur used, suggestion of drug abuse/addiction, homophobia, suggestion of masturbation, idiots in love, angst to fluff, implied fuck or die/suffer.

A/N:sex pollen, but make in angst...wait, make it fluff! Blame my period. Anyway, enjoy! Title is from Emily Dickenson's We grow assustomed to the Dark

HBS Week 6 July 6th - July 12th | “I need help.” | [Sex Pollen | Erectile Dysfunction | Fuck or Die] @buckybarnesevents

Masterlist | Hot Bucky Summer | Bucky Barnes | Bob Reynolds

Bob kicked his legs off the edge of the jet door, bored. He'd only tagged along on the mission because Bucky had promised him they could go out somewhere after. Bob liked to pretend they were little dates, when Bucky showed him old hole-in-the-wall pizza joints and bars in basements under busy sidewalks. No one had to know what he daydreamed about, certainly not Bucky himself.

But now the entire team had been gone for what felt like forever and really, there was only so long he could carry on like this.

With a sigh he jumped down, feet landing on the pock marked concrete that made up the abandoned landing strip behind the O.X.E facility. It had been Yelena's idea to secretly raid and destroy them behind Valentina's back, but everyone had agreed enthusiastically.

Everyone, really, except Bob.

He agreed in principle, but the idea of going back into one of those places gave him the shivers in a way that his friends understood in theory, but found it hard to understand in practice.

Now he circled the perimeter, keeping an ear out for any movement inside. They weren't expecting resistance, but you could never be too careful about these things and he wasn't always sure how compliant his Sentry side would be, should he need it unexpectedly.

One of the solid metal doors had been propped open with a box of files and various other crates were huddled around it. Ava had wanted to see what they could pilfer and put away for later, so they must have thought this was useful.

The papers were boring, but there was a shiny chrome briefcase that opened when Bob toed it, now that was significantly more interesting. A sly voice in the back of his mind wondered if there'd be something for him to enjoy, the next time the team left him home alone.

Inside were various vials of liquid in a rainbow of colours. He recognised the greenish one, something he'd been injected with during his trial. Bucky had told him the blue one was a new serum variant, probably useful to keep an eye on that, but there were also vials in yellow, pink, red and black. All unlabelled. Bob rolled his eyes, of course they were unlabelled.

He picked the red one out and turned it over in his palm, there was the symbol for 'irritant' on the back and some general hazard warnings, but nothing specific.

"Whatcha got there?" Bucky's voice cut through the silence and Bob jumped, his fingers slipping on the vial. He dropped with it, hoping to catch it in his empty palm but it slid past his finger tips and shattered on the floor in a spray of glittering shards and viscous liquid.

"Oh no!" Bob kept moving, falling onto his knees and picking up the larger shards.

"Get away from there!" Bucky grabbed the back of Bob's sweater and yanked him backwards, arms around his waist, he hauled him back against his chest.

"I didn't mean to drop it." Bob mumbled.

"I know — I know," Bucky agreed, more softly. "I don't care about the damn thing, I was worried about you."

Bob looked down at his hands, there was something sticking to his fingers, sinking down into his palms. It itched, burned as it soaked in and he began scrubbing his hands on the rough material of his tactical trousers.

"Did you get something on you?" Bucky hooked his chin over Bob's shoulder, concerned.

"Something, I dunno what though." Bob continued scrubbing his hands, the itch travelling up through his wrists now, fiery and hot, like being electrocuted in slow motion.

"We don't know what was in that, we need to get the medical kit." Bucky kept his arm around Bob as he dragged him to the jet, "I'm sure there's some saline or something we can rinse your hands with." His tone was very matter of fact, but Bob had been watching Bucky for a while now, and he could see the tell-tale set of his jaw that meant he really was worried, maybe annoyed, it was hard to get it right every time.

In his own world, oblivious to Bob's staring, Bucky rummaged for the first aid kit. Behind him, Bob writhed, his eyes swimming with tears and gold flecks.

He felt hot, too hot, sticky and unsatisfied, hungry and wanting. "No — no no no no no." Bob rubbed his hands over his eyes and then turned away from Bucky's back, hunching over and using the heels of his hands to try and cover his lap.

"Hold it together over there, kid, I'm goin' as quick as I can." Bucky didn't turn as he spoke, which Bob was thankful for because the way he called him kid had every cell in his body screaming. It was so much, everything was so much and then…it felt quieter, the room dimmed, his eyes hazy even while they tried to focus on Bucky.

"I don't know if I can stop it this time." He whispered, instantly getting the other man's attention.

"Stop what?" Bucky's brow creased as he assessed him, there was something shadowed about him, despite the light still pouring in from the open door. The more he looked, the darker the air around Bob seemed to become as if he was sucking the light from the air itself.

"I think I need help."

Bucky took a step towards him, muscles tense, ready to fight if he had to. But Bob didn't make another move, just relaxed back into the darkness as if he owned it. His eyes filled with gold, but the rest of him was vanishing into the ether.

"Are you still there, Bob?"

"I'm always here," the Void purred back, "I'm always here and I'm always wanting and I'm not giving your precious Bob back until we're both satisfied."

"You should know," Bucky grit his teeth, "I don't negotiate very well."

"Oh I don't expect you to negotiate." The Void's eyes sparkled, the only part of him that was vaguely human, and Bucky took a tentative step closer. "I expect you to say yes. I expect you to want to help that sad, little creature."

The Void waved his hand at his own head and Bucky's body tensed further. "Don't hurt him."

"Don't hurt him." The Void mocked, "I'm not going to hurt him, he hurts himself, it's boring. He's in such agony, pining, yearning, pathetic." The Void's even tone turn harsher, spitting out the words.

Bucky's mind raced, pining? Yearning? For what?

"Whatever he needs, he doesn't need to send you, we're his friends, we'll help him anyway we can." Bucky hoped and prayed Yelena was on her way, she was so much better at this than him.

The Void laughed, "friends? He doesn't want friends, he doesn't need, friends. He needs —" the darkness receded briefly and for a moment the dark fog that had settled over Bob lifted, to reveal his cheeks, flushed, his lips parted as he gasped for his words.

"Bucky — this isn't how I wanted you to find out and —" Bob's words were choked.

The darkness was back, crawling towards him, leeching the light from the jet as it crawled over each rivulet and bolt.

"It's okay, Bob, whatever it is, it's all going to be okay."

Bucky knew what was coming, it wouldn't be the first time The Void had consumed him and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. His worst memories and darkest most shameful moments, each more terrible than the last, yet somehow he felt stronger every time…he fell into it. Let Bob, The Void, the pitch black fear of not knowing where he'd end up, take him over.

He would help him.

Any way he could.

It was brighter, in the shame room, as Yelena had called it, one he hadn't seen before and it took Bucky a moment to realise this wasn't his shame. It was Bob's.

"Please, please don't leave me." Bob crawled across the filthy ground towards a door, he looked dirty too, his long sleeved shirt too large and hanging off his skinny frame. His cheek bones were sharp and his eyes sunk into his wan features. "I'll be better, please, just don't leave me, I'll do anything, anything."

He grasped onto the man's leg, the acid wash of his jeans matching the pale colour of Bob's hands, marked with scars.

"Anything?" The man shook his leg and Bob fell back, sprawled on the floor beside take out boxes and empty snack packets. He looked so small and helpless, but so determined, the set of his sallow eyes held something Bucky had seen more recently, a desire to live.

"Anything, I'll do anything, please."

"There's another job I need you to do." The man crouched down, brushing Bob's long hair behind his ear in a way that made Bucky's stomach turn. "Have you ever been to Malaysia?"

Bob shook his head slowly.

"Get your passport, I have something you need to take to a friend."

Bob scrambled around the room, grabbing his passport and a small duffle bag while the other man watching, lighting a cigarette and tapping the ash carelessly onto the floor.

"Let's go." He dropped the cigarette too close to Bob's arm, putting it out with his heel and spilling a half-empty beer bottle in the process.

Bucky fell forwards, through the glossy beer dripping between the floorboards and suddenly he was in boy's locker room.

He'd been to school, of course, but this was another league, shining locker doors and the scent of lemon cleaner on the gleaming floor that squeaked whenever the team moved over it in their neat kits. He searched for Bob's face, but couldn't find it.

There was a sense of unease though, a sick feeling that crept up his spine and made him shiver. Sometimes his rooms were like this too, places he should've been, Rebecca's wedding, his mother's funeral. Places he'd never see that his sub-conscious longed for. Is this what Bob wanted? What The Void would demand of them? Did he actually want to be a West Chesapeake Thunderbolt after all?

The boys filed out of the room, smacking each other's football helmets and hooting with excitement. The room went quiet, then there was the sharp clang of metal and one of the larger lockers opened and Bob fell out onto the floor. His laces were tied together, sports tape over his mouth and, on his forehead, in black marker pen, someone has scrawled "faggot".

That was a word Bucky was unfortunately very familiar with. He took a step towards Bob and met his panicked eyes, crouching beside him he gently pulled the tape from his mouth.

"I didn't want you to see me like this." The younger Bob whispered, turning away, his tears ran in silent tracks down his face, muddied and bloodied from his still leaking nose.

"Bob, I'm sorry, let's leave and we can talk about it." Bucky untied his messy laces and redid them with a tight bow before standing and holding out his hand.

Bob took it with shaky fingers, allowing himself to be pulled upright and then they were tumbling backwards, stomachs lurching until they landed on Bob's bed in the tower.

Bucky stumbled off the edge, tugging the sheet as he feel and banging his elbow on the bedside table.

"You alright, Bob?" Bucky sat up rubbing his arm and peering over the side of the bed.

But the previous Bob was gone — this Bob was older, his Bob — Bucky's mind helpfully supplied before he could stop it. A Bob scrubbed clean and fresh from the shower with wet curls on his forehead, he'd pulled on a t-shirt, which clung in patches on his chest and left the towel over his lower half.

Bucky looked away, but he couldn't stop himself from hearing the guttural moan. This was all so familiar somehow. Was it because Bucky had done the same only the evening before? Clenching his teeth to stop himself from crying out?

"Hey, Bob, do you — oh shit I'm so sorry." His own voice echoed through the room — ah yes, that's why it was familiar.

"Bucky — I'm sorry!"

"No, no, I'm sorry! Shouldn't have just come in — walked in! Sorry!"

Bucky remembered vividly that he'd turned and left before he could really see anything of Bob, and had then spent the rest of his evening wracked with both guilt and lust at the thought of the younger man doing that.

Now he was waiting for Bob to do something, anything.

"Such a fucking idiot, Bobby." He scolded himself. "Jesus, fuck, what if he fucking noticed the shirt. Stupid, stupid, stupid."

The offending item fell to the floor beside Bucky and he realised two things very quickly. One, Bob didn't know he was there, and two, that was his shirt.

Bob rolled off the other side of the bed, padding to the en suite and slamming the door. Bucky scrambled up, catching sight of his own flushed expression in the wall length mirror by the bedroom door.

There he was on the other side, in his tactical gear, still creeping towards The Void. It's eyes were still shining, the whole world suspended, waiting —

Bucky fell one last time.

"What the fuck are you playing at?!" Bucky growled, lurching for the darkness and missing as it dodged to one side, floating slightly above the floor of the jet. For a moment he thought he saw Bob again, his hair falling forwards, the cool blue of his eyes.

"Just keeping you distracted." It laughed and Bucky's brow furrowed as he tried to tune himself into each tiny sound around him.

Had the others been attacked? Was he hurt?

Then he caught sight of the vial again, really looked and a sick memory flashed before his eyes, one last shame room inescapable in his mind.

"That shit Bob inhaled, it's going to kill him, isn't it?" Bucky's voice was low, serious, his eyes dark as he approached again.

"Probably, the little worm, if only he'd had any guts at all, if only he'd been able to tell you any of the cute little feelings he keeps up here —" The Void pointed to the shadowy temple where their hair blew gently in a phantom breeze. "I thought it'd be more fun to take you through some of his highlights instead. Shall we do yours next?!"

"Fuck. Off." Bucky hurled himself at The Void, grabbing at his arms and pinning him down. "Give him back, give Bob back."

The darkness braced, as if expecting a blow, but Bucky ran his fingers through it's hair, the smokey tendrils turning to mousey brown. He cupped The Void's cheek, catching the pinprick sparkle of its eyes and staring into them.

"I know you're in there, Bob, I know you're still there and that you're hurting. It hurt me too, I was scared too. But I'll help you get through it, I want to help you, just come back to me."

The Void fought back, pushing against Bucky's grip until he had to dig his nails into the abyss of his shirt, fingertips vanishing beneath the surface.

"I know you're there, Bob, come back to me, we can fix this together."

The body beneath him thrashed again, trying to kick Bucky off, digging his heels in.

"Come back to me," Bucky's voice was soft and low, a rumble of thunder.

The Void went quiet, almost pliant in Bucky's grasp and slowly, just as he'd vanished, Bob returned, sweating and pale and shaking.

"Bucky," he rasped.

"Bob, I'm here, I'm here." Bucky sat back up, scooping Bob into his arms and cradling him against his chest. "It's going to be okay, I know what you inhaled and I'm going to help you."

Bob gave a full body shudder, biting his lip to stop the deep, pained noise that was building in his chest.

"I didn't want you to see that, Bucky, those rooms —"

"Hey, look —" Bucky took his face in his hands, "I see you, all of you, and I want to help you."

"That last room —" Bob sobbed now, frightened, in pain and so scared that Bucky had truly seen his most recent shame. He should never have taken Bucky's shirt, let alone worn it to…

"I see you and I want to help. Please. I should never have opened that door without waiting for you to answer, it was entirely my fault. But I'm not going to pretend I haven't thought about you sprawled on the bed like that every night since."

Both men went pink, pausing in their fear.

"Really?"

"Really." Bucky said, softly, tangling his fingers in Bob's hair again and drawing him closer, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. After a moment, Bob pulled back reluctantly.

"You said you know what's wrong with me. It hurts ."

Bucky cringed, "If it's what I think, it was designed as part of breeding programme while I was in Siberia…"

"A breeding — oh fucking hell — I can't be fucking bred — When will it stop!?" Bob's eyes were wide, pleading.

"Uh — well." Bucky's jaw tightened as he thought of how to explain, ears pinker than ever.

"Nevermind, I get it, I — oh god."

Bob covered his face with his hands, but Bucky pulled them away again, holding them both and kissing his knuckles.

"Don't worry, I told you — I want to help."

Despite everything Bob couldn't help but smile and Bucky couldn't help but kiss him again.

#hotbuckysummer2025 #mrs elsie barnes #Bucky Barnes/Bob Reynolds #hbs2025 week 6

35 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 28 days ago

Text

And the Rockets' Red Glare

Pairing: firefighter!Bucky x fem!Reader

Word Count: 12.4+k (oops)

Summary: You’re not a badge bunny—just the good girl with a clipboard and a view of Bucky Barnes washing fire trucks shirtless. But one summer day, you dress the part. Tight shorts, glossy lips, a plan to finally make him look. You wanted a night. You got fireworks. You didn’t expect it to hurt this much.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (MDNI 18+), cock worship, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), p in v, creampie, power imbalance (emotional), angst with a hopeful ending, emotional manipulation (Reader knowingly plays a role), miscommunication / lack of communication, jealousy and possessiveness, mentions of casual sex / hookup culture, reader cries, mild alcohol use

A/N: This is my submission for Week 5 of "Hot Bucky Summer 2025." This week's theme was "Play with it" Cock Worship | Forced Masturbation | Come Play. As always, a big shoutout to @buckybarnesevents for hosting challenge!

You’re not a firefighter. Not really.

No turnout gear with your name across the shoulders. No station boots tracking soot across the bay floor. No callouts at 3 a.m., no firehouse banter over burnt coffee and old leather recliners.

But you’re always there.

Behind the table at the pancake breakfast. Folding raffle tickets. Making donation jars. Designing flyers with a faded Sharpie and a head full of dreams. You’re the one who runs water bottles to the staging area when the August heat is thick enough to chew. You learn names. Diet restrictions. Who likes blue Gatorade and who won’t touch anything but lemon-lime. It matters, you think—being the one who remembers the small things.

Still, you’re not one of them.

Not like him.

Bucky Barnes walks like he was poured into that navy-blue uniform. Like the whole station leans subtly toward his orbit, gravity pulled into the wide set of his shoulders and the heavy drag of that steel-cut jaw. He’s quiet when he wants to be, all smolder and shadow, but somehow always at the center of everything.

You’ve watched him hoist a two-hundred-pound rescue dummy like it was a bag of groceries. You’ve seen him laugh—really laugh—beer bottle in hand, the sound low and rare, like thunder from far away. You’ve seen the way the women circle him. Lipstick. Cleavage. Laughter like a dare.

They call them badge bunnies. Girls who chase the thrill of danger by seducing the men who survive it. They wear their flirtation like armor, polished and practiced. He sleeps with them. Everyone knows it. Doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.

You’re not a badge bunny. You’re just… you.

The auxiliary girl with the clipboard and the spare key to the supply shed. The one who always brings enough granola bars. The one who calls the pizza place from memory when the crew stumbles back from a 5-alarm blaze too tired to move. The one who watches him out of the corner of her eye and pretends not to care when he never looks back.

But God, you want him to.

You want him to see you the way he sees them. Want him to tilt his head and smirk like he knows you’re about to ruin him. You want to hear what his voice sounds like when it drops lower. When it means it.

“Jesus, just flash a little cleavage next time,” someone laughs behind you, jolting you out of the thought.

You blink, turning to see Sharon, married to one of the lieutenants, eyeing you with the kind of grin that says she’s noticed. That she’s always noticed.

“You do all this work and still don’t get a second look,” she teases, gesturing toward the banner you’re helping tape above the fundraiser table. “Meanwhile, that girl with the French manicure and the cargo shorts got bent over the bathroom sink last weekend.”

Your cheeks burn.

“I’m just helping out,” you mutter, not meeting her eyes.

“Mmhmm.” She pops her gum. “Helping. Organizing. Pining in silence while Engineer Sexhair fucks his way through the fan club.”

Another auxiliary—Wanda, always blunt, always in a crop top—leans over the table and whispers, “If I had a crush like that, I’d fake an ankle sprain and see if he’d carry me. Shirtless. Hero mode.”

Sharon snorts. “Forget sprains. What you need is a tight shirt, glossy lips, and the guts to say sir like you mean it.”

You laugh it off. Shrug like it’s nothing. But their voices follow you all the way to the cooler where you’re rearranging Gatorade again, like color-coded bottles might distract you from how close they are to right.

You don’t want to be a badge bunny. You don’t want to be a one-night regret.

But maybe you’re tired of being the girl with the clipboard.

Maybe, just maybe… it’s time to play with fire.

This isn’t you.

You’re not the kind of girl who wears shorts this short. Not the kind who lines her lips and smudges shadow into the hollows of her eyes until they look like secrets. Not the kind who stares at herself in a gas station bathroom mirror, dabbing powder along her collarbone, wondering if this is what desperation tastes like.

But you did it anyway.

The fundraiser starts in twenty minutes. A charity car wash—classic, harmless, barely PG-rated. Tank tops, soapy sponges, a few muscle shirts for the crowd. It’s always more spectacle than function. Last year someone sprayed a hose directly into a city councilman's open window and still got a thank-you check.

This year… you’re not behind the table. Not setting up cones or passing out towels.

You volunteered for the wash line.

You said it like a joke, tossed it out casually when they asked for extra hands. Wanda gave you a high five. Sharon raised her brows so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. And now here you are—tight white tank, jean shorts you had to dig out of your closet, and a slow-spreading crack in your resolve.

Because this isn’t you.

You don’t want to be one of the girls who gets seen only when she’s dripping wet and pressed up against a fire truck. You don’t want to be a headline in the rec room. A story passed around like a bottle of cheap whiskey.

