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imitationplay · 2 months ago

Text

“say it.”

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, body worship, smut, oral sex (m & f receiving), mating press position, emotional intimacy, friends to lovers, jealous reader, touch starved Bucky Barnes, first time sex, marking kink, praise kink, reader is lowkey in control, light sub Bucky, consent is sexy ya’ll

word count: 15k

Summary: You were always so careful with him. Always asked before you touched. Always pulled back when he got too still. But Bucky never pulled away. Not from you.

Then you saw Sharon Carter touch him. Completely innocently. Now your hands are on his thighs, your mouth is at his throat, and you’re making him say he wants you.

(He does. He always has.)

notes – not proofread. there is so much dialogue bc they would not shut up sorry yall they are yappers in love

taglist: @overwintering-soldier @loganficsonly

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

It was always easy, being with Bucky.

Even when the rest of the world was loud — filled with meetings and briefings and training drills that pressed in on your skull like a vice — Bucky had this way of making everything quieter. Not because he was silent. But because he listened. Really listened. Like every word you said had weight.

You weren’t sure when it became routine. Maybe the third time you showed up at his apartment after a mission you weren’t ready to talk about. Or maybe the day you realized his couch molded to your shape better than yours ever had.

But it became yours. The space between you.

And you never took that lightly.

“Hey,” you said gently, that one night after brushing against his arm too fast. Your fingers had grazed his wrist, metal brushing against skin before you even registered the motion. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Still, you stopped. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked.”

He turned to look at you, brows soft. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do. I know you’re okay with it, but I never want you to feel like you have to be.”

That got him. You saw it in the way his shoulders loosened, in the breath he let out like you’d just lifted something from his chest.

“I am okay with it,” he said, more firmly now. “With you. I don’t…” He hesitated. “It doesn’t feel the same.”

You tilted your head. “As what?”

He looked at his hands. His right flesh one, curled loosely over his thigh. His left — the metal one — twitching once before going still. “As when anyone else touches me. You don’t take. You ask.”

You let the silence stretch for a second. Let it land. Then nodded. “Well,” you said softly, nudging his socked foot with yours, “I’m still gonna keep asking. Even if it’s always yes.”

He huffed something close to a laugh. “Stubborn.”

“Safe,” you corrected.

He smiled at that.

It became your rhythm.

You brought takeout and he picked the movie. He told you about his therapy sessions in half-sentences and you waited out the rest with quiet looks. You never pushed. You just made space.

He always sat with enough room between you to let you choose — to cross the distance if you wanted. Sometimes you did. Sometimes you didn’t.

And every time your fingers brushed, you paused. Just long enough to say, Is this okay?

The answer was always yes.

But you knew that didn’t mean always.

So you never assumed.

Once, during a late-night rerun marathon, you fell asleep on his shoulder.

It was unintentional — the kind of gradual tilt that happens after hours of half-lidded blinking and the warm weight of familiarity. You didn’t realize it had happened until you stirred from a dream and felt the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek.

You tensed, heat blooming in your chest. “Shit—sorry, Buck—”

His voice came immediately, low and steady. “Don’t move.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

“I… I like it,” he said quietly, as though admitting it might scare it off. “Feels nice.”

You froze. Not from discomfort — but from the ache in your chest, the one that pulsed louder every time he let a little more softness slip through the cracks.

You didn’t move. Just curled in a little closer and let him hold you.

He didn’t flinch then, either.

Another time, you reached for a door ahead of him and accidentally caught his hand — metal fingers warm from his coffee cup, cool at the joints. You let go instantly.

“Sorry—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupted, voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Stop apologizing.”

You looked up, breath stuck in your throat.

“You never treat me like I’m fragile. Like I’ll break. You just… ask. And that’s more than most people ever did.”

You swallowed, pulse fluttering. “I just don’t want to be another hand that takes without checking first.”

“You won’t be,” he said, something softer than affection in his eyes. “You couldn’t.”

And for a second, you thought he might reach for you.

But he didn’t.

He just smiled — quiet and fond — and opened the door for you.

Now, sitting on his fire escape at nearly midnight, a blanket draped over both your shoulders, you watch him nurse a mug of chamomile and stare out over Brooklyn like he’s trying to memorize the skyline.

He hasn’t said much tonight. But that’s okay.

He doesn’t have to.

You shift slightly so your knee brushes his. He doesn’t pull away.

You don’t ask this time. You just stay there. Quiet, steady. A little closer than usual. And when he exhales, long and slow like it’s been trapped in him all day, you feel it in your chest too.

You don’t say it yet.

Not I love you.

Not I want to touch you like you’ve never been touched before.

Not I’d give anything to make you feel wanted again.

But maybe soon.

Because tonight, for the first time, he lets his head tip sideways to rest against yours.

And you don’t have to ask.

There came a point in the course of your friendship where you stopped asking to touch his hands.

Not because it didn’t matter — but because it had become so easy. So natural. Resting your fingers lightly over his knuckles when you passed him a mug. Brushing your knee against his under the kitchen table while Val rattled on about team dynamics and Bob’s idea for mandatory karaoke. Hooking your pinky around his in the backseat of the SUV on longer missions, where the road hummed like a lullaby and the quiet between you stretched like thread.

The first time you laced your fingers through his and didn’t look for permission, he squeezed gently.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Somehow, he always knew when it was you.

You still asked for new things.

The tipsy night you draped your arm over his shoulders at the bar — your chin balanced on his shoulder, your breath warm on his jaw — you whispered, “Is this okay?” against the shell of his ear, even as the others laughed over a round of shots you hadn’t yet taken.

He just turned his head, cheek brushing yours. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

Your nose bumped his jaw before you pulled back.

That night ended the way so many did lately: half the team crashing at someone’s place, jackets draped over chairs, heels kicked off at the door, someone trying to order food at two in the morning.

You barely remembered whose apartment it even was. Just that Bucky had an arm around your waist as you stumbled through the door together, your laughter tucked into the hollow of his throat.

“Come sleep in the room,” you murmured when he started gathering pillows for the couch.

He shook his head, already fluffing one of them with that quiet determination of his. “Nah. You take the bed. I’ll be fine out here.”

“You’ll be uncomfortable.”

He glanced up, blue eyes steady. “Doesn’t matter.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

He wasn’t pushing you away. He was protecting something. Maybe not you — maybe just the thing between you. The careful line he thought you both needed to toe.

So you nodded. Said, “Okay,” and walked away.

But twenty minutes later, wrapped in (who you now assume to be John’s) too-soft sheets with the pillow still smelling like cologne that wasn’t his, you slipped out.

Barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, you padded into the living room.

He was still awake.

The room was dark except for the soft flicker of the TV — some old movie playing with the volume barely audible. He looked half asleep, arm curled behind his head, metal hand resting over his chest like a weight he didn’t know how to let go of.

You hovered for a second, heartbeat loud in your throat.

“Can I lay with you?”

He blinked up at you, slow, like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then, quietly, he said, “Yeah.”

You crossed the room before you could second guess it.

His arm lifted automatically, and you slid in beside him — no hesitation this time, not from either of you. Your body pressed flush against his, chest to chest, hips aligned. Your thigh slid over his, your hand resting on the curve of his waist.

Your face tucked into his neck, the soft stubble there like static against your skin.

You let your hand find the base of his neck, fingers slipping into the soft hair curling just above the collar of his shirt. He let out a breath you felt more than heard.

Then his arm wrapped around you. Not tentative. Not hesitant. Just… there. Solid and strong and steady.

You could feel the beat of his heart against your ribs, slow and sure. “I couldn’t sleep,” you murmured against his throat.

“I know,” he said.

“You don’t mind?”

His hand skimmed down your back, slow. “You know I don’t,” he said softly, his affection clear in his voice.

You pressed a kiss to the hinge of his jaw — not romantic, not quite — just something soft. Something grateful.

He didn’t move. Just held you closer.

You stayed like that. Curled against his chest, hand in his hair, his breath warm at your temple. You could feel him — every part of him — molded to you like he’d been waiting for this shape, this stillness.

And still, neither of you said what was burning between your ribs.

It started during the debrief.

You were sitting across from Bucky at the mission table, nursing a half-busted wrist and trying really hard not to look at Sharon Carter, who was currently standing way too close behind his chair.

Her hand was on his shoulder. Again.

Like it lived there.

Like that was normal.

For the third time already and the mission hadn’t even started.

And Bucky? Not flinching. Not moving. Just sitting there listening to Val give the rundown with that neutral, brooding face he wore when he was pretending not to be extremely aware of how everyone in the room was staring at him.

You stared at your wrap instead. Tugged it a little tighter. Bit your tongue.

But when Sharon laughed at something and squeezed his shoulder like they were old friends, your jaw clenched so hard it nearly cracked.

You didn’t say anything when the debrief ended. Just stood and shouldered your gear, keeping your eyes anywhere but on the hand still curled over Bucky’s shoulder.

Yelena shot you a look. The kind that meant You okay? but also Do you want me to break her fingers? You didn’t answer either question. Just gave her a flat look and walked out of the room.

The flight to the drop point was silent. Tense. You sat on the bench seat across from Bucky again, knees bumping every time the quinjet shuddered in turbulence. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Sharon was next to him.

Not across.

Next to.

Her leg pressed against his like they were in coach and her hand reached out to brace against the edge of his thigh when the jet tilted. You didn’t look, but you saw it. Peripheral vision was a bitch.

She was laughing at something John had said. You didn’t hear the joke. Didn’t care. Just tugged your jacket higher, stared out the window, and tried to remember that you were good at this. That you didn’t need to get tangled in whatever-the-hell-that-was.

But then came the mission.

Simple recon. A split team perimeter sweep while Bucky and Sharon went inside the compound to retrieve the drive.

Because of course they were paired up. Of course Val thought that was a smart choice. Of course your comms were synced with them, so you got to hear every exchanged breath between them as you trailed the outer wall with Ava.

It was mostly quiet.

Mostly.

Until Sharon slipped—some minor tripwire or loose gravel—and there was a soft gasp, followed by, “Careful, soldier.”

And then—

“Thanks,” she said, and your stomach twisted before she even finished the sentence.

“I forget how steady you are.”

Steady. You pressed your back to the concrete wall and pretended the earpiece wasn’t buzzing against your skull.

But then she laughed again, lower this time. “Nice catch,” she murmured, and then—then—the sound of her hand brushing over the strap of his tactical vest, fingers tapping near his wrist, soft.

You clenched your own injured wrist tighter in its wrap.

By the time you all regrouped, the compound was cleared, the drive was secure, and you were pretending you didn’t have fire burning in your throat.

Bucky was first out the gate, expression unreadable. You followed behind, sticking to Ava’s side while John and Bob debated where the second extraction point should’ve been.

And then Sharon came out.

She said something to Bucky—low again—and you didn’t catch the words. Just saw the way she leaned in like it was muscle memory, the way her arms wrapped around his shoulders like they’d done this a hundred times before.

And he—

He let her.

Didn’t hug back. Didn’t even move much. But he let her.

Your heart did something ugly in your chest. Something raw and sharp and stupid.

You turned away before anyone saw your face. Didn’t see if he looked at you.

Didn’t want to.

“So, you and Sharon,” you said later, back at his apartment. “That’s a thing now?”

Bucky glanced up from his kitchen sink, utterly unfazed. “What?”

You leaned on the doorway. “You seemed real cozy.”

“Cozy?”

You nodded, lips pursed. “Yeah. Shoulder touches, hand holding, post-mission hugs. Very… comfortable.”

A pause.

Then Bucky huffed a laugh under his breath. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m just saying,” you continued, arms crossed. “If that’s your new thing, I can adjust my expectations.”

He dried his hands, turned, leaned back against the counter with that signature what am I gonna do with you smirk.

“You jealous, sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened.

“No.”

He tilted his head, grinning. “That’s a lie.”

You rolled your eyes. “I just didn’t realize you were letting everyone rub up on you these days.”

“She just hugged me.”

“She touched your wrist.”

“So do you,” he said simply. “All the time.”

“Yeah, but I ask first.”

He raised a brow. “You think that means you get less access or something?”

“I think I follow the rules.”

He laughed — laughed — and crossed the kitchen toward you.

“Oh, your self made rules?”

“You’re the one with the boundary issues!”

“And you’re the one who made a formal declaration every time you accidentally brushed my arm for the first six months.”

You scowled. “That’s called respect.”

“That’s called putting yourself in a box I never asked you to be in.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

And Bucky — smug bastard that he was — just kept talking. “You think I don’t like when you touch me? You think I haven’t been waiting for you to stop asking since, like, week three?”

You blinked. “You have not.”

“I have,” he said, stepping closer, voice low and amused. “You think Sharon Carter’s little wrist grab meant anything to me when you won’t even sit in my lap without issuing a written statement of consent first?”

You glared. “I don’t need to sit in your lap.”

“You could.”

“I won’t.”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “Because that would be too easy. To just act on what you want.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You stared him down. He stared back, smug and relaxed and infuriatingly good-looking in his henley. Then, softer, he said, “You could touch me whenever you want, you know. I’d never stop you.”

You didn’t reply. Just stepped around him, shoulder brushing his chest — deliberately.

And this time, you didn’t say a word.

The air between you hasn’t softened— not really —but it’s no longer sharp. It’s just coiled. Tension curled like a spring between your ribs.

You flop onto his couch dramatically, the same spot you always take, limbs spread like you’re claiming the whole thing. Bucky follows a beat later, settling into the opposite corner with a sigh that’s trying to sound casual. It doesn’t land.

You cross your legs and pointedly don’t look at him. “Just for the record, I’m still mad about the wrist thing.”

He smirks. “Thought you weren’t mad.”

“I’m mad on behalf of consistency,” you say, pouting. “I have to petition to graze your forearm, and Sharon just—”

“Touched my wrist,” he says, deadpan. “Again, your rules are self-inflicted.”

You throw your legs over his lap without looking at him. It’s a bold move — or at least bolder than usual. You don’t ask. You don’t say anything. You just do it.

Bucky doesn’t move.

Doesn’t shift away, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t so much as blink.

You wiggle your toes against the hem of his shirt, feigning distraction as you flick through his TV options like the remote holds the answers to your problems.

“Just so we’re clear,” you mumble, “this doesn’t mean I’m not still annoyed either.”

He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise.”

“And I’m definitely not touching you because I want to.”

“Of course not.”

“This is about reclaiming my right to spontaneous affection.”

“That’s a noble cause, sweetheart.”

You glance at him, trying not to smile. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugs, his palm resting now just behind your knee, thumb lazily brushing your exposed skin. “You pout when you’re flustered. It’s cute.”

“I’m not flustered,” you say, pouting.

He lifts a brow. “You sure?”

You cross your arms and flop back against the cushions, sighing dramatically. “I was trying to protect your boundaries.”

“And I appreciate that,” he says, not missing a beat. “Even if you were mostly doing it to protect yourself.”

You sit up a little. “Excuse me?”

He’s looking at you now, relaxed but focused. “Come on. You’re not mad about Sharon. You’re mad that you want more from me and don’t know how to ask for it.”

That hits harder than you expect. You try to recover with a scoff. “Wow. You get one hug and suddenly you’re what, a therapist?”

“I’m not wrong.”

You shift, eyes narrowing. “I do ask. Every time.”

“Exactly,” he says, voice gentler now. “You always ask. Even when you don’t have to. Especially when you don’t have to. And only ever for small things.”

Your lips press together.

“And that’s not bad,” he goes on. “It’s thoughtful. It’s careful. But it’s not really about me, is it?”

You look at him then— really look.

And you hate how well he knows you. How easy it is for him to see straight through all your dramatic flailing and defensive posturing.

“You think I’m scared?” you ask, quieter now.

“I think you’re brave everywhere except here.”

That lands. Heavy, quiet, true. You sit with it for a long moment, heart hammering louder than the TV.

Then— still trying to pretend you’re unaffected— you lean forward and let your fingers trail deliberately over the inside of his wrist. Just once. Light, but lingering.

He doesn’t move.

You don’t look at him.

“Fine,” you murmur. “Then consider this me being brave.”

His breath hitches— just a little. And his hand turns over, palm up, offering.

An invitation.

You hesitate—because this means something, doesn’t it?—and then your fingers slide into his, slow and warm, lacing together like it’s instinct instead of decision. His palm is bigger, rougher. Familiar. Your thumb finds the space between his knuckles and traces it absentmindedly, trying to act like your whole body isn’t humming with finally.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just watches your hand in his like it’s an inevitability he’s been waiting on for a while.

You settle back into the couch—sort of. Your legs are still sprawled across his lap, and now, with your hand in his and your hip leaning in, you’re half-twisted toward him. Practically in his lap after all.

Not that he seems to mind.

The tension is quieter now. Not gone, just… lower, darker. Beneath the surface. A ripple instead of a storm.

You try not to look pleased with yourself. Try not to notice the way his fingers tighten when yours start to slip, just slightly. How he pulls them back into place.

You’re just starting to relax into it—let the silence grow easy again—when his phone buzzes.

Bucky sighs, reluctantly shifting to grab it from the coffee table. Your hand remains in his. You think he’ll let go.

He doesn’t.

“Yeah?” he answers, pressing the phone to his ear, still only half-listening.

You can hear Sam on the other end, loud as ever.

“Barnes. We’re heading to this rooftop bar downtown. Sharon picked it. You in or are you too old and tired?”

You lean in closer, still pretending you’re not listening.

Then Sharon’s voice filters through the speaker. “Come on, Buck. You owe me a drink. We decided back in Madripoor— one wrist-holding equals one cocktail, remember?”

Bucky snorts. “That’s not how that works.”

You narrow your eyes. Real slow. Then your hand—still laced with his—tugs. Gently at first, then with more purpose. You use the leverage of your legs over his lap to pull yourself closer, closing what little space remains. You’re angled in now, chest brushing his bicep, hand still holding his like it’s yours. Like it’s always been yours.

He glances at you, amused.

Your free hand finds the back of his neck, settling at the base of his skull—where the hair is soft, always a little messy when he’s not mission-polished. You toy with it for a moment, let your nails scrape lightly.

Then, without thinking, you curl your fingers and tug. Not hard. But not soft either.

He goes still mid-sentence. “—yeah, I’ll think about—” His voice wobbles.

You don’t say a word. Your fingers relax, smoothing the spot. Innocent. So innocent.

Except you’re not. And he knows it.

He covers the speaker with his hand and looks at you fully now, something sharp and teasing in his eyes. “Really?”

You smile—tight-lipped, unapologetic.

He leans in an inch. Just enough so his breath brushes your cheek. “You good, sweetheart?”

You shrug, petting his neck again. “I’m fine. Just bored.”

He watches you for a second. Something in his jaw flexes. Then he brings the phone back to his ear. “Yeah. I’m out tonight.”

Sam groans audibly through the receiver. “You are so annoying—”

Bucky hangs up mid-rant.

You grin. “Rude.”

He drops the phone onto the table with a dull clack, then shifts back to face you—slow, deliberate. His hand is still wrapped around yours, thumb sweeping absent patterns over your skin.

“I knew you were jealous.”

You pout. “I was not.”

“You pulled my hair.”

“That was an accident.”

“You pulled it during a call.”

You hum. “Timing’s everything.”

He’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve, but he’s having fun watching you pretend to be difficult about it. His hand squeezes yours again, firm.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he says, voice quieter now.

You blink up at him, blinking far too innocently. “I’m being brave.”

He laughs—low, real—and drags your joined hands to his chest.

“Keep going, then.”

You shift so that your legs drape lazily over his lap like it’s the most natural place in the world to be. His hand’s still tangled with yours, resting on his chest, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He’s looking at you now. Watching. Not speaking.

You like that.

You reach for the collar of his t-shirt with your free hand, tugging it straight even though it’s not wrinkled. Your knuckles skim the line of his throat. He swallows.

You sit back, all faux-casual, and say, “Y’know, you really should go meet Sharon and Sam. They sounded fun.”

His eyes narrow a fraction. “You want me to go?”

You hum. “I think it’d be good for you. Socialization. Fresh air. Get your wrist touched again, maybe.”

He scoffs under his breath, like he’s trying not to laugh. You lift your hand from his collar, brushing invisible lint off his shoulder with slow, lingering strokes. Down over his bicep. Across his forearm. Light. Innocent.

Coy as hell.

“I mean, Sharon said you owe her a drink,” you add, cocking your head. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“You offering to walk me there?” he asks.

“I could.”

“Would you keep touching me like this the whole way?”

You pause. Then press your palm fully against his chest, right over his heart, and say sweetly, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His chest rises beneath your hand. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, voice rougher now.

You pout. “Why?”

“You’re telling me to go with your mouth—”

You smile. “But?”

“But you’re saying don’t you dare fucking move with your hands.”

“Am I?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Your fingers are already gliding back up, this time toward the base of his neck again. The curls there are still soft from the shower, and this time, you don’t tug.

You just play.

Curling, twisting, letting your fingertips rake lightly as you lean in just a little closer. Close enough that your knee presses between his legs now, shifting the air between you.

His breathing slows. Measured. On purpose.

You tilt your head. “Still think I’m scared?”

He studies you for a long second, eyes flicking from your mouth to your hand to the place where your thigh presses against him.

“No,” he says finally. “Not anymore.”

You smile again, pleased, and lean forward enough that your shoulder brushes his. Then, voice soft and teasing, you say, “You sure you want me to touch you how I really want to?”

There’s a pause— not from doubt, but from weight. You feel it when he exhales. Deep. Grounded. Hungry.

Then his hand— the one still tangled with yours— squeezes.

Hard.

And he says, “Try me.”

You don’t move right away. Instead, you ease back a fraction, your head tilted slightly as you study him—really study him. His chest rising slower now, like he’s forcing calm. The way his jaw ticks, and his throat works once like he’s already anticipating where this is going.

You shift in his lap—slow, smooth. You let one leg slide over until you’re fully straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, the soft pressure of your body settling into his with delicious closeness.

He doesn’t move, doesn't touch you, but you feel his breath catch. And that’s enough.

You trail your fingers down the line of his collarbone, feather-light. Like you’re memorizing the map of him one centimeter at a time. He’s warm beneath the fabric, solid, always so still when he wants to be.

“You’re really gonna sit there and let me touch you like this?” you murmur, voice just shy of innocent.

“I said try me,” he says, low and steady. You grin, then bend slightly to press your palms against his chest. One over his heart, the other drifting slowly across to his shoulder, feeling the slope of muscle beneath your fingertips.

“What do you like?” you ask softly.

His brow lifts, surprised. “What?”

Your voice drops a little more. “When someone touches you. What kind of touch do you like?”

He hesitates. Swallows. “You.”

“Not what I asked.”

“You’re the only one I want touching me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Your chest squeezes but you recover quickly, letting your fingers explore again— this time down the slope of his shoulder, then lower, dragging along the length of his bicep with just enough pressure to feel the twitch beneath your hand.

You lean in close, your mouth near his ear now. “So you like when I touch your arms?”

He huffs, not quite a laugh. “That a serious question?”

You run both hands down his arms now, slowly, until you reach his wrists. You toy with the edge of his sleeve, then slide your fingers over the metal of his left arm, slow and reverent.

“You always let me touch this,” you murmur, voice softer now. “Even when no one else could.”

He shivers.

And when you look up, his pupils are blown wide. Still, he’s trying to stay composed. It makes you want to ruin him slowly.