But you’re so goddamn tired of watching from the sidelines.

You’ve loved him quietly. Softly. Like a lit candle on a windy night—always protecting the flame, never asking for more.

Maybe tonight, you’re done playing safe.

The moment you step out from behind the staging tent, the sun hits you like a spotlight. Hot and glaring, already high enough to make the pavement shimmer. There’s a buzz in the air—radio music, laughter, the low hum of anticipation.

And then you see him.

Bucky Barnes, leaned back against the bumper of Engine 6, drink in hand, sunglasses perched on his nose like a casual sin. His shirt is already damp, clinging to the line of his chest like it doesn’t know how to behave. He’s laughing at something someone said. That slow, dangerous smile that makes women volunteer to drown.

He doesn’t see you. Not yet.

But he will.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—you stop doubting the mirror. Stop second-guessing the hemline. Stop asking yourself if this makes you look cheap or obvious or weak.

Because if this is what it takes to make him look at you like he looks at them—hungry, wrecked, like the air just left his lungs—then maybe tonight… you’ll let him.

Even if it breaks you.

Even if you burn.

The fundraiser kicks off like a matchstrike—sudden, bright, loud. Music rattles through portable speakers. The parking lot turns into a slipstream of heat and hose spray, engine polish and half-laughed innuendos. Someone cracks open a cooler, someone else yells “Two minutes till the next rotation!” and before you know it, you’re elbow-deep in a bucket of suds, flanked by chaos and testosterone.

The guys are out in full force. And of course they’re shirtless.

You catch the first glint of it out of the corner of your eye—Sam with his sleeves already yanked off, biceps flexing under the weight of a sponge, a grin spread wide across his face like he’s born for this kind of spectacle. Torres is next, dancing shamelessly as he scrubs a bumper, water slicking down the valley of his back.

But it’s Bucky who ruins you.

Slow, methodical. A shadow among sunbursts. His shirt’s long gone, slung somewhere over the ladder rack, and he moves with that quiet, devastating confidence—the kind that doesn’t need to ask for attention because it already owns the room. Sweat traces the dip of his spine. Water darkens the swim trunks at his thighs. His dog tags swing gently against his chest with each swipe of the rag he drags across the hood of a muscle car.

He still hasn’t seen you.

Which is worse, somehow. Or maybe better. You don’t know. You can’t tell if the nervous buzz under your skin is dread or anticipation.

So you work.

You scrub and rinse, letting your tank cling where it wants to cling. You laugh a little too hard at Wanda’s joke about foam and friction. You pretend your knees aren’t shaking when the cold hose water splashes up your bare legs. And you feel him—somewhere behind you, not looking yet, but close. The gravity of him bends the air.

And then—finally—you turn.

Just as he does.

It’s not cinematic. Not some slow-motion, hair-blowing-in-the-breeze moment. But his eyes land on you like lightning, sudden and sharp, and you feel the heat crawl up your neck before the look is even over. His sunglasses are gone now—tucked into his waistband—and you get the full weight of his gaze. Blue, intense, steady. His brow lifts—barely. A flicker of recognition. Surprise. And something else you can’t name.

You almost drop your sponge.

He doesn’t look away.

Not when Wanda bumps your hip with hers. Not when Sharon lets out a low whistle. Not even when someone yells across the lot and sprays him accidentally with a stream of water. He’s drenched in seconds, soaked from chest to hip, and still, he’s watching you.

Your mouth goes dry.

It’s just one look. Just a moment.

But it’s more than you’ve ever had.

And in that moment, beneath the sun and soap and miraging heat, something inside you clicks—like a hand turning a valve, letting pressure build behind something too long ignored.

He sees you now. And there’s no going back.

“Wash crews—rotate!”

The call echoes across the parking lot, followed by groans and hollers as sponges are slung back into buckets, wrists flicked dry, hose lines traded like batons. The station’s full of motion—shirts being tugged back on, towels tossed, bodies weaving around one another in a sun-soaked blur.

You dip your hands into the suds again, trying to steady yourself.

But your pulse has other plans.

You feel him before you see him—low footfalls against the pavement, deliberate. The air moves differently when he’s near, shifts in a way you’ve come to recognize in your bones. A kind of stillness wrapped in tension. And then—just as you straighten up, sponge dripping, heart hammering—you hear it:

“Guess it’s my turn to get you wet.”

His voice. Low. Rough. A little smug around the edges.

You turn.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes, standing too close, shirt still MIA, swim trunks soaked, chest gleaming with a sheen of water and sweat. His smile is a slow drag, half-smirk, like he knows exactly what he just said—and what it’s doing to you.

You blink. And then you smile back.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, dragging the sponge up the slope of the windshield with a lazy, deliberate stroke. “You sure you can handle it?”

His brow arches. A challenge. His gaze drifts lower—lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle, to make your mouth go dry. And when he looks back up, it’s like standing too close to a fire. Not touching, not yet, but close enough to feel.

“I’ve handled worse,” he says, eyes flicking to your lips. “But you…?”

He trails off. Doesn’t finish the sentence.

Doesn’t need to.

Your heart kicks. Your smile tilts sharper.

“I bite,” you offer sweetly, tossing the sponge into the bucket and straightening up fully. You meet his eyes, unflinching now. “Figured I should warn you.”

His laugh is low, dark, curling at the edges like smoke. His tongue slips across his bottom lip, slow. Measured.

“Good,” he says. “I like a little pain with my pleasure.”

You feel it then—the shift. The drop in temperature behind the eyes. The sudden crackle of something real. Gone is the indifference. The polite nothing. He’s looking at you now like you’re already halfway undressed and whispering his name.

Your breath stutters. But you don’t look away.

Instead, you step forward—closer, barely a foot between you. Enough to smell him now—soap and cedar and something scorched at the edges.

“Well,” you murmur, coy and careful, “I guess you’ll just have to play with it and find out.”

It’s a gamble. A firecracker tossed in dry grass.

And from the flicker in his gaze—the way his mouth parts, just slightly, like he’s about to say something he shouldn’t—you know it hit the mark.

Then Sharon yells your name from across the lot, and the moment fractures.

He blinks. Re-centers. Takes a half-step back.

“You missed a spot,” he says gruffly, nodding toward the hood.

“Then maybe you should help,” you fire back.

His eyes glint.

And then he’s gone.

Not far—just to the other side of the car. But you feel the heat of him still. Like the ghost of a flame licking up your spine.

You turn back to your sponge, hand trembling just a little.

He came to you. And he flirted back.

Maybe you can play his game after all.

The fundraiser winds down in a slurry of laughter, lukewarm hose water, and sunburnt shoulders. Most of the crowd has dispersed, the music quieted, the fire engines parked in tidy formation beneath the retreating light. The air smells like wet asphalt and citrus soap. A little sweet. A little sharp.

You stayed behind, of course.

Because someone always has to sort the towels. Someone has to empty the buckets and hang the sponges and drag the folding tables back to the rec trailer. It’s muscle memory by now—cleanup as second nature, duty filling the space where nerves used to live.

You’re soaked through.

Your tank clings to your ribs, heavy with water and soap suds. Your shorts are darker with moisture, streaked from where you sat too long on the bumper. Your hair is a damp halo, stuck to the back of your neck. You look like a drowned girl in love with the ocean.

You don’t hear him approach.

But you feel him.

“Need a hand?”

His voice cuts through the quiet—lower now, smoother somehow. No teasing this time. No smile yet. Just Bucky Barnes, standing at the edge of the supply shed, shadows clinging to his jawline like they’re jealous of the light.

You turn.

He’s changed—barely. Fresh shirt, tugged over damp skin, still wrinkled in the middle like he rushed it. Hair finger-combed, not dry. But his eyes are the same. That same flame. That same weight.

“I’m fine,” you say, too fast. Then you catch yourself. Smile slow. “Unless you’re volunteering.”

“I’m off the clock,” he says, stepping inside anyway. “But I make exceptions.”

He takes the bucket from your hands without waiting for permission, setting it near the hose station. Your fingers still tingle from where his brushed yours.

“You don’t usually stick around for clean-up,” you say, reaching for a stack of soaked towels.

“You don’t usually do car washes,” he counters, eyes flicking to the cling of your tank top, the way it hugs your breasts. “Wasn’t gonna miss that.”

You laugh—light and breathless. But your hands freeze mid-fold.

He notices.

Steps a little closer.

“I mean it,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, lower. “You looked…”

A pause. His gaze drifts down, then back up.

“…dangerous.”

Your heart flips in your chest. Heat rises in your cheeks like steam off pavement. But you don’t drop your gaze.

“Thought that was your type?” you say softly.

His smile curves like a hook—sharp, a little crooked.

“It is.”

Another beat.

And then:

“A few of us are heading to Black Anchor after this. Little unofficial after party,” he adds, as if that makes it more casual. “You should come.”

You arch a brow. “You asking?”

He shrugs—too casual. But there’s heat in the set of his jaw. In the tension curled around the way he looks at you.

“I’m inviting.”

You let the towel fall from your hands. Step closer—just enough that you could count the freckles along the bridge of his nose if you wanted.

“You sure?” you murmur. “Might be dangerous.”

He exhales—slow, hungry, like he wants to touch and isn’t sure if he’s allowed to.

Then:

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

You don’t rush.

Not when you get home. Not when you peel off the wet clothes and wring the water from your hair. Not when you stand in front of your closet like it might give you permission.

You take your time. Because tonight isn’t about proving anything.

It’s not about playing badge bunny dress-up or being the most obvious girl in the room. It’s not about tight hems or plunging necklines—not entirely. It’s about intent. About choosing to be seen.

So you choose carefully.

Soft black denim skirt that hugs your hips like a secret. A silky top that dips low at the back, held together by the delicate whisper of thin straps. Lips tinted just enough to look bitten. Eyes rimmed dark. A touch of shimmer at the collarbone, like you’ve been kissed there already.

When you walk out your front door, you’re not thinking about heartbreak. You’re thinking about heat. About being wanted.

And when you walk into The Black Anchor, the whole place tips toward you like it’s been waiting.

It’s dimly lit, loud enough to blur conversations into a hum. The air smells like whiskey and salt—the kind of place that feels like sweat and laughter and sharp edges. You spot the crew in the back corner, a cluster of off-duty blue and sunburnt skin and open tabs.

You feel his eyes before you find him.

Bucky’s leaning against the far wall, glass in hand, mid-laugh with Sam when he sees you.

He goes still.

And it wrecks you.

Because you’ve never been looked at like that. Like you’re a phantom. Like you’re a trick of the light he’s afraid to blink away. His jaw tightens. His mouth parts, just slightly, like he forgot how to breathe for a second.

You don’t look away.

You smile. Slow. Dangerous.

And then Joaquin Torres slides in beside you, drink already in hand, grin boyish and bright.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says, offering the glass with a little flourish. “Whiskey ginger, right?”

You nod, taking it from his hand. Your fingers brush. His smile sharpens.

“I remember things,” he adds, voice low. “Especially when pretty girls say them.”

You laugh—because why not?

You lean in, just slightly, just enough for Bucky to see. You rest your hand on Joaquin’s arm when you thank him, laugh again when he says something ridiculous. You sip your drink slowly, eyes half-lidded, aware of every beat of music, every curl of heat beneath your skin.

And when you glance over your shoulder, Bucky is still staring.

But he’s not smiling anymore.

Not laughing. Not talking. Just watching.

Eyes narrowed. Glass untouched. Like he’s trying to decide whether to finish it—or throw it across the room.

The music shifts. Someone calls for shots. Joaquin leans closer, says something about dancing later. You nod again, not really hearing, because Bucky still hasn’t looked away.

And you wonder—

If maybe this is what it feels like to be the flame instead of the moth.

The hallway hums with distant bass and too-warm air.

You step out of the bathroom, re-centered, mouth tinted, pulse steady—until you see him.

Bucky. Leaning against the wall like sin in denim and restraint. His head lifts the second you appear, and the look he gives you could strip wallpaper. Anger? Jealousy? Hunger?

You hope it’s all three.

“Torres?” he says, like the name tastes bad in his mouth.

You blink. Smile slowly. “He bought me a drink.”

He straightens, arms folding across his chest, jaw tight. “You flirting with him to get a rise out of me?”

You feign innocence. It doesn’t last. “Is it working?”

His eyes flicker—down your body, back up. His throat works. “Thought you were smarter than that.”

“I’m not,” you whisper. “Not around you.”

That stuns him, just for a second.

His frown softens, but only slightly. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I do.”

His gaze hardens. “You think I don’t know what this is? You dressed up for the car wash. You let him touch you. You’re acting like one of them.”

Good. That’s the point.

You step closer, slow and fluid, until you’re right in his space.

“I’m trying to be one of them,” you murmur, lashes lowered. “Isn’t that what you like?”

His jaw tightens like it physically pains him. “That’s not you.”

“It could be.”

You press your palm lightly against his chest, feel the heat of him through the cotton. His heart kicks under your hand.

“Use me,” you say, so softly he barely hears it. “Like you do with them. Just once.”

His eyes go wide. Then narrow.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” You swallow. “If that’s all you’ll give me, I’ll take it.”

The silence between you crackles. Tension thick and molten, sliding like smoke over skin.

He stares like he wants to tear away—or like he wants to ruin you right here against the wall.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he repeats, but there’s no heat behind it now. Just a fraying thread of control.

“I’m not asking,” you whisper. “I’m offering.”

And for one raw, unbearable heartbeat—he looks like he might actually take it.

The hallway is quiet, dim, pulsing only with the distant throb of music from the bar.

But the silence between you crackles, thick as static.

You’ve never stood this close to him. Not really. Not like this. Not with your chest rising too fast and your hand pressed against the heat of him, where his shirt clings from the dampness in the air, where you can feel every steady thump of the heart you’ll never get to keep.

“Use me,” you whisper again, lips barely moving.

His breath stutters—actually stutters—and it’s like watching a building lean too far in a high wind. He’s off-balance. Caught. Wrecked.

“You’re not one of them,” he says again, but it’s softer now. Not a protest. Not a rule. A plea.

“I don’t care,” you say, and the words are so quiet, so honest, they tremble. “I don’t care if you only want me for tonight. I just want—” You stop. Swallow. Try again. “I just want to know what it feels like.”

His gaze snaps to yours.

“What feels like?”

You shouldn’t answer. You really shouldn’t. But this is a no-going-back kind of moment. And you’re already in the fire.

“Being wanted by you,” you say. “Even if it’s not real.”

That’s when his hand moves.

One large, calloused palm ghosts up your arm. Not grabbing. Not rough. Just enough to feel. Enough to shake something loose inside you.

“You think it wouldn’t be real?” he murmurs.

You blink at him, lips parted, but no sound comes out.

“I’ve seen how you look at me,” he says. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I never—wanted that?”

Your chest tightens. Hope flickers, small and optimistic.

But then he leans in closer, mouth beside your ear, and ruins you with a whisper:

“I stayed away because you don’t deserve the kind of mess I make.”

Your breath leaves you in one sharp exhale.

And then he presses his mouth to the edge of your jaw—not a kiss, not really, just the threat of one. Just heat. Just breath.

You’re dizzy with it.

“You want me to use you?” he says low, nearly growled. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“I don’t care,” you manage, barely. “Do it anyway.”

His hand slides up to your jaw. Fingers firm. Thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, eyes locked to your mouth. “And you don’t even know the rules.”

“Then teach me.”

That does it.

He curses under his breath and pulls away like he’s punishing himself, like it costs him everything not to pin you to the wall and take exactly what you’re offering.

But instead, he steps back. Just barely.

“Finish your drink,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t leave with anyone else.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’m leaving in twenty minutes.” His eyes flick down your body again, slower this time. “If you’re still here… you’re coming with me.”

And then he’s gone.

Back into the bar. Back into the noise.

Leaving you alone in the hallway, heart in your throat, nerves lit like a fuse.

You breathe once. Twice.

Then you fix your lipstick, and go back inside.

You find him leaning against his truck.

Exactly twenty minutes later.

He doesn’t say anything when you approach. Just opens the passenger door.

The handle is warm beneath your fingers—heat clinging from the day, from his hands. The moment you slide into the seat, the air shifts. Charged. Contained. Like the cab of the truck has its own pressure system.

He gets in beside you, shuts the door. Turns the key. The engine purrs to life.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

And you don’t speak.

He drives like he does everything else—quiet, focused, restrained. One hand on the wheel, the other flexing once, twice, as if it’s itching for something it can’t have yet. The roads are dark and half-empty. Streetlights pass overhead like the second hand of a ticking clock.

Your thighs are pressed together. You’re painfully aware of every inch of skin. Of the pulse at your throat. Of the way his gaze flicks to you once at a red light, then back to the road, jaw tight.

You should say something. Anything.

But the silence is full. Full of all the things you both won’t say.

I want this. I shouldn’t. Use me. Don’t make me care.

The windows fog slightly from your breath. Your palm is damp against your thigh. The tension is a living thing between you—stalking the space from seat to seat like it’s waiting for someone to crack.

Then he speaks. Quietly.

“You sure about this?”

You look at him. The truck’s lights hit the curve of his cheek, his mouth, his throat. His voice is low and rough, like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if you answer wrong.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He exhales through his nose, slow. Tense. Like he’s trying to hold something back with every ounce of strength in his body.

“You don’t owe me tenderness,” you say, so softly it almost doesn’t make it past the hum of the tires. “You don’t have to pretend.”

His grip on the steering wheel flexes.

“You want me to treat you like—like all the others?” he says, like the words are acid in his mouth.

“I want you to want me,” you whisper. “Even if it’s not real.”

He pulls into a quiet driveway, gravel crunching under the tires.

His house is unassuming—clean lines, dark trim, soft porch light spilling across the front step. But the moment he kills the engine, the silence shifts. It’s not patient anymore. It’s thirsty.

He doesn’t get out immediately. Just sits there.

You move first.

Door creaking open, shoes crunching softly on gravel. You walk to his front door and wait. Not looking back. Not hesitating. Not when your knees are trembling, not when your stomach is coiled tight with anticipation and fear and want.

He joins you a beat later.

Keys jangling. Steps even.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

The door unlocks. Swings open. And then—

You’re inside.

And the tension follows you in.

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final click.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

No footsteps. No music. Just the heavy stillness of a house that feels suspended—like it’s holding its breath right along with you.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The entryway is dim. Warm light pools in soft shapes on the floor, catching the edge of his boots, the frame of your shadow. You’re still dressed for the bar—hair loose, lips smudged, skin humming from hours of attention you never wanted and one look from him that nearly brought you to your knees.

He steps closer.

You don’t look at him. You feel him. The gravity of his body pulling yours forward in fractions. The heat of him rising like smoke. He moves behind you, not touching—not yet—but near enough that you feel it in your spine.

“You can still change your mind,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough for your voice to find him in the dark.

“I don’t want to.”

A beat.

Then another.

Then—

“I’m not going to be gentle,” he says.

It’s not a warning. It’s a promise.

You finally turn to face him.

Your eyes meet, and it’s like gravity reverses. Everything tilts. His jaw is clenched tight, but his eyes—God, his eyes are starving. Like he’s wanted to look at you like this for months. Like he didn’t let himself. Until now.

“I don’t want gentle,” you breathe. “I want you.”

That’s when he moves.

Fast. Desperate. A storm breaking all at once.

His hand finds the back of your neck, mouth crashing into yours like he’s trying to erase the silence between you. He kisses like he’s angry about it. Like he’s furious you got under his skin. Like he’s trying to punish you for making him feel this way.

Your hands fist into the fabric of his shirt. You rise onto your toes, mouth opening beneath his, drinking in the heat and salt and recklessness. There’s nothing polite about it. Nothing patient. It’s bruising and breathless and so much.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak against your mouth.