You lift his metal hand, kissing the inside of his wrist, then dragging your nose along the seam of the vibranium like it’s something to worship. Then you switch, taking his flesh hand in both of yours, pressing a kiss into the center of his palm.

His breath stutters.

You tilt your head, eyes locking with his. “You like it when I do that?”

“I like everything you do,” he says hoarsely, almost helplessly.

You smile. “Good.”

Then you start moving. Your hands return to his chest, gliding down his ribcage, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his t-shirt, slow and testing. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, but he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t shift. His hands are still on his thighs, fists curled tight like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

You smooth your palms up under his shirt, over the plane of his stomach—hard muscle, warm skin, scattered scars. Your thumbs trace the edges of them gently.

“Is it okay that I touch you here?” you whisper, softer now, but purposeful.

He nods once, slow. “Yeah. Just… keep going.”

You do.

You inch higher, not rushed, not greedy. You press your palms flat over his chest, then spread your fingers wide, tracing over his pecs with deliberate intent. He’s bigger than you let yourself notice before—broad and built and so solid, like the world couldn’t move him if it tried.

You pause with your hands still inside his shirt, then pull back to admire the way he’s looking at you.

Like he’s not sure if this is real. Like he’s dying to touch you back and refusing to break his own unspoken rule.

“You’re being very well-behaved,” you murmur.

He lets out a low, unsteady laugh. “You think I’m not losing my mind right now?”

You grin and rake your fingers down his stomach again—this time with your nails just enough to make him twitch. “You’re not even touching me,” you whisper. “You’re just letting me have you.”

His voice is tight now. “You always had me.”

You go still. The words land deeper than you’re ready for. But you don’t let that stop you.

You lean in, mouth near his again, close enough to breathe the same air. Then your fingers trail down to the waistband of his joggers, just barely brushing it. Not a threat. Not a promise. Just a question waiting for an answer.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes.

Still not touching you. Still letting you lead.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice curling low and sweet like smoke.

His eyes open. Blue and wrecked.

You bring your hands back to his chest and drag your thumbs across his sternum, slow. “Last chance, are you sure you want me to touch you how I really want to?”

And for the first time tonight—he doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at you. Like he knows exactly what comes next and he’s about to let it happen anyway.

You drag your thumbs across his chest again, and he exhales like it hurts to hold in the words. You lean in, lips close enough to brush his cheek, and say quietly, “If you don’t want more, say so now.”

His head tips back against the couch and he breathes, “I want it.”

That’s all you need.

Your hands move slowly, reverently, slipping under the hem of his shirt again — not just to touch now, but to remove. You edge the fabric up, your fingertips brushing every new inch of skin with quiet precision. He lifts his arms without you asking, silent but pliant.

You pull it over his head and drop it to the floor.

Then you just… look.

His chest is scarred and solid and beautiful. Faint marks along his ribs, older ones that cross the swell of his shoulder and collarbone. His body tells the whole story— every war, every resurrection— and he lets you see it. All of it.

You press your palms to his chest again, but this time you’re not pretending. This is not a test. This is permission accepted. Gratitude given.

Your thumbs graze his sternum. His breath stutters. You lean in. Close enough for your mouth to hover just above his skin.

“Tell me what you like,” you murmur.

His voice is strained. “Anything. Everything. Just—”

You press a soft kiss to the center of his chest. He inhales sharply.

You pause.

“Pressure?” you ask, whispering into his skin. “Too much? Not enough?”

His hand twitches on his thigh, but he doesn’t speak. So you kiss him again. Lower. Slower. Then drag your tongue just a little beneath his ribs.

His hips twitch beneath you.

“I need words, Bucky,” you say sweetly, sitting up slightly. “Harder? Softer?”

His eyes are dark now. Heavy. His voice is raw when he says, “Softer. Just for now.”

You nod. “Okay.”

You adjust your seat, shifting more firmly into his lap, pressing down just enough to keep him honest. His hands don’t move. You know they want to— he’s holding himself still with visible effort— but you’re not asking for that yet.

Instead, you lower your mouth again, this time to the top of his pectoral, and kiss. Soft, slow. Then another. A third, just beside his nipple.

He shivers.

You trail your mouth across to the other side, leaving a series of warm, open-mouthed kisses— not rushed. You’re cataloguing reactions, measuring each breath, each twitch, each slow grind of his hips when you linger too long in one place.

“Do you like it when I kiss here?” you ask, just as your tongue flicks lightly against the edge of one scar beneath his ribs.

He groans softly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

You press your cheek to his chest for a moment, just listening to his heartbeat. “Do you want it deeper?”

He nods.

So you part your lips again. Let your teeth scrape lightly this time. You bite, gently, into the meat of his shoulder, just above where the metal begins. Not enough to mark — just enough to make him react.

He does. His hips buck once, shallow. Unintentional.

You pull back, grin small and smug. “I’m just learning,” you say innocently. “Don’t hold it against me if I’m good at it.”

He huffs a broken laugh. “You’re killing me.”

“No,” you murmur, licking lightly at a fresh spot below his collarbone. “I’m touching you like I’ve wanted to.”

And God, it shows.

Your hands move to his sides now, fingers gliding down over his ribs, curving around to his back. You press your palms flat against his spine, feeling the shift of his body under yours, how close to trembling he is.

You lean up again, mouth near his ear now. “Do you want more?”

He breathes, “Yes.”

“More pressure?”

He nods again so you press your mouth to his chest again— harder this time. More tongue, more teeth, dragging your lips across the plane of him with purpose now.

And that’s when his hands move. First just a twitch, like he’s resisting. Then finally—finally—they rise and grip your hips. His touch is firm. Unsteady. Like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t not.

You freeze. Just for a beat.

Then you glance up and meet his eyes. He’s watching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear. Like this is too much, and not enough, and exactly what he wants.

You rest your hands over his. “See?” you whisper. “You’re allowed to touch back.”

His grip tightens slightly and for the first time that night, he pulls you closer.

Your chests brush. Your mouths are inches apart. But neither of you closes the distance.

Not yet.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “I’m gonna keep going,” you whisper. “Until you tell me to stop.”

“Don’t,” he breathes, voice thinned out and trembling just beneath the surface.

You pause. One hand still splayed over his ribs, your mouth only a whisper away from his collarbone.

“Don’t… stop?” you murmur. “Or,” your voice softens further, “don’t keep going?”

He opens his eyes, barely, and you can see it there: the war, the want. The sharp edge of hesitation dulling into surrender.

“Don’t stop.”

You nod once. Just enough that he feels it where your forehead still rests against his.

“Okay.”

You start with his neck. Your mouth moves slowly—pressing a kiss just beneath his jaw, then lower, your lips trailing the thrum of his pulse. His skin is warm, faintly salty, and the sound he lets out when your tongue grazes the hollow of his throat is raw.

You work your way down deliberately. Worshipful. Never rushing.

You kiss along the line of his shoulder, across the slope of his chest. Your hand follows the same path, brushing through the light hair scattered across his sternum. It’s soft, unexpected. Your fingers splay across it, and you lean in again—kissing the center of his chest, open-mouthed and slow.

His breath catches when your teeth scrape lightly across one nipple. Then the other.

“Too much?” you ask quietly.

“No,” he whispers, voice strained. “More.”

You kiss lower, dragging your mouth down his stomach, tongue flicking briefly across a scar beneath his ribs. You don’t look up—just feel the way his abdominal muscles shift under your lips, the way he shudders when your hands slide down to his waist.

You reach his happy trail, the soft line of hair leading below the waistband of his joggers, and pause.

You lay your cheek against his stomach for a moment, just breathing him in. His hand, still gripping your hip, tightens—barely.

You smile against his skin. “Would it be okay,” you murmur, “if we moved to the bed?”

His breath catches again.

“I just want to keep touching you,” you add. “That’s all. I want space to lay you out properly.”

Bucky huffs a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re seriously gonna kill me.”

You lift your head. “That a yes?”

He nods, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You rise first, helping him up carefully, like he might break. He follows you silently down the hall, letting you lead him into the bedroom. You pull back the sheets with one hand and gesture gently to the mattress.

“Lie down for me?”

He doesn’t speak. Just moves.

Slow, deliberate. He lays back against the pillows, arms loose at his sides like he’s still not sure what to do with them. The low lamplight spills over his chest, catching on the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbones. His legs spread slightly, just enough for you to slot between them as you crawl over him, straddling his thighs.

“Better?” you whisper, hovering above him.

He nods, silent.

You sit up and let your hands glide across his chest again. This time you look while you touch. You study the lines of him—the muscle, the soft trail of hair down his abdomen, the scars, the little freckles scattered like secrets. Your thumbs trace the shape of his ribs. One hand follows the line of his obliques.

You lean down again and kiss just above his navel. Then lower, to the crease where stomach becomes hip.

He moans, quiet but broken.

“Tell me if you want anything different,” you whisper.

“Like what?”

You smile. “Softer? Harder? Hands? Mouth? Teeth?”

He groans again, eyes closing. “God.”

You kiss lower. “Do you like this?”

“Yes,” he says instantly.

You press your palm to the curve of his hipbone, fingers sliding over the waistband of his joggers.

You don’t dip beneath.

Not yet.

Instead, your mouth returns to his stomach, teeth grazing lightly just beside his navel. You hear the sound he makes when your lips close over a particularly sensitive spot—feel the way his thighs twitch beneath yours.

You shift up, kissing your way across the V of his hips, then back up the line of his abdomen.

You speak against his skin. “Want it softer?”

He shakes his head. “Harder.”

You nod and scrape your teeth lightly across the flat of his stomach this time, biting just enough to leave warmth in your wake. His hips arch under you.

You smile.

Your hands move up to his chest again, dragging lightly down his sides as your mouth maps out his torso in slow reverence. Every kiss feels sacred. Every brush of your lips is followed by a question.

“Do you like when I use my mouth here?”

He nods.

“Want my hands lower?”

He groans. “Yes.”

But you don’t rush.

You slip your hands down over his hips, fingertips brushing the edge of his waistband again. You watch the muscles in his thighs flex under your weight as your mouth presses soft, open kisses just above the hem.

He’s panting now.

You shift again, just a fraction, and he instinctively bucks up into the friction—his hands grabbing your hips without thinking.

You go still, looking down at him. And his eyes widen, realizing he touched you without asking.

You lean over him, hands braced on either side of his chest.

“Hey,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he breathes.

“I want you to.”

His grip tightens on your hips, grounding himself.

You lower again, your mouth trailing up his stomach, over his chest, back to his throat.

Your tongue flicks over his pulse. “You’re allowed to hold on to me.”

He’s shaking now—subtly, but it’s there. Like you’ve unraveled him stitch by stitch and he’s only just realizing what it feels like to be wanted this much.

“Tell me,” you whisper again, your hands stroking up his sides. “What do you like?”

His voice is barely audible.

“You.”

You pause.

“Stubborn,” you tease. You move your mouth to his neck and press a kiss there slowly, whispering against his skin, “then I’ll give you me.”

He’s beneath you, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself together by the threads. His chest is flushed, slick with heat, rising and falling in uneven intervals while you kiss along his throat— slow and tender— like he’s something fragile and holy.

He’s still wearing his joggers, barely, the waistband straining where his cock is pressed tight against the fabric. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the need. But he hasn’t asked. Hasn’t begged. Hasn’t moved, not beyond the way his hips twitch when you scrape your teeth across the hollow of his throat.

You ease back, shifting gently from where you’ve straddled his thigh, and settle onto your knees between his legs instead. The change earns a low sound from him— part disappointment, part anticipation.

His thighs part instinctively to make room for you. He’s trembling again.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching for his hands first. You press a kiss to the inside of each wrist, soft and grounding, then lace your fingers with his. “You okay?”

He nods, eyes heavy. “Too good.”

You smile.

“Can I take these off?” you ask, fingertips tracing the edge of his waistband. “Just your pants. Not your boxers.”

He nods again, but this time you wait.

His voice comes rough, strained. “Yes. Please.”

You hook your fingers into the waistband, watching his eyes the whole time, and ease his joggers down. He lifts his hips obediently, letting you pull them over his thighs, then calves, until they’re forgotten on the floor.

The sight of him makes your breath catch.

He’s hard. Straining against the fabric of his black boxer-briefs. There’s a damp spot already darkening the front, and no room left to hide how badly he wants you. You bite your lip.

He groans. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

You settle back on your heels, palms sliding up his thighs slowly. “Aren’t you?”

His breath leaves him shaky. “You can’t say shit like that when I’m already—”

You lean in and press a kiss to the inside of his thigh. He cuts off with a strangled moan.

You kiss him again, higher. Again. Then drag your teeth lightly over the sensitive skin there and feel him twitch beneath you.

“You like that?”

“Yeah.”

You kiss higher. Then lower. Then switch thighs entirely and mouth at the same spot on the opposite side.

“What about here?”

“Yes.”

You suck a little harder this time, tongue flicking over the bite before you pull away. When you look up, his hands are fisted in the sheets.

You move to his hip, mouthing at the line where his briefs meet skin, and breathe, “Do you like marks?”

His voice breaks on the inhale. “Yeah. I—fuck—I like marks.”

You hum. “Good.”

Because now you start.

You bite softly into the dip above his hipbone and suck there, slow and lingering, until the skin flushes under your mouth. He groans again — head tipping back, thighs tightening under your hands — and you move lower, only to drag your tongue up the length of the mark you just left.

You lift your head. “More?”

“Please.”

You bite into his inner thigh next — harder. And suck. A real mark this time, blooming dark beneath your lips. You feel him jerk when your nails press into the meat of his thigh.

“Can I use teeth again?” you whisper.

“Yes.”

You bite again, then soothe the spot with your tongue. He’s breathing harder now, hands flexing over his stomach like he doesn’t know where to put them.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “If you want to.”

His eyes snap to yours.

“Anywhere,” you add. “Wherever you want.”

One trembling hand lifts and cups the back of your neck. The other settles lightly against your bicep.

“You’re so…” His voice fades off. “You’re so fucking good to me.”

You smile against the mark blooming on his thigh.

You kiss it gently, then move up again — this time dragging your nails lightly up his stomach, over his obliques, following the happy trail with your mouth.

He’s panting now, low and unsteady.

You press a kiss just beneath his navel. “Do you want my mouth here?”

“Yes.”

“Harder or softer?”

He hesitates. “Softer.”

So you kiss lower, slower, gentle but warm, your lips parting slightly, tongue tasting his skin.

“Here?” you whisper, kissing just beside his shaft, where the waistband curves low.

“Yeah.”

Your mouth opens again, and you leave another wet mark there, slow and patient.

His hips twitch.

You press your hands flat against them to keep him still. “I want you to let me,” you murmur. “Don’t help. Not yet.”

He nods, ragged. “Okay.”

You worship him in full now — mouth and hands and tongue, every kiss and bite marked with a question, every answer deepening your resolve to show him what it means to be wanted like this. To be chosen. Loved with reverence, not just hunger.

By the time you’re done, he’s flushed all over. Covered in faint teeth marks and darker bruises. His cock is straining, twitching in his underwear, and his chest is heaving. His knuckles are white where they’re gripping the sheets.

You drag yourself back up, crawl over him slow, weightless. And then, when your faces are close enough to breathe each other in, you whisper, “Bucky?”

He opens his eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

His breath hitches.

You wait.

And then—

“Yeah,” he says, voice broken and reverent. “God, yeah. Please.”

So you kiss him. Soft, slow, patient. Like you have all night. All week. Like you’ll stay right here for the rest of your life if that’s what it takes to show him he’s safe. He’s wanted. That you want him.

Your mouths meet in the warm hush of the bedroom, lamplight casting soft gold against your bare shoulders as you lean into him. The first press of lips is gentle, exploratory. His breath catches in his throat, not quite a moan, not quite a sob.

You tilt your head and kiss him deeper.

He follows your lead — mouth soft, parted, his hands twitching at your sides like he’s trying to keep still and failing.

You shift, climbing further into his lap, settling over his thighs again as you kiss him. His hands rise to your hips, reverent but wanting. His thumbs stroke over the skin just above your waistband, then down to cup the back of your thighs, fingers pressing into the softness there like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

When you break the kiss, it’s only to breathe— to drag your lips down the corner of his mouth, over the stubble along his jaw. You kiss your way slowly across to his throat, and feel his pulse jump when your teeth scrape lightly against the side of it.

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He nods hard. “Yes. Yes.”

So you mark him.

You kiss the column of his throat slowly, wet and open-mouthed. You suck gently just beneath his jawline and feel his whole body shudder beneath you.

You lift your head, breathing against his skin. “You like that?”

He lets out a helpless sound. “Too much.”

“More?”

“Please.”

So you give it to him.

You kiss down the side of his neck, leaving a trail of heat. When you find a tender spot above his collarbone, you bite — just enough to make him whimper — and then soothe it with your tongue. You switch to the other side, and he tips his head for you, offering himself without question.

Your hands move up, trailing over his chest again. This time, you press your palms flat over his pecs, then glide them up to his shoulders, feeling the muscle shift under your touch.

“Can I take this off?” you ask softly, tugging the hem of your top.

He nods, breathless. “Yeah. Please.”

You sit back and peel it off slowly, tossing it aside. You’re bare above the waist now, chest rising and falling as you meet his eyes.

His gaze is reverent. Hungry.

He sits up slowly, hands rising to your waist again. His touch is careful but certain. His palms glide up your ribcage, pausing just beneath your breasts. He looks up at you.

“Okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Yes.”

He cups your breasts gently, like he can’t believe you’re real. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and the sensation makes your breath catch. You lean into him, fingers sliding into his hair, and kiss him again.

This time, it’s deeper.

Slower. Hotter.

You can feel his cock, hard and straining against his boxers, pressing up against you as you grind down just a little. The noise he makes—choked and low—reverberates through your chest.

His hands move again—one on your breast, one slipping down to your hip, thumb stroking along your side. Then both are on your back, holding you to him as he kisses across your collarbone, up your throat, across your jaw.

You let him. You want him to.

When his lips reach your mouth again, you’re already breathless.

“More?” you whisper.

He nods. “Yes. Always.”

You start working your way down again. Kissing over his chest. His ribs. His stomach. You drag your mouth along the trail of hair below his navel, and his hands fist in the sheets beside him. When your tongue traces the edge of his boxers, his hips lift slightly, involuntary.

You settle on your knees between his legs again, and this time your hands go to the waistband of his underwear. But you don’t pull.

Not yet.

You look up at him. “Can I touch you?”

He’s flushed all over, lips parted, breathing shallow. “Please,” he whispers.

You palm him through the fabric first—slowly. Your fingers curl around the shape of him, tracing the length, the heat of him making you ache with want. You lean in and press your mouth to the head, damp and dark through the cotton, and he gasps.

You kiss him there. Once. Twice.

Then open your mouth and drag your tongue across the ridge of him, slow and wet, through the fabric.

He groans. Loud. One hand comes down to your shoulder, grounding, anchoring.

You look up. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

He shakes his head, wild-eyed. “Don’t stop.”

You smile. Press another kiss to the head. Then run your mouth along his length again, your tongue flattening through the cotton, your hands gripping his thighs.

He’s panting now.

His cock jerks under your touch, straining against the fabric, twitching with every careful flick of your tongue.

You whisper against him, “I could keep doing this all night.”

He moans. “Fuck—do it.”

You kiss the base of him next, then up again, mouth and hands working in sync. You press your tongue flat, then your lips, then bite lightly through the fabric.

His whole body arches. He’s whispering your name now, like a prayer. And when you glance up, he’s looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more sacred in his life.

You smile again, slow and secret. Then you press one last slow kiss to the heat of him through the fabric, and pull back slightly, breathless with restraint.

“Can I take these off now?” you ask, voice hushed but steady, fingertips already curling into the waistband of his boxers.

Bucky lifts his head from the pillow, eyes dark and dazed. “Yeah,” he says, already breathless. “Yeah. Please.”

You slide them down slowly, reverently. He lifts his hips to help you, and when the fabric finally peels away and you see him—fully, finally—your mouth parts.

He’s hard and flushed, already leaking. Thick, long, curved just slightly toward his stomach. Beautiful.

And yours.

You take a breath like you mean to say something casual, a teasing remark maybe, but it doesn’t come out. Something about the way he looks like this—naked and trembling, waiting for your touch—takes all the air from your lungs.

Instead, you look up at him, press a hand to his thigh, and say, softly, honestly, “You’re beautiful.”

His brow creases slightly, like he doesn’t know how to take it. So you say it again, louder this time. “You’re so handsome.”

Your hand curls lightly around the base of his cock, and he lets out a choked breath. You stroke once, slow, from root to tip. He bucks slightly, involuntarily.

“Strong,” you whisper, eyes on his face. “You’re so strong, Buck.”

He swallows hard, lips parted. Your thumb drags gently over the bead of precum at the tip. “And you make me feel so safe.”

That breaks something in him. His eyes squeeze shut, chest rising with a shaky breath. His hand comes down to cup the back of your head, trembling.

You lean in and kiss the head of his cock, soft and open-mouthed, letting your tongue flick lightly along the underside before pulling back.

His hand clenches in your hair.

“I’ve wanted this,” you say, your voice velvet and low. “I’ve wanted you. For so long.”

You pump him again, slow and careful, watching how his face changes with every motion. “I’ve touched myself thinking about this. About tasting you. About having you in my mouth, undone. Because of me.”

He groans—deep and guttural.

“I want you to feel good,” you murmur, kissing down his shaft. “I want you to know how it feels to be worshipped.”

You lick up the length of him now, tongue flat, slow and steady. His hips twitch under your touch, but you steady him with one hand to his thigh.

You look up, lips swollen, breath warm. “You deserve this, Bucky. You deserve everything.”

He’s panting now, absolutely wrecked, one hand still in your hair, the other clenching at the sheets. His muscles are taut with the effort of staying still.

You take him into your mouth. Just the head, at first—wet and warm, your lips sealing around him as you suck, gentle but deliberate.

His hips jump, and a strangled sound rips from his throat. “Jesus—”

You pull back, smile, stroke him with your hand. “Too much?” you ask, but you already know the answer.

“No,” he gasps. “No, please, please, don’t stop.”

You take him deeper this time—inch by inch, working your way down with slow, reverent hunger. Your free hand strokes the base while your mouth works him, careful, never rushing.

He’s moaning now, breath catching on every exhale, fingers trembling against your scalp. You hum around him, soft and soothing, and he nearly sobs.

When you pull back for air, you press kisses along the shaft, open-mouthed and wet. “You taste so good,” you whisper.

His head tips back again, throat taut. “You’re—fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile against his skin. “Good.”

You suck him back into your mouth, deeper now, cheeks hollowed, tongue working carefully underneath. His cock throbs against your tongue, and his moans fall apart completely.

Still, you keep praising him between strokes—whispered confessions and soft declarations as you work him with your mouth and hand.

“You’re so good for me.”

“I love how you sound when I touch you.”

“Let me take care of you. Just let me.”

He’s gasping your name now, shaking, his voice ragged. “I’m close—if you keep—fuck—”

You pull back and kiss the inside of his thigh. “Not yet,” you murmur. “I’m not done showing you what you deserve.”

Then your mouth is on him again, and his body answers before he can speak. You can feel him trembling. Not just his legs—though they twitch beneath your hands with every roll of your tongue—but everywhere. The long stretch of his stomach, the hollow of his hips, the hand braced in your hair. He’s holding himself back, holding himself still, like any movement might shatter this moment. Like if he lets go, it’ll end too fast. Too good. Too much.