“You think I can use you,” he growls. “You think this is all I want.”

You nod, dazed. Lips swollen. Chest rising too fast.

“Then show me,” you whisper.

That shatters him.

He walks you backward—slow, steady—through the threshold, through the low-lit hallway, until your back hits a wall. His mouth finds your throat. His hands slide down your waist like he’s memorizing you by feel. His breath is rough against your skin, and when he bites—just once, low on your neck—you moan.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna wreck me.”

You almost say good.

But his mouth is already back on yours.

And somewhere in the blur of heat and friction, you realize—

You were never the one being used. Not really.

Because even if this was meant to hurt… It already feels like worship.

The wall is warm at your back, but he’s burning in front of you.

You drag your mouth down his throat, your hands trembling as you map his body like he’s yours—knowing full well he isn’t. That he never will be. But right now, with his breath shallow and his fingers digging into your hips, he feels like yours.

And that’s enough.

“Let me,” you whisper, already sinking to your knees.

He stiffens. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Your voice is steady. Almost pleading. “I need to.”

You kneel on the hardwood, bare knees kissing cool floor. The heat of him rises above you like a wildfire. He watches you with something between panic and awe, like he’s standing in front of something sacred he doesn’t deserve to touch.

You reach for his belt. Deliberate. Slow.

The leather slips through the buckle with a soft, snapping sound, and your hands are almost too gentle as you ease the zipper down. His breath stutters—barely perceptible, but there. His body tenses like a bow pulled taut.

Your fingers find him through his boxers—hot and already thick beneath the cotton. You squeeze gently. Stroke. Just once.

He groans.

And when you free him—

Oh. Oh, God.

He’s stunning.

Heavy in your palm, flushed and full, pulsing faintly with restrained desire. You can feel the warmth of him before you even move. You can see the effort it takes for him to stand still.

You glance up.

His jaw is tight. Lips parted. His hand hovers uselessly at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

So you take the choice from him.

You wrap both hands around the base and stroke once—slow, steady, from root to tip—your grip firm but delicate, your thumbs pressing gently into the sensitive ridge beneath the head.

He chokes on a breath. His thighs flex. His eyelids flutter.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re gonna fucking destroy me.”

You lean in and press a kiss to the head—soft, thoughtful, a whisper of what's to come. Then another. Then one lower, your lips brushing along a thick vein down the side of his cock like you’re kissing a scripture written just for you.

Your tongue comes next. A long, deliberate lick from base to tip.

He shudders.

You take your time. Every motion intentional. Every glance upward dripping with devotion. You want him to feel it—really feel it—that this isn’t just some one-night heat. This is a ritual. This is prayer.

He groans again when you take him in—just the tip—your lips forming a perfect circle around the flushed head. You swirl your tongue slowly, tasting salt and lust and something that could break you if you let it.

And then you start to suck.

Gently. Beautifully.

You draw him in deeper inch by inch, lips stretched, jaw aching, and he hisses through his teeth like it’s killing him.

His hand lifts to your head. Not to guide—just to hold. His fingers tangle in your hair, reverent and shaking, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t anchor himself.

You bob your head in a slow rhythm. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach. Your free hand cradles his balls, soft and worshipful, rolling them gently in your palm.

It’s not about getting him off.

It’s about giving yourself away.

You moan softly around him, and the vibration makes him curse, his hips jerking forward just enough to hit the back of your throat. You take it, eyes fluttering closed, nose brushing his abdomen. You stay there. Let him feel the fullness of it. Let him feel how much you want this.

When you pull back, it’s with spit glistening on your lips, trailing in a delicate string from his cock to your mouth. You lick it away, slow, your eyes never leaving his.

His head falls back.

His breathing’s ragged now. His hand tightens in your hair.

“You—fuck—you’re unreal,” he groans. “No one’s ever—Jesus, sweetheart.”

You suck him again, deeper this time, your tongue curling beneath the shaft, your cheeks hollowing.

And then— You stop.

You pull back.

But only to kiss him again. Not on the mouth. On the soft skin just beneath the head. On the places no one else bothers to love.

Because you want him to remember this. Every second. Every flick of your tongue. Every gasp he gave you like a gift.

And when he comes—God, when he comes—it’s with a whined curse, a broken moan, and your name torn from his throat like confession.

You take it all. You swallow. You stay on your knees with your hands still wrapped around the base, cradling him through it like he’s something precious.

Because to you— He is.

And when it’s over—when his chest rises and falls like he’s just survived something—he looks down at you with wide, ruined eyes and whispers:

“What are you doing to me…?”

You don’t answer. You just kiss the inside of his thigh. And close your eyes.

The room is quiet.

Too quiet.

His breath is still uneven. His cock softening against his thigh. Your hands slowly release him, fingers trembling from the strain, the surrender, the worship. You’re still on your knees, flushed and glowing, lips swollen and slick with the last of him.

And Bucky— Bucky won’t look at you.

He’s staring at the floor, jaw locked, one hand braced against the wall like he needs it to stay upright. Like the orgasm didn’t relieve him—just exposed him.

You rise slowly, uncertain. The silence is thicker than before. Not reverent. Not satisfied.

Heavy.

You take a breath. “Did I—”

“Don’t.”

His voice cuts sharp through the quiet.

Your lips part, confused.

He finally looks at you.

And the way he looks at you—like you’re a problem he can’t solve, like you’re a flame that won’t stop spreading—it knocks the air right out of your lungs.

“You’re not supposed to look at me like that,” he mutters.

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like I matter.” His voice is raw now. Bitter around the edges. “Like this matters.”

Your heart stutters. “It doesn’t. I told you—”

“No,” he snaps. “You said you wanted to be used. Like the rest of them. Like it was nothing. Like you could just walk away after.”

He laughs—harsh and humorless. Runs a hand through his hair. “And then you drop to your knees and do that like you’re in love with me.”

Silence.

Not because it’s untrue. Because it is.

You wrap your arms around your own ribs, as if they could shield you.

“I wasn’t pretending,” you say softly. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

His eyes burn into yours.

“That’s the fucking problem,” he growls.

He turns away, pacing a short, jagged line in the space between you. He looks like he’s trying to shake you off his skin.

“I can’t use you,” he mutters. “I can’t treat you like they let me treat them.”

You take a cautious step forward. “Try.”

He whirls on you, eyes flashing.

“You deserve more. You deserve better.”

The words hit like a slap.

You flinch.

And something in him cracks.

His mouth opens like he’s going to say more—but he doesn’t. His hands clench at his sides. His jaw works. He looks at you like he wants to be cruel just to make you stop being kind.

“You wrecked me,” he says quietly. “And I don’t know if I hate you for it… or if I want to crawl back on my knees and beg you to do it again.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

Because that’s the truest thing he’s ever said to you.

And maybe the cruelest.

You hold his gaze. Chest rising too fast. Your lips still tingling from the shape of him.

And even though your heart is shattering, you force yourself to smirk.

“To be fair,” you murmur, voice light, dangerous, a little bitter around the edges, “I did say you could use me.”

His brow twitches.

You take a step back. Cross your arms. Shrug.

“It didn’t mean anything,” you say, softer now. Practiced. Measured. “I just give really good head.”

His eyes narrow. Not in disbelief. In recognition.

Because he knows what you’re doing.

Knows it in his bones.

You’re trying to protect yourself. You’re slipping back into the armor he’s used to seeing on himself. Trying to take control of the narrative before it ruins you.

His mouth parts. His shoulders rise with a slow breath.

And then, suddenly—he moves.

He’s on you in an instant—hands gripping your waist, walking you backward until your spine hits the wall with a soft thud. His body follows, caging you in, pressing close enough to steal your breath.

You gasp. But you don’t resist.

He leans in, forehead to yours, and when he speaks, it’s not angry.

It’s devastated.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You swallow hard, throat bobbing. “I’m not.”

He brushes his nose along your cheek, lips hovering near your jaw. “You think I can’t tell the difference?”

You blink up at him. Try again.

“I’ve done that for guys before—”

“Not like that,” he breathes. “No one’s ever touched me like that. Like I was—fuck, I don’t even have a word for it.”

You don’t move. You can’t.

His hands slide up, gripping either side of your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“I can’t use you,” he whispers. “Because it already meant something. And if you try to take that away from me—”

He stops. Shakes his head.

“Then I’ll never forgive you.”

The silence burns between you.

And then he kisses you.

Harder than before. Hungrier. Like he’s punishing you for your own lie. Like he’s taking back every second of tenderness you tried to bury. His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you melt against him, fingers clutching at his shirt, your knees giving way beneath the weight of it.

He groans into your mouth, dragging his hands down your sides, cupping your ass like he already knows how you’ll feel wrapped around him. There’s no patience this time. No pause. Just need.

“I’m gonna make you feel everything you tried to give away,” he growls, breath hot against your throat. “I’m not done with you. Not even close.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath since the moment you walked into his house.

Because this— This is what you came for.

Even if it hurts.

He carries you down the hall.

No words. Just the echo of your breath in his ear and the burn of his hands under your thighs. You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he walks—steady, controlled, barely. His mouth is still wet from yours. From the things he whispered. From the truths you’re both too afraid to say.

The bedroom door creaks open on a sigh of wood and still air.

It’s quiet in here. Dim. The windows cracked for breeze. Moonlight filtering in, silvering the edge of the sheets. The room smells like the mountains-clean, crisp, and something else—him. You want to drown in it.

He sets you down on the bed like he’s laying something precious across an altar.

And then he kneels.

Not out of submission. Out of hunger.

He undresses you, piece by piece, obliging hands sliding under your top. He pulls it up, watching the skin it reveals like it’s answering some ancient ache. When you reach back to undo your bra, he catches your wrist gently—let me—and unhooks it himself, mouth parting as it slips away from your body.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, breath catching. “You’re… God, baby. You’re stunning.”

You tremble under the weight of it. His gaze. His voice. The way he says it like a secret. Like a confession.

Your skirt follows. He peels it down with slow, sure hands, dragging his palms along the backs of your thighs, his mouth catching briefly on your knee, then higher. When he sees the damp patch on your panties, he groans low in his throat.

He doesn’t remove them right away.

First, he kisses you through them. Open-mouthed. Slow. With a hunger that makes your vision blur.

You gasp, hips bucking, and he holds you down—one hand flat against your stomach, the other pushing the fabric aside to bare you.

He breathes against your folds, his nose brushing your clit.

And then his tongue is on you.

Hot. Insistent. Like worship.

He licks up your slit and groans when he tastes you properly, tongue dragging up to swirl over your clit in slow, perfect circles. You cry out, your thighs quiver around his head.

Then he’s devouring you.

Messy. Filthy. Beautiful.

His mouth seals around your clit and sucks, while two fingers slip inside you, slow and careful, stretching you just enough to tease, to fill, to ruin. He finds that spot on the first try—of course he does—and strokes against it with the kind of purpose that leaves you gasping his name.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice rough. “Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

You come hard—painfully hard—hips juddering, back arching, a sob caught in your throat as your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking against stone. You clamp around his fingers, thighs shaking, the only sound in the room the broken syllables of his name on your lips.

He moans like it feeds him. Keeps going until you’re whining from overstimulation, squirming away.

He kisses your thigh once. Again. Then a third time, like benediction.

When he lifts his head, his mouth is soaked with you. His pupils blown. His chest rising too fast.

“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him. “Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He climbs up the bed and kisses you—hard—his mouth sticky with your release, his hands bracketing your face like he’s holding something too fragile to keep.

“I need you,” he murmurs, voice thick, desperate. “I need to feel you around me.”

You nod, dazed. Breathless. Ruined.

He fumbles with the last of his clothes—boxers down, cock already hard again, heavy and ruddy. He strokes himself once, twice, dragging the head through your folds as he settles between your thighs.

He looks into your eyes.

“Tell me it’s okay.”

You reach for his face.

“It’s more than okay,” you whisper. “It’s you.”

He groans—and pushes in.

Slow. Deep. Devastating.

You both cry out.

Because it’s not just sex.

It’s everything.

It’s weeks of silence and months of wanting. It’s loneliness and longing and the terrible, beautiful truth of being seen. His cock stretches you open, filling you inch by inch until he bottoms out, burying himself so deep you feel him in your soul.

He stills. Shaking.

And for a breathless, perfect moment—neither of you moves.

He’s deep inside you—so deep—his breath stalling in his throat, his hands braced on either side of your head like he’s holding up the sky. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming. Your body opens for him like it’s been waiting for this, built for this.

You’re both frozen. Hovering. Inside each other, in every way.

You tilt your hips just slightly—just enough to shift him deeper—and he groans, head dropping to your shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps. “You feel—fuck, you feel like a dream.”

You cling to him, your arms wrapping around his back, one leg hooking around his hip to draw him closer, hold him in. But you don’t rush him. You don’t move. You just feel.

Feel the thick heat of him pulsing inside you. The press of his stomach against yours. The way your heart hammers beneath your ribs, beating for him.

You nuzzle your lips against his ear.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “But I want you to feel it when I worship you.”

He lifts his head.

His eyes meet yours—and they’re shattered. Blue and glassy and raw.

“What do you mean?” he breathes.

You press your hands to his chest, pushing gently, guiding him up. He follows, rising until he’s kneeling between your thighs, cock still seated inside you. You sit up with him, your thighs wrapping tighter around his waist.

Then you start to move.

Slow. Deliberate.

You roll your hips, grinding against him, letting him feel the slick, perfect drag of your body around his. His eyes flutter shut, a groan tumbling from his throat.

But you’re not done.

You look up at him—into him—and speak with every ounce of tenderness you’ve buried.

“You’re inside me, Bucky,” you whisper. “I want you to feel how much I love having you here. How much I want to please you. How perfect you are.”

He stares at you like you’ve destroyed him.

You keep moving—rocking, clenching, grinding against him in long, passionate motions. Your fingers splay across his chest, tracing the ridges of his ribs, the strong lines of his abdomen, the breadth of his shoulders.

Your voice is breathless, awed.

“Your cock is so beautiful,” you whisper. “So thick… so perfect. I feel every inch of you.”

He moans. Deep. Rattled. His hands come to your hips, gripping hard.

You kiss the edge of his mouth, then his jaw, then down the center of his throat.

“I want you to come inside me,” you murmur. “Want to feel you fill me. Want to give my body to you and have you take it.”

His hips jerk.

You’re riding him now—slow, controlled, your body undulating like a wave breaking against his. Every motion is praise. Every sound you make is a gift. You kiss down his neck like he’s your shrine. Drag your tongue across the tendon at his shoulder. Moan into his skin.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” you whisper. “Just don’t look away when I fall apart.”

He snaps.

His hands tighten on your hips, holding you still as he begins to thrust up into you—harder, deeper, depraved. You cry out, mouth falling open, back arching into the force of it.

“You love this,” he growls. “You love giving yourself to me.”

You nod, eyes glazed, hands gripping his shoulders.

“I love you,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.

He falters. Still buried deep. Still panting.

And then he kisses you—like he’s going to die if he doesn’t. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grips your waist, and he fucks into you like he’s chasing that truth you just spilled across the room.

You ride the edge together.

He’s close—you can feel it in the way his thrusts falter, in the low groan building in his chest. You clench around him, squeeze, worship, and whisper into his mouth:

“Come for me, Bucky. Fill me up. Let me have it.”

He shouts, hips slamming up into you, cock pulsing deep as he comes—hot and heavy, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice shaking like it’s too much.

And you come with him.

Because how could you not?

Your walls flutter and pulse around him, pulling him in, taking every drop like it’s sacred. You cry out his name. Maybe more than once. Maybe it’s a sob. Maybe it’s a prayer.

When it’s over, he holds you.

Still inside you. Still shaking. Still wrecked.

And you hold him right back—heart pounding against his chest, tears slipping down your cheeks before you even notice.

Because that wasn’t just cock worship.

That was soul worship.

And you both know it.

The room is quiet now.

The kind of quiet that hums. That breathes.

You’re still wrapped around him, limbs tangled, skin slick and cooling where it pressed too close for too long. His cock softens inside you slowly, and neither of you moves—afraid that even shifting would break the spell. Or the silence. Or the moment.

His hands stroke up and down your back.

Gentle now.

Reverent.

Like he’s still inside his own head, trying to piece himself back together around the shape of you.

Your cheek rests against his chest. His heart beats under your ear—fast, uneven. The only sound, aside from your own breath, still a little shaky from everything you gave, everything you felt.

And that’s what starts it.

The ache.

The shame.

The weight of what slipped out.

I love you.

Your chest tightens. Your fingers curl where they rest against his ribs.

You should have swallowed it down. Should have bitten your tongue.

It was too much. Too soon. Too real.

You try to shift, to ease away, but his arms tighten—holding you close, firm and sure, like maybe he doesn’t want to let you go yet. But that makes it worse. That makes the silence louder.

So you speak.

Soft. Quiet. Almost like you’re asking permission to take it all back.

“Sorry,” you whisper against his skin.

He tenses beneath you. Just slightly.

You force a small laugh. It quavers.

“I didn’t mean to say that. I—I got caught up. It was the moment. The adrenaline. Endorphins or—whatever.”

He doesn’t answer.

Your stomach drops a little, but you keep going. You have to.

“It’s not like I… not like I meant it,” you say. “You don’t have to worry.”

Still nothing.

Just his fingers drifting down your spine. Slow. Thoughtful.

You finally glance up.

His expression is unreadable. His mouth is soft. His jaw tense. His eyes… tired.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just guarded.

He doesn’t say the words back. You knew he wouldn’t. You didn’t want him to— Did you?

You pull your gaze away before it gets worse.

But then—

His hand comes to your face.

Calloused fingers at your jaw, thumb brushing the soft place beneath your cheekbone. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t pull you into a kiss. He just holds you like that—like it mattered—like you mattered, even if he can’t give you the words.

It’s not a promise. Not a confession.

But it’s not nothing.

And somehow… That hurts worse.

You press your lips to his chest. He strokes your hair. And the silence folds around you again.

Not empty. Not cold. Just real.

Just raw.

The silence stretches.

Not warm now. Not intimate.

Just… wide.

You lie still for a moment longer, curled beside him beneath tangled sheets, skin cooling where sweat once clung. His hand is still at your back, but it’s no longer moving. Just resting. Heavy. Impersonal.

And suddenly it’s too much.

You move carefully, slowly slipping your leg out from under his. His arm slides off your back. He doesn’t stop you.

You sit up, facing away from him as you gather your shirt from the floor, blinking fast against the prickle behind your eyes. You can feel his gaze at your back. Heavy. Silent.

You don’t look at him when you say, “I should go.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then—

“You can stay.”

You pause. Just for a beat.

Then you force a breathy laugh, more air than humor. “Because you feel bad?”

He grumbles out your name like an admonishment.

But then he adds, almost carelessly:

“You’re not a badge bunny.”

The words hang there. Limp. Empty.

Like they’re supposed to be a compliment. Like they mean something.

But they don’t sound like anything.

Your spine stiffens.

You turn slightly, not quite facing him. “That wasn’t a no.”

His jaw ticks. He looks away.

And there it is again—his indifference. His retreat. The emotional wall slamming back into place, brick by brick.

“I’m not asking you to care,” you say softly. “But I’m not going to stay just because I’m the exception to your pattern.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think it mattered to you either way.”

You flinch. Swallow hard.

And it’s not that he’s cruel. He’s not.

He’s just empty in a way that you’re not.

You gather the rest of your clothes in silence. Your fingers tremble a little as you dress. You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

And when you leave—barefoot, flushed, heart cracked down the center—he doesn’t stop you.

Not with words. Not with hands. Not even with a glance.

You close the door behind you.

And all that’s left in the house is the echo of what almost was.

The night air hits your skin like a slap.

It’s cool and still, the kind of quiet that only exists in the hours between midnight and morning—no wind, no traffic, just the soft hum of insects and the far-off bark of a dog. The porch light above you buzzes gently, casting everything in yellow ochre.

You sit on the top step, arms wrapped tight around your knees, bare feet pressed against the cool wood. Goosebumps raise on your exposed legs. The thin-strapped tank Bucky peeled off you just an hour ago hangs loose against your chest, the straps slipping off your shoulders like even your clothes are too tired to pretend anymore.

Your phone sits next to you on the step. Screen lit. Uber arriving in 6 minutes.

You sniff. Wipe your nose with the back of your hand. Try not to ruin your mascara, but it’s already too late for that.

The tears keep coming.

Hot and slow. Silent.

The kind of crying that sneaks up on you—grief that simmers beneath the surface until it leaks out.

You press your forehead to your knees.

This is what you wanted.

You told him to use you. Told yourself it would be enough. That if you could just have him, even once, it would be worth it. The heartbreak, the silence, the pretending. You thought you were strong enough.

But now you’re sitting barefoot on his porch, trembling, tears dripping into the folds of your shirt, and all you can think is:

You got what you wanted.

And you hate yourself for it.

Because the worst part isn’t that he didn’t stop you. The worst part is that he let you go.

Like you were nothing.

Like you were just a soft body in the dark and not someone who memorized his coffee order and watched him laugh when he didn’t know you were looking and meant it when you whispered his name with your mouth full of reverence.

You curl your fingers into the skin at your knees. Dig your nails in.

“Fucking idiot,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You asked for this.”

And maybe you did.

But you didn’t think it would feel like this— Like your chest is hollow. Like you left something behind in his bed and he didn’t even notice it was gone.

Your phone buzzes.

Your driver has arrived.

You don’t look back.

You don’t knock on the door. You don’t wait for footsteps. You just gather yourself, barefoot and broken, and walk down the steps.

The door stays closed.

The porch light stays on.

And that’s the only goodbye you get.

It’s been weeks.

Three, maybe four. Long enough for the bruises to fade and the ache in your chest to settle into something dull. Long enough for the silence to feel familiar.

You haven’t seen much of Bucky.

He’s been on shift, off shift, always just out of reach. He nods when he sees you. Offers a low-voiced thanks when you drop off Gatorade or help stack gear after a long callout. But that’s it.

No late-night texts. No porch light confessions. Not even a look that lingers.

But you’ve noticed something else, too.

The badge bunnies are gone.

The crop tops. The glossy lips. The perfume trails and flirtation.

Gone.

Not all at once—but gradually. Like the fire burned out and no one remembered to stoke it.

You don’t let yourself think about what that means.

Instead, you throw yourself into planning the department’s Fourth of July safety event. Community outreach, firework disposal, interactive demos for kids. You organize volunteers, call local press, even design the banners yourself. You keep your hands full. Your head down.

And then—of course—Joaquin Torres shows up.

Grinning, sunglasses pushed into his curls, wearing a red event tee rolled up at the elbows. He finds you by the sign-in table, where you’re taping down donation envelopes and sipping a half-warm iced coffee.

“Hey, event queen,” he says. “You look dangerously competent today.”

You huff a laugh. “Try not to be too impressed.”

He leans against the table, arms crossed, grin easy. “Too late.”

You’re mid-eye-roll when you feel it.

That gaze.

From across the park—near the fire engine parked for the demo—you feel it land. Heat up your spine. Stick.

You don’t have to look to know it’s Bucky.

But you look anyway.

He’s watching you. Unmoving. Hands on his hips, jaw clenched, shirt hugging his shoulders like it’s as irritated as he is. His eyes flick from you to Torres—and stay there.

You turn back to your clipboard, heart pounding.

“I think Barnes is mad you’re flirting with his help,” Torres jokes under his breath.

You smile, tight. “Well, Barnes can mind his own damn business.”

Behind you, footsteps.

Heavy. Measured.

You don’t look up until his shadow stretches over your clipboard.

“You got a minute?” Bucky asks, voice low.

Torres raises a brow, but backs off with a wink and a “Try not to kill each other.”

You wait until he’s gone before you meet Bucky’s eyes.

“What do you want?”

He crosses his arms. “What the hell was that?”

Your stomach turns. “What was what?”

“That little show with Torres.”

You blink. Laugh once. “Show? Jesus, Bucky, it was a conversation.”

“It was flirting.”

“So what?” you snap. “You’re allowed to sleep with half the women in town, but I can’t make small talk with someone who’s actually nice to me?”

His jaw ticks. “You think I’m not nice to you?”

“No,” you say, louder now. “I think you fucked me and disappeared.”

That lands.

He goes still. Completely still.

You feel it crack through the air—this thing between you finally catching flame.

He takes a step closer. Then another.

And in a voice quieter than you expect:

“You told me to use you.”

You stare at him. Barely breathing.

“I know what I said,” you hiss. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it so well.”

Another beat of silence.

Then:

“I haven’t touched anyone since you.”

You blink. “What?”

“I haven’t looked at anyone else. Haven’t even tried. Because no matter how I play it back—how I try to convince myself it didn’t mean anything—it did.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going.

“And I know I was an asshole. I know I let you walk away. I thought it was what you wanted. But watching you talk to someone else like that?”

He shakes his head.

“I felt like I was on fire.”

The silence between you thrums like a struck wire.

You lick your lips, voice barely steady. “So what are you saying?”

He looks at you like you already know.

“I’m saying I want a second chance to mean it.”

You stare at him.

At the way his brows are drawn together like regret. At the way he’s standing—tall, steady, waiting for you to fold just because he finally showed up.

And something inside you hardens.

You shake your head, just once, and take a step back.

“And why in the hell,” you say, voice sharp and low and dangerously clear, “should I do that?”

His breath catches. “Because I’m standing here—telling you I was wrong.”

“No,” you say, laughing once, bitter and breathless. “You’re standing here because you saw someone else look at me the way you should have.”

He flinches.

But you’re not done.

“You left me,” you say, voice cracking around the edges now. “You watched me walk out of your house with my shoes in my hands and your come still inside me, and you didn’t say a fucking word.”

His mouth opens. Closes.

You keep going.

“I waited, Bucky. I waited for you to care. I gave you everything I had. I begged you to use me because I was too scared to ask for more. And you let me.”

Silence.

Your hands are shaking now, gripped around your clipboard, threatening to snap it in half.

“So if you think I’m just going to fall back into your bed because you finally got around to feeling something—you’re wrong.”

He looks wrecked.

Good.

He swallows hard, voice rough. “I don’t want your body.”

You laugh again, sharp. “That’s a lie. You wanted it just fine when I was on my knees for you.”

He takes a breath. “I want you. All of you. But I know I don’t deserve it.”

You blink, eyes burning.

He steps forward—slow, careful, like you’re glass.

“I know I can’t take back what I did. And I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

He lifts his hand—hesitates—then lets it fall to his side.

“I’m asking if you’ll let me try.”

You don’t answer right away.

Not when he’s looking at you like that—voice low, shoulders tight, like he’s just now starting to realize how much he’s broken.

He leans in again. Closer this time. Trying.

“Tell me what you’re thinking in that pretty head of yours.”

His voice is gentle. Familiar. Almost pleading.

But you don’t give him the truth.

You lift your chin. Shoulders back. Spit-polished dignity wrapped around your hurt like armor.

“I think,” you say coolly, “you’re needed back at your demonstration booth.”

He freezes.

And for a moment, you think he might say something else. Reach for you. Apologize again. Ask you not to shut him out.

But he doesn’t.

He just nods.

Once. Short. Almost ashamed.

Then he turns around and walks away.

You don’t watch him go. You don’t let yourself.

You turn back to your clipboard and pretend the words didn’t ache in your throat before you spoke them.

_____

The sun is lower now. The evening golden, buzzing with laughter and the soft fizz of soda cans and sparklers. You’re refilling the brochure rack at the community safety table when you feel a tap at your hip.

You glance down.

It’s a little girl. Maybe seven. Messy braids, firework face paint on one cheek, and wide, shining brown eyes.

She’s holding something in her small hands.

A red-white-and-blue pinwheel.

“Um…” she says shyly. “This is for you.”

You blink.

“Oh. Thank you, sweetheart. Who’s it from?”

She points across the park.

To Bucky. Hands in his pockets. Watching you like he might combust if you smile.

When your eyes meet, he gives you the smallest, most hopeful shrug. Like I didn’t know what else to do, so I sent backup.

The little girl tilts her head, eyes big.

“He said to give you my best puppy-dog eyes and ask if you’ll forgive him a little.”

Your chest squeezes.

You crouch to the girl’s level. Smile softly. “You did a very good job.”

“Should I tell him you said yes?” she asks, bouncing on her heels.

You glance back at Bucky. He’s still watching. Still waiting.

You turn back to the little girl.

“Tell him… I’ll think about it.”

She grins and takes off.

And you?

You let yourself smile. Just a little.

Not because he’s forgiven. Not because you’re healed.

But because—for the first time since that night—you don’t feel quite so disposable.

It’s late.

The kind of late where the air hums with residual heat and the sharp sulfur-sweet tang of extinguished fuses clings to the wind. From your apartment window, the sky pulses with light—neighbors lighting their own fireworks, flares of silver and gold flashing against the indigo night like prayers thrown into the sky.

You don’t open the door right away when the knock comes.

You just stand there, barefoot in your kitchen-soft tank top and worn flannel shorts, heart in your throat.

You know who it is.

You open the door anyway.

He’s standing there on your porch, arms full—one hand holding a pizza box, the other balancing a six-pack.

His T-shirt clings to him in the humidity. His cheeks are flushed, hair messy like he ran his fingers through it too many times trying to figure out how to do this right.

He tries a smile.

“Figured we missed our annual fire safety meeting.”

You exhale. A tiny laugh. “You brought a bribe?”

“Pizza’s hot. Beer’s cold.” He pauses. Swallows. “And I came with better apologies this time.”

You step aside.

He walks in like someone trying not to hope too hard.

The pizza goes cold.

The beer beads against the label and loses its fizz.

But Bucky hasn’t touched either.

He’s sitting at the edge of your couch like the cushion might reject him. Like your silence might. His elbows are braced on his knees, hands clenched, jaw tight with the weight of what he’s trying to say.

“I thought about you every damn day.”

Your arms are folded. Your chest is drawn tight, breath held like maybe you don’t trust the air he brought with him.

He meets your eyes.

“Every time I woke up and the house was too quiet. Every shift I saw your name on the roster. Every time I looked at the front porch and wondered if you were still waiting for that Uber.”

Your eyes sting. You don’t blink.

“I thought if I let you walk away, it would hurt less. For both of us. That if I didn’t reach for you, I wouldn’t fall into you.” He swallows. “But I did anyway. And it hurt worse than anything else I’ve ever kept at arm’s length.”

You flinch. Just slightly.

“I didn’t just use you,” he says quietly. “I failed you.”

The room goes still.

He shifts forward—hands now open, supplicating, shaking just a little.

“I heard you, that night. When you said it didn’t matter. That you didn’t mean it. That you just gave really good head.” His throat works. “But I saw your face. I felt what you gave me. And I did nothing.”

Tears pool in your eyes. You blink them back. He keeps going.

“I didn’t know how to handle something that felt that good. That real. So I pretended I didn’t see what was right in front of me. I watched you walk out like it didn’t gut me.”

His voice drops lower.

“But it did. And I haven’t stopped regretting it since.”

You don’t speak.

He reaches for you, stops himself.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t deserve that.” A breath. “But I came here tonight hoping you might still want me to try.”

The silence swells.

“I wanted more,” you say, voice thick. “I wanted you. All of you. And I told myself it would be enough just to have a night. Just a taste. But it wasn’t.”

“I know,” he says. “I know that now.”

You stare at him for a long, breaking beat.

Then you whisper, “Why now?”

He leans in.

“Because it’s the Fourth of July. And last year I watched you light sparklers for a bunch of kids and laugh like the sky was burning just for you. And this year, I couldn’t stand the thought of you celebrating without knowing how much I wanted to be part of your fire.”

That’s what does it.

You cross the room. Slowly. Barefoot. Shaking.

And he stands.

He doesn’t reach for you.

He waits for you to come to him.

And when you do—when your fingers find the hem of his T-shirt and you tug it up and off—he lets you. No words. Just breathless, heart-wrecked want.

You take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. And for once, he follows.

The room glows with the pulsing light of distant fireworks—bursts of color washing over the walls, over the bed, over him, where he kneels between your thighs like he’s finally come home.

Your skin is rosy, mouth parted, your tank top already peeled away and forgotten. He’s still fully dressed from the waist down. Still waiting. Like this is a prayer he’s afraid to speak too soon.

You sit up. Tug his jeans open. Push them down.

He lets you strip him. Slow. Reverent.

And then he leans forward, cups your cheek in one calloused hand.

“This time,” he murmurs, “I want you to feel wanted. Not used. Not forgotten. Just… loved.”

You blink. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it.” His eyes darken. “I’m going to show you.”

He presses you back against the sheets. His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, the soft places he didn’t let himself linger last time. His fingers trail down your ribs like he’s carving them into memory.

And when he gets between your legs, he slows.

Not just to tease. To honor.

His hands spread your thighs gently, like parting pages in a sacred book. His mouth hovers just above your slick heat, breath trembling.

He looks up.

“Still with me?”

You nod. Eyes shining.

And then—he tastes you.

Slow. Steady. Open-mouthed kisses, warm and worshipful, tongue sweeping through your folds with aching care. His fingers stroke your thighs, thumbs circling gently as he licks and sucks and praises you in every motion.

Outside, a firework explodes—red and gold through the window. The light flashes across his shoulders, painting him in flame.

You come like that—his mouth on you, fireworks above, your hands tangled in his hair, back arched, thighs quaking around his head.

When you whimper his name, he rises.

And lines himself up.

And pushes inside.

It’s slow. So slow. You both groan—together.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders. He cradles your head. His cock sinks deep, pulsing against your walls like a heartbeat trying to sync with yours.

“God,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”

You clutch at him.

He moves—hips rocking, gentle and unhurried. Every thrust is a vow, every stroke a truth he doesn’t know how to say. Your legs wrap around his waist, anchoring him to you.

Outside, the sky explodes again.

Light filters across your skin—red, then violet, then shimmering blue. You both glow in it, like sinners caught in absolution.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe him in.

And when you come again, it’s with his name on your tongue, your body clenching around him like you never want to let go.

He follows—grinding deep, gasping into your mouth, spilling into you with a groan like release, like repentance.

And afterward?

He stays. Doesn’t leave. Doesn’t run.

He gathers you into his arms.

And under the last of the fireworks, your bodies sticky and tangled and warm beneath the crackling sky—

You let him.

In the stillness that follows, when the fireworks fade and the night sinks deep into the hush, you lie tangled in his arms with your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thump of a heart you once thought you’d never touch again.

He’s tracing slow, absentminded circles along your spine—one hand buried in your hair, the other curled protectively around your waist, like he’s afraid letting go might break the spell.

And maybe it will.

Maybe morning will come with doubt and distance and questions neither of you know how to answer.

But for now, under this thin veil of peace and sweat and honesty, you let your guard fall.

You let your breath sync with his.

And when he kisses your forehead—silent, tender, thank you without saying it—you close your eyes and whisper the one truth neither of you can deny anymore: this was never just a spark. It was always a raging fire.

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 5 #sgtjbbhasmyheart #bucky barnes/reader

25 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 28 days ago

Text

Part Two

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader: Modern College/Camgirl AU

Summary: Cleansheet24 has a secret, one that nobody else knows. Nobody but MoxieMinx. She knows that he likes to be told what to do, and she's more than happy to be the one doing it.

Word count: 3.3K

Warnings: Both Bucky and the reader are over 18 and you should be too. Minors DNI. If you are not 18+ you do not have my consent to interact with this content. Content warnings are pretty similar to part one. Camgirl-client relationship. Sex work. Voyeurism and exhibitionism, mutual masturbation, sex toy usage, dom/sub dynamics. Sub!Bucky. If I'm missing something, please let me know.

Author's notes: This is definitely an unusual circumstance for me to post two parts of one story in the same day, but I'm trying to get this one in under the wire for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer Week 5: "Play with it: Cock worship". Future chapters will definitely be slower. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy it!

I do not consent to have my work reposted or scraped

Series Masterlist Main Masterlist

Part One

One week later

MoxieMinx is already naked with a wand pressed firmly between her legs when Cleansheet24 logs on for their weekly private session.

Things don’t usually start out this way.

It’s not exactly unlike her to surprise him. She often plays with the unexpected to keep him on his toes and help him explore what’s possible. But this is new, she's never started without him before and it hits him hard, a visceral shock to his system. A dirty kind of thrill like discovering that your sexy roommate “forgot” to close her door before getting in bed with her vibrator. He's so overcome- lungs seized, heart pounding, cock painfully stiff- he doesn't even know what to do with himself. But the beauty of it is that he doesn't need to know. In the games he plays with Moxie, she's always in charge. So for now, until she tells him otherwise, he can just enjoy the gorgeously filthy sight before him and the wonderful freedom of waiting for instructions.

“Hey- baby-” she pants out on broken breath- “I- I-” her pants abruptly turn to gasps and he thinks for sure she’s going to come. But at the last second, she pulls herself back from the brink- “I’m- sorry. I just need- I’ll- just a minute, baby- just a-”

This time there is no pulling back, her breath catches in her throat as she throws her head back and her whole body tenses. He barely notices that he’s leaning in close to the screen to watch her face as she falls apart, already palming his cock through his sweats.

After a minute, the tension in her body snaps and her shoulders drop. Her thighs fall open and from this angle, with the way she kneels facing him, he catches a glimpse of her glistening cunt. A quiet whimper breaks from the back of his throat.

Moxie rasps harshly for a long minute before trying to speak again.

“Sorry, baby,” she says between breaths, “I was just so wound up getting ready for you. I needed to come. I-” abruptly the hand gripping the wand- which fell loosely on her upper thigh- tightens and she clamps her legs around the toy once more- “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just- need another. I promise baby, I promise I’ll- we’ll- oh god!”

This time as she comes, she shouts, hoarse and overwrought, writhing as her hips rock into the toy of their own volition. The front of Cleansheet’s pants are wet with precum and his teeth grind as his hips buck up into his palm.

When she finds her voice, she apologizes again. But before she can get any farther, a wave of impulse too strong to deny overtakes her and she’s fucking herself against the wand once more.

This happens twice more and each time she says she’s sorry, so sweetly too, but he knows that's just part of the game. Especially when she gives him a mischievous, knowing wink before going right back to what she was doing.

MoxieMinx didn't need to ask him if this is the kind of game he would enjoy, she already knew. Roughly two months of weekly private sessions, and she understands him better than some of his long term girlfriends did. Which, he knows he’s at least partially to blame for. He’s never really told anyone what he wanted before.

Why is it that taking the lead in bed when a woman wanted him to never scared him, but even the thought of admitting that he wants to be told what to do terrifies him?

He knows what his therapist would say if he ever got the nerve up to tell him about it, that he's too comfortable putting other people’s needs first. And asking for what he wants is something he’s never had much practice with.

Even in his first private session, after he finally decided to pull the trigger and request one, he struggled to tell Moxie what he wanted. At first, he chickened out and just asked her to “do what you normally do”. Right away, he had the strange feeling that she could see right through him. But she didn’t call him out on it, she just told him that there is no “normally” when it comes to private sessions because they’re all about the individual. She suggested that if he wasn’t sure, he could look over her menu of options and see if anything stood out. Still, even with “soft dom” right there in black and white”, he couldn’t say it. Sensing his uncertainty, she took pity on him. She told him that he didn’t need to decide at that moment, instead, she sent him a checklist to look at in his own time and send back to her. She then suggested a little “choose your own adventure” for that first time. They could get started, she said, and every once in a while, she would pause and give him two choices for how to proceed. He easily agreed and barely even noticed that she must have picked up on what he couldn’t say, because at some point, the options stopped being questions and turned into directives. He came harder that first session than he ever had before and he knew he was hooked.