It makes your chest ache.

You lift your head slightly, your hand still stroking him, and look up at him through your lashes. “Bucky,” you whisper. “You don’t have to hold back.”

His eyes, heavy and blown wide with lust, flutter down to meet yours.

“You can move,” you murmur, running your palm over the inside of his thigh, grounding him. “You can fuck my mouth. I want you to.”

He lets out a breathless curse—part disbelief, part surrender.

You lean in again, lips brushing the head of his cock. “Let go for me.”

You don’t have to say it again. His hips shift immediately, tentative at first—testing. He doesn’t thrust, not quite. Just pushes forward, slowly, letting the tip of his cock press past your lips, into the wet heat of your mouth again.

You moan softly around him in encouragement, and that sound alone nearly makes him unravel. You flatten your tongue along the underside, letting him glide in deeper, and his hand tightens in your hair.

“Jesus,” he groans, low and wrecked.

Your hands curl under his thighs, anchoring yourself as he begins to move—shallow at first, his restraint still holding by a thread. You hollow your cheeks, let him feel the gentle suction, the warmth of your mouth molding around him.

You glance up again, needing to see him fall apart. He’s staring down at you like you’re made of starlight and salvation. And so you pull back just far enough to whisper, “You’re so good.”

You kiss the flushed head, then suck it back between your lips with slow reverence. “You’re so fucking handsome.”

Another kiss. A slow stroke of your tongue. “I want to feel you fall apart because of me.”

He whines. Actually whines.

You smile against him. “You’re allowed to want, Bucky. You’re allowed to feel good.”

You guide him in again, relaxing your jaw to take more of him, and this time he doesn’t hold back. His hips roll deeper, more desperate. His breath stutters. Your name slips from his lips in a rasp.

Your hand trails up his thigh to his stomach, palm pressed to the flexing muscle just below his ribs. You can feel everything—every tremor, every breath.

“I’ve wanted this,” you murmur between strokes. “I’ve thought about your cock in my mouth for so long. Thought about you, shaking like this, saying my name like that.”

He’s panting now, lips parted, chest rising in frantic, shallow swells. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, voice barely a whisper, wrecked.

You nod, never stopping, your lips and tongue working in perfect rhythm, your hand stroking the base with just enough pressure to push him closer.

“Good,” you murmur against his skin. “Let me have it.”

His hips stutter, then jerk.

“Fuck—baby, please—”

And then he’s coming.

With a strangled moan and your name torn from his throat, his whole body tenses beneath your touch. His fingers fist in your hair, not pulling, just clinging to you like he might fly apart if he lets go.

You take everything into your mouth warm, slow, and patient. You don’t let up until his hand loosens in your hair, until he goes still, until the shaking in his thighs gives way to heavy, contented weight.

When you finally pull back, you press a kiss just above his hipbone. Then another, lower. Then one more in the center of his stomach, just where his muscles are still twitching with aftershocks.

He’s sprawled across the mattress now, skin flushed, chest heaving, eyes fluttering open to find you.

You crawl back up over him slowly, resting your weight on your forearms as you hover just above his lips.

He’s still breathless. Still reeling.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods, throat working as he swallows. Then, in a voice that makes your heart clench, he murmurs, “I don’t think anyone’s ever… touched me like that.”

You lean down, press your forehead to his. “I meant every word,” you whisper. “You deserve to be loved like that.”

He’s still breathing like the wind’s been knocked out of him, wide chest rising and falling beneath you as you lay there, tucked into the curve of his body. His arms are warm and heavy around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other tangled loosely in your hair. The taste of him lingers faintly on your tongue, and your body thrums with the weight of everything that just passed between you.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Not because he’s retreating—no. His thumb is rubbing slow, lazy circles against your spine, anchoring you to him.

Then he speaks, voice rough and low in your ear, “I wanted you to do that,” he whispers, like a confession he’s been afraid to say out loud.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, blue and honest and unbearably tender.

“I wanted it for so long,” he says again, as if saying it once wasn’t enough. “I didn’t know if you ever would. If you’d ever be brave enough to just… take what you wanted.”

Your heart stutters. He shifts then—slow, easy strength—and rolls you gently beneath him.

The mattress dips with the weight of his body. His knee slips between yours, and his hands come up to cradle your face, like he’s memorizing it. His expression is soft. But his eyes—his eyes—are hungry.

“And now I know,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek. “You want me.”

His lips move to the corner of your mouth.

“You want me.” He says it again, as if trying to rewire a decade of silence and restraint with those three words. And you let him.

“Yes,” you whisper, lifting your chin as he kisses the underside of it. “I do.”

“Say it again.”

Your breath hitches. “I want you.”

He makes a sound deep in his throat—like relief, like disbelief, like desire barely leashed.

Then he kisses you. Slow. Reverent. His lips are soft at first, just a gentle press, an exhale shared between mouths. Then firmer. Deeper. His tongue flicks against yours, and you open to him without hesitation, moaning softly when his body presses flush to yours.

The slow drag of his chest against your bare breasts makes your nipples ache. His mouth devours you gently, then greedily. His hands start to roam—down your arms, your sides, your waist. One slips beneath you to press at the small of your back, arching you up into him. The other cradles your cheek, then slides into your hair, holding you where he wants you.

It’s still slow. But it’s filthy, now, too.

He kisses you like he’s trying to drink you. Like he’s starved. Like he just realized you’re real and here and his, and he’s making up for every year he didn’t get to have this.

When his mouth leaves yours, it drags wetly down your throat. He kisses each pulse point, teeth grazing lightly. His hands settle on your waist, then your hips, fingers spreading wide as he drags your pelvis against his.

He groans, deep and low, when he feels just how wet you are through your panties.

“I wanna return the favor,” he mutters against your collarbone, kissing the swell of your breast before moving down. “Let me make you feel good. Please.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh, still breathless, cheeks flushed. “You probably… probably don’t need to.”

His brows lift as he glances up. “No?”

“I’m…” You bite your lip, embarrassed and squirming a little beneath him. “I’m probably already wet enough for you to just put it in.”

His eyes darken. Burn. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, gaze flicking down. “I can see that.”

And he can. Your panties are soaked, the large wet patch clear under the soft lighting of the bedroom. He groans again, this time half in reverence and half in disbelief, and presses a kiss to your hip, right at the waistband.

“I still want to taste you.”

You shiver.

He slides lower, mouth moving down the slope of your stomach, over the soft dip of your navel, until he’s kneeling between your legs, the expanse of his chest framed by your thighs. His hands stroke up your legs, kneading slowly, kissing every new inch of skin he reveals as he nudges your thighs further apart.

And then he mouths you—through the soaked fabric—long, slow, deliberate licks with his lips and tongue that make your hips roll helplessly into his face.

You gasp, fingers tangling in the sheets. “Bucky…”

He hums, clearly pleased. The warmth of his mouth through the cotton is almost too much already. You rut against him without thinking, grinding down, chasing more.

He doesn’t stop you. Just holds your hips steady, letting you ride it, letting you lose your composure while he licks and kisses and sucks at you through your panties like a man possessed.

Then he stills, pulling back slightly. His fingers brush the elastic at your hips.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, voice ragged, breath fanning against you.

You nod, but he waits. You know why. “Yes,” you say, voice steady. “Please.”

His hands are reverent as he slides them down your legs, dragging the panties with them. You feel exposed, vulnerable, seen. But not in a way that makes you want to hide.

Not with him.

When he lowers his head again, there’s no teasing this time. Just worship. Just Bucky Barnes kissing you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.

He groans against you, low and reverent, when he finally has you bare beneath him—laid out in his bed, flushed and trembling, your thighs parted around his shoulders. There’s no pretense anymore. No coy jokes or skirting the edge of want.

There’s just the way he’s looking at you like he’s the one coming undone.

His hands stroke your thighs like he’s trying to memorize their shape. Slow sweeps of his thumbs just above your knees, feathering inward, parting you further without pushing.

You’re already soaked, throbbing, heartbeat in your throat, and he hasn’t even really touched you yet.

“I can’t believe I get to do this,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee. Then again, higher. “I used to think about it sometimes.”

Your eyes fly open.

He’s smiling against your skin—soft, almost shy. “Not in a shitty way. Just… nights when I couldn’t sleep. Nights when I wanted to feel human again. I’d picture you like this. Bare. Open. Letting me take my time.”

Your breath stutters.

His mouth trails higher. To the crease where thigh meets pelvis. He breathes deep and slow, and when he nuzzles in and licks just once—broad and deliberate up your center—you gasp.

He groans again, deeper now. “Fuck,” he whispers. “You smell so sweet.” He noses closer, “you’re so warm.”

You reach for him instinctively, fingers finding his hair and tangling tight, needing something to ground you.

His hand covers yours. Grounds you. And then he goes back in.

He’s slow at first—so goddamn slow. Open-mouthed kisses along your folds. His tongue traces the length of you, testing, learning. And then he starts using the tip, just barely flicking against your clit. Light and teasing.

You gasp and buck your hips slightly.

“Too much?” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak.

“No,” you whisper. “Not enough.”

He chuckles—a quiet, low sound that feels like a vibration against your skin when he presses his mouth back down.

You’re gasping now. Whining. Rolling your hips slowly because you can’t not. And he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t hold you down. He lets you grind against his tongue like it’s your god-given right.

“Tell me what you like,” you manage, breathless. “Want to make you feel good too.”

His voice is rough as gravel when he answers, tongue still moving. “You are. You are, baby.”

That baby breaks something in you.

You moan, hips stuttering. You don’t even realize you’ve said his name until he groans again—muffled by you. His hands tighten on your thighs now, pulling them farther apart, encouraging you to fall apart for him.

He moves his tongue in slow, practiced motions now. Flattened for pressure, then curling in. Every few passes, he closes his lips over your clit and sucks, gentle but deliberate.

You cry out—his name again. A broken, breathy plea.

He pulls back only to whisper, “Harder?”

You nod quickly, flushed and dizzy. “Yes. Please.”

He does. He listens. He adjusts. And it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.

You’re trembling, thighs shaking, whimpering now. Begging. And the worst part—the best part—is that he’s watching you.

His eyes are hooded, half-lidded, but focused on you—on your mouth falling open, on your hands clutching the sheets, on the way you’re coming apart beneath him. Because of him.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs between licks. “Taste so good. So fucking beautiful when you let go.”

You gasp. “Bucky—”

He wraps his arm under your thigh, anchoring you, and his other hand slides up—palm broad, warm—and rests on your belly, grounding you as you shudder.

“Can feel you trying so hard not to fall,” he whispers. “Don’t. Let me have it. Let me see what it looks like when you come just for me, baby.”

And that’s it.

The unraveling is sudden and slow all at once. It feels like falling into warmth, like drowning in light. You cry out for him. Your body bows. Your hands clutch his hair like lifelines. And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking, coaxing, worshipping you with his mouth as you break apart—again, and again, and again—until you’re shaking, until you’re sobbing his name into the dark and your thighs are twitching and he finally, finally pulls back, pressing soft kisses to your skin as you come down.

He rests his cheek against your thigh, breathing just as hard as you are.

And when you finally look down at him—flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen—he smiles up at you.

Like he’s the lucky one.

Your hands find his hair again as he starts to crawl back up your body, kissing along your hips, your belly, then higher—just under your ribs, then your breastbone. Not to arouse, not to tease, but to worship. To ground. To say I’m still here, I’m not going anywhere.

When he finally reaches your mouth again, you press into the kiss like it might keep your chest from cracking open. It’s slow and deep, tongue soft, lips gentle. He tastes like you.

Your thighs are still parted, and he settles between them without asking—not because he assumes, but because you guide him there with a quiet tug of your hands. You want him on you. You want to feel the weight of him, the heat of his skin on yours.

Both of you are naked now. Skin to skin, no space between. Your body still shudders a little when he grinds down against you—slow, testing, careful. You moan into his mouth before you can stop it.

“Sorry,” he whispers, pulling back slightly, eyes flicking down where your bodies are pressed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe. “You feel good.”

He groans softly at that, nose brushing yours. “You’re soaked.”

You bite your lip. “And you’re hard.”

He laughs, almost nervously. “Yeah. That tends to happen when someone beautiful lays me out and makes me see stars.”

Your smile is sleepy and crooked as you cradle his face. “Come here, Bucky.”

He kisses you again, slower now. You wind your arms around his neck, arching your chest to meet his, and he grinds again—this time more deliberately. His cock slides against your heat, dragging through slickness, and your mouth falls open on a soft gasp.

He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaky. “You keep doing that, I won’t last long.”

“You don’t have to last,” you whisper. “You just have to be here. With me.”

He exhales hard—like that cracks something in him.

You reach down between your bodies, slow and deliberate, and wrap your fingers around his cock. He jerks slightly in your hand, hips twitching, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes stay locked on yours as you guide him down, letting his tip drag through your slick folds.

You don’t line him up just yet.

Instead, you ask, quietly, “Do you want me to?”

He blinks.

You ask again, firmer this time. “Do you want me to put you inside? Want to feel me?”

His lips part. He breathes out your name, reverent. “God, yes.”

You smile then—soft and satisfied—and shift your hips just slightly, just enough.

He slides in.

You both shudder.

It’s slow. Torturously slow. His eyes flutter closed. Yours roll back. You gasp when he presses just an inch deeper.

He’s thick, hot, and so hard it makes your head spin.

You wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer, and he groans like he’s coming undone just from the feel of you.

His arms shake as he braces above you, but you take his hands, thread your fingers through his, and guide them up—above your head, pinning them gently to the mattress.

You don’t break eye contact.

He slides in another inch.

You cry out—quiet but unfiltered—and he stills immediately.

“You okay?” he rasps, throat tight.

You nod, breathless. “More.”

He does as you ask. Each inch is a surrender. Each press forward is a prayer. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple as he moves, holding you, grounding you, murmuring “so good,” and “so warm,” and “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

When he’s fully sheathed inside you, you both just breathe. You can feel him shaking. Holding still. Fighting for control. You kiss his throat, his chin, the corner of his mouth. Then you whisper against his skin—

“Move for me, baby.”

So, he starts to move.

It’s cautious at first, like he’s afraid to break something. Like the walls he’s carried for years might still crumble if he gives too much. But you squeeze his hands tighter where they’re laced above your head, and that’s all the permission he needs.

A slow, rolling thrust—deep, steady. Your breath catches. He does it again, just a little more. You moan softly, and his head drops to your shoulder like the sound broke him. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

You tilt your chin and whisper, “You feel so good. You’re perfect.”

His lips brush your neck. “Say it again.”

“You’re perfect.”

His hips jerk forward at that—sharp and helpless—and this time it’s him who groans against your skin, low and ragged. He pulls back, just enough to look at you. The blue of his eyes is darker now, heavy-lidded and heated.

“Is this…” His voice breaks. He tries again. “This angle okay?”

You nod, panting. “Feels amazing.”

He grinds deeper. “This?”

You gasp—too loud to be polite. “Yes.”

He presses a kiss under your ear. “Harder?”

Your fingers dig into his. “Yes.”

He pulls out, just enough to drive back in, harder now, and your body arches into him like it’s instinct. His name stutters out of your throat as the pace builds—still slow, still worshipful, but with more weight, more tension.

“Faster?” he whispers, mouth ghosting over your jaw.

“Mhmm.” You can’t find words anymore. Only the rhythm of your hips chasing his. The wet slide of your bodies. The heat curling low in your belly again.

“Deeper?”

That one makes you whimper. “Please.”

He obeys. He pulls back to his knees, still inside you, hands leaving yours to hook under your thighs, pressing your legs up—bent and spread, your knees tucked to your chest.

The angle of the mating press makes you cry out. You feel so full. So stretched. So utterly his.

“Oh my God,” you gasp.

Bucky moans like he’s in pain. “Fuck, baby—feels so good like this. Can feel all of you.”

You cling to him, one hand gripping his wrist, the other threading into his hair again as he finds a rhythm—slow, deep strokes that hit something devastating every time. Your whole body is trembling now. His is too.

He dips forward again, lips crashing into yours. It’s hungry now. Filthy and reverent all at once. His tongue tangles with yours and he groans into your mouth like it’s the only sound he remembers how to make.

When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t go far. He mouths down your jaw, your throat.

Then he sucks hard—just below your ear.

You gasp.

He pulls back, pleased, and rasps, “Mine.”

Your whole body clenches around him. His hips stutter and he chokes on a moan.

“Yours,” you whisper. “Always yours.”

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding the spot just above where you’re joined, circling—careful at first, then more confidently when your thighs shake in response.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod desperately. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop—!”

He kisses you again, wet and hot, and thrusts deeper, harder, dragging you closer to the edge.

And still, he keeps asking. “Like this?”

“Yes—God, yes!”

“Want me to stay right here?”

“Yes—please—don’t stop—!”

“I won’t,” he groans. “I’ll give you everything. I swear.”

The sound of skin on skin, the slick slide of him, the intimacy of it—his body pressed to yours, his hands holding you open, the burn of that mark on your neck—it’s too much. Your body starts to spiral, tightening, every nerve pulling taut.

He sees it. Feels it. Groans deep in his chest. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Come on, baby girl. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You fall apart, gasping his name, your body arching beneath his like you’re being pulled under. Your orgasm crashes through you and doesn’t let up, wave after wave, as he keeps thrusting through it—dragging every last second out of your pleasure.

You barely register the way he’s shaking above you, losing rhythm.

His breath is ragged. His eyes are wild.

“Inside?” he manages. “Can I—? Please?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes—come inside me—want you to!”

He slams deep once more and cries out your name, loud and raw and undone. His body seizes. He throbs inside you, pouring into you, forehead dropping to yours as the world finally stills.

You lay there for a long time, breath tangled with his, arms wrapped around each other.

And when he finally moves—rolling just enough to hold you close—you feel his mouth at your temple.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to have you like this,” he whispers.

You pull his hand to your chest, right over your heart.

“You always did.”

The room is quiet now, the air still humming with the weight of what just happened—what’s still happening, really.

You’re trembling, even in the stillness. Muscles twitching in your legs where he’s still nestled deep inside you, your bodies locked together in the fading rhythm of something neither of you can quite believe was real.

Bucky’s breathing slowly evens out. He drops soft kisses over your jaw, down your cheek, until his mouth hovers by your ear.

“You okay?”

You nod. Or try to. But your thighs are shaking, and your fingers are still curled in his hair, in his hand, like you’re afraid if you let go, the moment will dissolve.

He feels it.

Carefully, reverently, he presses one last kiss to your mouth and shifts, gently slipping out of you. You both gasp, stunned by the sudden loss of contact.

Then—his hands. Warm and calloused and so careful. One on your stomach, grounding you, the other slipping beneath your thighs.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coaxing your legs down from where he’d pinned them so high. “You’ve gotta be cramping up.”

You whimper softly as your hips try to move and he immediately hushes you, already sitting back on his heels.

“I got you,” he says again, as if it’s a promise he’s made a thousand times.

He lowers your legs with almost military precision, but there’s nothing cold about it—he’s so gentle it makes your eyes sting. Once you’re lying flat again, his thumbs start to rub slow, firm circles into your inner thighs, coaxing the ache out of every trembling muscle.

“Sorry,” he mutters, though he sounds more awed than regretful. “Didn’t mean to wreck you.”

You manage a breathless laugh, chest still rising and falling. “You did a little.”

His eyes flick up, pleased. “Yeah?”

You hum. “In the best way.”

He leans over and kisses your belly, right where your skin is flushed. Then another just above your hip. He massages there, too, working out knots you didn’t even realize had formed.

The warmth of his touch, the focus in his gaze, the way he’s still treating you like something precious even after getting everything you gave him—it nearly undoes you.

You reach down and lace your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he crawls back up the bed and settles beside you. You shift into him immediately—naked, tangled, unapologetic. Your leg draped over his, your chest to his chest, your fingers skating lazy circles on his sternum.

He grins at you then, soft and smug, eyes crinkling.

“You know,” he murmurs, “for someone who’s spent all this time treating me like I’d shatter if you breathed wrong, you sure had a lot of confidence tonight.”

You smirk, still playing with the soft hair on his chest. “I had good incentive.”

“Oh?” His brow quirks. “What changed?”

You blink at him, coy. “A certain blonde with her hands all over you.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Gonna have to send her a thank-you gift.” He drawls.

You roll your eyes and smack his chest. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, eyes glittering.

“Kidding.” He drops his voice. “But also… not.”

You press your face into his neck, unable to stop the smile curling against his skin. He’s so warm. He smells like you now, too—skin and sweat and something heavier, muskier, sweet.

“You’re smug,” you mumble.

He shrugs beneath you. “You’re in love with me.”

Your whole body stills. You shift your head just enough to look at him. “Bucky—”

“I know,” he says, his voice gentler now. “You just showed me. Every touch. Every kiss. Every time you asked me what I wanted. How I liked it. Every time you didn’t stop until I told you I wanted more.”

You feel your throat tighten.

He reaches up and cups your cheek. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

You turn into his touch, closing your eyes. Then you whisper it.

“I love you.”

His eyes flutter shut like it physically hits him. He exhales, slow and full. Then he pulls you tighter against his chest, tangling both arms around your back, one hand petting your hair while the other strokes your spine.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, voice thick and quiet. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Like I said. I didn’t know if you’d ever be brave enough to touch me like that. Didn’t know if I’d be brave enough to let you.”

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. He shifts, so you’re tucked fully into him, skin to skin, legs tangled, his chin resting atop your head.

He keeps rubbing circles into your back, and your fingers find the soft ends of his hair again.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

You feel his smile as his lips press to your temple.

The room is quiet again. The only sounds are the subtle rustle of sheets and the deepening rhythm of your breath syncing to his. You feel him drifting—and you let yourself drift too.

Wrapped in the man you love, nothing between you but skin and truth and the promises of everything still to come.

You’re warm before you’re awake.

The kind of warmth that isn’t just physical—though that’s there too. The blanket’s half-kicked off the bed. The late morning sun slants through the windows in lazy streaks. You’re wrapped in a cocoon of body heat and muscle, the air still holding the faint, spent scent of sweat and sex and skin. But there’s something else warming you, too.

The feel of him.

His chest beneath your cheek. His arms around your back. The steady thrum of his heart, slow and unbothered, beating against your temple. The scruff of his jaw grazing the top of your head when he shifts, snuffling in a deep inhale.

You blink your eyes open just a little, then immediately shut them again.

Nope.

You’re not ready for this part.

The after-after. The being-seen part. The sunlight and the nakedness and the full realization of just how thoroughly you climbed that man like a tree and left not a single inch of him unkissed. Your mouth aches in ways that have nothing to do with speech.

You feel a deep, steady breath against your scalp, followed by the familiar timbre of his voice—low and sleep-heavy and teasing.

“You’re awake.”

You groan. “No I’m not.”

He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, under your cheek, and straight through you. His hand trails lazily along the curve of your back, fingertips skating your spine.

“Morning,” he murmurs, and then his lips brush your temple. Then your hairline. Then your cheek.

You tense and start to squirm. “Bucky, no—my mouth is gross. We are not kissing.”

He huffs, almost insulted. “You think I give a shit about your breath?”

You try to duck your face away, and he doesn’t let you. He holds your chin, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. You giggle, squeal, try to hide under the blanket. He follows.

“You had your tongue in my mouth last night,” he reminds you, amused.

“And other places,” you mumble, burying your face in the pillow.

His laugh is delighted now. “Exactly.”

You reach behind you and land a lazy smack on his hip, which only earns you a pleased grunt and the unmistakable feeling of him half-hard against your thigh.

You pause, then risk peeking at him.

Bucky’s watching you with the softest expression you’ve ever seen on his face. All fond affection and sleepy wonder, like you’re something he dreamed up and never thought he’d get to keep.

You blink, heart tight, suddenly shy. “What?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just traces your cheekbone with his knuckle. Then slowly lifts the edge of the blanket to peek underneath it at your bare body, the trail of hickeys running down your sternum, the soft slope of your stomach, the scratch marks you left along his ribs.

He grins.

You cover your face with your hands.

“I swear I didn’t mean to make you look like you lost a fight with a wild animal,” you mutter.

He grins wider, pries your hands away gently. “Oh no, sweetheart,” he says, voice smug. “That’s exactly what I’m telling everyone. ‘She came at me like a feral little thing. I barely made it out alive.’”

You groan. “You’re impossible.”

He shifts onto his back, flexing slightly—stretching like a cat, muscles pulling and flexing, and oh, God, yeah. You definitely did that. His shoulder has a full imprint of your teeth. His neck has your fingerprints. One of his thighs has a faint red mark from where your heel had braced.

He catches you looking and raises an eyebrow. “Admiring your work?”

“Mortified by it,” you correct.

“You’re not.” He rolls back toward you, reaching for your hip again, tugging you across the sheets until your bodies are lined up. “You’re proud of it.”

You don’t answer—just nestle into his chest, cheeks burning.

He brushes a hand through your hair. “I am.”

You pause. “Proud?”

“Yeah.” He nods, then kisses your forehead. “Marked up by you? You think I’m gonna complain that the woman I’m in love with made me feel that good?”

You blink slowly, breath catching in your throat.

He sees it, reads the hesitation, and softens further. “I meant it last night,” he says gently. “I love you. You don’t have to be scared of that.”

“I’m not scared,” you whisper, voice small. “I’m just…”

You trail off, but he nods.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

There’s a silence. It’s comfortable, easy. But full, too—like there’s still more to say. You settle back into his arms and let the sunlight soak into your skin.

After a while, your fingers start to wander again—brushing along his stomach, the edges of the marks you left. You glance down. Trace one gently with your fingertip.

He watches you. Then his hand comes up to your jaw and turns your face toward his.

He kisses you. Slowly. Softly. Morning breath be damned. It’s warm and lazy and perfect. The kind of kiss that means stay. The kind that says I’m not going anywhere.

When it ends, you rest your forehead against his.

“We have to get up eventually,” you murmur.

He hums. “Eventually.”

But neither of you move.

Because why would you?

You have everything you want. Right here. In your arms. Covered in your marks.

#cursedheartsclub #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fic rec #bucky barnes smut #my brain honestly short circuited because this is so spicy so good and so softttttt #you gave Bucky the perfect combination of confidence and docile and it makes me feRAL #what an amazing piece!!

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imitationplay · 2 months ago

Text

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Lust ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ──

professor!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

word count: 11,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, mutual desperation, age gap, dirty talk, praising kink, fingering, oral (f receiving).

Part 1 | Next Part

You never really cared about grades. Not in the way people expected you to, at least.

What you cared about—truly, deeply—was the work. The texture of language. The way a well-written sentence could hold you still like a breath trapped in your chest. You loved writing, even when it didn’t love you back. Even when you stared at the cursor blinking on a blank page for hours, waiting for some elusive thread of brilliance to pull from your brain.

So naturally, when you got to college, you threw yourself into literature like it was a religion. You took every reading-heavy course you could find, submitted essays like confessions. And at the center of it all—without meaning to, without quite realizing—was him.

Professor Barnes.

James Buchanan Barnes to be exact. Your English professor.

He was the kind of man people noticed. Not just because he was handsome—though he was, undeniably, in a way that made your stomach twist. There was something else. A quiet intensity. The way he spoke, like he wanted every word to matter. Like he loved the stories he taught with a kind of reverence that made you feel something.

You didn’t mean to stare at him in lectures. But you did. Sometimes you’d forget to take notes, just listening to the way his voice dipped low while quoting a line from The Waste Land, or the way he’d tap his fingers—ringless—against the edge of the lectern when he was thinking.

And at first, it was nothing.

Just a crush. Harmless. Everybody had one. He was hot and he liked books. So what?

But it didn’t stay harmless.

It wasn’t just that you thought about him too often. It was the way your heart tugged when he read your essays aloud to the class—not by name, but you always knew it was yours. It was the way he looked at you sometimes, like he saw you, beyond the student mask. It was the slow, creeping realization that it wasn’t just a fantasy. It was him.

The moment you realized it was bad?

It was a Tuesday.

You’d just handed in your midterm essay the week before—something about grief and memory in Mrs. Dalloway, which you’d poured a piece of your soul into without meaning to. You weren’t expecting anything back yet. Not really. He usually took his time marking.

But that day, at the end of the lecture, Professor Barnes stood behind the desk with a stack of papers in hand. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow—again—and the ink smudge on his thumb made your chest ache in a stupid, ridiculous way.

“Some of you handed in… surprisingly good work,” he said, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get used to me saying that.”

A few people laughed. You didn’t. You were too busy watching the way his eyes scanned the room—until they landed on you.

And then he said your name.

Like it meant something.

He held your paper out across the desk as you stepped forward. There were at least three people behind you, waiting to get theirs, but time moved weirdly slow. You reached out to take it—and his fingers brushed against yours.

Barely a second. A blink. But you felt it everywhere. Like heat crawling under your skin.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You mumbled something like “Thanks” and bolted back to your seat, heart pounding like you’d done something wrong.

You sat down, throat dry, fingers trembling slightly as you unfolded the paper. The front had his neat, tight handwriting in the corner: an A.

But it was the margins that ruined you.

Underlined passages, a few careful notes in blue ink.

“This line in particular—gorgeous imagery.”

“You really understand Clarissa. That’s rare.”

And, scribbled sideways along your final paragraph:

“You write with so much feeling. Don’t lose that.”

You stared at the words. You read them again. And again. Something bloomed in your chest—hot, sharp, a little terrifying because this wasn’t a silly little crush anymore. This wasn’t harmless.

This was the kind of thing that could burn you alive.

Now you were in class again. Third row, slightly to the left. The seat you always took, close enough to hear him clearly, far enough not to make it obvious.

Not that it helped.

Because the moment Professor Barnes started talking, everything else fell away.

He was walking back and forth now, quoting Heart of Darkness from memory like it was tattooed on his tongue. His voice—low, thoughtful, a little rough around the edges—seeped into you like warm honey. Every sentence he spoke felt deliberate, like he wasn’t just reciting, but feeling the words. Like he wanted you to feel them, too.

You stared at him. You shouldn’t, you knew that. You should’ve been taking notes, or at least pretending to. But it was hard to look away when he looked like that. Dark hair pushed back, strands falling loose over his brow. That perpetually rolled-up sleeves look like he just needed freedom for his hands—hands that moved while he talked, expressive and precise, like every thought had weight.

You wondered what those hands would feel like on your skin.

You blinked. Jesus.

Focus.

You looked down at your notebook, at the two words you’d scrawled nearly ten minutes ago: Existential dread.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

Because this wasn’t just a harmless crush anymore. This wasn’t butterflies. This was something else—deeper. Like longing. Like obsession. Like every inch of you was tuned to his voice, his movements, the way he smiled to himself when students actually engaged with him.

He laughed once—just once—and your heart actually fluttered. Like a goddamn cliché.

You weren’t even listening to what he was saying anymore. You were watching his mouth. His hands. The way he leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms, shirt pulling tight across his shoulders.

It was insane. You were insane.

You bit your pen and tried to pretend your thighs weren’t pressed together.

He turned then, just briefly, his eyes scanning the room. And for the smallest second, you swore they landed on you. Held.

And then he smiled. It wasn’t directed at anyone. Not really.

But you felt it like a secret. Like a sin.

And you were so far gone, it almost felt holy.

You were still somewhere else—half in the lecture, half in your daydream—when the sound of his voice snapped you back to the present.

“So,” Professor Barnes said, closing his copy of the book with a quiet thud, “for those of you looking to earn a little extra credit, I’m assigning a supplementary essay. Optional. A close analysis of the text we just discussed. Two to three pages.”

A soft groan rolled through the room. A few students muttered under their breath. He smiled—just barely—and leaned his palms on the desk.

“It’s not mandatory,” he said. “But if you’re aiming for a higher final grade, this might help.”

He scanned the room again. A few hands went up. Maybe four. You didn’t think. You just lifted yours.

You felt your heart hammer as you did it, but you didn’t hesitate. If he gave you any reason to spend more time reading, writing, impressing him—you’d take it. You’d take it and run.

His eyes landed on you again. Just for a second.

He nodded, slow and deliberate.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll post the prompt later this evening.”

And then, like that, class was dismissed. A flurry of rustling paper and shuffling bags as students started rising from their seats.

But you stayed frozen for a moment, your hand already falling back into your lap, cheeks warm, notebook still open in front of you. You glanced down—your last note was a doodle of a heart you hadn’t even realized you were drawing.

Pathetic.

You began packing your things slowly, like you were in some kind of trance. You could hear his voice in your head. Good. Just that one word. Directed at the whole class, probably. But it felt aimed at you. Like it always did.

You glanced up again—he was talking to a student near the front, nodding, pointing at something in their book. He looked so natural in this space, like he belonged behind the desk, tucked into dim lecture hall lighting and surrounded by paper and ink and story.

You pretended to pack your bag longer than necessary. One strap, then the other. Notebook, water bottle, pen you never even used. You glanced up just in time to see the last few students trickle out of the room, footsteps echoing down the hall. He was still behind the desk, organizing his own materials—slow, methodical.

This was your chance.

To talk. To hear just a bit more from him.

Your heart was hammering again.

Now or never.

You walked down the steps toward him, every step feeling louder than it should. When you reached the front, he looked up—and God, why did his eyes do that?

That little flicker of recognition, the way his expression softened just a touch. It made your breath catch.

“Something you need?” he asked, calm as ever.

You nodded, gripping your notebook tight. “Yeah. Um—about the extra assignment. I just… wanted to ask if you had any specific direction in mind. Like, themes you’re hoping to see? Or…”

You trailed off, feeling ridiculous. You didn’t need clarification. You just wanted to hear him talk to you. Look at you like that again.

But he didn’t seem annoyed. If anything, his lips curved into something like amusement.

“I haven’t written the prompt yet,” he said. “But it’s not meant to trap you. I want to see how you interpret the material. That’s the whole point.”

You nodded again, trying not to look at his mouth when he spoke.

Then—he tilted his head, just slightly.

“I don’t think you need to worry,” he said. “You’re the best student I have.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m sure you’ll write something good. You always do.”

There was a pause. You looked up at him—really looked—and he held your gaze for a second longer than he should’ve. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But it was enough to make your stomach flip.

“I believe in you,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you just nodded. Tried to smile. It probably came out wrong.

“Thanks, Professor,” you said, voice a little too quiet.

His gaze dropped to your hands, still clutching your notebook. Then he looked away, back down at his papers, like he hadn’t just lit a match and handed it to you.

“Any time.”

You turned before you could say something stupid. Practically floated out of the room.

And for the rest of the day, all you could hear in your head was his voice, low and steady, saying:

“You’re the best student I have.”

“I believe in you.”

And God help you, it meant everything.

———

You were halfway through folding laundry—something you only did when absolutely everything else had been avoided—when the notification pinged on your phone.

New Post: Professor J. Barnes | ENGL304

Your heart jumped.

You dropped the shirt in your hands without a second thought, practically diving across the bed to grab your phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen for half a second before you tapped it open.

Supplementary Essay Prompt: Choose a moment in the text where the internal and external worlds of the character collide. Explore how the author uses language to blur the boundary between thought and reality.

Your breath caught. Your fingers were already tingling.

It wasn’t just the prompt—it was him. You could see him saying it, hear his voice in your head. That same calm confidence, that steady rhythm of words that always made your chest feel too tight.

You should’ve taken a second. Thought about it. Planned.

But no. You opened your laptop and pulled up a blank document like your life depended on it. Because in that moment, it kind of felt like it did.

You wrote like you were possessed.

The ideas poured out of you, fingers flying over the keyboard. You didn’t even stop to fix typos—you’d come back later. Right now, it was about chasing the feeling, the adrenaline high of getting it just right. You were quoting lines from memory, twisting them around your own analysis, embedding yourself into the essay like he’d told you to.

“You write with so much feeling. Don’t lose that.”

God. You wanted him to read this and feel something.

Time blurred. Your tea went cold. Your laundry sat untouched. The sky outside your dorm turned dark, but you barely noticed.

By the time you finally paused, the document was nearly three pages long, and your hands were cramping.

You stared at the screen, pulse still racing.

You hadn’t written something like that in a long time. Maybe ever. And the worst part—the most dangerous part—was that the first person you wanted to show it to was him.

Not for the grade. Not even for the praise.

Just to make him see you.

———

You barely slept.

By the time the sun started bleeding through the blinds of your dorm, the essay had been proofread four times, margins adjusted, formatting obsessively checked. Every sentence felt like it carried weight—your weight. You’d polished it until it shined.

When you printed it out that morning, the warm paper in your hands felt fragile. Like a secret. Like something that mattered more than it should.

All through class, it sat in your folder, untouched. You could barely focus, barely breathe. He was talking about poetry now—some devastating line about longing and missed moments—and you were sitting there with a whole damn confession tucked between your notebook pages.

When class ended, you didn’t leave with everyone else.

You waited until the last of the students filed out. Waited until it was quiet again, just the low hum of lights and the soft sound of him gathering his things.

You walked down the steps slowly.

He looked up as you approached, brows raising in faint surprise. His expression softened like it always did when he saw you—like you were something familiar. Something good.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth. “Need something?”

You swallowed. Carefully slid the stapled essay from your folder and held it out to him.

He reached for it—and your fingers brushed again, skin against skin, just for a second.

He blinked down at the paper, then back at you. “Already?”

You nodded, trying not to look too proud. Or too desperate.

“I, um… finished it last night,” you said. “I know it’s not due until the end of the week, but…”

His eyes scanned the front page. Your name. The title. His lips parted just slightly.

“You wrote this last night?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “After you posted the prompt.”

He looked at you for a long second. Really looked at you and then he let out a soft, almost stunned breath.

“I’m impressed,” he said. His voice had dropped lower. “Most students would’ve just added it to their to-do list.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your cheeks were hot. Your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

“I wanted to do it while the idea was fresh,” you mumbled.

He smiled. Not the polite kind. The real one—the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little.

“I’ll read it tonight and send the feedback on the class portal,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

You nodded, mouth suddenly dry. You were pretty sure you were about to black out.

“Thanks, Professor.”

He gave a small nod. “Have a good rest of your day.”

You turned, heart pounding, the edges of your vision almost fuzzy with adrenaline. The moment you got out you exhaled a breath you had no idea you’ve been holding.

———

You didn’t mean to start checking the portal that night.

You told yourself you weren’t that desperate. That you weren’t waiting on the edge of your seat like a lovesick idiot for a man who probably didn’t think twice after you left the room.

But still. Just after dinner—you peeked.

Nothing.

A couple hours later, again. Nothing.

Then again before bed.

And again in bed.

By the time the clock struck midnight, you’d refreshed the page more times than you could count, screen dimmed to its lowest setting, lying flat on your stomach with your chin pressed to the mattress and your heart pounding way too fast for someone checking a grade.

It wasn’t even about the points. Not really.

You just wanted to know what he thought. You wanted to see the words he would write in the margins, the tone he would use. You wanted to feel him reading it. Like somehow, through the feedback, you’d get a glimpse of his mind—of what you made him feel, even just for a moment.

You told yourself you were being dramatic.

But still, when you checked again the next morning, stomach in knots—

It was there.

You almost dropped your phone.

You opened it with shaky hands, eyes scanning too fast, breath catching before you even saw the score. Then you saw the comments.

“This is exceptional work.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Your insight is sharp, and your interpretation of the character’s interiority is more emotionally nuanced than what I usually see at this level.”

You blinked.

“You have a rare voice. Keep writing like this. Don’t hold back.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone. And then, at the very end, written beneath your grade:

“You think deeply. It shows. I hope you know that’s rare.”

You stared at the screen for a long, long time. The words swam a little. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to cry or scream or curl up under your covers forever.

Because he hadn’t just read it.

He’d seen you. And now? You weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

———

You barely heard a word during the next class.

He was lecturing about the structure of unreliable narration—something you usually loved—but today? Your brain was mush. All you could think about was his voice in those damn margin notes. The way he’d written you have a rare voice. The way it sounded like a compliment and a confession all at once.

You didn’t look at him more than usual. At least, you told yourself that. You definitely weren’t staring at his hands while he gestured, or at the way his jaw flexed when he read a passage out loud, or how the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms.

Nope. Totally fine. Totally functioning.

By the time class ended, your pen had been frozen in your grip for at least fifteen minutes.

The students around you packed up their things, loud and casual. You moved slower. Not stalling. Just… composed. Careful.

You didn’t expect it when his voice stopped you mid-motion.

“Could I take a minute of your time?”

Your head snapped up. He was looking right at you. And it wasn’t the usual casual-professor look, either. It was steadier. Sharper.

Your stomach did a full flip.

“Sure,” you said, heart pounding.

He waited until the others were gone. The room emptied around you like it was routine now—just the two of you, a silence so heavy it hummed.

He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the edge of the desk, papers still in his hands, your printed essay resting neatly on top.

“I wanted to say this in person,” he began, voice low and even. “I meant every word of the feedback.”

You nodded, throat dry. “Thank you. That… meant a lot.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You have a voice most writers spend years trying to find. And you use it like you know something. Like you feel it before you write it.”

You swallowed hard. “I try to.”

He tapped his fingers lightly against the paper. “This isn’t just good for a student. It’s good, period.”

A pause.

“I hope you’re taking yourself seriously.”

The way he said it—low, sincere—made your skin prickle.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you. Focused. Intense. Like he needed you to believe him.

“I… I think I am,” you said softly.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’d hate to see talent like this go to waste.”

Another pause. The silence was a little too long.

Then he blinked, like he was shaking something off. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

But it didn’t feel like just that.

You nodded. Gripped your bag too tightly.

“Thanks,” you murmured again.

As you turned to leave, you could feel him still watching you. And this time? You didn’t try to tell yourself it was just your imagination.

You stepped out of the building and the sun hit your face, but it didn’t register. Your hands were clammy. Your breath felt shallow.

You walked on autopilot.

One foot in front of the other. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. Wind pulling at your sleeves.

You couldn’t hear anything but him.

“I hope you’re taking yourself seriously.”

That voice. That look. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even once.

It was just a compliment. Just praise. Just encouragement from a professor who cares about his students, right?

Right?

But your body didn’t believe that. Your chest was too tight. Your pulse kept rising in waves—like you were remembering something intimate, not academic. Like he’d touched you, even though he hadn’t. Not really. Not unless that one moment from a few days ago counted—the way your fingers brushed, the way his voice dipped when he said your name—

You blinked hard, trying to stop the flood of thoughts, but it was useless.

You’d gone overboard.

You knew that. It was a crush. That was all. A deep respect for someone brilliant and kind and… devastatingly handsome. Fine. So what if you’d fantasized a little. Everyone had a fantasy about a professor at some point, didn’t they?

But this wasn’t just a passing blush or an imaginary scenario you’d laugh off later.

This was… real.

And it felt dangerous.

You reached your dorm before you realized you’d walked the whole way without looking up. Your keys jingled like a warning as you fumbled them into the lock.

Inside, you dropped your bag. Collapsed onto your bed. Stared at the ceiling.

And when you finally closed your eyes, you didn’t see words on a page.

You saw him.

You saw the way he leaned on his desk. The way he looked at you like he meant every word he said. Like he saw something in you. Like maybe you weren’t imagining it at all.

Fuck.

———

The weekend nearly killed you.

It stretched on forever. Long, empty hours bloated with overthinking, every minute dragging its heels. You tried to distract yourself, tried to not reread his comments for the hundredth time, tried to not remember the way his voice wrapped around you like velvet, low and deliberate.

You failed, of course.

Every book you picked up made you think of him. Every sentence you tried to write dissolved into him.

You even caught yourself checking the class portal again—not for a grade, just to see if he’d posted anything. A new reading, a casual update, a breadcrumb.

Nothing.

By Sunday night, you were lying on your bed, wide awake, sick with anticipation. And when Monday morning finally came, it felt like surfacing after being underwater too long.

You barely registered the walk to class. Or the bodies shuffling into seats around you.

You just waited for him.

And when he walked in—tweed jacket, sleeves rolled, hair tousled like he’d run a hand through it too many times—you had to stop yourself from sighing out loud.

He greeted the class, the usual warm-but-firm tone, and started the lecture without ceremony. A discussion on characterization this time. You tried to listen. You really did.

But then—halfway through—his voice shifted.

“There was a line in one of the extra credit essays,” he said, “that struck me.”

Your heart stopped. Your head snapped up. You didn’t breathe.

He didn’t look at you. Not once. He just pulled a folded paper from his notes, cleared his throat, and read aloud:

“‘To want and to be wanted back—quietly, without performance or permission—is the loneliest kind of hope.’”

The words echoed in the room like a bell. Soft, sad, devastating. A few people hummed, clearly impressed.

You nearly sank through your chair.

“That,” he said, setting the paper down, “is an example of emotional precision. That kind of writing doesn’t come from talent alone. It comes from knowing what you’re talking about.”

He moved on after that. Smoothly. Professionally.

But you couldn’t hear a single word he said for the next fifteen minutes.

Because that line was yours.

He chose your words. Quoted them. In front of everyone.

And never once said your name.

But he didn’t have to.

Because when he read it aloud, he slowed down—just slightly. Let it hang in the air. Like it meant something more.

Like it meant everything.

———

After the lectures you made it back to your dorm in a daze.

Your legs moved automatically, your body going through the motions—door unlocked, shoes off, bag dropped—while your mind ran laps in circles.

His voice was still in your head.

That line. Your line. In his mouth.

And the way he read it aloud… like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t imagining all of it after all.

You sat down at your desk, heart still galloping. Opened your laptop. The blank document blinked back at you, waiting patiently.

You tried to focus. Tried to start something—anything. A short story. A paragraph. A line.

But nothing came out clean. Everything you wrote bled with him.

The way he looked at you when he said “I hope you know that’s rare.” The quiet authority in his voice. The pause before he moved on.

You blinked down at your screen and realized you’d written his name.

James.

You hit backspace like it had burned you. You buried your face in your hands and let out a groan of defeat.

That was when your roommate’s voice cut through the haze.

“Okay,” she said slowly, from the other side of the room. “I’ve let you spiral in peace for like… three days. But I’m asking now.”

You looked up.

She was sprawled on her bed with a book in hand, but she wasn’t reading anymore. She was watching you like a detective piecing something together.

“You good?” she asked. “Because you’ve been—sorry—weird as hell lately. And I’m trying to be chill but you’re kinda giving haunted Victorian woman who’s in love with a ghost and journaling about it nightly.”

You blinked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did something happen? Like in class? Or is it a boy?”

Your breath hitched.