They’ve come a long way since then. They both know the way he likes to play now, which means Cleansheet absolutely should not be touching himself right now without her permission. But in this exact moment in time, watching Moxie come undo for him alone, he can’t stop himself from helplessly grinding his cock against his palm through his pants.

Finally, on the tail end of a shockwave that had her keening, she relents. When she finally lets the tension go from her body, she drops the wand on the bed beside her and makes no move to pick it up. For several heartbeats, he watches in fascination the way her chest heaves and her belly hollows as her lungs and heart fight their way back to normal.

Eventually, she turns her attention back to him. When she sees that he's touching himself, she frowns.

She looks wounded as she says, “Baby, you’re not jerking off, are you? You wouldn’t get off without me, would you?” she asks, wide-eyed and artless, as if she hadn't been doing exactly that herself.

Still, he’s quick to pull his hands back, knowing that her supposed guilelessness could easily turn into a rebuke if he's not careful.

“I'm very sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to. It’s just that- you’re just so beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Thank you.” She smiles sweetly before turning stern. “But that sounds like you making an excuse for yourself.” Her brow is raised pointedly.

“You're right, miss,” he replies quickly, eager to defer, “I broke a rule and have no one to blame but myself. I apologize and hope you can forgive me.”

Moxie hums, her expression unreadable and he holds his breath. A heartbeat passes before she finally smiles.

“I accept your apology. But I will need to see better control from you in the future. I really don’t want to have to discipline you to teach you a lesson.”

Ha, yes, she does, he thinks. And really, that’s fine with him. Because as much as he knows that she likes edging him into near insanity, she knows that he likes having the bounds of his stamina and restraint tested before being told when to come.

“Yes, miss. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Good. Now-” she straightens and lifts her chin. Her chest glistens with sweat and his cock jumps eagerly at the sight of her peaked nipples. “I promised I wouldn’t make you wait much longer-” four orgasms ago, he thinks, snorting internally at her innocent act that they both know is fake- “and I really, really do want you to come. Last time,” her thighs flex seemingly of their own accord and her voice suddenly turns breathy, “you made such a mess, I get wet just thinking about it. I want you to do it again. I want you to make a mess of me too.”

Her hands slide over her belly and breasts. His cock leaks more precum into his already ruined shorts.

He nods eagerly before remembering that she probably can't see given the position of the camera.

“Yes, miss. I- I would love that.”

She smiles.

“You just have to do exactly what I tell you. Think you can do that, baby?”

Throat too tight to speak, he nods. When she raises a brow, he pushes out on a squeak, “Yes, miss.”

“Good, now get those fucking shorts off, I need to see my cock.”

Complying immediately, he stands and shucks them off before sitting back in his chair. Sometimes he lays on the bed, but he likes the chair for this, it’s easier to see her this way and something about gripping the arms when she tells him to feels a bit like being tied up.

“Oh, baby,” she says appreciatively, “so fucking gorgeous. Do you know how beautiful it is?” As she asks, the deliberately artful tone of her voice slips away, replaced by a sincerity that makes his heart thump. “I dream about it, about it buried deep inside of me.”

Cleansheet blushes and the appendage in question jumps like it can hear her. She notices.

“I think he dreams about me too,” she says with a bounce of her eyebrows. “Don’t worry, I plan to give my cock lots of attention.”

Shit, he loves it when she calls it “my” cock.

“But first,” she goes on and his nerves start to tingle with an intoxicating mix of trepidation and excitement, “we have to give the rest of that beautiful body some attention too.”

What comes next, Cleansheet can only describe as a deliciously torturous dance.

He’s already on edge, but she draws it out, building the anticipation even higher. She teases him by making him tease himself. At her direction, his hands move lightly across his chest and stomach, past his hips and down his thighs. She focuses on the places she’s learned that he likes to be touched and makes him explore new ones. His touch turns firmer and more focused when she says so. He massages and scrapes and pinches himself at her command. He whines and moans and pants. Every nerve in his body comes alive.

When she finally gives him permission to touch his cock, she forces him to go slow, making him explore himself like it’s the first time, tentative and curious, with light fingers and delicate strokes.

“Start at the head, just use your finger tips. Rub your thumb lightly over the slit, feel how wet you're getting. Don't let it drip, collect it with your fingers, that's it.”

The coil in his belly gets tighter and his balls ache but he forces himself to breath through it, making the urgent tension ease back just a hair.

“Now, run your finger tips around the ridge where your head meets the shift. Feel the way your foreskin is stretched so fucking tight because my cock is so desperate to be seen.”

Following every word like it's gospel, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. He likes to watch her, especially in times like this when she licks her lips and tenses her thighs and stomach like she doesn't know she's doing it. But he wants his fingers to be her fingers and in his head he can make them exactly that.

“Slide your fingers down your length, find the veins and trace each one. Lightly like the tip of my tongue.”

His hips jerk reflexively and he has to fight to keep them still. Blood rushes in his ears, thunderously loud, but he can still hear her.

“Yes, you like that don't you? Thinking about my tongue? I like it too. Useyour nails- carefully- and think of my teeth just grazing you as I kiss and lick my cock.”

Cleansheet whimpers.

“Keep one hand like it is and touch your balls with the other.” His legs widen as he follows her command and she groans. “Gorgeous. Fingertips only, baby, and nails. Feel my teeth there too, testing how sensitive you are, letting the weight press down against my lips. Squeeze them now, not too hard. I'd suck on them first, before taking my cock down all the way down my throat.”

Everything inside of him tightens painfully and his breath turns ragged. He's afraid he can't hold his orgasm back anymore, he's so close to snapping.

“Oh baby, hold on, hold on,” she says, “I know it's so hard. Take a deep breath, it'll be worth it I promise.”

Opening his eyes, he fights against his body, trying to force it to obey him. He takes a deep breath and she praises him, then encourages him to take another. The pressure starts to recede, but it takes two more deep breaths before he feels safe.

“That was amazing, baby,” Moxie praises. “You're doing so good. Not much longer, okay? My cock just takes so much abuse,” she teases, “I want to make sure it feels appreciated.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Yes, miss. It does, miss. Always with you.”

She hums appreciatively.

“Good, my pussy appreciates you both.”

He breathes out a rough breath at the thought. She bites her lip, clearly pleased.

Even as caught up as he is in his own body, he doesn't fail to notice the way that she reacts. He sees the little telltale twitches and flexes that give away her own growing excitement as she takes him further and further. As she's been talking, her hand has slipped between her thighs. She doesn't comment on it as she sometimes does and she keeps her legs closed, pressed close together for friction rather than wide open so that he can see. It's not an act of performance but of pleasure, and he loves it all the more for it.

MoxieMinx isn’t the first camgirl Cleansheet's ever visited, but she is the only one he’s ever wanted to keep coming back to. Four months since he discovered her and he likes her just as much now as he did when he first became a viewer, if not more. There’s something special about her.

Yes, she is gorgeous and sexy as hell, with a kind of imperfection that’s human and inviting and so fucking hot. But it’s more than that. Shit, in her free chats- where he first found her- she doesn’t even take her clothes off. Things can get a bit risque- her tops are often sheer and her shorts tiny- but things rarely ever venture beyond P-13. She does talk about sex, but she also talks about movies and music, articles and books, food and funny news stories. The best thing about her chats isn’t that they’re sexy, it’s that they're fun and an escape from the pressures and insecurities of the real world. Sex is only part of it, it's connection that keeps everyone coming back.

“Let's show my cock just how much we adore it, hmm?”

He nods and whines weakly in agreement.

“Wrap your fingers around it, slowly one at a time, make sure you feel each one.”

She shakes her head and her teeth prick into her bottom lip.

“So fucking gorgeous with my cock in your hand,” she says, her voice full of a kind of reverence that makes his cheeks heat with more than just arousal.

“It’s time now baby, stroke yourself. Slowly, keep your strokes long baby, give every inch the worship it deserves.” He does as she says and watches as her hips start to rock. “That’s it, baby, just like that, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

She devours him with her gaze as the tension in her own body starts to peak.

“Faster now, just like that, yes. Keep going, keeping going,” she pants out, rolling her hips faster and faster. “Fuck, baby we’re almost there. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

His hand speeds up, unconsciously synced with her movements. He’s dizzy and breathless and everything inside of him is tight, begging for release. He’s so close, he wants to let go, he just wants her to come with him.

“Please, miss, please,” he begs breathlessly. “Together, please, together.”

“Yes, baby, I’m with you, I’m right-” her breath catches- “now, now, now, I’m-”

His ears fill with static as his orgasm hits him with all the force of a punch in the gut. Come spurts from his head at the exact moment that her body seizes and she lets out a throaty keen. Ropes of his seed spurt everywhere and just as she told him, he imagines it landing her, on her breasts and stomach and thighs, a primitive instinct to “claim”.

Waves of pleasure white out Cleansheet’s vision at the edges. He rides out his orgasm half-blind before slumping loosely back into his chair.

He’s not sure how long he sits there dazed before he comes back to himself. When he does, he blinks at the screen. Moxie’s ragged breaths sound loud in his speakers and she’s trembling. Her head hangs forward as she holds herself upright with fisted hands pressed to her thighs. She lets out a quiet dazed “fuck” like she was just as surprised by the intensity of it all as he was.

Something deep in his chest squeezes tight.

When she eventually looks up at him, something bright and eager shines in her eyes. She smiles a crooked smile and when she laughs, it’s a joyful, awed sound.

“You know,” she says, her voice teasing but missing the deliberate coquettishness of before, “I think we’re getting pretty good at that.”

He barks a laugh. That’s an understatement if he ever heard one.

“Yeah, although I don’t think I can take any credit for that, it all goes to you.”

“Thank you, but… it really doesn’t, you have to take at least some of it too.”

He wants to argue, brushing off her compliment, but before he can, she goes on.

“I mean, I am good,” she says with a cheeky smile, “but that- it-” she pauses, as if she can’t find the word she wants. He holds his breath, but doesn’t know why- “it’s not always like that.”

Cleansheet’s heart thumps hard and the hairs on his neck lift. But then Moxie’s smile flatters for a second, like she just processed her own words. Before he can react, her full smile is back and brighter than ever.

“So, um, that’s our time,” she says, her voice friendly but professional. “See you next time?”

He wishes he could ask her about what just happened, but he knows he can’t.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Great, until then,” she blows him a kiss, then leans forward and ends the connection.

He stares at the “session ended by host” screen for too long.

“Moxie” is a fantasy. A very convincing, very beautiful, very indulgent fantasy. But she isn’t real. Cleansheet knows it. All of her clients know it. It’s part of the social contract they’ve all willingly agreed to. Moxie happily plays her part and lets people live out their filthy fantasies for a little while, as long as everyone remembers where the line is drawn. That the very real person behind Moxie is not theirs for the having. She’s not the one on their screens every week.

But just now, just for the barest of moments, Cleansheet thinks that maybe he saw her. Like maybe what she said was real and not part of the game they were playing. And suddenly he knows that he’s in trouble. Because whether that’s what happened or he just imagined it, he realizes how desperately he wants it to be true. And wishing for something like that is very, very dangerous.

Part Three

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 5 #indyluckycharlie #bucky barnes/reader

62 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 28 days ago

Text

Take the Wheel and Steer

Listen, I'm a bottom Bucky writer through and through, but I've been in a bottom Steve mood lately and uh... this might be the most explicit thing I've written to date LOL

Dark Stucky Events - Steve's Birthday Bash 2025 | Prompt fill: "Orgasm Torture" @dark-stucky Hot Bucky Summer June 29th - July 5th | Come Play @buckybarnesevents Stucky Bingo Round 6 | Kink: Dub con @stuckybingo

Pairing: Steve/Bucky Rating: Explicit Word/Chapter Count: 3,634 (1/1) Tags: PWP, Switching, Bottom Steve (but also top Steve/bottom Bucky at the beginning), Dom/sub, Multiple Orgasms, Oversimulation, Dubuious Content (see AO3 for more tags)

Summary

It starts as a joke in the middle of sex.

“So what if I have no refractory period?”

The serum gave Steve more than human strength. A monstrous cock and balls, increased semen production, and a sex drive that Bucky struggles to keep up with. How many times has he lain in bed while Steve rutted into him for the fifth orgasm of the night? He loves getting his ass fucked, but it’s time Steve learned what overstimulation truly felt like.

This is how Bucky ends up tying Steve to the bed, in a rural lakehouse where no one will hear a sound. Steve can make all the noise he wants here. Things are about to get messy, quickly, and Bucky’s going to find out exactly how many times Steve can come until there’s nothing left.

Read on AO3

#hot bucky summer 2025 #hbs2025 week 5 #metalbvcky #Bucky Barnes/steve rogers

61 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 28 days ago

Link

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Tony Stark Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov (Marvel) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dom/sub Play, Alpha Bucky Barnes, Dom Bucky Barnes, Omega Tony Stark, Sub Tony Stark, Exhibitionism, Semi-Public Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Dom Drop, Dom Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Alpha Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Mirror Sex, Cock Worship Summary: While Bucky is game to try the scene he and Tony had planned, things start going wrong for the alpha dom and he doesn’t know what to do. Afterwards, Tony takes a different approach, but they pay a an unexpected price.

This is a fill for @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer Week 5: “Play with it.” | [Cock Worship | Forced Masturbation | Come Play] – @winterironevents: Round 2 Bingo: O3 - Mirror sex @julybreakbingo G1 - “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” & G3 - “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 5 #polizwrites #bucky barnes/tony stark

13 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 28 days ago

Text

First Morning [The Brooklyn Boys]

Characters/Pairings: Stucky x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 6.7k Summary: You wake up. You're in their bed. What now?

Content/Warnings: beginning of relationship insecurities; explicit smut: vaginal fingering/clit play, oral (male receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, spitroasting, cumplay/marking; Steve Stays AU

Notes: Takes place directly after First Night in The Brooklyn Boys series. This series was the first thing I started posting on this blog - July 4, 2022! We were due for a return to their AU!

Additional Note: This is my week WEEK FIVE submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "play with it" and cum play.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Sunlight is the first thing you feel, a bright and almost buttery warmth on your cheek, and at first your mind tries to convince you that it’s a dream, because this is the kind of light that makes you think of movie mornings—those impossibly still, impossibly golden moments that never quite happen in real life. You let your eyes crack open and blink, and the world is soft at its edges.

The room is unfamiliar, which your brain acknowledged first with mild panic, then instant recognition, then the soft boil of uncertainty that comes only from waking up in someone’s house, unsure of their rules and rhythms. The air is thick with the scent of sleep and laundry detergent and a ghost trace of last night’s dinner—Bucky’s boeuf bourguignon.

Bucky’s arm is flung across your waist, heavy, inert, the metal arm cold as a forgotten tea kettle against your skin. He sleeps with the relentless commitment of an exhausted cat, mouth open just enough to make the smallest, boyish snore, and his hair, mussed beyond repair, falls over his closed eyes. You don’t want to move, and if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t want to move because the moment you do, you’ll have to face the reality that the other side of the bed is empty.

Maybe Steve always rises before the sun, or maybe the bed’s surface just records absence more sharply than presence, but there’s a cool, slightly hollow place where you expected him to be, and it draws your gaze to it in the way a bruise insists on being pressed.

You stare at the indentation in the pillow, the faint outline of his head, and you wonder what it means that he’s not here. You want it to be a fluke, or a facet of his personality (noble, disciplined, can’t sit still, etc.), but the truth is, you have no idea what morning etiquette is when the morning is shared between three.

And all you did was sleep.

Your brain begins to blaze through possible explanations, cataloguing tiny failures, like maybe you took up too much of the covers, or snored, or rolled unconsciously away from Steve in the night and he’d read it as a sign. He’s stoic, yes, but also more sensitive than most people realize; you’ve seen it in the way he lights up when experiencing something new, pauses to truly listen when you–or anyone else–ask his opinion, and considers his words when he responds as to only give an opinion and not come off brash or commanding. You want to be worthy of that kind of consideration, and the feeling of responsibility for someone’s happiness—two someones’ happiness, really—makes your heart ricochet against your ribs.

Almost as if he can sense your brain’s ticking ramping up inside your skull, Bucky stirs, and his eyelids flicker, then open. Blue eyes, a little unfocused and puffy with sleep. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you for a long moment, then his face breaks into a lopsided, almost dazed morning smile. He tugs you in a little closer, metal hand splayed across your hip.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice unfiltered and barely above a whisper, and the way he says it, like it could have plausibly gone another way, makes you realize how much of this—this—is as new and improbable to him as it is to you.

You let yourself be pulled in. “Where would I have gone?”

He shrugs, then lets out a contented rumble of something like a laugh. “Dunno. Could’ve been a dream having you crawl in bed with us.” His lips find your shoulder in a small, fervent kiss. “You’re warm,” he adds, and nestles in, a cat reclaiming his patch of sunlight.

There’s a soft mraow and then a nearly silent landing on the soft mattress, Alpine hopping up to join you.

Alpine, unconcerned by human boundaries, circles twice—real cat, unlike Bucky—then flops down behind your back, pressing her spine against yours, and begins to purr. Bucky stretches with the lazy grace of someone who’s fought hard for the right to do as little as possible on a Saturday, then he props himself up on one elbow, and reaches behind you to give Alpine some pets and scratches, then his hand finds yours, linking your fingers together.

“This,” he says, gesturing with a proud, tired sweep of his arm over the tableau of you, himself, and the cat. “This is perfect. Both my girls, right here. Couldn’t ask for more on a soft Saturday morning.” He seems to mean it, too; his smile has the round, satisfied shape of someone who’s not used to waking up next to people.

You laugh. “I can’t tell if I outrank the cat or not.”

Bucky considers this, giving Alpine a long, loving look, then you. “You both have your strengths,” he says. “But I can’t get Alpine to make coffee in the morning, so if you want to step in there, you might earn a few extra gold stars.”

“Just coffee?” you laugh. “That’s my only shot?”

Bucky’s cheeks tinge slightly, but he laughs with you, giving your hand a squeeze. “No, not the only shot.”

You squeeze his hand back, and then he closes in to kiss you. You sigh happily into it, and your lips move together, soft and slow, languishing in the morning.

You savor the weight of Bucky’s arm, the gentle pressure of his lips, the little hums he makes. When the kiss breaks, he presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. For a moment, you both just breathe. Alpine’s purr is the soft soundtrack to this moment.

Bucky’s voice is thick with sleep and something like disbelief. "You know, this is… a thousand times better than waking up alone. I keep expecting it’ll vanish if I open my eyes too long." He doesn’t laugh at himself for saying it, doesn’t undercut the vulnerability, just lets it hang there, honest. "Used to think I didn’t mind it. But this—" his arm flexes around you, and he tilts his head, hair falling in your eyes until you brush it away— "I could get used to this."

You bite your lip briefly. “What about Steve?” you ask.

“Ohhh,” Bucky’s voice lights with recognition, “that’s the tension I can feel simmering below the surface.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “Steve’s not much of a sleeper. Guy’s got a nervous system like a border collie. Has to get out and run or he’ll chew the furniture.”

You laugh, feeling the nerves genuinely leave your body. “So, he’s…?”

“Probably running the perimeter of Prospect Park like it personally insulted him. He’ll be back,” Bucky assures, then reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising tenderness. “He wants to be here more than anywhere else, with us. Don’t doubt that for a moment.”