She squinted. “Oh my god.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

You groaned and fell back dramatically onto your mattress. “Please don’t look at me,” you said into your pillow. “I’m not okay.”

She snorted. “Clearly. Do you want to talk about it, or should I just keep making passive observations until you break?”

“…Just keep talking. I’m almost there.”

“Got it,” she said. “So. Whoever he is… you look like he read your diary out loud and then kissed your brain.”

You let out a muffled scream into the pillow.

She threw a pillow at your back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You stayed facedown on the bed for a full minute, motionless, trying to pretend you could melt into the mattress and disappear entirely.

Your roommate waited. Patient. Quiet, but unrelenting.

Eventually, you flipped over with a sigh, eyes to the ceiling. “Okay,” you muttered. “I’ll talk. Kind of.”

She sat up like she’d just won a prize. “Knew it.”

You stared at the ceiling a second longer. “It’s not… anything. Nothing happened. Nothing could happen.”

That got you a raised brow. “That’s how all great breakdowns start.”

You let out a small laugh. Hollow. “It’s just—I think I like someone. More than I should. And it’s… complicated.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “Complicated how?”

You paused.

How do you explain to your roommate from the same college that you have a crush on a Professor?

How do you explain that the person you’re obsessed with stands three feet away from you every week and looks at you like you’re made of lightning? That he said your words out loud like they were precious? That you see him in every sentence you try to write?

You blinked up at the ceiling, lips parted.

“…He’s older,” you said finally. “Smart. Confident. The kind of person who makes you want to be better without even trying.”

“Hot,” your roommate said knowingly.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

“I take it this isn’t someone you can just—ask out,” she added.

You gave a miserable laugh. “Not even close.”

“Right,” she said, sitting back. “So. A forbidden crush.”

“It’s more than that,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “It’s not just that he’s… beautiful. Or that I’m, like, physically gone for him.”

You paused, chest tight.

“I think he sees me,” you whispered.

That silenced her. You could feel it—her shifting slightly, blinking slow, suddenly understanding the depth of this.

“Shit,” she said softly.

You smiled. Sad. Tired. “Yeah.”

———

It was later that night when you saw it.

You were curled up at your desk again, doing anything but concentrating. Notes open, highlighter in hand, but your brain was still stuck on him. On your roommate’s words echoing back at you. A forbidden crush.

You hadn’t checked your email in hours. You clicked into it on instinct—more to feel productive than anything else—and there it was.

Subject: Your Essay

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

Your pulse stuttered.

You stared at it for a long moment before you even opened it. Just the sight of his name—his full name—was enough to make your lungs tighten.

You clicked.

Hi, I just finished rereading your extra credit piece. I keep coming back to the line about “the loneliest kind of hope.” I’m curious—do you normally write personal pieces like that? Or was this a one-off? Either way, you have a voice worth nurturing. Don’t stop. —J. Barnes

You reread it five times.

I keep coming back to that line.

You had to press your thighs together beneath the desk. You were going to lose your mind.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling like it might give you answers, trying to breathe through the way that one question knocked the air from your chest.

Do you normally write personal pieces like that?

He was asking. Inviting. Gently. Carefully. Like he wanted more from you—your words, your mind, your insides.

You stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box for a full minute before typing:

Sometimes. That one came out all at once. I didn’t mean for it to be personal. But it was.

You stared at it, then added:

Thank you. That means more than I can say.

You didn’t sign it. You didn’t need to.

You hit send with a trembling hand and then you just sat there, waiting. Heart pounding.

Your inbox chimed.

You opened it so fast it was almost embarrassing.

Got it. Looking forward to seeing you in lecture tomorrow. —J.B.

That was it.

No comment on how personal it was. No follow-up question. Just that.

And yet somehow it made your skin feel too tight, like he was right behind you, saying it low into your neck.

The heat of it stayed with you all night.

You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t.

You just kept rereading those twelve words like they meant something more—like maybe, tomorrow, he’d look at you the way he wrote to you.

And if he did—

God help you.

———

The lecture hall was already half full when you slipped into your usual seat, nerves jangling in your chest like wind chimes in a storm. You told yourself to be normal. Be chill. Pretend this was just another class.

It wasn’t.

You felt it the moment he walked in. He didn’t look for you. Not at first. He dropped his leather bag by the desk, rolled up his sleeves, and started sorting through his notes. Casual. Unbothered. Like he hadn’t sent that email. Like he hadn’t singled you out with a line that still echoed in your ribcage.

And then he looked up.

His eyes found you instantly. It was only a second. Maybe two.

But it hit you.

The look. Low. Deliberate. Like he was checking if you’d seen the email. Like he wanted to see how it landed. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

You didn’t breathe until he looked away.

And then he spoke—cool, composed, voice smooth like water over stones.

You didn’t retain a word. You tried to. Really.

But every time he paced near your row, every time his hand brushed through his hair, every time he turned toward the whiteboard with that low, thoughtful hum—your mind lit up like a match.

By the time class ended, your pulse was a slow, burning ache in your throat You started packing up, hands shaking slightly, when his voice cut through the air.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?”

You.

Not someone.

Not a few of you.

Just you.

You froze. Looked up. He was watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that looked polite to anyone else—but to you? It felt like gravity.

You nodded slowly.

Your classmates filtered out one by one. Chatter, laughter, sneakers on tile. Then the door clicked shut behind the last of them.

He waited until the room was empty.

“You know… As I said the last time… You’ve got a gift,” he said quietly, leaning a little against the desk. “The kind that doesn’t come around often.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he added. “You’ve got instincts I can’t teach.”

You swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “But if you ever want to take on a few extra assignments—off the record, nothing for credit—I’d be happy to give you material. Just something to help you grow. Expand your style.”

You blinked. “I—really?” you said. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. “I believe in you.”

That did it. That ruined you.

You nodded, barely holding it together. “Okay. Yeah. I’d… like that.”

His mouth twitched—just the ghost of a smile.

“I have office hours on Thursdays. Drop by anytime.”

He said it simply. Lightly, but his eyes held yours just a little too long.

You swallowed, pulse thudding in your neck.

“…Thank you,” you said softly. “I’ll be there.”

———

Thursday

You finished your last lectures early, but your heart had been racing since breakfast.

All day, you’d told yourself it was just office hours. Just a writing meeting. Just a professor offering support.

But your outfit said otherwise.

The black skirt had felt like an indulgence when you pulled it on. Not too short—just enough to ride up when you sat. The knee-high socks. Soft. Your favorite pair. And the sweater you chose had a neckline that technically counted as academic, but dipped just low enough to make you wonder if he’d notice.

Your coat went over it all, of course. You told yourself it was just because of the weather.

You kept checking the time. Fixing your hair. Touching your lips.

At one point, you even considered not going.

But then you thought of his voice.

“I believe in you.”

And that was that.

You walked across campus with your coat cinched tight, thighs already tingling from nerves. His building was quiet this time of day—long halls, soft echoes, your boots the only sound on the floor.

You reached his door and paused.

Office hours: Thursdays 3:30–5:00

Prof. J. Barnes

You checked your phone.

3:27.

Close enough.

You knocked.

His voice came from the other side. “Come in.”

You opened the door slowly.

He was at his desk, reading—his reading glasses on, sleeves rolled, jaw resting on his knuckles like some kind of literary daydream.

And when he looked up—

God.

That look.

A flicker of surprise. And then something else. Something slower. Deeper.

“Hi,” you said softly, stepping in and closing the door behind you.

“Hey,” he murmured, setting his papers down and taking the glasses off. “Didn’t think I’d see you this early.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Had a break between classes. Figured I’d stop by.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

Then his eyes dropped. Just for a second.

Skirt. The knee-high socks. Sweater.

And then back to your face, like nothing had happened.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk. “Let’s talk writing.”

You sat down, trying to look casual—crossed one leg over the other, smoothed your skirt out just enough to look natural, not like you were stalling for time. Your hands were cold. You pressed your thighs together to ground yourself.

He stood up, slow and unhurried, and reached into the stack of papers on his desk.

“I printed a few prompts for you,” he said, flipping through them. “Just exercises. Things to stretch your style a bit. Narrative voice, intimacy, sensory detail…”

You hummed some kind of agreement, but your heart was pounding too loud to think.

He found the one he wanted.

Then he moved.

He walked around the desk—behind you.

And then he leaned in.

He bent slightly, one hand bracing the desk beside your chair, the other holding the printout in front of you—and fuck, he was close.

You felt it before you even looked.

The heat of his body just barely grazing your back. His breath ghosting across your cheek. The way his sweater brushed your shoulder like he didn’t notice—or maybe he did.

“This one’s interesting,” he said, voice low by your ear. “Write a short piece in second person. Doesn’t have to be plot-heavy. Just describe a moment. Make the reader feel it.”

You could barely hear him.

Because all you could feel was him.

The warmth of his voice. The quiet scratch of his stubble. The scent of coffee and old paper and something darker, something sharp and male that made your stomach twist in heat.

He didn’t move away.

You stared at the paper, not taking in a single word.

He was still talking, still explaining—but your brain had gone soft. Liquid.

Your eyes tracked the paragraph at the top of the page, but all you could think about was how easy it would be to lean back just slightly. To tilt your head, to feel him against you—

“Think you can work with that?” he murmured.

Your lips parted. Your breath stuttered.

“Y-Yeah,” you said. “I… yeah.”

His hand lingered for one more second. And then he stepped back. Just like that. Like he hadn’t just undone you with his proximity alone.

“Take your time with it,” he said, settling back at his desk. “No deadline.”

You nodded, gripping the paper like it might float away otherwise.

But he was still watching you. And that look in his eyes said he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You made it out of his office.

Barely.

You didn’t even remember saying goodbye. Just some stammered “thank you” and a smile you couldn’t control—tight, awkward, desperate to seem unbothered.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

You walked fast. Your boots hit the tile harder than you meant them to. You didn’t breathe until you were out of the building and even then—it was shallow.

Your heart was hammering. Your face was flushed. And between your thighs, a slow, aching pulse had taken up residence, insistent and low, like your body was mocking you for pretending this was just academic.

You leaned against the nearest wall and closed your eyes.

His voice was still in your ear.

“Make the reader feel it.”

You could still feel him.

The brush of his sweater. The warmth of his chest behind you. His breath, low and smooth, brushing the shell of your ear like he’d said something filthy.

You pressed your thighs together.

It didn’t help.

You needed to do something. Walk. Call a friend. Throw yourself into traffic.

Instead, you pulled out the prompt he’d given you.

Second person.

A moment.

Make the reader feel it.

And all you could think was:

You can feel him behind you. You don’t move. You’re afraid if you move, you’ll do something you can’t undo.

You stared at the paper, your pulse thudding behind your eyes.

You were going to write this.

———

You made it back to your dorm.

Dropped your bag by the door, kicked your shoes off, ignored your roommate’s “hey, you okay?” from the other side of the room. You muttered something vague, shut your door, sat at your desk like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the Earth.

The prompt was still in your hand. You smoothed it out on the desk. Read it again.

Second person. A moment. Doesn’t have to be plot-heavy. Just describe. Make the reader feel it.

You opened your laptop. Opened a fresh document.

You weren’t going to make it about him.

You weren’t.

You were going to be neutral. Abstract. Maybe something about being in a crowd. Something literary. Polished.

Your fingers hovered over the keys.

Nothing.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

And then—like heat slipping down your spine—his voice came back. Low. Calm. Right next to your ear.

“Think you can work with that?”

Your hands moved before your brain caught up.

You feel his presence before he speaks. You don’t see him, not yet. But the air changes. The space behind you goes warm. Heavy. You pretend to read what’s in front of you, but you’ve forgotten the words. You’ve forgotten everything. Then his voice comes—low, deliberate, meant only for you. And suddenly you’re aware of every part of yourself. Your mouth. Your throat. Your thighs. The way your breath stutters and your hands twitch and you hope to god he doesn’t notice, even though some small part of you wants him to.

You froze. Your mouth was dry.

You hadn’t meant to write that.

You tried to steer it back—tried to fix it, smooth it out, make it sound less hungry—but it was no use.

The words kept coming.

And it was him. All of it. The desk, the breath, the sweater, the feeling of being looked at like he saw something in you.

You weren’t writing an exercise anymore.

You were writing a confession.

———

The next class passed in a blur.

You barely heard a word.

You tried, really—but his voice was like a siren’s call, and every time he turned to write on the board, every time he paused to take off his glasses, every time he looked at the class and let his eyes linger just long enough…

You lost your mind.

You held the printed pages in your folder like they were made of glass—carefully tucked between notes and old handouts, like hiding them there could somehow protect you from how exposed they made you feel.

When the lecture ended, students packed up. Loud chatter, chairs scraping, the usual rhythm.

You lingered. You always lingered now.

He was tidying his desk. Straightening papers. Tucking chalk into his pocket like it was something soft, something thoughtful.

You walked up slowly, your heart in your throat.

“Hey,” you said, almost too quiet.

His eyes lifted to yours.

And there it was again. That flicker.

Like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to—but didn’t mind.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

You slid the pages from your folder. Held them out to him.

“Just… the second person piece. The prompt you gave me.”

He reached for it—fingers brushing yours in that now-familiar way that made your pulse spike.

“You didn’t have to bring it today,” he said, glancing at the clock. “Still plenty of time.”

You shrugged, trying to seem light.

“I wanted to.”

He smiled—small, quiet. Like he liked that answer.

“I’ll read it tonight,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

You nodded.

But he didn’t look away. His fingers lingered on the edge of the paper. And then, like he couldn’t help himself:

“Second person’s tricky. It only works if it feels real.”

Your mouth went dry.

“It’s… pretty real,” you said. “I think.”

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. Then he tucked the pages into his folder. Neatly. Carefully. Like they were something worth saving.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, voice lower now. “What I think.”

You nodded again, then turned and walked out of the room—fast.

You didn’t breathe until you were halfway down the hall. You didn’t even realize you were smiling.

———

You didn’t sleep. God, you tried. You tried so fucking much but literally couldn’t.

Your brain was too loud—buzzing under your skin, humming with thoughts you couldn’t shake.

He said he’d read it. He said he was looking forward to it. And still…

Nothing.

You kept your phone next to your pillow. Woke up every hour to check it. Opened your laptop in the dark at 3am just in case he’d replied by email instead. You refreshed the page so many times the school’s server locked you out temporarily.

Nothing.

By morning, your chest hurt.

Last time, he’d responded so fast.

A message just before sunrise, margins full of praise. Little notes like: “this is exceptional work” and “your insight is sharp,” and “you have a rare voice.”

But now—silence.

You tried to be rational.

Maybe he was busy. Maybe he didn’t get a chance. Maybe he wanted to take his time.

But that part of your brain—the quiet, clawing part that knew exactly what you’d written between the lines—whispered something else.

You went too far.

He knows it was about him.

He read it and felt uncomfortable.

Disappointed.

Maybe he won’t speak to you again.

Maybe you ruined it.

You stared at your inbox.

The cursor blinked back at you.

Still nothing.

You sat there, wrapped in your blanket, the morning light slowly spilling through the blinds—and it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

Just waiting.

———

You thought about skipping.

Just once. Just this class. Just until the ache in your chest faded and the memory of what you’d written stopped clawing at the inside of your skull.

But your body moved on its own.

Because it was his class.

And no matter how sick or nervous you felt, you couldn’t stay away.

You walked in a few minutes early. Sat near the back. Not in your usual spot—not where he’d see you first.

He didn’t look at you when he entered.

Not once.

He started the lecture like nothing was different. Same tone. Same rhythm. A few light jokes, a few questions thrown out to the class. He even brought up second person again, said something about how intimacy could be built through subtlety.

And you could’ve sworn, for one blistering second, that his eyes flicked toward you.

But then they moved on. He never called on you. Never addressed you directly.

And by the time class ended, your chest felt hollow. You stayed frozen in your seat as students packed up, dragging bags and papers and noise around you, like you weren’t there at all.

Until you heard him speak.

“Could you stay a moment?”

You looked up.

His eyes were already on you.

Everything in your body screamed to run but your feet carried you forward, slowly, until you were at his desk again—like always.

He waited until the last student left. Then he sat on the edge of his desk. Crossed his arms. Looked at you.

Not angry. Not cold. Just… Careful.

“I read your piece.”

Your stomach flipped so hard it hurt. You nodded, eyes on the floor. “Okay.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You know I asked for a moment. Not a confession.”

You flinched.

It wasn’t cruel, not even sharp. Just honest.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He let the silence hang, heavy between you.

And then, his tone was softer. “It was good,” he said. “Really good.”

You looked up. His eyes were darker now. Not unreadable—but serious.

“That kind of writing takes… nerve,” he said. “A lot of people hide behind the exercise. You didn’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, voice too thin, too small.

“I know,” he said. “But I also know what it was.”

Your mouth was dry.

He stood up.

Walked around the desk, slowly, until he was standing beside you—close, but not too close.

“You’re my student,” he said, low. “This stays between us. Do you understand?”

You nodded, pulse loud in your ears. “Yes.”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer.

Then—like a knife slipped under your ribs, deliberate and impossibly gentle:

“You should keep writing like that.”

He turned back to his desk. Pulled out a folder. Began sorting papers.

And you stood there, stunned, body humming like a live wire.

You didn’t know what any of it meant.

But you knew one thing for sure:

He didn’t want you to stop.

———

You were shaking the whole way home.

You didn’t even realize it until you dropped your bag on the floor of your dorm and your fingers missed the zipper. You had to sit down. Catch your breath.

The echo of his voice kept replaying in your head.

“I know what it was.”

“You should keep writing like that.”

Like what?

Honest?

Obsessed?

So turned on you couldn’t breathe?

You opened your laptop without thinking. Fingers moving before your brain could catch up. A new doc. A blank page.

And then—nothing.

You stared at it, your thighs pressing together, your pulse still high. You remembered the way he looked at you. The heat behind his eyes. The calm restraint in his voice.

You typed:

You shouldn’t want this.

Backspaced.

Typed again.

You feel his eyes before you see them. The way they linger. The way they burn.

Pause.

You swallowed hard and kept going.

He never touches you. Not really. But the space between you is thick enough to drown in. And you want to fall forward. You want to drown. You imagine what it would be like if he gave in. If he broke. You imagine it—how easily he could ruin you. How his hands would feel pressed between your thighs instead of paper and pages. How his mouth would sound gasping against your skin instead of quoting dead poets. If that voice of his sank low—not for the sake of analysis, but to whisper your name like a sin. And when you close your eyes at night, you let yourself beg for it. Let yourself ache. Because the thought of his discipline breaking is the sweetest torment you’ve ever known.

You stopped.

Chest rising too fast. Your thighs clenched so tight it almost hurt. Heat spreading beneath your skin like ink in water—bleeding, blooming, unavoidable.

You deleted the last paragraph. Tried again.

But everything that came out was worse. Dirtier. More desperate. Raw in a way that scared you.

And still— You couldn’t stop.

You rewrote it.

Because now every word felt like something he might read.

And maybe—maybe—he’d understand.

———

The classroom felt different now.

It wasn’t that anything had changed—he still walked in with the same ease, still set his notes on the desk like the weight of them mattered, still spoke with that velvet voice that made every line of literature sound like scripture.

But he kept looking at you. Not obvious. Never for too long. But enough.

Enough to make your chest tighten. Enough to make your fingers itch to write more.

You tried to focus. Really, you did. But it was impossible with the way his eyes flicked to you mid-sentence. The way he slowed just a little when reading a line about forbidden want, about restraint, about something unsaid.

You swore you stopped breathing when he said:

“Sometimes what’s not written on the page is more powerful than what is.”

And he looked straight at you.

Your thighs pressed together automatically.

When the class ended, you were already moving. You didn’t even think about it.

He didn’t ask you to stay this time—but you did. You walked straight up to him, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

He looked up when you approached, closing his folder slowly.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just pulled the paper from your bag—folded once, printed, still warm from your hand—and offered it to him.

“I wrote something,” you said quietly. “Again.”

His eyes dropped to the page. Then back to you. His jaw ticked. Slowly, he reached for it—his fingers brushing yours, warm and deliberate—and the way your pulse jumped didn’t go unnoticed.

His voice stayed low. “You wrote this last night?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“It wouldn’t let me sleep.” You added, softly.

Something flickered behind his eyes at that. A shadow of something deeper. Something not professional.

He took the page. Folded it once more. Slipped it into the folder with the rest of his notes.

Then he looked at you. Steady. Measured.

“I’ll read it,” he said.

You nodded, trying to swallow the way your pulse had picked up again.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His gaze lingered for a half second longer. Then he gave a small, polite nod.

“Have a good afternoon.”

And just like that—it was back to normal.

———

Your evening was supposed to be normal.

Laundry. Ramen. Pretending to study with music too loud in your headphones. Maybe reading through your notes and trying not to think about him. Trying to pretend last night’s words weren’t still burning beneath your skin.

You were halfway through a playlist when your phone buzzed.

You didn’t expect to see his name.

Not in your inbox.

But there it was.

Subject: RE: Your Essay

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

I’ve read your work. Come to my office hours tomorrow. We’ll discuss it.

That was it.

No greeting. No feedback.

Just an invitation.

You stared at it for a full minute.

Your stomach flipped. Your mouth went dry.

Your legs curled tighter beneath your blanket, and still—it felt like there was no safe position. No angle where the heat didn’t spread between your thighs like fire licking the edge of paper.

Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, itching to respond. To ask what did you think or what do you want from me or what the fuck are you doing to me.

But you didn’t.

You just read it again.

And again.

And all night long, it echoed in your head.

“We’ll discuss it.”

———

You were early.

Standing outside his office door with your pulse in your throat and your thighs already pressed together beneath your skirt. It was black. Tight. You’d worn it on purpose—just like the sheer black tights, just like the blouse with one button undone too many. Casual, but careful. Calculated. You didn’t need to tease him.

But you wanted to.

You knocked at 3:30 sharp.

The door opened.

He was alone. As always. He didn’t smile.

“Come in.”

You stepped inside. The room smelled like leather and old books and something faintly sharp—his cologne, probably. It clung to the air like static.

He closed the door behind you.

Locked it. You pretended not to notice.

He moved behind his desk, reached for the folder already laid open—your paper sitting neatly at the top, marked in pencil. His sleeves were rolled up. His fingers steady. His eyes unreadable.

“Have a seat.”

You did.

But your knees wouldn’t stop bouncing, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes dragged down your legs and back up.

He picked up your page. Cleared his throat.

And then—he read aloud.

“He never touches you. Not really. But the space between you is thick enough to drown in. And you want to fall forward. You want to drown.”

Your breath stuttered.

His voice was low. Deliberate.

And when he looked at you again, it was different.

Not careful. Not kind.

Hungry.

“Is that what you want?” he asked softly. “To drown?”

Your mouth opened—but nothing came out.

He stepped around the desk.

You watched him move like you were in a dream. His shoes slow against the floor, the air tightening with every step.

“I told myself I wouldn’t cross a line,” he said. “But you keep writing it. Begging for it.”

He stopped in front of you. Held out a hand.

“Come here.”

You stood slowly. Heart pounding.

He didn’t touch you right away.

Just looked.

Then, finally—finally—his hand came to your thigh.

And it was so soft at first. Just a graze through the sheer fabric. His fingers dragged up slowly, until his palm cupped the side of your leg and his thumb pressed in, feeling the tremble there.

“So… Is this what you want?” he murmured.

You nodded but he shook his head.

“No. Use your words.”

Your voice came out barely more than a whisper. “Yes. I want it.”

He exhaled—low, rough, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

“Good girl.”

His palm pressed more firmly into your thigh now. He was still watching your face as he dragged his hand up—under your skirt, over your tights, to the seam at the top where your heat radiated like fire.

He let his thumb brush over your center—barely—but it was enough to make you jolt.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re already this wet?” He chuckled, voice dark.

Your thighs clenched, and he smiled—cruel and soft.

“All that pretty writing,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “But you still couldn’t describe this right, could you? How it really feels.”

You whimpered, and his eyes darkened.

He leaned in—lips grazing your jaw as he hooked a finger into the band of your tights. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled them down just enough, letting the waistband settle below your ass before his hand slipped back up and under.

Hot skin. Calloused fingers. Finally touching where you needed him most.

He hissed through his teeth the moment he felt you. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

Two fingers slid between your folds, and your whole body shuddered.

He didn’t push in yet. Not right away.

He toyed with you first—rubbing slow circles, slick and lazy, watching your mouth fall open and your grip on the desk tighten.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let me see it.”

And you did.

You tipped your hips forward instinctively, searching for more friction. More pressure. More of him.

He pressed the pads of his fingers right against your clit and moved in slow, torturous circles.

Your breath caught.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me hear you.”

A moan escaped—soft and broken.

His fingers teased lower now, circling your entrance.

“Still want to drown?” he asked, voice ragged.

You nodded, eyes heavy.

“Say it.”

“I want to drown,” you whispered. “Please—Professor—”

That name did something to him. His composure frayed. Just slightly.

Then he pushed in—one finger, slow and firm, filling you so good it made your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck. So tight for me.”

You whined—hips shifting, trying to take more.

He gave it to you. A second finger joined the first, and he curled them just right, stroking that spot deep inside that made your thighs shake.

You clutched the edge of the desk like it was the only thing holding you up.

And then—his thumb returned to your clit.

Slow circles. Firm strokes. Just enough.

Your whole body arched into his hand.

“You’re gonna come for me like this,” he murmured. “Messy and shaking and quiet, just like I knew you would.”

You were panting now, close—so close your legs were trembling, your head falling forward onto his shoulder as heat coiled tight in your belly.

And he knew.

He caught your chin with his free hand, made you look at him.

“Don’t forget it,” he murmured. “Next time you write… I want you to describe this.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“Come on. Let go.”

You fell apart. Silently. Violently.

Your body clenched around his fingers and your breath caught in your throat as your orgasm crashed over you—deep and dizzying, the kind that left you floating.

He kept his fingers moving, working you through it, murmuring praises against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Knew you’d be this perfect.”

When you finally came down, chest heaving, he slid his fingers out gently.

You could feel how wet your thighs were, how your tights clung where they shouldn’t.

And then—fuck—he brought his fingers to his mouth. Sucked one clean. Watched you while he did it.

“I’ll be thinking about this,” he murmured. “Next time you write me something.”

The air was thick—soaked in sex and tension and the sound of your breath still stuttering in your chest.

He watched you recover, watched your knees threaten to buckle beneath you.

And he didn’t let you go. Not yet.

He stepped even closer, crowding you between his body and the desk. His hands settled on your hips. His voice, low and rough, curled over your spine like smoke.

“Sit up there for me.”

You blinked—still dazed.

He lifted you before you could obey. Hands strong beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of his desk. The wood was cool under your skin, but he was warm, grounding, overwhelming.

He parted your knees. Looked down.

Your tights were still half-on, messy and clinging to the tops of your thighs. Your skirt was bunched up. And your cunt? Glowing. Glazed. Absolutely dripping.

He groaned when he saw you.

“God, look at you.”

You squirmed under his gaze. Tried to close your legs.

But he stopped you with a look. And then—he sank to his knees.

Your breath died.

Professor Barnes—on the floor—between your legs?

That should have been illegal. (…it probably was.)

But you couldn’t care. Not when he gripped your thighs and leaned in with that heat in his eyes. Not when he pushed your legs wider and stared like you were a feast he’d been denied too long.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “If you want me to.”

You shook your head, frantic. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His tongue touched you—and everything ended.

The first stroke was slow. Deep. A long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh—fuck—”

He groaned into you.

You could feel it. The vibration of his mouth, the grip of his hands keeping you spread for him as he dove back in.

He ate you like a man possessed.

No teasing now. No pretending to be composed.

Just messy, desperate hunger—his mouth hot and wet, his tongue flicking your clit before he sucked it between his lips, just enough pressure to send you spinning.

Your hands flew to his hair.

You shouldn’t have done it but you did. You tangled your fingers in the dark strands and pulled, and he moaned.

Moaned into you.

Ground his face harder against your cunt like he wanted to bury himself inside it.

“Oh my god—“

You choked on a moan.

“Professor—please—fuck—”

He smiled into your pussy.

That was when he started to devour you.

Tongue lapping. Lips sealing. Chin soaked. One hand released your thigh and slipped back between your legs, fingers thrusting in deep while his mouth never stopped, never relented, never fucking slowed.

You were going to lose your mind.

Your vision blurred. Your hips stuttered and your heels dug into the edge of the desk, your cries broken and high and helpless as he coaxed your orgasm out of you with no mercy.

You came like a wave crashing.

Loud. Shaking. Gasping his title like a prayer you couldn’t stop whispering.

“Professor—Professor—fuck, please—”

He held you down, kept his mouth on you while you rode it out, licked you through it like he lived for the taste of you falling apart.

And then—only then—he pulled back.

You were soaked. Ruined. Boneless.

He kissed your thigh and rose slowly from his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were wet. His cheeks flushed. His eyes dark.

When he leaned in again, he pressed a soft kiss to your neck—gentle, almost affectionate.

And then he whispered, low and hoarse:

“You taste even better than you write.”

His hands were steady as they slid under your thighs, lifting you down from the desk like you weighed nothing at all. Your knees buckled slightly, and he caught you—pulled you close, flush to his chest.

And he held you.

Not like he’d just fucked the soul out of you with his mouth.

Like he was afraid to let go.

His palm cradled the back of your head, and you breathed him in—cologne, paper, heat—and then you felt his lips brush the crown of your head, a kiss so soft it nearly undid you again.

“My good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with praise and something too raw to name.

Your breath caught.

“You did so well for me,” he continued, whispering it just for you. “So sweet, so responsive. You listen so well. Always such a quick learner.”

His hand traced slowly down your back, fingers splayed wide like he wanted to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re my favorite student,” he said—low, like a confession. “My brightest. My best.”

You felt heat bloom behind your eyes.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was a dangerous, stupid thing to say. But right then? You needed it. You drank it in like oxygen.

He pulled back enough to tilt your chin up, eyes locking with yours—blue and burning.

“God, you are so sweet,” he breathed. “My sweet girl.”

Your lips parted—but nothing came. No words, no sound. Just the soft thudding of your heart against his chest and the brush of his thumb stroking over your cheek like he worshipped you.

Then—

A kiss. Slow. Deep. A little shaky.

Not hunger—hunger came first.

This was something else.

Possession. Affection. Reverence.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he knew it was a line too far—but he’d already crossed it, and he was never going back.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were kiss-swollen and your breath unsteady.

He smiled. Just faintly.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “You want to write something beautiful—come to me. I’ll make sure you find the words.”

Your legs felt weak. Your pulse was a flutter in your throat, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free—and still, his hands were gentle. Grounding. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

You lifted your eyes to his.

“Professor…” You whispered.

His title on your lips made him still.

He watched you. Quiet. Waiting.

And that was when it rose. That slow, hot swirl of everything you’d been trying to ignore—craving, confusion, want. Not just for this—not just for his hands, his mouth.

You wanted him.

All of him.

So you asked it, soft and broken. “…What is this?”

His brows pulled together. Not harsh. Just quiet confusion, maybe even guilt. His fingers shifted on your waist, and you almost thought he’d pull away.

You didn’t let him.

“I need to know,” you said, a little stronger. “Because I can’t pretend this is just about… writing. Or just about today.”

You breathed in.

“I want it,” you confessed, voice low and fierce. “I want you. I don’t even know what that means yet, or what we’re doing, or if I’m crazy—but I want all of it. And if this is just a mistake to you, then—”

“No.” His voice cut in—firm and certain. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked up at him.

His jaw was tight. His eyes a storm. One of his hands rose to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing under your eye like he was trying to soothe something raw.

“This isn’t a mistake,” he said, quiet but intense. “It’s the farthest thing from it.”

“But it’s—wrong,” you whispered. “Isn’t it?”

��Too late for that,” he murmured.

And then, softer:

“I think about you all the time.”

The admission landed heavy in the space between you.

He stepped even closer, like he couldn’t help it.

“When you speak in class, when you smile… when you hand in work that’s so beautiful it fucking hurts to read—I think about what it would be like to touch you. To hold you. And now that I have…”

He swallowed hard.

“Now I don’t know how I’m supposed to stop.”

Your breath hitched. He leaned in again—his lips just a breath from yours and asked:

“Do you still want it?”

Your answer was instant.

“Yes.”

You said yes, and it was like something inside him broke loose.

Not with urgency. Not with hunger.

But with relief.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb sweeping along your cheek as he leaned in—eyes locked on yours like you were something holy.

And then, he kissed you. Slow.

Like a promise.

His mouth moved with reverence, not desperation—like he was savoring every second of it. Like kissing you was something he’d imagined too many times, and now that it was real, he was terrified to ruin it.

His other hand pressed to the small of your back, drawing you close again. Closer than before. His body warm and steady against yours.

He broke the kiss only barely—his lips still brushing yours, breath hot, voice low.

“Good girl…”

The words settled into your skin like silk.

You shivered, but it wasn’t from cold.

It was from being seen.

Wanted. Praised. His.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the feeling.

Warm in his arms. His voice still echoing in your ears. And your heart beating a little too fast for something that had only just begun.

Part Two

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @hiraethmae (dm or comment If you wanna be added to my tag list) 💋

#barnesonly #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fic rec #professor!bucky barnes #professor!au #bucky barnes smut #age gap fic #YALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#the tension conveyed between reader’s writing and Bucky’s writing is DELECTABLE

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imitationplay · 2 months ago

Text

Better Man

Summary : Trapped in an abusive relationship, you cross paths with Bucky Barnes. Maybe, you deserve a second chance at love.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mentions of domestic, emotional, and sexual abuse (not by Bucky), toxic relationship (not Bucky), trauma, threats, healing, hurt/comfort, protective Bucky Barnes, angst, fluff, angst with a happy ending, self-worth struggles, cheating, substance abuse (not by you or Bucky). Your boyfriend is called Damien (apologies in advance if you are named or know someone who shares the name), implied sex, You are mentioned to be a librarian.

Word count : 8k

Note : This story comes from a very vulnerable place, so please be kind. Maybe this is how I process it lmao. The title is inspired by Better Man by Pearl Jam, a song that hits close to home. Please seek help if you are experiencing any kind of abuse.

You met Damien three years ago. He was charming back then, a man with an easy smile. The kind of man who could light up a room just by walking into it. You had been drawn to his confidence, mistaking it for warmth.

It started with flowers on a first date. Then late-night texts that made your heart race. He called you beautiful before he even knew your last name. He made you feel special.

And for a while, it was good.

But the thing about fire is that it burns.

At first, the signs were subtle. You brushed it off as bad days, stress, or just the way love was. The first time he raised his voice at you, you had been late for a date. It was nothing, really. A misunderstanding. You had apologised again and again, and he had forgiven you after five days of not speaking to you. That’s what love was, right?

Then, when you moved in with him, you started to realise how much he drank.

You thought he’d only have beer or two after work, maybe a glass of rum before bed. You convinced yourself it was normal. But normal turned into necessary, and necessary turned into destructive.

The first time he hit you, you had laughed too loud at another man’s joke.

His fury came in the form of a slap. Quick and sharp, so sudden it barely registered in your brain. You had touched your cheek in shock. The first time it happened, he had apologised— fuck knows, had he apologised. He cried crocodile tears, swore it would never happen again. He told you he loved you, and you had believed him.

Because love was supposed to hurt sometimes. Right?

But it didn’t stop. It never stopped.

And one day, he stopped apologising. He stopped even pretending to care

The worst part of it all was that you loved him. Or at least, you thought you did. Love makes people stay. Love makes people forgive. And you were good at forgiving him, even when his knuckles left bruises on your ribs, even when his drunken words tore you open in a way his fists never could.

He always had an excuse: sometimes it was stress at work. Sometimes it was the liquor talking. One day, it was because you pushed him too far. After that, it was all your fault, really.

And you had believed that, too.

Because leaving wasn’t an option.

Every time you tried, he reminded you what he could do, how easy it would be to make sure you never left him. He knew where you worked. He knew your friends. You didn’t have family close by, no one to run to.

So you stayed.

You learned how to walk on eggshells. How to keep your voice silent, to make yourself small. How to cover bruises with sweaters and long skirts.

And when you couldn’t take it anymore, you just went to work.

And you worked in the library.

You liked the quiet. Here, no one yelled. No one slammed doors or threw bottles against walls. No one grabbed your wrist too hard or left bruises in the shape of their fingers.

It was your only escape— a place where silence was expected and peace was mandatory.

And that’s where you met him.

“Mind if I sit here?” He asked. The library was full today, all the regular study tables taken by students and scholars alike. So he had looked for the only available seat— the one directly across from the librarian’s desk.

You looked up to see Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.

You had seen him on the news, had heard people talking about him when his name was printed on the paper. The Winter Soldier turned hero. He wasn’t in uniform, just a simple t-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, a jacket slung over the back of a chair he hadn’t even fully claimed yet. But even dressed down, he still carried himself like a soldier.

You hesitated. You weren’t used to people—men—asking for permission.

But Bucky… he was waiting for your answer.

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks,” he said. He smiled— one you had seen in newspapers, on screens. It was different up close.

He sat, stretching his metal arm along the back of his chair, completely at ease. You, on the other hand, had no idea how to act. It wasn’t every day a literal super soldier sat across from you.

“What are you reading?” He asked, curious. It wasn’t out of place for you to enjoy personal reading during your shift downtimes, mostly because you couldn’t do it at home.

You hesitated before flipping the book so he could see the cover. Wuthering Heights.

Bucky let out a low whistle. “That’s the one with the guy who’s obsessed with his dead girlfriend, right?”

You blinked. Then, before you could stop yourself, you chuckled. “That’s… one way to put it,” you admitted.

Bucky grinned. “I remember reading that back in the day. Or, well, trying to. Never made it past the first few chapters. Too much drama.”

“That’s the whole point,” you said, surprising yourself. You were talking to him. Joking with him. When was the last time you had let yourself just… talk?

Bucky tilted his head. “You like all that tragic, doomed romance stuff?”

You hesitated, the smile faltering just slightly. It hit too close to home.

“I guess I used to,” you murmured, lowering your eyes.

Bucky didn’t pry. He just nodded like he understood. And then, instead of pushing, he said, “I know you work in a library, but if you ever need a break from that stuff, I can give you some better book recommendations. I’ve got a collection of banned books at home.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you recommend?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve a guy wandering around moaning about his dead girlfriend for two hundred pages.”

You laughed again. Twice. In one conversation.

Bucky pressed his lips together. He looked pleased, maybe… fond.

And then he started flirting.

At first, it caught you off guard.

You weren’t used to compliments unless they came with conditions. You weren’t used to smiles without an edge hiding behind them.

But Bucky was different. He wasn’t forceful. He didn’t expect anything. He just let the conversation take its natural course, his attention fully on you.

“Y’know, for someone who likes doomed romances, you sure have a nice laugh,” he mentioned, tapping his fingers against the table.

You should have shut it down. You should have reminded yourself that you had a boyfriend, however unkind he may be. You should’ve told yourself that this was wrong.

But Bucky wasn’t touching you. He wasn’t cornering you. He was just talking to you.

And fuck did you like the attention.

So you flirted back, hesitant but eager, testing the waters.

And then, he asked, “Let me take you out sometime. Dinner. Or coffee, if that’s more your style.”

The smile on your face slipped.

You had a boyfriend.

A cruel, violent man who would kill you if he ever found out, but a boyfriend nonetheless.

But then you looked at Bucky.

However misguided, you realised a man like Bucky could protect you.

And for the first time in years, you wanted to be protected.

So you took a breath, pushed down the guilt clawing at your ribs, and said “Yeah. Coffee sounds nice,” you said. “Meet me here during my lunch break tomorrow?”

—

The apartment was dark when you got home, but the moment you stepped inside, you knew.

The stench of alcohol was suffocating. It mixed with sweat, stale smoke, and the acrid bite of spilled liquor seeping into the carpet.

Damien was drinking again.

You shut the door softly, careful not to let it creak, your fingers trembling as you turned the lock as silently as possible. Your body moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding you through the steps you had learned to survive. You took your shoes off, your bag down. Maybe—maybe—you could slip into bed unnoticed.

But then you heard a low chuckle.

“Well, well,” Damien said, his voice reeking of vodka. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

You turned slowly, forcing your shoulders to stay relaxed, your hands to stay at your sides. You looked at the clock. You were only fifteen minutes later than usual.

Damien lay sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from his finger, shirt wrinkled like he hadn’t moved in hours. His eyes were bloodshot, but they still managed to pin you in down like a predator sizing up prey.

You swallowed hard. “It’s late. I just want to go to bed.”

Damien scoffed, shifting to sit up. “Oh, you want to go to bed? That’s funny, babe, ‘cause I’ve been sitting here, alone, all night, wondering where the fuck you’ve been.”

You forced your expression to stay neutral. “I was at work.”

“Work,” he repeated, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “Always work with you. You love that goddamn library more than you love me.”

You said nothing. There was no right answer.

Damien took a slow sip from the bottle, then licked his lips, “You dressed nice today.”

Your breath hitched.

A compliment should have been harmless, but not from him. Not when he was dangerously possessive. Not when you knew what was coming next.

“You trying to impress someone?” he slurred. “Someone at work?”

Stay calm. “I just—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said gently. But you knew better than anyone that the softness in his voice was a trap. You had fallen for it before.

“I’m not,” you whispered.

Damien set the bottle down, breathing out sharply through his nose. “You think I’m stupid?”

“No—”

“Then why the fuck do you keep lying to me?”

You flinched as he pushed himself off the couch, staggering slightly before regaining his balance. You took a step back.

Damien noticed. “Where were you really, huh?” he pressed, taking a taunting step forward. “Who were you with?”

“No one,” you said quickly. “I swear.”

His fingers twitched.

You tried to brace for it, but stumbled when he shoved you anyway.

Your hip hit the floor first, hands catching yourself on the carpet.

Damien crouched beside you, grabbing your chin in a bruising grip, forcing you to look at him. His breath reeked of alcohol as he muttered, “I don’t like feeling disrespected, baby.”

You didn’t answer. You knew better.

He let go, shoving your face away like you disgusted him. “Go to bed,” he commanded, already reaching for his bottle again.

You moved carefully, with no sudden movements. You got to your feet, keeping your head down as you made your way toward the bedroom.

The moment the door shut behind you, you collapsed onto the mattress, curling in on yourself.

Your hip throbbed where it had hit the floor.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant clink of glass and the murmur of the TV Damien had turned on.

Tomorrow, you had a date with Bucky Barnes.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself look forward to something.

—

It felt wrong to be this excited.

Your shift at the library had been slow—only a few regulars meandering through the aisles. Then you saw him.

Bucky stood near the front desk, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, leaning against a shelf. He was so casual, for a second you could pretend he wasn’t a super soldier waiting for you to take your lunch break.

“Ready, doll?” He asked. Your heart flipped at the nickname.

You put aside the nerves bubbling in your chest and nodded, stepping out from behind the desk.

It had been so long since you’d gone on a proper date— since you’d felt safe enough doing something out of work. Damien never liked you going out alone.

You stepped outside together, “So,” you started, glancing up at him. “Where are we going?”

“There’s this little diner down the block,” he said with a small smile. “Figured we could grab a sandwich or something.”

A casual lunch. You liked that.

The walk was short, but you noticed how Bucky always positioned himself between you and the street. You doubted he even realised he was doing it. It probably was just instinct.

Inside the diner, a waitress greeted you both, eyes widening slightly when she recognised who Bucky was, but she said nothing beyond a polite, “Right this way.”

You slid into a booth, and Bucky sat across from you.

“So,” he said, metal hand resting on the table. “Tell me something about you that’s not librarian-related.”

You blinked. “Uh. Like what?”

He grinned. “I don’t know. What do you do when you’re not working?”

You hesitated. Because what did you do? Your life had been so wrapped around making sure Damian didn’t get angry that you hadn’t had time for hobbies.

Bucky noticed your pause, picking up that you needed a better prompt. “Alright. Let me make it easier—favourite book?”

That was easier. “Don’t have one,” you shrugged, “But I just finished Persuasion last week and I thought it was pretty good.”

His brows lifted. “Jane Austen?”

You nodded, sipping your water. “It’s about second chances.”

“Sounds like my kind of book,” he said.

The conversation just… came freely after that. He told you about the 40s, about how he used to sneak out of school with Steve to get hot dogs from Coney Island. He told you about how Sam kept trying to get him into modern music, but he still thought the best stuff came from his time.

And you laughed. It felt good.

By the time you finished your sandwiches, you had to go back to work.

Bucky walked you back, hands stuffed into his pockets again, looking reluctant to leave.

“You can stay, you know,” you said before you could think better of it.

His head tilted. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “It’s a slow day. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Well,” he said. “Can’t say no to a pretty librarian asking me to stick around.”

You could feel your cheeks burning.

Bucky stayed and sat in the library, flipping through books he probably didn’t care about just to be near you.

—

When you came home, Damien barely spared you a glance.

The coffee table was a mess— littered with empty bottles of rum, crumpled dollar bills, and a small mirror dusted with white powder.

He was on the couch, slouched back, Some guy—one of his friends you didn’t recognise—was laughing beside him, rubbing his nose.

“Ah, there she is,” Damian slurred, stretching his arms over the back of the couch.

His friend snickered. “This is your girl, man?”

You froze.

Damian ran a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah. Can you believe it?” He gestured toward you, like you were some kind of joke. “Look at her—always in those oversized sweaters, like she’s hiding something.”

You clicked your jaw.

His friend hummed in agreement, looking you up and down. “Eh. She’s alright, I guess.”

Damian laughed.

“Right? I keep telling her she could actually be hot if she tried. But nah—she just walks around putting no fucking effort.” He leaned forward, tapping his nose twice before inhaling another line of coke. “No other guy’s gonna wanna fuck that, so I don’t even try,” he joked.

You gripped the strap of your bag so tightly your fingers hurt.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said things like this. But now, after spending time with Bucky— after being wanted —Damian’s words finally felt wrong.

You turned, heading toward the bedroom, because if you stayed out here any longer, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep yourself together.

“Hey,” Damian called after you, mocking. “Don’t be mad, babe. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

The laughter followed you down the hall.

And you hated that you let it get to you.

—

You told Damien you had to pick up an extra shift as an excuse to go on another date with Bucky after work.

Now, you found yourself sitting across from the super soldier in a café near your job, fingers curling around a warm cup of coffee.

“You got a little something right there.” He gestured vaguely toward your mouth.

You frowned, swiping at your lips with a napkin. “Did I get it?”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. C’mere.”