You want to believe him. You do believe him, because these men have both been so open honest with you, especially since the trajectory for all three of your collided and evolved.

You shift to your back, which leaves you under the simultaneous, unblinking gaze of both Bucky and Alpine. “If we’re being honest,” you say, “I’ve never done this. The whole… waking up in someone else’s bed thing.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, a look you know isn’t feigned. “Really?”

“I mean, I’ve slept over before,” you say, heat prickling at your ears. “Usually it was half-nights and then leaving. When it was overnight, it was always, I don’t know, transactional? A single night, then a weird morning after, a rush to get dressed and get out and never talk about it again. This is—different.” You hazard a glance up at him, let your gaze linger in the haze of morning, his hair lit like a careless halo in the sun. “I’m not saying it’s scary”—and that’s not quite true, it is a little scary—“it’s just… really new. For me. All of this.”

He scoots in closer, stubbled cheek against your hair. “You can have every morning here you want,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to know how to do this. Believe me, the world’s not exactly full of advice columns for happy triads. We’re all figuring it out at the same time.”

He kisses your temple, then pulls back to look at you again, face naked in the sunlight’s clarity and somehow more beautiful for it. “Yesterday it was easy to talk about being all in, but it’s funny—waking up and… actually being all in is even better.”

Your throat catches. Damn it. You meant to be so level-headed, so slow about this new thing, but it’s already somewhere in the territory of deep feeling and you’re not even sure you made it through the night without drooling on the pillow. “Would you tell me if I was being weird?” you ask, not quite a joke.

“Would you want me to?” He grins, then leans in to kiss your nose, awkward but sweet, so much so you have to laugh. “You’re not weird. You’re just you.”

He pets Alpine again, who’s already begun to snore. “And you’re not alone. I’ve never been this open with anyone before, either. Not since the war. Not since… well. Since never, really.” The honesty in his voice is pure and steel edged. “Everything else was a performance. This is the first time I don’t feel like I have to rehearse. So, I want this.”

You let yourself believe he means it, bask in the luxury of being wanted exactly as you are. For a moment, staring at each other under the slow, sugar-rich cadence of morning, you feel the weight of the world slipping off your shoulders. It leaves something freer, more buoyant, in its place.

The sound of footsteps alerts both of you. You twist, and Bucky leans upward as Steve rounds the corner into the room.

He’s got a paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other, looking all the more endearing for being slightly out of breath. “Good morning. Glad you two weren’t planning on sleeping the whole day away,” he says with mock severity, but you notice he’s looking directly at you when he says it, and his eyes are impossibly gentle.

“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice thick with sleep and something else, a note of affection so naked it’s unmistakable.

He regards the three of you—two humans and one feline—and shakes his head with a smile that’s half exasperation, half adoration. “You know, I think it’s actually a feat,” he says, “the way you two can sleep through half a Brooklyn morning. Alpine, I expected it from you. The two of you…”

You grin, chest warming at the sight of the flowers. “You already went out and came back?”

Steve shrugs, the movement nearly bashful, and sets the paper bag and flowers on the dresser. He’s not in running clothes, you realize—no evidence of sweat or endorphins, just jeans and a faded tee, his hair towel-damp but already starting to curl at the edges.

“You two were out cold,” he says. “Didn’t want to wake you.” He grins at this, the teasing in his voice cut with fondness. “Plus, someone had to provide this morning.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Come back to bed, punk, we’ve got a girl to provide some cuddling to.”

Steve’s cheeks color a little, but he kicks off his shoes, peels off his tee, and slides beneath the covers, moving Alpine with a gentle but no-nonsense scoop to the pillow at the head of the bed. The cat doesn’t even object, just makes her way to the sunniest corner with a single, smug flick of her tail.

Steve slots in behind you, a wall of gentle, impossible warmth. His hand immediately finds the curve of your hip, and you’re startled by how natural it all feels, the way they both know exactly where to touch you without hesitation.

Bucky slides one hand, the flesh one, up to clasp at your shoulder just as Steve bends in, dipping his face to nuzzle your cheek, then kiss the corner of your mouth—soft, almost a secret. “Sleep okay?” Steve’s ask is gentle, but under it is the kind of sincerity that’s become familiar: he wants the truth, not just politeness.

“Best I’ve had in a long time,” you tell him, and it’s true. He beams, and it registers how much that simple answer means to him. His hand moves up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with such affection your heart nearly cracks open.

You brush his hair back from his forehead and kiss him, lingering, letting yourself get lost in the soft, open surprise of his mouth on yours.

Bucky’s hand on your shoulder tugs you in at the same time, and you’re momentarily crushed in a sandwich of affection—one arm banded around your ribs from behind, another slipping beneath the sheets to slide over your thigh, careful and without presumption. For a flash, you want to say something like, I could stay here forever, and then realize with a shudder that you mean it.

Steve’s hand settles on your hip, warm and steady, and Bucky’s lips find the soft spot behind your ear, and the world seems to pause—just the three of you in this cocoon of sunlight, sheets, and uncertain, exquisite hope. The kisses travel a gentle path, small and exploratory, and when Steve slides his fingers under the hem of your borrowed T-shirt, you feel a thrill, not just of skin on skin, but of the tenderness that threads through this tangled arrangement of bodies and hearts.

You turn to catch Steve’s mouth again, letting him kiss you slow, and Bucky’s hands roam your back, tracing lazy shapes, the curve of your spine, the back of your neck, finding new ways to make you shiver. Steve’s hand glides slowly up and down your waist, and then one of Bucky’s hands drifts around to the front of you, palm splaying across your belly. You have to remind yourself to breathe, because the attention, the touch, the sense of being wanted—by both of them—is overwhelming in a way that, for once, doesn’t feel like too much. It feels like exactly enough.

Bucky glances past your shoulder, catching Steve’s eye over your head, and there’s something in the exchange—something trusting and playful and proprietary—that makes the air in the room change, like the axis of the morning just shifted a few degrees. Steve meets Bucky’s gaze, then brings his lips to your temple, a soft press, the tip of his nose nuzzling your hairline.

“We don’t want to rush you,” Steve murmurs, voice low and certain, “but I want you to know—we want you to know—you’re not here because we’re expecting this. You’re here because we both want you, all of you. The physical can come when it you’re ready.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his lips against the edge of your ear, the words hot enough to make your toes curl. “If you want out, you say so. But if you want this, we’re ready for that too.” He gives a little squeeze at your hip, a silent punctuation, and then pulls his mouth back so you can see the sincerity written all over his face.

You swallow, flooded by the strange, rare certainty that you’re—safe isn’t even the word, safe’s too small for what this is. Maybe cherished. Maybe chosen. “I want it,” you say, and you’re surprised to find your voice comes out steady, free of the apology or hesitation you’d expected. “I want both of you.”

The effect is immediate. Steve’s arms cinch tighter; Bucky’s smirk is both wicked and reverent, if that’s possible. There’s a brightness that catches in Steve’s eyes, like he just set down a heavy load he didn’t know he was carrying.

Steve kisses you again, eager now, and Bucky’s arms wrap around your waist from the front, caging you in a way that feels less like a trap and more like a promise. Their hands meet at the small of your back, and you feel the casual negotiation between them: who leads, who follows, who yields and who takes.

There’s nothing hurried about this, even though there’s heat and hunger. You’re not sure if it’s them or the dynamic between the three of you, but the sense of consideration is total—you’re passed like a secret, every motion tested and confirmed before it happens. Steve’s lips trace over your jaw, and then Bucky slides his mouth to the hollow of your throat, the sharp edge of his teeth offset by the soft, reverent way he sucks at your skin, leaving behind nothing but warmth and the faintest bloom of sensation.

When you arch back against Steve, his body braces yours, a bulwark of muscle and intent and want. His breath is steady and close, fanning over the nape of your neck, and the sensation adds shivers in all the right places. Bucky, meanwhile, acts as a front-line assault—his mouth and hands wanton and methodical, the way he explores your ribs with the broad, unhurried sweep of his hand, the way he plants kisses along your pulse points, the way he just barely trails a finger beneath the hem of the borrowed tee and waits for your breath to catch, for your consent to hang electric in the space between you.

It’s new to be the center of such attention, to have desire poured over you in two registers at once. For a fleeting second, you think you might combust from it, but instead it builds and builds, a sweet and unbearable pressure. Steve’s hands are warm, and he is a paragon of patience, but you can sense that’s wearing thin as his fingers trace over your skin, your curves, push your shirt further and further up your chest.

Bucky, not to be outdone and clearly delighted to compete, eggs on the escalation expressly through you, his hands urging you to arch, his mouth skipping higher until you’re forced to let out a soft, startled laugh.

Then Steve flips you—gently, as if you were made of the same sunlight that’s pooling in the bedsheets—so you’re flat on your back, and the two of them loom above you, side by side, a study in contrast that is, frankly, unfair to all other possible mornings. Bucky’s hair is a dark snarl, blue eyes heavy-lidded and hungry; Steve is sun-bright, eyes luminous, strands of hair damp and curling at his brow, mouth parted just a little.

You, honest to god, whimper at the sight.

There’s one more moment like this, on the precipice, and then they attack.

Their hands coordinate in a choreography that feels rehearsed from decades of knowing each other's next move. They move so quickly, you don’t have time to feel self-conscious, only a tidal wave of anticipation and joy. Steve’s fingers are careful with the hem of the tee shirt you’re wearing, but his mouth is urgent against yours. Bucky’s lips find your hip with an unabashed hunger as he peels the shorts down your legs, his hair falling forward and tickling your thighs, his metal hand shock-cold against the fire of your skin.

The way they touch you is both reverent and greedy, as if you are something rare they can’t believe has landed in their arms. When you move to reciprocate, to touch them back, you’re met with a playful growl from Bucky and a sweet, chiding admonition from Steve—“Let us take care of you this time”—and though your first instinct is to protest, it’s clear that with two against one it’s going to be far too easy for them to pursue as they want.

Bucky kisses down the inside of your thigh with a deliberateness that ought to be illegal, and Steve, eyes hooded but bright, holds your gaze through every quiver. When Bucky’s mouth finds the place it seeks, you’re grateful for Steve’s hand gripping yours—otherwise, it’s possible you might levitate off the bed entirely.

It’s more intense than anything you’ve ever experienced, a new kind of pleasure that bends the sensation of time. The world tunnels down to the exact places they touch you: Bucky’s tongue soft and devastating, his beard rough and sweet between your legs; Steve’s mouth at your ear, whispering encouragement, his hands everywhere at once, as if he’s memorizing the exact geometry of your body with his palms.

They’re not in a hurry, which in some ways makes it worse. You feel yourself losing the ability to coordinate word and breath, losing track of things like shame and propriety. Instead, you utter gasps, whimpers, airy not-quite-please and oh my god and don’t stop.

Steve kisses your wrist, your forearm, laving heat across your skin with a devotion that devastates even as Bucky’s mouth is relentless, then Steve’s mouth, which has been everywhere but where you want it most, descends to your breasts. He kisses the valley between, then the sweet sharp point of the left, then the right, taking his time, letting his tongue and lips circle and gently draw, until you’re arching helplessly into his hand, into his mouth, into the air itself.

Bucky’s tongue is steady and precise, as if the only goal he has for the day is to make you lose your mind. The contrast between the cool metal of his hand pinning your hip and the hot, human insistence of his mouth makes your whole body tremble. Steve’s teeth tease your nipple, and Bucky’s tongue delves with a sudden, clever pressure—and just like that, the world whites out.

You’re only dimly aware that you’re making noises—somewhere between a whimper and a sob, the kind of need you’ve never allowed yourself in front of another human being, let alone two, and the thrill of it, the shattering newness, rocks through your chest and out your limbs.

You come hard, toes curling in the sheets, nails digging half-moons into Steve’s arm where you cling, every part of your body taut as a bowstring. Bucky rides it out, tongue lavishing you through and past every convulsion, until you’re left shuddering, breathless, boneless on the mattress.

Steve is there at the crest and the fall, his mouth gentle now, peppering kisses across your chest, your collarbone, your jaw. He smooths your hair, cradles your head in his big palm, and the look in his eyes is so open and gentle it undoes you all over again. Bucky, emerging from between your thighs, looks up with a roguish, utterly delighted smile and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Still with us, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but your chest is still heaving, your limbs trembling from aftershocks. “Yeah,” you manage, voice a frayed whisper. Steve kisses your temple, Bucky lays his cheek briefly on your thigh in a gesture that feels like both a benediction and a claim.

“Good,” Bucky says, and the satisfaction in his tone makes you dizzy. He sits up, hands bracketing you, eyes glinting with something wild and greedy and impossibly tender. “You just let us know if it’s too much. Promise?” You nod, and he leans in to claim your mouth with his, hot and insistent; his tongue tastes of you, and the impossible intimacy of it makes your toes curl all over again.

Steve’s hand is smoothing up your side, tracing the sensitive skin of your ribs, and when his fingers drift to your jaw, he turns your face toward him and kisses you, deep and open, savoring you until you’re truly breathless, and then the two of them are kissing each other.

The sight of it—Steve and Bucky pressed together over you, mouths locked in a messy, hungry collision—should floor you, and it does, but in a different way than you expect; it doesn’t feel intimidating or foreign or even performative. It feels natural, inevitable, like seeing the moon and the tide caught in each other’s pull.

You reach up, threading your hand into Steve’s hair, and he groans into Bucky’s mouth. The sound goes straight through you. Bucky grins against Steve’s lips, then breaks away and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, giving you a look like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He moves to loom over you, pinning your wrists above your head with that preternatural strength, blue eyes so close and so full of want you forget to breathe.

“You want us to keep going?” he asks, voice low and thick.

You nod, an eager, “Yes,” falling from your lips.

The answer has them moving like lightning, man-handling you but with inevitable care given their superhuman strength, positioning you until you’re upright, kneeling between them, blanketed only in sunlight. Steve is already shoving his jeans down, and Bucky’s hands catch your chin to kiss you again, teeth catching on your lower lip, even as his cock presses against your thigh, hard and insistent.

You don’t need direction; you want this, and you want them, and it’s easy to reach for Bucky first, to take him in hand and stroke. He exhales a jagged breath, and his eyes darken. He grips you by the nape, gentle but demanding, and guides your mouth down to his cock. He’s not cruel about it—he’s careful, in fact, holding himself back even as you take him in, slowly, tongue tracing the ridge of his leaking tip.

He feeds his cock into your mouth, slow at first, the taste of him intoxicating and raw. You hollow your cheeks, letting him set a rhythm, feeling the tremor that races through his thighs every time you suck a little harder or flick your tongue just so, and you’re rewarded with his voice—ragged, unstaged groans that make you want to see how far you can take him in your worship.

There’s a brief moment, as the head of his cock brushes the back of your throat and you feel him twitch, that you think you might gag or lose your nerve. But Bucky’s voice is right there, low and ragged and full of praise—“Good girl, god, so fucking good, just like that, sweetheart.”

Steve is behind you, kneeling on the bed, his hands stroking over your hips, your back, a kind of reverent survey that makes your whole body feel like a live wire. He presses kisses along your shoulder, your neck, his lips pressing open-mouthed against your pulse point as his fingers trace the curve of your spine. He’s so solid, so attentive, and when his hand skims between your legs to stroke you where you’re dripping, you actually moan around Bucky’s cock. The vibration must feel incredible for him, because he shudders, hips jerking forward so you take him deeper.

Steve’s fingers are slow at first, spreading you open and circling, then dipping inside, and you feel the sweet stretch of him as he adds a second finger, scissoring gently before drawing them out to rub lazy circles over your already-sensitive clit. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your head swim.

You want to turn, to see him, but Bucky is still in your mouth, and when you glance up he’s watching you with this open hunger that shoots another rush or want and desire through you, stoking the fire already steadily burning in your core.

At some point you’re aware of the rustle of a wrapper, the soft snap as Steve rolls on a condom. You’re so wet already it takes almost no effort for him to press the head of his cock to your entrance. Steve buries himself inside you, slow and controlled, making you feel every inch, and when he’s fully seated, the fullness is so exquisite it’s almost a new flavor of ache. You’re pinned between them, Bucky’s cock in your mouth, Steve’s cock in your cunt, and the sensation overloads every system you have.

You try your best to keep pace, to savor and reciprocate, but the dual sensations overwhelm in the best way. Steve moves inside you with incredible care, rocking his hips just enough that every push and pull glides you forward on Bucky’s cock; Bucky’s hand tightens on the back of your skull, loosening the second you even think of needing room, as if he’s determined to never take more than you can give. The coordination is seamless and strange, like they’ve been practicing—not this, but the give and take, the knowledge of how to support, to anticipate, to share.

Bucky moans and mutters your name, obscenities rolling off his tongue in a tumble of Brooklyn vowels, and at some point—maybe after the third or fourth time Steve’s cock bottomed out and made you hum against him—Bucky pulls out with a pop, catching your face in his hands. His thumb traces your lips, which are wet and swollen. “Where do you want my cum?”

It’s not a question you’ve ever been asked, let alone answered, but it thrills some wild, bright part of your brain to be asked it at all—and even more to answer. “On me,” you say, not even sure where the answer comes from, only that you want it. “On my back. Want to feel it.”

The effect is immediate, electric. Bucky’s eyes go wide, pupils swallowing the blue right out of them; Steve, who’s fucking you slow and deep, lets out a sound between a laugh and a groan—a kind of delighted, awed agreement.

“God, you’re—” Bucky doesn’t finish the sentence, just slots his cock into your mouth again for a few more strokes, these more rough, and then he’s pulling out, and leaning around to spill his hot, wild release across your back, thick and sudden and so much more than you expected that you freeze in place, shuddering as the warmth beads and drips down your spine. The noise Bucky makes as he comes is wonderfully debauched, and the sight of him—sweaty, eyes rolling up, muscle cording his arm as he fists the base of his cock to paint your skin—brands itself onto your brain.

And you are clearly not the only one affected.

Steve’s grip tightens on your hips, and he begins to thrust deeper, harder, as if the sight of you marked with Bucky’s cum sends him a little feral. He’s vocal too, not in words but with deep groans from his chest, coming more frequently with the intensified thrusts.

He’s so impossibly thick and hot inside you, erasing your thought process down to only the raw feeling of being utterly filled by him. He draws you in—pulling your hips back, then teasing you with a half-thrust, a deep grind that makes your head spin. Bucky’s voice in your ear eggs him on, alternating praise and goading, “She loves it, Steve, more, she can take it, yeah, just like that—” and you realize he’s kneeling at your side now, metal hand firm on your shoulder, steadying you, holding you for Steve.

There’s a moment where he slows, and the interruption of the rhythm draws you to a moment of alertness. Steve’s palm travels up the line of your back, catching a rivulet of Bucky’s cum and spreading it—slick and deliberate—across your skin. The movement shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, but it makes you melt and arch your back more for him—for them, really, because Bucky groans, and then his hand joins Steve’s in the mess.

Behind you, you hear the damp, half-wild sound of their mouths meeting and twist your head back to see Steve turning his head, Bucky darting in. They’re kissing, open and desperate, the heat of their tongues and teeth and need coming off them in waves. For a moment, their hands both grip you, anchoring you in the moment with them, and you realize how right it is, the three of you in this knot of want and belonging.

Steve’s thrusts slow just enough for him to murmur, “Bucky. Touch her.”

“Already am,” Bucky answers, voice low and rough.

“Play with her clit, jerk,” Steve says, and though it’s almost comical in its directness, the effect it has on you is immediate and total. Then his voice drops another octave as he adds, “Make her come again, Buck.”

His metal hand, sticky with his cum, slides between your legs, and he strokes you with a confidence that feels both new and impossibly well-practiced. He circles your clit with a slow, torturous precision, and the added sensation makes your knees buckle, your inner muscles clenching down on Steve’s cock.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters, the word wrecked and reverent, and his hands dig into your sides as he starts thrusting with more focus, more intent. “Bucky’s got you, sweetheart, just let go.”