He leaned in, human hand swiping the stain on your lips.

God, he was close. So close. Too close.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered.

Damien never asked. He just took.

But Bucky was different.

You nodded, and the moment his lips met yours, it was soft, sweet, nothing more than a chaste kiss, but it stole the breath from your lungs.

Your heart stumbled in your chest, and when he pulled back, you blinked at him, dazed.

Bucky smiled sweetly. “Yeah. Got it.”

You should have felt guilty. You should have pulled away. But instead, you smiled.

—

You told Damien you had to work late again.

Instead, you were in Bucky’s apartment, his lips tracing down your neck.

It started like the others dates— with coffee and a conversation. This time, when he offered to take you back to his place, you said yes.

You weren’t sure why. Maybe you just needed to know what it felt like to be touched gently again. To be adored.

Bucky laid you down on his bed, hands roaming over your thighs, his lips peppering kisses over your collarbone.

And then he paused.

He saw it.

His fingers brushed over the bruise on your hip, the one Damian had left the last time he shoved you to the ground.

His brow furrowed. “What happened, doll?”

You swallowed. “Uh—smacked a table.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned down, his lips ghosting over the bruise, pressing the softest kiss against it— so gentle you thought you were going to cry.

His mouth trailed lower— teasing, tasting. And when he finally sank into you, his forehead pressing against yours, there was no fear. No pain. No doubt.

Just pleasure.

You weren’t used to this— the tenderness. The way he whispered beautiful against your skin, like he couldn’t even believe you were real.

At one point, he brushed a strand of hair from your face and said, “You know, I thought you were way out of my league.”

You stared at him.

“Bucky,” you deadpanned. “Look at yourself.”

He smiled, hands splayed on your waist. “Look at you.”

You didn’t stop him when he kissed you again.

Didn’t stop him when he held you close after.

Didn’t stop him when he got up, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with an ice pack.

“This’ll help,” he said, pressing it gently against your hip.

You hesitated but took it from him anyway, letting the cold seep into your bruised skin.

For a moment, you wondered, would it really be so bad if I told him the truth?

But then you thought of Damien— of what he’d do if he found out.

And then you thought of Bucky.

What would he do if he knew? If he pieced it all together? You wanted to believe he’d never hurt you, that he was different. But if he reacted like Damien… it would be so much worse. He was a super soldier, after all.

So you said nothing.

And Bucky—sweet, patient Bucky—let you keep your secrets, for now.

When you rolled over, you saw the clock on his nightstand.

Shit.

It was late. Way later than you told Damian you’d be “working.”

You sat up quickly, clutching the sheets to your chest. “I—I should go.”

Bucky propped himself up on an elbow, blinking in confusion. “Already?”

You nodded, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. Early shift tomorrow,” you lied.

It was a weak excuse, but he didn’t push.

Instead, he sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. “Alright. Lemme drive you.”

“No!” The word came out too fast.

Bucky froze.

“I—I mean, it’s fine,” you insisted, “I’ll just grab a cab.”

He stared at you like he was putting together pieces of a puzzle, but he let it go anyway. “Okay.”

You dressed quickly, avoiding his stare as you gathered your things. When you turned to leave, Bucky caught your wrist, tugging you back just enough to press one last kiss to your lips.

“See you soon?” he asked hopefully.

Your throat tightened.

You nodded. “Yeah. See you soon.”

Then you walked out the door with dread in your stomach.

Because you weren’t going home to safety.

You were going home to him.

—

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside. Damien was passed out on the couch with one arm hanging off the side.

You stepped in quietly, not wanting to wake him.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Bucky.

Let me know when you get home.

You felt warmth spread through your chest, but guilt quickly smothered it. You shouldn’t have let him care this much. Shouldn’t have let him worry about you.

But fuck did you wanted him to.

You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you before pressing call.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hey, doll.” He greeted, eager.

You sat on the edge of the tub, “Hey. I just wanted to let you know that I’m home.”

There was a beat of silence before he asked, “You okay?”

You hesitated.

Your eyes looked in the mirror. You dropped your pants slightly to see that the bruise on your hip was still there, but fainter. Bucky’s ice pack had helped.

It shouldn’t have made you tear up, but it did.

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just stress.”

Bucky hummed, unconvinced. “Alright,” he said, “Get some rest, sweetheart.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “You too.”

You hung up before the lump in your throat could grow.

Then, you turned off the bathroom light, took a deep breath, and stepped back into your own personal hell.

—

Tuesdays and Wednesdays became highlights of your week. Those were the days that Bucky would meet you during your lunch break, always having a small bite in the corner booth of some diner, fingers wrapped around a warm cup of coffee instead of white-knuckling the strap of your bag in fear.

Fridays were even better.

You told Damien your Friday hours have been extended, telling a lie about reorganising shelves and cataloguing books, a lie he barely acknowledged between lines of ket and dismissive laughter.

Little did he know, every Friday, Bucky took you somewhere new after work. A different café, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, once even a trinket shop with creaky wooden floors. Sometimes, he bought you flowers— slipping it into your bag with a casual “Thought you’d like this,” like it wasn’t the kindest thing anyone had done for you in years. Of course, you’d have to throw them away before you got home. It broke your heart to do so every time.

And every Friday, he asked, “Come back to mine?” He was always hopeful, never demanding.

Sometimes, when you knew Damien would come looking, you said no, and he never pried.

But when you said yes, Bucky brought you home and touched you like you were sacred. His hands never bruised, never hurt. He kissed you like he wanted to give you time, let you set the pace. When he laid you down on his bed, he didn’t take. He gave.

He made love to you like it was an art form, like the curve of your spine and the sound of your gasps were brushstrokes on the masterpiece he was creating. He mapped every inch of you, murmuring things you weren’t sure you deserved to hear— things like beautiful and perfect and mine, if you want to be.

But no matter how good it felt, you never stayed the night.

You’d always force yourself to get up. You kissed him one last time, letting him tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Bucky never asked why.

He figured you would tell him when you were ready.

—

This Friday night was different.

Bucky had taken you somewhere nice— a proper restaurant with white tablecloths and candlelight on the table.

It felt too much. Too intimate. Too real.

You didn’t deserve this.

You smoothed your hands down your dress, a simple black number you changed into after work. It was something Damien wouldn’t notice if he caught the scent of someone else’s cologne clinging to the fabric later. You swallowed hard, pushing the thought away.

"You okay, doll?" Bucky asked, always so damn perceptive. It scared you sometimes, how easily he could read you.

You forced a smile. "Yeah. Just...not used to this."

Bucky reached across the table. "I just wanted to do something nice for you," he said. "You deserve it."

You didn’t.

You didn’t deserve him.

Not when you were still crawling into bed with Damien, violent as he may be.

Your throat tightened. "I...thank you."

Bucky squeezed your hand before pulling back. "I mean, we can go back to coffee and greasy burgers next time."

You laughed, even though it felt like a lie. The waiter came by and you ordered tea. Bucky ordered a beer.

The moment the words left his mouth, something inside you froze.

It was stupid. So stupid. It was just a drink. A normal, casual, everyday thing that normal, casual, everyday people ordered.

But when the waiter returned and set the bottle in front of Bucky, you couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t even think.

The world blurred at the edges, shrinking down to that bottle, to the way Bucky’s fingers wrapped around it, to the way the liquid moved inside.

He lifted it to his lips.

And suddenly, you weren’t here anymore.

You were at the apartment, with Damien.

Slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers, his head lolling to the side.

Damien.

Hurling the beer bottle across the room, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the apartment.

Damien.

Laughing as he swung it at you like a weapon, the glass catching your shoulder— hurting you.

"Look what you made me do,” he would say.

Your breath hitched. The room felt like he closed in on you.

You had to get out.

Now.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you shoved it back. Bucky blinked. "What—?"

"I have to go." The words came out strangled. Your hands were already shaking.

His brows furrowed in confusion. "What? Why?"

"I—I forgot I needed to pick up laundry."

It was a terrible excuse, but you didn’t care. You were already moving, grabbing your bag, fumbling with the strap as you stumbled toward the door.

"Wait—!"

You didn’t.

You pushed past the tables, past the jazz band that played on.

The air outside was cold, and you didn’t make it far.

Bucky was running after you, calling your name. "Hey—hey, stop."

He placed a hand on your wrist and tugged gently. Always so gentle. "Talk to me."

You shook your head, staring at the sidewalk, at the cracks in the pavement, at anything but him. "It’s nothing. I just—I just need to go."

"Nothing?" His voice was careful now. "Your hands are shaking."

You curled them into fists. "I’m fine."

"You froze the second I took a drink." His voice was soft, like he was afraid of scaring you off. "Are you sure you’re fine?”

You couldn’t.

"Please," you whispered. "Just let it go."

Bucky’s voice cracked when he spoke. "You can’t keep doing this."

Your stomach dropped. "Doing what?"

"Running." His throat bobbed, "From me. From whatever this is."

Your heart raced out of your ribs. "Bucky, I can’t—"

"Not when I’m falling in love with you."

Fuck.

He took a step closer. "I love you." He said, "And I just want to know if this works."

Your breath hitched.

"Y-you love me?"

"I do." There was no hesitation. No doubt.

It was too much.

Too much, too much, too much.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You ran home.

—

When you got home, Damien was not alone.

A girl—half-naked, barely covered by his shirt—was curled up on the couch, her lipstick smudged.

And Damien was sitting beside her, legs sprawled, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His pupils were wide, red-rimmed, unfocused. He barely even looked surprised to see you.

"Ha!" His laugh was almost giddy. "Thought you’d be gone longer." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, stretching his arms behind his head. "Oh well."

Oh, fuck.

You should have known.

You should have expected it.

And yet, it still hurt.

It shouldn’t have. It shouldn’t have.

You were supposed to be the cheater. You were the liar. You had no right to be angry.

And yet your anger burned hot and ugly all the same.

"You—" It got caught in your throat. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Damien groaned, rolling his eyes, "Oh, don’t start with that shit." He gestured lazily to the girl beside him, barely even looking at her. "She was already here. Not my fault you weren’t."

You were fuming.

Not because you loved him anymore.

Not because you wanted him anymore.

But because he had always done this. Had always taken and taken and taken, had always acted like your pain was just an inconvenience, like your suffering was annoying.

"You don’t even give a fuck, do you?" Your voice trembled. "You don’t even care that I just walked in and found you like this?"

Damien only laughed.

"Why the fuck would I care?" He flicked the cigarette onto the floor, grinding the ember into the carpet with his boot. "You always come back."

Something inside you snapped.

"You are such a piece of shit." The words came out in a snarl.

Once his eyes darkened, it happened fast.

Faster than you could brace for it.

One second, he was laughing, the next—

Crack.

Your head snapped to the side as his palm met your skin with a brutal slap.

The room blurred.

The sting sank deep into your nerves. You could taste copper blooming on your tongue where your teeth had cut into the inside of your cheek.

The girl on the couch barely even flinched.

Damien leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"You’ll still come back," Damien murmured, his voice almost affectionate as he traced a lazy finger down neck, reeking of alcohol or coke or ket or whatever he had today.

Your hands curled into fists. "Go to hell."

He chuckled. "You won’t leave me."

He said it like it was a fact.

"But if you do…" His fingers closed around your wrist, squeezing just enough to make your bones ache. You grunted in pain.

"I’ll find you," he whispered. "And I’ll make sure no one else wants you either."

He let you go. Just like that.

You turned on your heel and walked out, pressing a hand to your burning cheek. You were almost to the stairwell when his voice called after you, sing-song and fake-sweet, "See you soon, babe."

—

It was late.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you had nowhere else to go.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Bucky was wearing an old hoodie and sweatpants, blinking at you with those ocean-deep blue eyes

And before he could say a word, before you could think, or hesitate, or talk yourself out of it—

You kissed him.

Your fingers fisted in his hoodie, your mouth crashing against his. You were desperate. You were hungry.

You felt him freeze, hands hovering near your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you, wasn’t sure if this was real.

So you whispered it against his lips, "I love you too." It was the truth.

You heard a gasp from him.

Then his hands found you, gripping your waist and pulling you into him with a sound that was half a sigh, half a groan. He kissed you back like he couldn’t believe you were finally his.

You barely made it to the living room before you were tangled together. He pressed you down onto the couch, and oh, fuck.

Was this what it’s like to not be taken for granted? Not feeling owned, but treasured?

You could have stayed there forever, but Bucky pulled back just to make sure you were okay.

He froze.

The lights in his apartment were brighter than the hallway, bright enough for him to see.

His thumb brushed against the skin of your cheek, his brows furrowing. "What happened?"

Your stomach churned. "It doesn’t matter."

Bucky’s fingers twitched, his voice lower. "What. Happened.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes trained on his chest. "I fell on the floor."

What an obvious lie.

Then his metal fingers reached up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

And you saw it in his face the moment he undeniably noticed the shape of it.

It was a handprint.

His teeth clenched so hard you could hear it.

"Please don’t lie to me." He pleaded.

And just like that, you broke.

"I have a boyfriend," you choked out.

His face changed, but not into anger— no, not yet. He was waiting for a justification.

"You have a boyfriend," he repeated, his voice flat.

You swallowed hard, "Bucky, I—"

"Are you—" His voice was strained, almost heartbroken, "Are you telling me I’m the other man? That all this time, I was—"

He couldn’t finish his words.

"It’s not like that," you whispered, frantically. "I swear, it’s not—"

"You kissed me." His tone was hoarse. "You told me you loved me."

"I do!" Your grip on his hoodie tightened. "I do, Bucky. Please, just—"

"What the hell have we been doing?" His voice cracked.

You should have told him.

Should have told him sooner.

But you had been too much of a coward.

And now, Bucky—your Bucky—was looking at you like he didn’t even know you as he burned in your eyes.

"He… he hurts me." The words came out in a whisper.

And Bucky froze, body entirely still.

His hands clenched into fists. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You forced yourself to keep going, even though you struggled. "He—he hits me. He cheats. He drinks and bumps ket and coke. And I don’t love him anymore. I haven’t for a while, but he threatens me and I—" you let out a deep. "I was scared to leave. I am scared to leave."

Bucky took a deep breath. "Oh," he murmured, realisation in his eyes as he put all the puzzle pieces together— your bruises, why you never stayed over.

"Oh, sweetheart,” he reached for you, and this time, you didn’t flinch.

He pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. His lips pressed against the top of your head, breathing against your hair.

And then, after a long quiet moment, he asked, "What’s his name?"

It took you a long time to answer, but Bucky waited. He didn’t rush you as he rubbed slow circles against your back.

"Damien."

You barely whispered it, like saying it out loud would summon him.

His shoulders went rigid. You heard the faintest whine of his metal arm as his fingers curled into a fist.

"Damien." He repeated it, like he needed to taste the name of the man who had hurt you, like he needed to put a name to his anger.

Your throat was tight. "I’m sorry."

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm on your waist. "What the hell are you sorry for?" His voice was rough, but not with anger— he was hurt on your behalf. Grieving on your behalf.

"I should’ve told you," you whispered. "I should’ve—I should’ve left. I just—"

"You were scared." He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. "Sweetheart, you don’t owe anyone an apology."

His fingers ghosted over your arms, barely touching, like he was afraid you’d flinch.

"You’re safe now," he promised, "I’ve got you."

Your throat closed. Is this what love is supposed to feel like?

Bucky shifted on his feet, glancing toward his kitchen. "Let me take care of you, yeah?" He frowned as his eyes studied your cheek. "You need something for the swelling."

He walked to the cabinet and pulled down a bottle of anti-inflammatory pills, shaking two into his palm before turning back to you.

"Here," he offered, grabbing a water bottle from the counter and unscrewing the cap. "Take these. They’ll help with the pain."

Your chest tightened, lungs locking up.

The little pills sat in his palm, harmless, waiting for you to swallow them.

But they didn’t feel harmless.

See, you had done this before.

You had taken something from a man you trusted, swallowed it without question, only to wake up confused, sore, violated.

You had trusted Damien, once, and he had used you.

Bucky noticed your hesitation immediately.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap.

His brow furrowed. "Doll?"

You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at the pills.

His breath hitched. "Oh."

When he realised, he felt a shattering kind of grief.

You flinched when he moved, but all he did was slowly place the pills on the table before backing away.

You hated that you had flinched.

Because it was Bucky. Bucky. The man who had never done anything but love you, who had never given you a reason to fear him, and yet your body had reacted before your mind could catch up.

“You don’t have to take anything,” he reassured.

He swallowed hard. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t.

"I would never," he said, his voice breaking. "I could never do that to you."

You knew that. Of course you did.

But hearing him say it like the very idea of hurting you made him sick had broken you.

You nodded. "I know."

"Just rest, okay?" he said, quieter now. "I’ll protect you."

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for him.

Bucky barely had time to react before you curled into his chest, pressing yourself against him, burying your face in his hoodie, inhaling the scent of safety.

Carefully, his arms came around you, not too tight. Not too much. Just enough.

You didn’t realize you were crying until his lips brushed the top of your head.

You didn’t know how much time passed before Bucky finally spoke again.

"C’mon, sweetheart," he cooed. "You’re exhausted."

You were. God, you were so tired.

Your body was running on fumes. The adrenaline had burned away, leaving nothing but exhaustion, leaving your limbs heavy, your eyes barely able to stay open.

You let him pull you to your feet, let him guide you to the bedroom, let him peel back the covers and tuck you in.

His hands were gentle as he pulled the blanket up to your chin. He brushed his fingers over your hair, his thumb tracing soft circles against your temple.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

—

At some point in the night, your phone buzzed.

Damien.

Then again.

Each vibration rattled the nightstand, You didn’t wake, body curled into the warmth of the blankets he’d wrapped you in. It hurt to even think about when the last time you slept undisturbed was.

His fingers hovered over the phone. He should wake you up. He should let you handle this yourself.

Then it vibrated again. This time, it was a text.

Where the fuck are you?

Another.

I swear to god, if you don’t pick up.

Then another.

I will drag you home myself.

Bucky could feel the rage settling deep in his gut.

Then, the last message came through.

You think you can run? I’ll fucking kill you before I let you leave me.

No.

He wasn’t going to just sit here and ignore it.

He was going to handle this.

He picked up the phone, tapped the screen, and traced the call in seconds. He had done this a thousand times before— for missions, for threats, for people who needed help.

The results came back quickly. Damien was at your shared apartment.

Then he stood, grabbed the biggest duffel bag, and left after pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

—

Damien heard the knock on his door.

He groaned from the couch, rubbing at his temples. His head was still swimming from the high. He had barely moved since you had walked out, too fucked up to care. The girl he slept with was long gone. He didn’t even remember her name.

The knocking persisted, harder this time.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stumbling to his feet, the room tilting slightly. He yanked the door open with a scowl. “What—”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

The Winter Soldier was standing at his door.

Bucky Barnes. The Hero. The assassin. The fucking legend.

Damien gawked, blinking hard. “Whoa.”

Bucky didn’t wait for him to process. “Move.” He shoved past him and into his apartment.

Damien stumbled back, mouth opening and closing. “Wait—what the fuck—” he barked, rubbing his chest. “Dude, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t even spare him a single glance as his metal hand ripped open your closet, yanking out handfuls of clothes and shoving them into the duffel bag. He moved like a soldier in the field— quick and efficient.

He took your laptop. Important Documents. Trinkets. The little necklace you always fiddled with when you were nervous. Everything that mattered. Everything that was yours, everything that you’ve ever talked about. It hurt to see that there wasn't much, that your life fit into the duffel bag. That and he already made up his mind— whatever clothes couldn’t fit in the bag he would buy you tomorrow.

Because you were never setting foot in this apartment again.

Damien was still watching, bleary-eyed. “Okay, as cool as it is having an Avenger in my place, you can’t just take shit—”

Bucky didn’t even look at him.

“I’m not taking your shit,” he said coldly, zipping the bag shut. “I’m taking hers.”

Damien squinted, then blinked. “Hers? Wait—how do you even know her?”

He should have walked away. He should have just left.

But Damien was still talking.

“Oh my God,” his eyes wide as dinner plates. “Are you fucking her?”

Bucky didn’t say a word.

Damien fucking grinned. “Oh, I was right, wasn’t I? That bitch was cheating on me.”

Bucky saw red.

Before Damien could react, Bucky’s metal hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him clean off the ground.

Damien choked, his hands scrambling against the vibranium fingers squeezing his neck. His legs were kicking air uselessly.

Bucky pulled him in, their faces inches apart.

“You listen to me,” Bucky said, voice lethal. “You are never going to call her again. You are never going to text her again. You are never going to look for her.” His grip tightened. “You so much as breathe in her direction, and I will find you.”

Damien’s face turned red, veins popping at his temples. He clawed at Bucky’s wrist, making pathetic strangled noises.

Bucky leaned in closer.

“You think you own her?” His voice was a deadly whisper now. “You think you can hurt her?”

Damien’s mouth opened, gasping.

“You don’t own shit,” Bucky snarled. “And you will never touch her again.”

Just as Damien’s vision started to go dark, Bucky let go.

He fell to the floor as a heaving mess, clutching his throat.

Bucky adjusted the strap of the bag. Then he stepped over Damien like a rug.

Right before he walked out the door, he glanced back.

“If I ever see you again,” he said. “You won’t be walking away.”

And then he left.

—

By the time Bucky made it back to his apartment, you were still asleep.

He set the bag down quietly. He placed your laptop on the table and folded your clothes neatly before slipping back beside you.

You curled up to him.

—

The morning light greeted you when you woke. You blinked the sleep away from your eyes, stretching slightly, and then you smelled it. Warm vanilla. A hint of espresso. It was the unmistakable scent of your favorite iced latte.

A small smile tugged at your lips before you even turned your head. And Bucky was standing beside the bed, phone in one hand, the other carefully setting down a bowl of cereal and the coffee on the nightstand.

It was so normal, so sweet and ordinary, that for a moment, you almost let yourself pretend that life had always been like this.

But when you saw your laptop, your documents, your clothes—folded neatly on the side, when you saw every little piece of you that had been left behind, you frowned, confused.

You barely heard Bucky’s voice as he finished his call.

“Yeah. Yeah, I appreciate it. I’ll let you know… No, she’s okay. She’s good.” He paused. “Alright. Thanks, Matt.”

The call ended and he slipped his phone into his pocket.

Your throat was dry. “Bucky…?”

He turned to you.

You licked your lips, forcing the words outs. “What happened?”

He shrugged casually.

Like he hadn’t walked into your old apartment in the middle of the night. Like he hadn’t packed up every last thing that belonged to you. Like he hadn’t lifted Damien off the ground with one hand.

“He’s not gonna bother you anymore,” was all he said.

You swallowed, eyes searching his face. “Bucky… what did you do?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sighed, rolling his shoulders.

“Nothing you have to worry about.”

And the phone call…

“Who were you talking to?” You asked.

Bucky hesitated. Just for a second. “Murdock & McDuffie.”

That was a law firm.

Your fingers curled around the blankets. “Why?”

“To put together a case,” he said.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He shifted, voice softer now. “A domestic abuse case.” He continued, “If you decide to press charges.”

“Bucky—”

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, like he didn’t want to push. “I just—I wanted you to have the option.”

The option.

For so long, you had none.

For so long, Damien had decided everything. What you wore. Where you went. How loud you could speak. How much you could breathe.

You had a choice.

Slowly, you reached for the coffee he had brought you and took a sip. It was perfect, just the way you liked it.