You do, because there is no use in holding anything back now. There’s a wild, animal ache in you, a need to be seen and touched and filled by these men, newly discovered at how deep that need goes when it’s only your first time together, and even if you turn to ash from the intensity, you’ll be grateful just to have burned here with them.

The room goes high and bright and full of static as Bucky’s fingers skate over your clit, rapid but never too rough. Steve doesn’t let up—it’s so steady, so deep, every drive of his hips sending a fresh bolt of pleasure through you, until you break again, shuddering and keening, collapsing forward to your elbows, anchored only by the greedy and adoring hands of your two men. You come even harder this time, the orgasm ripping through you in sharp, hot contractions you can feel everywhere at once, and for a moment you don’t even remember your own name. You cry out, and you feel like you’re shattering down to the last nerve, shoving your hips back onto Steve’s cock as he rides you through it.

Steve follows you over the edge, and you know it by the sudden, hard shudder in his whole body, the ferocity in the way he pins your hips to his, the choked-off sound he lets loose as he buries his face in the crook of your neck and loses himself. The heat of him throbs inside you, and even through the condom you feel the press and pulse of his release.

You come down in increments: the taste of air, the rawness in your throat, Steve’s arms reaching around you to draw you upright and into his chest, pressing kisses to your jaw and the side of your face, murmuring praise and comfort in equal measure. Bucky, is right there in an instant, his chest pressed to yours, his hands gliding up your sides in a soothing, steadying motion.

The rest of it you can’t track in detail: you just know that you’re being held, soothed, peppered with lazy post-coital affection. Everything is loose and soft and blurred, a blend of bodies against bodies, lips at temples, hands at hips, descending to the mattress, someone reaching for the discarded bedsheet and wrapping all three of you in its cocoon.

Eventually it’s Bucky who breaks the silence, lowering his voice as he nuzzles your hairline, “Would apologize for the mess, but…” He doesn’t finish. He just kisses the crown of your head with a proud, ridiculous flourish.

Steve laughs, muffled against the base of your neck, then straightens up and presses his lips there, slow and lingering. “I’ll help you clean up,” he whispers, the promise more than practical. He’s still inside you, but softening, and you reach down to squeeze his hand, which is already splayed across your belly.

He pulls out of you gently, and you shiver at the sudden emptiness and the sweet ache he leaves behind. Bucky’s hand traces lazy, sticky circles at the lowest point of your spine, and when Steve finally disentangles himself, he presses a kiss to your shoulder before rolling off the bed. “This is a good look for you,” Steve notes, voice raw and still reverent, and a little sinful.

Bucky laughs, low and winded, and stretches on the bed until his shoulders crack. “Nothing better,” he says, and props himself up to watch Steve lick a careful, almost curious stripe along the top of your spine.

“Steve—” you half-laugh, half-chide, not sure if being cleaned off with a tongue is a bridge too far or the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced. “You don’t have to—”

He glances up, mouth glistening with Bucky’s spend. His tongue darts out, licking his lips, and your breath catches.

He grins, and if you thought you’d seen Steve Rogers at his most charming, you were wrong, because this is the weaponized version of that smile—dimple out, eyes molten, tongue still wet with the taste of you and Bucky. “Couldn’t waste it, sweetheart,” he says, voice so gentle it almost breaks the skin. “Besides, it’s…”

He hesitates, as if unsure you want to hear the rest, but then Bucky answers for him, hand braced at the back of your neck, “It’s hot. It’s so fucking hot.”

You feel the heat rise in your chest and cheeks, but the embarrassment doesn’t burn—it’s just another flavor of this intense, complex delight. You swallow, and Steve, as if guided by some quiet radar, bends to the hollow of your shoulder and licks again, slower, catching every drop, then kisses the place clean.

He’s savoring you, but he’s savoring Bucky, too—his gaze splits the difference, every lick and slow, deliberate sweep of tongue a show for both of you. Bucky, who has propped himself up on one elbow, watches with naked appreciation, his own cock already hardening again where it rests against your hip.

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky’s voice is a scrape over gravel, astonished. “You’re not even giving her a chance to catch her breath. How are you expecting us to get out of bed at all today?”

Steve grins, and it’s edged with something wild, something that makes your stomach bottom out and then fly. “Can’t help it. And who said I wanted you out of bed? Just didn’t want you to sleep the day away.” He holds your gaze as he licks another stripe along your back; he’s not in a hurry, he’s never in a hurry, and it settles you even as it both unnerves and excites.

Bucky, not to be outdone or outstripped of a moment’s attention, leans in close and presses a kiss to your cheek, then your ear, then trails a line of gentle bites down your neck. “Sounds like a challenge.”

He’s not wrong. “What if I like the idea of being absolutely ruined on a Saturday?” you manage, your voice shaky and new to your ears in this register, the register of braver, hungrier you.

And the next hour is a glorious, sticky, lazy collection slow kisses and playful wrestling and exploration over the tangle of pillows and sheets. The three of you move from heat to laughter and back again, never quite drifting out of each other’s orbits. When the high tide of arousal ebbs, there’s still the press of bodies, the comfort—even the small, childlike delight—of being allowed to touch and be touched.

You do leave the bed—needing to relieve yourself and stretch your limbs properly, also indulging in a shower, and eating—but you don’t leave the apartment.

Not that day, and not that weekend.

Too much to say, to do, to be, and to build in this new beginning now that you belong to them, they belong to you, and the three of you belong to each other.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

These men are still one of my most consistently read and reblogged stories! I always intended to keep their main story fluff and g-rated, but I knew they would have some great sex. I wrote a smutty little something for winter holidays a couple of years ago, and when I started to write First Night, I had every intention that it would turn smutty, but as I wrote it, it just didn't feel like that night was the moment...

But when I hit publish on First Night, I KNEW this is what happened the next morning. I knew you'd wake up with only Bucky in bed, have just a moment of questioning hesitation, but then learn his absence is only due to that need to get out and run, and he returns and they properly snuggle and then smut you up. I hope you all enjoyed!

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 5 #buckets and trees #bucky barnes/reader

339 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 1 month ago

Text

Tangled Desires - Ch1

AN: When I saw the pictures of Seb for the L’Officiel Malaysia x Cartier I knew it was time to return to the world of Good Graces and our Older Reader x Ex’s Best Friend Bucky, and by adding in Hot Bucky Summer by @buckybarnesevents, we have a FIVE part sequel. This first part covers the week 5 prompt - Cock Worship. The story picks up immediately after the end of Good Graces

Beta’d by @sleepysongbirdsings <a href="/users/SleepySongbird/" rel="nofollow">SleepySongbird</a>

Likes are loved, but reblogs are golden

Header by me and dividers by @firefly-graphics

If you want to be on my tag lists, please fill out this form

Master List | HBS Master list

Summary: After your unplanned tryst with your ex-husband’s best friend, in your pantry no less, the pair of you arrange a proper date.

“I’m paying, sweetheart, so if you want the foie gras, followed by the lobster and a bottle of champagne to wash it down, that’s what you’ll get.”

“What about dessert,” you ask breathlessly, a little stunned and wide-eyed by his firm, commanding tone.

“Well I was thinking that if you still want dessert when we get to the end of our meal, we could have it back at my place?”

You almost ask for the check then and there.

Relationship: Ex’s Best Friend Bucky Barnes x Older Single Mom Reader

Word Count: 2k

CW: Flirting, Developing relationship, dating, Explicit Sexual Content, Cock Worship, Blow Job, implied sexual content.

In the end you don’t sneak out of there, as tempting as it would be. Instead you just enjoy a few more toe curling kisses before you convince him to head out the door. You’ve just managed to close it and head back to the kitchen when Gabi appears from the garden, carrying a handful of rainbow decorations. She stops in her tracks when she sees you walk back in, looking you up and down with wide eyes, before gasping.

“Girl, you didn’t?” she questions despite being almost 100% of the answer.

“Girl, I did!” you confirm immediately.

You cover your mouth and dissolve into a fit of the giggles.

When the next morning comes you’re wondering if you’d dreamed the events of the previous afternoon. It just seems so surreal. Things like this don’t happen to suburban single moms, unless it’s in a Hallmark movie and last you checked you weren’t a fictional character.

You’re attempting to clear up the last of the party detritus – seriously, where were you going to keep these decorations? – and coax the twins down from their toy induced high when your phone chimes with an incoming text. You pick it up, expecting something from Gabi, or maybe one of the parents from those invited yesterday, but it’s an unknown number.

“Hey sweetheart, I really enjoyed meeting you yesterday (if you couldn’t tell) and was wondering if I could take you out on a date sometime?”

“It’s Bucky, by the way.”

You gnaw at your lower lip to stop your mouth spreading into a broad grin.

“A date could be nice. But how did you get my number?”

“From Lee’s phone. I can be resourceful when I want to get to know a person better.”

“I thought we got to know each other pretty well, yesterday. What else is there to find out?”

“Lots of things. Your favourite colour. Your favourite food. What you sound like when you come and you’re not trying to be quiet…”

God, the man’s a menace. Your face is on fire and your imagination’s racing.

“I’ll see what I can do about a sitter and get back to you?”

“I can’t wait.”

The following Friday rolls around and you really can’t believe this is happening. You’ve known Bucky less than a week and you’re going out on a proper, grown-up date with him. Gabi hadn’t hesitated to watch the kids for you, even going as far as saying they could have a sleepover at her house, so you could stay out as late as you wanted, that last past accompanied with a theatrical wink.

When the taxi pulls up outside the restaurant Bucky picked, you exit it and nervously smooth out invisible wrinkles from your dress, hoping that it doesn’t look too out of style. It’s been a while since you’d bought any items that were suitable for this sort of thing. This dress, like several others, has been sitting in the back of the wardrobe for goodness knows how long.

You look around and spot Bucky leaning nonchalantly against the wall by the doors, his hands in his suit jacket pockets. He looks stunning in rust coloured two piece with a white shirt and burgundy tie and you can’t believe that someone as handsome as him is interested in someone like you. His eyes lock with yours a few seconds later and he pushes away from the wall with one foot and approaches you, grinning. He dips and brushes his lips over your cheek and you swear your heart skips a beat.

“Hey there, beautiful.”

“Hey, yourself,” you parrot back, feeling a little tongue-tied. “I’m not late, am I?”

He gently takes your arm and threads it through the crook of his and leads you back to the door. “Not at all. I got here early because I didn’t want you to have to wait around for me if you also got here early.” Reaching the door, he pulls it open and stands to the side to let you through as your arm slips free.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease.

“Always, until you don’t want me to be,” he jokes right back, a devilish glint in his eye, and it’s all you can do to suppress the frisson of electricity that judders down your spine.

Your mutual flirting is halted by the presence of the maître 'd, but you don’t pull back when Bucky twines the fingers of his left hand with your right as you’re led to your table.

Once you’re seated, you have to admit that this place is perfect for a date. The lighting is subtle – not too bright, but not so dark that you can’t see your companion clearly – and the background music is just loud enough to register without intruding. You do let out a small gasp when you open the menu and see the prices, but Bucky seems to immediately understand the cause of your noise of discomfort and hooks a finger over the edge of the leather, pulling it down so he can see you properly.

“I’m paying, sweetheart, so if you want the foie gras, followed by the lobster and a bottle of champagne to wash it down, that’s what you’ll get.”

“What about dessert,” you ask breathlessly, a little stunned and wide-eyed by his firm, commanding tone.

“Well I was thinking that if you still want dessert when we get to the end of our meal, we could have it back at my place?”

You almost ask for the check then and there. However, it’s been longer than you care to remember since you were last on a date and you want to enjoy the whole experience. Unsurprisingly, Bucky is the perfect companion. He’s witty and charming, drawing you into a conversation that you have as much to contribute to as he does. He does ask you about your favourite colour and your favourite meal. The twinkle in his eyes tells you he intends to find out the answer to his third question before the end of the evening and to be honest, you can’t wait.

You fall backwards as the door opens behind you, and it’s only due to your multiple points of contact with Bucky – both your hands, one of his and both your lips – that you don’t fall to the floor. It’s so comical, so cliche, that you start to giggle, feeling for all the world like you’re twenty – thirty – years younger. It doesn’t stop you, though. You’re feeling feral, exactly like you were last week.

Your fingers slip open the single button holding his jacket closed before you slide your hands up his chest and push the expensive feeling fabric from his shoulder to land, immediately forgotten on the floor. You kick off your shoes as you work on the much smaller buttons of his shirt, your arms bumping against his as he works on his belt. As he pulls the leather free of his pants, you change tack to fight with the zipper on the back of your dress, half wondering if there’s a way you can get naked and hide your soft stomach at the same time. However, from the corner of your eye you see him kick his removed pants to the side and you stop in your tracks.

Because he’s so fucking beautiful you don’t think you can breathe.

He’s on one leg, lifting up his foot to remove a sock when he notices your stillness. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You shake your head and worry at your lower lip, and close the distance, your half undone dress forgotten. With your hands resting on his pecs, you gently push him until his back hits the wall. He regards you, eyes dark as you trail your fingers over the firm muscles, before circling each nipple, watching them pucker. You move them lower, down his abs, and follow the trail of hair until it disappears under his boxers, the fabric stretched over his length.

Pressing even closer, your body flush to his, you place your lips to the fluttering pulse point on his throat and then use them to duplicate the trail you’d just made with your fingers. However, this time, when you reach the waistband of his boxers, you don’t stop. You map out the length of him, covered in soft cotton, with your mouth.

There’s a thunk which you guess is the sound of Bucky’s head hitting the wall, followed by an uttered ‘Fuck!’, and your lips curve into a smile.

When you discover a small wet patch near the top of the distended fabric you suck on it, and by extension the tip of his cock, drawing a deep groan from Bucky’s lips. You savour the flavour of him, before deciding you want more and you pull back to tug down the sodden fabric and get your first real look at his cock.

Before now you would have subscribed to the idea that once you’ve seen one cock, you’ve seen them all, and that they’re really not very attractive parts of the male body, but you couldn’t seem to look away. You must have been silent and staring for too long, because Bucky lets out a little cough from above you and you look up.

“You alright there, sweetheart?”

“I’m gonna be asking you that in a few minutes,” you smirk back as you wrap your right hand around him and use your left to cradle his balls.

Gently, you stroke him a few times, feeling him under your hand before you press your lips to the base of his shaft. You repeat your mouthing action from earlier, moving upwards, but before you reach the tip of him you drop back down and lick a stripe from bottom to top. Bucky’s hands fly to your head with a hiss, but he doesn’t try to control your movements.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he asks, evident strain in his voice.

“Not yet,” you murmur.

You remove your right hand and, keeping eye contact with him, you lick your palm before you start stroking him again.

“Jesus–”

“Don’t blaspheme,” comes your trite response, but Bucky doesn’t get the chance to make a follow-up quip because at that moment you take him into your mouth and all that comes out of his is a whimper. God, the thrill that runs through you at that.

You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock and then slip the tip of your tongue into his slit. Then, feeling emboldened, you take a deep breath and slide down as far down as you can while remaining comfortable. All the while, Bucky mutters under his breath and lets out the most amazing noises, especially when you suck on each of his balls in turn. You’ve never really been one to go this overboard on a blowjob in the past, but something about this situation – something about Bucky – feels different.

When he stutters out “Sweetheart, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna come,” you double down, massaging the underside of his cock with your tongue. Your ears are filled by the sound of your blood pounding in your ears and Bucky’s imaginative swear words as he comes down down your throat, unable to stop himself from jerking his hips. Finally he stills, gasping loudly, and you stand up, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. He looks at you, eyes glazed, before tugging you to him and kissing you deeply. The thought that he can taste himself on your tongue, but at worst he doesn’t care, does something to you and it’s your turn to whine.

Breaking the kiss, Bucky steps back, pulls off his one remaining sock and his boxers that had been caught around his ankles, and then spins you so he can pull on your half undone zip, making your dress finally pool at your feet. He’s back to kissing you in an instant, walking you backwards through his apartment at the same time, until you fall down onto what you guess is his bed. He crawls up over you, nipping over your jaw and throat, his hand stroking over your stomach before you can even get self conscious about the wobble of it and the marks that criss-cross it.

“Relax baby,” he purrs. “It’s your turn to be worshipped, and when I’ve done that – got you mewling and shaking under me and I’ve finally unlocked the mystery of how you sound – I’m gonna fuck you until you don’t even know your name.”

Chapter 2

Tag list: @christywrites, @alexakeyloveloki, @wolfsmom1, @doasyoudesireandlive,

@sonatabee-blog, @goldylions, @galactusdevourerofworlds, @apenny4thots,

@crayongirl-linz, @nicoline1998enilocin, @king814318, @blackhawkfanatic,

@strawberrylore, @scram1326, @hhiggs, @athene-noctua08

@km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky, @kmc1989, @kombatfather1796

@peaches1958

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 5 #late to the party 81 #bucky barnes/reader

36 notes · View notes

buckybarnesevents · 1 month ago

Text

post-mission ritual

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x new avengers!reader

summary: after a mission, bucky barnes helps you get rid of all that leftover, excess energy.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, oral sex (m receiving, f receiving briefly mentioned), cock worship, ball worship, deep-throating, bdsm dynamics, dom Bucky/sub reader, come play, come swallowing, face fucking, finger sucking, dirty talk, praise kink, some degradation, sergeant kink, pet names (doll, baby), aftercare, established relationship

word count: 4.7k

a/n: here's my week 5 entry for @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event! y'all voted to worship post-Thunderbolts Bucky, so here we are!! i wanted to write some real filthy cock worship, and i think i succeeded with this fic—and i actually can't believe how long it ended up. whoops 🫣 anyway, i hope y'all are prepared for some filthy, messy, cock worshipping smut 🤭 enjoy! ♡

prompt: “Play with it.” | [Cock Worship | Forced Masturbation | Come Play]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

The mission was a success, and the briefing in the main meeting room of New Avengers Tower was over, but you couldn’t settle down. All the other members of the team were dispersing, retreating to their rooms or the gym to wind down from the mission in their own ways.

All except Bucky Barnes. And you.

Your knee was bouncing with leftover, frenetic energy that you couldn’t seem to quell, and you were biting at the cuticles of your nails because you couldn’t sit still. Your gaze kept flitting all around the room, checking again and again that everyone had left, even Bob.

You would’ve considered following Ava Starr and John Walker to the gym to expend your excess energy, but there was something else besides sparring that helped you calm down after a mission—something that only Bucky could give you.

The minutes dragged on and every few seconds, your eyes landed on the super-soldier. Your gaze darted from his handsome face to his broad shoulders, which filled out his new superhero suit so deliciously, you had the urge to rub against him like a cat in heat.

Your knee kept bouncing, your teeth kept gnawing on your cuticles, and you tried to act like you weren’t one breath away from clawing at the walls while you waited for Bucky to take charge.

He knew what you needed, and you knew he’d give it to you, you just needed to wait for him to start your post-mission ritual.

His head was turned to the side, and you knew he was listening to make sure everyone had left and they were all distracted. That super-soldier hearing had saved you on more than one occasion—both from getting hurt in the field and getting caught in a compromising position in the tower.

You were trying so hard to be patient, trying to stamp out the hectic, fizzling energy racing through your body, that you nearly missed the flicker of a smile on Bucky’s face. It made your heart leap in your chest as your limbs stilled with anticipation.

“Get over here, doll.”

Bucky’s gruff, rumbling words cut through the frenetic energy racing through your body, making you pay attention to him. He sounded weary, but commanding, like a man who’d had a long day and knew he would be obeyed.

At the tone of his voice, you felt a cool, calming sensation cascade down from the crown of your head to your shoulders, loosening your muscles and settling something inside you. Your knee stopped bouncing and your hand fell from your mouth.

You stood on steady legs and took deliberate steps toward Bucky. Your eyes were fixed on the handsome super-soldier, who stared back at you, intensity simmering in his bright blue gaze.

The metallic sound of Bucky’s zipper sent a delicious shiver down your spine, warmth sinking deeper into your core and calming you even further. Your eyes drifted down to Bucky’s lap, and you watched as he pulled his cock free from his pants.

He wasn’t hard yet, but his cock was already thickening, blood rushing to the shaft as Bucky watched you approach. He laid his cock against the coarse, black fabric still covering his thighs, leaving it there like a treat that was only for you.

Eager excitement swirled in your belly and saliva gathered in you mouth as you anticipated what was coming—how Bucky’s velvet-soft skin would feel on your tongue, how the flavor of him would fill your mouth with salt and musk, how his smell would fill your senses, blotting out everything else until there was only him.

Your eyes were a little hazy with lust as you sank to your knees between Bucky’s spread legs, your hands resting on his thick, muscled thighs for balance. There, you waited, staring up into your handsome super-soldier’s face.

A small smile curved his mouth, which was tucked deep into the thick scruff covering his cheeks and jaw. He brushed his fingers affectionately over your cheek and you leaned into the reverent touch with a happy hum.

“You’re sure this is what you want, baby?” he asked softly, his voice so gentle it warmed your heart.

You practically purred as you nuzzled into Bucky’s hand, closing your eyes and savoring his warmth as you gave his words the consideration you knew he expected.

You took stock of yourself—you’d stopped fidgeting, and your anxious thoughts had stopped racing. You were excited for what you were about to do. You wanted to do it.

So you found Bucky’s gaze and smiled up at him. “I’m sure, Bucky,” you said in your own soft, admiring tone. “I want this, please.” You stared up at him with wide, pleading eyes, and after a moment of searching your face, he relented.

Bucky ducked forward, pressing a brief, firm kiss to your smiling lips, and then he sat back. He sank deep into the couch he was sitting on, extending his arms along the back, looking every bit like the commanding super-soldier he was in these moments.

For a second, he just sat there, staring down at you with lust shimmering in his eyes while you knelt at his feet. Your hands still rested on his thighs, but they didn’t dare slide closer to where you wanted to touch him.

Instead, you waited patiently for Bucky to give you permission to do what you so desperately wanted—what you needed to finally, fully quell the leftover energy in your body.

“Play with it.”

A sharp exhale of relief escaped your lips and you took a moment to revel in the way that command made you feel—calm, steady, powerful. Then you were leaning forward and pressing a sweet kiss to the tip of Bucky’s cock.

It jumped at your touch, making you giggle softly, and you wrapped your fingers around the stiffening length, brushing more butterfly kisses around the head. Bucky grunted and settled deeper into the couch, his blue eyes blazing as he watched you.

A playful smirk curved your lips as you lifted Bucky’s cock so you could lick a long, teasingly slow path up the underside, wringing another grunt from your super-soldier. You stroked him lightly in your hand, brushing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft as he hardened in your grasp.

While you kept playing with Bucky’s cock, you reached into his pants and cupped his balls, enjoying the heaviness against your fingers. Kissing your way down his length, you buried your face under the base of his cock, taking a deep breath until his musky scent filled your head.

You felt like you were floating, giving yourself over to instinct and letting your body take over. Your lips wrapped around Bucky’s balls, suckling on him gently while you licked the salty taste of him from his soft, paper-thin skin.

Above you, Bucky groaned, the sound so deep and dripping with pleasure, it sent tingles of delight dancing down your spine. They settled heavily between your thighs, and you could feel your slit growing damp, but you pressed your legs tightly closed and focused on your super-soldier.

By the time Bucky’s balls were covered in your drooling spit, his cock was fully hard and ready for you to truly play with him. You turned your face, your lips mouthing at the base and your tongue eagerly lapping up the musky flavor of him, reveling in just how good he tasted.

Your hand idly stroked Bucky’s length while you made out with the base of his cock, and when you felt the first dribble of his precum, you kissed and licked your way up the shaft. Swirling your tongue around the tip, you moaned at the taste of his salty come, already excited for when he’d spill in your mouth.

Bucky gave an answering grunt when he felt the vibrations from your mouth reverberate down his dick. His hips lifted slightly off the couch, his cock pushing a little deeper into your mouth, before he got control of himself and settled back down into the cushions.

Muffling a quiet snicker around his cock, you looked up at Bucky, wanting to see how undone he already was. Warm pride spread through your chest at the expression on his face.

Bucky’s handsome features were drawn, the corners of his mouth twisted down in a grimace of pleasure, and his blue eyes burned into yours with the intensity of his desire. The edge of his scruffy jaw was ticking, like he was barely holding on to his control.

That expression only made you want to play with him some more. So you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, keeping your wide eyes fixed on his face. Then, you smacked the head of Bucky’s cock on your tongue a few times.

The super-soldier’s eyes darkened, and the veins in his neck stood out in stark relief as he groaned like you were torturing him. You almost snickered again, but the blazing heat in Bucky’s eyes spurred you on to keep teasing him.

Your lips closed around the tip of his cock and you pulled him into your warm mouth, sucking on the head while you stroked his length slowly. You pulled off him with a quiet pop, and pressed kisses along his shaft while you stared up at your super-soldier, loving the way he watched you so intently.

“Good girl,” Bucky grunted, his fingers brushing reverently over the apple of your cheek while you smiled against his cock. “Worship your sergeant, doll—show me how much you adore being a good girl for me by worshipping my fucking cock.”

“Mm, yes sir,” you purred, shooting Bucky a playful smirk before you stuck out your tongue and traced the veins of his shaft down to the base.

He grunted, his fingers flexing against your jaw, and you could feel him fighting to remain in control, to allow you to play with him and worship him like he’d asked. It made you want to push him, to see if he’d snap—even though experience told you he wouldn’t.

Tipping your face up to look at your super-soldier, you nuzzled your soft cheek against his cock, letting him see the way your eyes glazed over. You knew the dumb look on your face made Bucky feral, and you were rewarded with a low growl in his chest.

“God, I love your cock so much,” you simpered, putting just a hint of a pouty whine into your voice that you knew drove Bucky wild. “Wanna suck your cock every day, sergeant—wanna worship your cock until I’m a mindless little sucktoy all for you.”

Bucky chuckled above you, but you could hear the strain in it and feel the tension building in his body. You could feel the way you were winding him up with your dirty words and adoring mouth by the way his thighs tensed beside your head.

Your super-soldier’s hand shifted from your jaw and settled on the crown of your head, gently pushing your face deeper into his lap. His movements were still so controlled, but you could feel him breaking, just a little.

“Don’t forget my balls, baby,” Bucky rumbled, his voice a little breathless as his chest heaved with rough breaths. “Ya gotta worship those too.”

With a happy hum of agreement, you let Bucky guide your mouth to his balls, taking over when your lips brushed against the soft skin covering his sac, lapping at him with your tongue.

His taste and smell filled your senses again, you moaned wantonly, wanting Bucky to know how much you enjoyed worshipping his balls. You also loved the way he grunted above you, his hand tightening on your head while he held himself back from pushing your face deeper into him.

Eagerly, you licked and sucked on Bucky’s balls, taking as much of him into your mouth as you could manage and suckling on him. He tasted like pure man—pure Bucky—and it made you go a little cross-eyed, another moan reverberating through your full mouth.

“That’s a gooood girl,” Bucky praised, petting your head while you worshipped his balls. “Such a good girl for your sergeant.”

When you glanced up, you found him watching you, and the desire darkening his eyes sent a bolt of pleasure down your spine. His cheeks above the dark scruff were flushed a deep pink, and his mouth was curved into a satisfied smile that made you want to be even better for your super-soldier.

You held Bucky’s gaze while you licked and kissed and mouthed at his balls, showing him just how much you adored him. His eyes never left yours, his expression reflecting so much pride and lust, it brought a small smile to your face.

Bucky’s fingers traced the curve of your cheek, brushing the edge of your smile, before he gently grabbed your chin and pulled you away.

His balls fell from your lips and you pouted, sitting back on your heels and staring up at him expectantly.

“Ready to suck my cock, doll?” he asked, a knowing smirk on his face.

You didn’t have to think long about Bucky’s question, it was what you’d wanted all along—you wanted to bring him pleasure and you were excited to do it. So you nodded eagerly up at Bucky and chirped, “Yes, sir.”

“Ask nicely,” Bucky rumbled in a serious tone, the edges of his mouth fluttering like he was holding back a smile.

He looked so handsome in that moment, trying to maintain a stern expression with bits of his soft brown hair falling into his eyes, which were sparkling with lust and affection all for you. A happy smile spread across your face and you bounced a little on your knees.

“May I please suck your cock, sergeant?” you asked in your sweetest voice, staring up at your super-soldier with wide, pleading eyes and your lips plumped up in a pout. That expression always worked on him.

Bucky’s big hand cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping over your slightly swollen lower lip, catching some of the saliva that had pooled in the corner of your mouth. He smeared it into the skin of your cheek, his eyes darkening further as he watched.

“I can’t decide if this if my favorite part,” he began, his eyes raking greedily over your pleading expression while you whined pitifully. “Or the part when my cock is buried deep in your throat and your pretty face is a mess with tears and drool while you choke on it.”

A shiver raced down your spine, making your pussy pulse between your thighs while your shoulders trembled. Your eyes closed for a brief moment, your mind basking in Bucky’s filthy words, before they snapped open and you looked up at your super-soldier.

“Bucky,” you whined sharply, shifting excitedly on your knees while you rubbed your cheek against his calloused palm. He looked so intimidating, looming over you in his all-black superhero suit, which made you all the more eager to please him. “Please, sergeant, may I suck your cock—I wanna be a good girl and suck your cock, please.”

For a moment, Bucky remained unmoved by your begging, then a wolfish grin stole across his handsome face. He pushed his thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

Instinctively, your lips wrapped around his thick finger, and you sucked gently on it, tasting the salt of his skin and the leather from his gun holster.

Your eyes went hooded and hazy, your head bobbing gently as you took Bucky’s thumb deeper, sucking on him like you would his cock.

Bucky’s grin widened and he petted your head soothingly with his other hand. “You’re such a good suckdoll aren’t you, baby?” he asked, his voice equal parts mocking and affectionate. “Such a pretty, perfect suckpuppet for your sergeant, huh?”

With his thumb still in your mouth, you nodded as best you could, sucking on him harder and bobbing your head faster, showing him how you wanted to worship his cock. When you hummed around him, Bucky grunted and pulled his thumb from your mouth.

Your lips made a soft popping sound, and drool dribbled down your chin, but you didn’t move to wipe it away. You frowned up at your super-soldier, put out that he’d taken his thumb away.

“Don’t pout, baby, I’m about to give you what you want,” Bucky cooed, cupping your face and swiping his slick thumb over your cheek, rubbing your saliva into your skin.

The two of you lingered in that moment, Bucky’s eyes meeting yours in a silent question, checking in with you. When you smiled up at him, encouraging him to continue, he tipped your face up and dropped a claiming kiss on your lips that had your heart thumping harder in your chest.

Then Bucky was leaning back into the couch and lifting his hips, pushing his cock toward your face before settling back down. “Go on, doll, suck my cock.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Sliding your fingers around the thick base of Bucky’s cock, you brought him to your lips, feeling the heavy weight of him on your tongue as you sucked him into your mouth. Above you, Bucky groaned deeply, his hand going back to your head and petting you absently while you took him inside your warm, slick mouth.

He was hard and thick and the salty taste of his cock was so delicious, you felt saliva pooling beneath your tongue, making the slide of him in and out of your mouth even easier. You moaned around him, enjoying the way he twitched and leaked more precum into the back of your throat.

It didn’t take long before you lost yourself in the rhythm of bobbing on Bucky’s hard length, letting your mind go entirely blank as you gave yourself over to the physical act of sucking your super-soldier’s cock. All the post-mission anxiety was soothed, the leftover energy channeled into pleasing your sergeant.

This was exactly what you needed to settle down after a mission, and you were grateful Bucky understood, that he happily joined you in your post-mission ritual.

The fingers of his free hand tangled with yours, where your hand lay on his thigh, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, keeping you grounded in the moment.

Gradually, you pushed yourself to take more of Bucky’s cock.

With every stroke into your mouth, you felt him bully against the back of your throat, and you fought to take him deeper. You choked and gagged on his cock, tears streaming down your cheeks and drool dripping down your chin, but you were relentless.

Finally, you managed to get Bucky all the way inside your throat, your lips circling the base of his cock and your chin resting against his drool-soaked balls.

There, with your super-soldier buried fully in your mouth, you exhaled a soft sigh of relief.

You didn’t know why taking him in your throat felt so good, you just knew it settled something deep in your mind, so you stayed like that for a long moment while Bucky soothingly stroked your cheek.

“God, baby,” Bucky groaned, a hitch in his breath, drawing you out of your daze.

You shifted, tipping your face up to look at him and blinking to clear your vision. He helped you, brushing the tears from your eyes while you stared up at him with all the adoration you felt written plainly on your face.

“You look so fucking pretty with my cock in your throat,” Bucky cooed down at you, his fingers trailing through the mess on your face, rubbing your spit and tears into your skin. “I could stare at you like this all night.”

A soft whine worked its way up your throat, making your muscles squeeze around Bucky’s cock, wringing a pleasured grunt from the super-soldier. He laughed even as his chest heaved from the pleasure of his cock in your throat.

“Don’t worry, doll, I won’t make you warm my cock all night,” he promised, stroking your cheek reverently before he sat back into the couch. “You go ahead and suck—make me come whenever you’re ready, baby.”

There was affection and exhaustion in Bucky’s voice as he settled into the couch cushions, and you felt your own weariness beginning to seep into your bones. You knew you were both reaching the limits of your post-mission adrenaline.

So you got back to work, bobbing your head on Bucky’s cock and sucking him off, using the hand not tangled with his to cup his balls and squeeze him gently. You knew your super-soldier well enough to know what he liked, so you gave him exactly that.

“Fuck, ‘m close, baby,” Bucky grunted after a little while, his free hand resting on your head and guiding you to the pace he wanted. He started fucking your mouth, his control unravelling quickly as he used your mouth for his own pleasure.

You let him take control, your eyes slipping closed for a moment while you reveled in the feeling of your super-soldier using your mouth like his own personal sucktoy. But you opened them again when Bucky grunted loudly, wanting to watch your sergeant lose himself.

Bucky’s handsome face was twisted with pleasure, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim room as he chased his release in your mouth. He looked fearsome and beautiful, and all you felt was gratitude that his cock was in your mouth and he was using you to get off.

Before your super-soldier succumbed to his pleasure, Bucky caught your eye, and growled, “When I come, you hold it all in your mouth, y’hear?”

Quickly, you hummed your agreement around his cock, squeezing his fingers for good measure, so you knew he understood. He let out another grunt, then shoved your face into his lap, his hips rising up off the couch as he fucked your mouth harder.

You wrapped your lips tightly around Bucky’s cock, sucking hard on him while he rutted against your face He used you like a perfect little suckdoll, grunting and groaning his pleasure above you until he finally went still.

With a vicious growl, Bucky came, his cock throbbing between your lips. At the last second, he pulled your head back until only the tip of his hard length remained in your mouth.

You felt the first rope of his come shoot onto your tongue, and you tipped your face up, watching the pleasure and relief soften Bucky’s handsome face. He groaned loudly, his hips bucking, shallowly fucking your mouth while he was lost to his release.

You stroked him through it all, feeling his cock throbbing and twitching beneath your fingers as you focused on not swallowing. Instead, you let his come fill up your mouth, until some of it was leaking and dribbling out of the corners, joining the mess on your face.

When Bucky was done, he carefully pulled his softening cock from your lips, his eyes watching your face intently. His big hand cupped your jaw and he tipped your face up, his big body looming over you as his eyes narrowed on your tightly closed mouth.

“Open up, doll, let me see,” Bucky rumbled, his tone dark and commanding in a way that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

Obediently, you opened your mouth wide, showing the way his come had pooled on your tongue and in the back of your throat. You struggled not to swallow, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, which Bucky sweetly brushed from your cheeks.

Your super-soldier stared down at you with so much pride and affection shining in his eyes, your heart warmed in your chest and you squirmed happily on your knees. The corners of your mouth turned up in the closest thing to a smile as you could manage and you waited for Bucky’s next order.

“Good girl,” he praised, bending down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. He waited until he’d straightened up and could watch before saying, “Now, swallow.”

Your smile widened as you pressed your lips closed, and you gave a happy hum as you swallowed his come, the warmth of satisfaction filling your belly.

Before you could properly savor the taste of him, though, Bucky was scooping you up off the floor and hauling you into his lap, giving your knees a reprieve while he tucked you in against his chest.

“You did so good, baby,” Bucky cooed, peppering your face with kisses, his scruff teasing your skin and making you giggle softly.

All the while, his fingers carefully wiped the drool, tears and come from your face, cleaning you up until his need to take care of you was somewhat appeased. Then he pulled back, his blue eyes soft as they searched yours.

“D’you feel better now?”

A serene smile spread across your face as you took stock of your body. The excess energy from after the mission was long gone, and all you felt was a happy sense of satisfaction.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your nails raking through the scruff on the underside of Bucky’s jaw, tugging him forward until your mouths collided.

He kissed you, deep and thorough, grunting when he tasted himself on your tongue. Your super-solider licked into your mouth, cleaning up all traces of his come as you kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed.

Eventually, Bucky eased his mouth from yours, and the two of you sat with your foreheads pressed together, your hearts settling into a steady, relaxed rhythm.

In that moment, you felt perfectly connected to your super-soldier and you didn’t want it to end—but then you yawned.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” Bucky asked in a low, rumbly voice that sent butterflies fluttering in your belly. He squeezed you tight in his arms. “I wanna take care of my girl—show you how much I appreciate you.”

With a soft laugh, you pulled back and cupped Bucky’s face in your hands, looking at him for a short minute.

He looked a little lighter than he had during the post-mission debrief, some of the stress and strain gone from his expression. His eyes were brighter and his mouth was quicker to smile, which had an answering grin playing on your lips.

You were glad your post-mission ritual had as positive of an effect on him as it did on you, and since you’d burned off your excess energy, you were happy to let him take care of you for the rest of the night. The two of you could wind down together before getting some rest.

“Yeah, Buck, let’s go,” you murmured, then leaned in and captured his lips in a sweet kiss that was too-brief for your liking.

Bucky pulled away before you could drag him into another long make out session, helping you to stand then lacing his fingers through yours. You held your super-soldier’s hand as the two of you walked to his room in New Avengers Tower.

There, you helped each other strip out of your superhero suits and took a shower, with Bucky insisting on washing you first before you could do the same to him. After he dried you off and tugged one of his t-shirts over your head, he led you to his bed.

Your super-soldier laid you down in the thick, warm blankets of his bed and pressed a kiss to your lips before he slid down your body, using his broad shoulders to spread your legs wide while he settled between your thighs.

Bucky took his turn worshipping your body, which lasted well into the night. He used his lips and tongue and teeth to wring one release after the other from your body until you were shaking and crying and begging him to stop. Only when your fingers fisted in his hair and you tugged on him hard enough to hurt did he finally relent.

Sated and spent, you curled up in your super-soldier’s arms, feeling perfectly calm and safe as you fell asleep listening to the steady rhythm of Bucky Barnes’ heart beating alongside yours.

Then, finally, your post-mission ritual was complete.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

#hotbuckysummer2025 #hbs2025 week 5 #witchywithwhiskey #bucky barnes/reader

744 notes · View notes