Bucky sat beside you on the bed, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His eyes looked to your cheek— to the fading imprint that had made a home there. “Does it still hurt?”

You swallowed, lifting your hand to touch the spot, but before you could, Bucky was already there, brushing his thumb lightly over your skin.

“A little,” you admitted. “But… I’m better than I’ve been in a long time.”

A small smile formed on his lips. “Good.”

And then, before you could say anything else, he leaned in.

He kissed your tears, lips pressing softly against the salt-streaked trail on your cheek. And then another kiss—this time against your lips. Slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, fingers tracing the stubble on his jaw. “I love you, too.”

His eyes closed for a moment, like he was letting the words settle before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re safe,” he promised. “You can do what you want, go where you want. Stay if you want. I don’t ever want you to feel like I’m trapping you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and this time, it wasn’t from sadness.

“I know,” you whispered.

Because Bucky was nothing like him.

You had spent so long being controlled, manipulated, made to feel small. But now— now you had a choice.

And you chose him.

You had found love in the arms of a better man.

-end.

Extra notes : I'm posting because this month is my three-year anniversary of being sober, so this one is deeply personal. In some ways, this is a reflection of my past relationships before I met my wonderful partner. I don't really talk about this often, but couple of my exes were like this, and some even played a big part in my history of substance abuse. It is my partner who helped me get sober, and I am forever grateful, and I fucking love him so much. For some reason, I just can't bring myself to write the reader as a recovering addict, but I was able to write about experiencing abuse in a relationship. If you need to vent, my chat is always open. I may not reply quickly but I will talk if you're like me to. Please also refer to this very useful list of resources. If you can, please share more resources in the comments! You are worth so much and loved. <3

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff

#aquaticmercy #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #bucky barnes fic

1K notes · View notes

imitationplay · 2 months ago

Text

What Stays | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: After disappearing for days, you didn’t expect Bucky Barnes to show up at your door again, let alone help you through the spiral without judgment.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: depression, mental health episode, executive dysfunction, implied anxiety/panic disorder, emotional burnout, medication use, therapy mention, hurt/comfort, slight Thunderbolts team chaos™

Word Count: 7k

Author’s Note: okay so this request kinda of cracked my ribcage open while writing it?? heads up that this one’s heavy with pretty serious mental health themes, lots of emotion, lots of bucky being the softest man alive. resources are linked in the original request if you need them! take care of yourself, eat something, hug a friend!! ily <3

You’d worked with him for seventeen months and never once called him by his first name.

Everyone else did. Sam. Ava. Yelena. Bob, even. Walker used “Buck” just to be annoying. But not you.

Barnes. That’s what you called him. Even when you passed him in the hall with two coffees in your hands and one already marked with the way he liked it—no sugar, extra cream, too much caffeine. Even when the two of you sat next to each other during back-to-back strategy debriefs, thigh to thigh in cheap chairs, sharing dry looks over whatever mess came out of the last mission. Even when he called you at 2:13 AM because someone had leaked classified footage to the press and he didn’t trust anyone else to vet the source.

Barnes.

You’d started out as part of his congressional staff, communications support, admin overflow, a title that changed depending on the room. Mostly, you were there to help keep the mask on: to draft statements, coordinate press engagements, manage the uncomfortable dance between his past and the way the world wanted him to look clean now. That job lasted nine months, right up until the incident cracked open the country's expectations of him all over again.

Then came the “repositioning.” That was what Valentina had called it. You didn’t have a formal title anymore, but suddenly you were part of the New Avengers backend. Half logistics, half intelligence, and somehow still the person who made sure the med kits were stocked and the media team didn’t publish anything with blood on it.

There’d been something there. You knew it. So did he. The way he lingered near your desk longer than necessary. The way he made a point of walking you out to the curb after late meetings even when it wasn’t on his route. Once, he'd handed you a pack of ginger chews after watching you twist your fingers into your sleeves during a mission recap. He said nothing, just slid it across the table.

He asked once, quietly, if you wanted to get dinner. Not with the others. Just the two of you.

You said no. Not because you didn’t want to. But because you knew better.

Because some nights you slept twelve hours and still couldn’t function. Because other nights you didn’t sleep at all and took four showers just to remember you had skin. Because you’d disappear sometimes. Spotty, your therapist had once called it, like a corrupted file.

You’d go off-grid and ignore everything: work, friends, basic hygiene, your own body. It wwasn’t really up to you when or why it happened. You’d learned to warn people. Learned to preemptively distance yourself from anyone who might get the idea you could be counted on.

But Bucky wasn’t like other people.

He noticed.

The first time you missed a full three days of work without a word, he showed up outside your apartment. You hadn’t told him where you lived. He didn’t say how he figured it out. Just stood there, hands in the pockets of his coat, jaw tight like he’d been grinding it for days. He looked like hell. You probably did too.

You told him it was a bad patch. He didn’t press. Didn’t ask what that meant. Just left a brown paper bag of groceries on your counter and sat in your kitchen until you ate something.

He came again the second time. And the third.

At some point—maybe because you were exhausted, maybe because part of you trusted him more than you should’ve—you handed him a key.

He never used it recklessly. Never showed up unless he hadn’t heard from you in a while. And after that last time, after the fight, after you told him you were fine, after you made it clear you didn’t want him hovering anymore, you figured that was the end of it.

That had been three months ago.

You hadn’t missed a meeting in those months. Not one. You’d been on every call, answered every late-night ping from Val, tracked every comms burst and manifest drop without flinching. You even ran point on over a dozen ops briefings.

But then last week, you woke up late one morning and couldn’t remember what day it was. The file you were supposed to submit stayed open on your screen for hours. You stared at it until the text blurred. By the time you looked up, the meeting was already over. You didn’t message anyone. Didn’t reschedule. By Tuesday, you were out of three group threads and at least one rotation queue. By Thursday, the fridge had started to smell like something inside it had gone soft.

You hadn’t expected him to come. Not anymore. Not after last time.

But there was a knock on your door. Three. Sharp. Deliberate.

Your heart didn’t jump. Really, it didn’t move at all.

You rolled onto your back on the living room floor and stared at the ceiling.

There were three more knocks. Then silence.

And then keys.

Metal sliding into the lock with a sound that dragged like metal against wet pavement. The door didn’t swing open all the way. Just enough for the edge of it to catch on the clutter behind it. Shoes, mail, your bag you didn’t remember knocking over.

Boots stepped in first. You knew the sound. Heavy, quiet. Bucky always walked like the ground might give out beneath him.

He didn’t speak.

The door closed softly behind him.

You stayed on the floor, one arm folded beneath your head, the other bent awkwardly against your stomach. Your shirt had ridden up. You hadn’t shaved your legs. You weren’t wearing a bra. You hadn’t eaten anything but crackers and one expired granola bar in at least a day and a half, and you couldn’t remember if you’d showered since the weekend.

You weren’t crying. You weren’t even thinking.

Bucky stepped around the clutter. Didn’t kick it. Didn’t sigh.

You waited for him to say something. Ask what the hell happened. Ask what you were doing. Ask why the place smelled like rot. Maybe launch into the same lecture from last time, about letting people in, about not shutting him out.

Instead, he crouched down beside you, knees cracking, forearms on his thighs.

He looked like shit too. Hoodie too worn. Hair tied back. Stubble half grown in. One knuckle on his right hand split like he'd only just gotten back from a mission.

You didn’t move. You didn’t even really look at him. You stared at the part of the wall where the paint was starting to chip. The quiet buzz of the old fan pressed into your ears like cotton.

“You left your back door unlocked.”

His voice was low. Not soft. Just low, like anything louder might shatter the glass inside your skull.

You didn’t answer. Just breathed. In. Out.

“I knocked,” he said. “You didn’t come. I figured you wouldn’t, so…I used the copy you gave me.”

The ceiling needed repainting. There was a water stain above the kitchen. You weren’t sure how long it had been there. Probably months.

“I can do the trash,” he said after a moment.

It wasn’t a question. He glanced toward the kitchen. The bags were overfilled, sagging, reeking. The kind of smell that coated the back of your tongue. You hadn’t noticed when it started. You just stopped noticing.

He didn’t get up yet. Just sat there beside you, close enough to feel the shift in the air every time he exhaled.

“I brought food too. Left it in the car. Wasn’t sure if you’d…want me coming in. Or, staying.”

You blinked.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but not in amusement. It looked more like guilt. Maybe something else.

“I’ll go get it in a second. Figured you’d at least eat if it came from somewhere you recognized.” Another pause. Then quieter: “It’s from that Lebanese place. The one near the old campaign office. You liked the lentil soup.”

You didn’t remember telling him that.

Didn’t remember a lot of things lately.

The ceiling blurred for a second, not from tears but from the way your vision kept lagging behind your body. Like your eyes were underwater and the rest of you was somewhere else entirely. You heard your voice before you felt yourself decide to speak.

“…you shouldn’t have come.”

He looked over at you, not surprised. His hands stayed loose between his knees.

“You said that last time.”

“I meant it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You shut your eyes. The fan buzzed louder in your ears.

The next sound was the shift of his weight as he stood.

You didn’t open your eyes. Didn’t ask what he was doing. You didn’t have to.

You heard the creak of the floorboard near the hallway. Heard the door to the bathroom open. The pause. Then the cabinet.

You knew exactly what he was looking for.

There was a sharp sound. Plastic bottles clacking against each other.

You should’ve put them somewhere else. Or hidden them entirely. Or thrown them out when you stopped remembering to take them. But you hadn’t. They were still under the sink, shoved behind old conditioner and a heating pad you hadn’t used in a year.

You’d run out of your dailies last week. Well, you knew you’d run out. Whether or not that counted as forgetting was hard to say. Some part of your brain registered the empty orange bottle and did nothing about it. No refill. No call. No list.

The PRNs were still there. The backup plan. The panic-day meds. The kind you only took when you were still functional enough to decide to take them.

Which meant you hadn’t touched them either.

You opened your eyes when he came back.

He didn’t say anything. Just held out a half-full glass of water in one hand, two small pills in the other—white, round, scored.

You didn’t reach for them.

He didn’t force it. Just crouched and placed them gently on the coffee table beside you. The water next to them. Sat with them for a second like he wanted to make sure they wouldn’t slide off or disappear.

You stared at the pills.

“You need to eat first,” he said, voice neutral. Matter-of-fact.

You didn’t argue.

He stood again, slower this time. Knees popping like they always did when he shifted his weight too fast. You heard him exhale through his nose as he moved toward the door.

“I’m going to grab the food.”

The keys jingled in his pocket. His boots creaked near the threshold.

“I’ll be right back.”

Then the door opened. Closed again.

You were alone.

Just you, the pills, the water, the buzz of the fan, and the sharp sourness of your body—your mouth dry, your stomach folded in on itself, your skin too hot in some places and ice cold in others. The carpet beneath you had an indent from where you'd been lying, and you weren’t sure how long you’d been there before he arrived. Maybe hours. Maybe a full day. The light through the blinds didn’t tell you anything you could trust.

You shifted slightly onto your side, your eyes drifted to the water glass. Your throat pulsed.

You couldn’t even remember what the pills were actually called, just the shape of them. Just that it was for slowing things down. For helping you land when the rest of you was floating above your body, watching the hours tick by without meaning.

The door opened again less than a minute later.

You heard it, just barely, over the dull pulse in your ears. Bucky’s steps were heavier coming in. The sound of plastic bags brushing together. A takeout container thumped gently against the counter.

He didn’t speak right away as he walked back into the living room. You heard the rustle of the bag being opened. Styrofoam lids popped gently.

“It’s still warm,” he said. “Not hot, but warm.”

Bucky crouched beside you again, the way he had before. He must’ve hated that couch-to-floor ratio. Always did.

“I got the lentil soup. Pita. Rice. Hummus. And that garlicky thing you said gave you heartburn but you like anyway.”

Your lips twitched, maybe. You weren’t sure.

You didn’t look at him, but you could hear him settle onto the floor beside you again. Could hear the quiet thud of a takeout container being set on the table next to the pills.

He didn’t ask if you were hungry.

He didn’t start making plans or telling you what to do or outlining some false timeline where all of this got better by Tuesday.

He just sat there with you.

You could feel his presence—solid, steady, not reaching but not moving away either. One knee drawn up, arms folded loosely across it. The smell of warm food bleeding into the stale air. Garlicky, savory. Familiar in a way nothing else felt lately.

Your stomach cramped. You couldn’t tell if it was hunger or nausea. Maybe both.

You stared at the table.

A long breath. Then another.

He reached forward, opened the lid to the soup. Set it near the edge of the table with one of the folded paper napkins tucked under it like it might somehow make it more appealing. Then he unwrapped a piece of pita. Ripped it in half. Not aggressively, just slow, casual. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d done it.

“You used to say this was your version of a cure-all,” he murmured. “Said it did more for you than doctors ever did.”

Your lips twitched again. That time you felt it.

You didn’t say anything. But your eyes flicked toward him. Just barely.

“You don’t have to eat much,” he said, still calm. Still that low, steady tone like a grounding wire. “Just enough so the meds don’t hit you wrong. So your stomach doesn’t get mad.”

You stared at the wall.

He waited.

Then, gently:

“Can you sit up for me?”

You didn’t move.

Not because you didn’t want to, but because the ask felt heavier than your limbs could handle. It should’ve been easy. Just move. Just sit up. Just eat. Just be normal for five minutes. But your body still felt like it didn’t belong to you. Like your limbs were props, weighted and uncooperative. Like everything was happening on a delay.

Bucky must’ve seen that. Must’ve read it in your silence, in the stillness that wasn’t defiant, just frozen.

“Here, I’ll help.”

You swallowed. Your throat clicked.

He moved carefully, slow enough that you could track every motion. One hand braced behind your shoulders. The other hovered near your arm.

“I’m gonna lift you, okay? Just a little.”

You didn’t nod. But you didn’t stop him.

His hand found your spine—warm, steady—and he guided you up. Not fast. He gave you time. Gave your muscles time to catch up with the request. You felt your ribs creak under the shift. Your breath hitched. The back of your neck went damp with effort.

But you sat up.

Mostly.

Your back met the base of the couch. You sagged there, barely upright, head lolling forward a little too far.

But it counted.

Bucky knelt in front of you, crouched low with one hand still hovering by your shoulder like he wasn’t sure if you’d fall.

“There. You did good,” he said.

You didn’t believe him. But the way he said it, quiet and even and without hesitation, made something sting behind your eyes.

He reached for the soup. The smell hit harder now. Steam curled upward, curling around the stale air between you.

“Try a few bites,” he said. “Just a couple."

You stared at the container in his hands. Your stomach felt tight. Not in the way that meant full. The way that meant afraid.

He didn’t move to feed you. Didn’t push it into your hands. He just stayed there, holding it out gently, like he was offering a peace treaty.

“I’ll eat too, if that helps,” he said after a moment. “We can do it together.”

That made you look at him. Barely. Just a flick of your eyes.

He didn’t look away.

“Please,” he said, softer now.

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a request, not really. It was just him asking because he cared. Because he didn’t know what else to do with how fucking worried he was.

Your hand moved. Shaky, slow, reluctant. But it moved.

He passed you the container and the plastic spoon tucked beside it. You took it like it might burn you. Your hand trembled as you dipped it in.

The first bite tasted like nothing.

The second bite tasted like garlic and lemon and salt and memory.

By the third, your hands had steadied.

You didn’t realize he’d sat beside you again until his arm brushed yours.

You ate more than you meant to.

Just small spoonfuls, slow, careful, your jaw working like it was out of practice. The broth hit your stomach and sat there like a stone, but you didn’t stop. It was routine. Mechanical. Like your body knew it was supposed to keep going, even if your brain was a step behind.

Beside you, Bucky opened a container of his own. You didn’t know what he’d ordered. Something heavier—maybe lamb, maybe rice. You clocked the faint clatter of him unwrapping plastic cutlery. He took a bite. Another. Ate like someone who’d forgotten what hunger felt like until it came roaring back. You didn’t look directly at him, but you felt the way he angled his body toward you, shoulder relaxed, presence solid and quiet beside yours.

After a while, you noticed the pills again.

Still sitting on the coffee table. Still untouched. Still waiting.

You set the soup down, reaching for them slowly, like they might flinch. Picked them up with one hand. The weight of them was stupid. Inconsequential. But you stared at them anyway. Thought about how long it had been since you last took anything. Thought about how many days had passed where you meant to and just… didn’t.

You drank half the water before you took them.

The pills went down easier than you expected. No gag. No second-guessing. Just a swallow and an ache behind your eyes when you finished the glass.

They wouldn’t kick in right away. You knew that. It would take twenty to thirty minutes, sometimes longer. It depended on your metabolism. Whether you’d eaten. Whether your body still remembered how to process things.

Even before they started to work, there was a strange pressure behind your sternum. Not from the meds. From the realization that he’d watched you do it. That he’d waited. That he knew the order of things. Get you up. Food first. Then meds. Then maybe, just maybe, you’d get back to the surface.

He was still next to you. Still close enough that you could feel the heat off his leg.

You wanted to be mad. That was what you told yourself. You should be mad. Should’ve told him to leave. Should’ve snapped, I didn’t ask you to come back.

Like you did the last time.

But your chest still felt too hollow to carry anger. There wasn’t room.

So instead, you said, barely audible:

“…I’m sorry.”

It came out quieter than you meant it to. Small. Raw around the edges. Not because you were ashamed, though maybe that too, but because saying it required more from you than anything had all day.

You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for.

For not calling. For ignoring him. For avoiding him these past few months. For getting like this again. For not being someone who could keep it together. For letting him see it. For letting him back in at all.

Bucky’s fork paused in mid-air.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, but you heard the breath he took. The way it left his chest in a slow, careful push.

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t apologize.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Your eyes burned again. Not with tears. Just that awful heat, dry and raw and too close to shame.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you said again. It was barely above a whisper. “It’s not even the worst it’s been. But I know… I know if you kept seeing it at all, it’d stick.”

He looked at you, eyes soft, unreadable. “Too late.”

That knocked something loose in your chest. You breathed, but it hurt.

“I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“I don’t.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

He didn’t blink.

“I mean it,” he said. “You think this changes anything?”

You almost said, doesn’t it? But the words got caught.

You didn’t say anything else. Just kept breathing. Just kept being upright, if not entirely present. The soup settled in your gut like an anchor. The meds sat like a question mark at the base of your throat. The only thing keeping you tethered was the quiet rhythm of Bucky next to you, the way his body shifted just enough to remind you he hadn’t left.

His fork scraped softly against the takeout container again. He took another bite, slower this time, like he was waiting for something to surface between you. When it didn’t, he exhaled through his nose, wiped his mouth with the corner of a napkin, and leaned his head back against the couch behind you. Not all the way, just enough to let the muscles in his neck settle.

“You know, I had to drag Walker off a roof the other day,” he said finally. “He got this brilliant idea that if he jumped from a transport helicopter onto a moving armored truck, he could take out the engine from the top.”

You blinked. Slowly. Your neck turned half an inch in his direction.

Bucky didn’t look at you. Just kept talking, voice low and even.

“He forgot to account for wind resistance. Dumbass nearly broke his leg and knocked out his own comms. We had to haul him out like a dead deer. Alexei still won’t let him live it down.”

Your lips moved without meaning to. Not a smile. Not really. But something softened at the edges of your mouth. The image came in crooked and out of place. Walker—posturing, explosive, stupid in the specific way men like him always were—being carried by two other super soldiers like a sack of rice.

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward you, just once. Then back to the floor.

“You would’ve laughed,” he said. “I mean, like you always did. Whenever things got… fucked. You always had that kind of mean little laugh when something exploded at the wrong time. You were the only person I knew who could sound impressed and horrified at the same time.”

You didn’t know what to do with that.

There was a sharp pang in your chest. Familiar. Not panic. Not guilt. Just that sudden clarity that you were someone who laughed.

He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t doing that thing people did where they reminded you of better versions of yourself like a weapon, like a guilt trip. He was just remembering you. Naming the parts of you you hadn’t seen in weeks, maybe longer.

You pressed your back harder against the couch. It hurt. But you stayed there.

He went on, almost like he couldn’t help it.

“Yelena’s still trying to train Bob in hand-to-hand. She keeps calling him ‘soft boy.’” Bucky gave a dry huff that might’ve been a laugh. “He doesn’t argue. Just takes it. But he’s good. Smarter than he lets on. I think Val’s trying to groom him into a press darling or something. Says he’s still ‘marketable.’”

You didn’t respond. But your eyes had moved back to him now. Fully. You watched his jaw flex. Watched the way his thumb dragged along the seam of his takeout container, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

“I don’t know why I’m still on this team,” he admitted, quieter. “I’m too old. Too tired. Everyone else is either a quarter my age or psychotic.”

The corner of your mouth moved again. It wasn’t much. But it was real.

He glanced at you.

“And yet,” he said, “I keep showing up.”

You looked down at your hands. They were resting in your lap now, fingertips pressed together. Not shaking. Not clenched. Just there.

“You’re not tired of this?” you murmured. “Of… me?”

He frowned. Not sharply. Just enough to show he didn’t like the question.

“I’m tired of this,” he said. “Watching you suffer. Watching you pull away. But I’m not tired of you. Never.”

You stared at him, throat thick.

“I can’t always come back,” you said. “Sometimes it takes me days. Sometimes longer. I don’t always know what’s happening until it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I don’t mean to push you out.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be this person.”

“I know.”

You flinched at the sound of it. But he didn’t look angry. Just sure.

“I know who you are,” he said again. “Even when you don’t. I’ve seen you when you’re sharp. I’ve seen you when you’re cold. I’ve seen you when you’re bleeding. And I’m still here.”

Your eyes burned.

“I don’t want you to fix it,” you whispered. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not.”

His voice didn’t waver. His face didn’t crack. He just said it like a truth he’d never stop repeating.

You looked away. Didn’t say anything for a while. The silence wasn’t heavy, just full. Your eyes stayed locked on a spot near the corner of the coffee table, watching the grain of the wood blur and sharpen and blur again. Your chest was tight. Not in the way it got before a panic spiral, this was something slower, heavier. Like your ribs were holding in everything you couldn’t let out.

Then, without thinking, you took a breath.

A real one.

Not shallow. Not half-measured. One of those slow, full, chest-expanding inhales that felt like it reached all the way down to your gut. It hurt, a little. Like stretching after being curled too long. But it grounded you. The room came back clearer. The corners of it. The faint whir of the fridge. The way Bucky’s knee bounced just once and then stilled again.

You looked back to him. Really looked.

There was something in his face you hadn’t let yourself name. Something low and warm and so fucking real it made your chest ache. And you knew he felt more than he ever said. He wasn’t subtle, not really. He never had been. He just kept his hands off because he respected the line. Because he’d never cross it if you didn’t invite him.

But, his hand had drifted closer to yours. Not touching. Just… nearby. Like he was leaving the door open in case you needed something to grab.

You didn’t take it. But you didn’t move away either.

Your voice came out steadier this time.

“You ever think about walking away?”

He blinked. “From what?”

“From all of it. The team. The noise. Everything Val keeps trying to turn you into.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed slightly. Then he shook his head once, slow.

“Every day,” he said. “But then someone does something stupid and I remember why I’m still useful.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

He tilted his head toward you, just a little. You could feel the heat of his body next to yours again. The way he anchored so easily without meaning to.

“You don’t have to come back for everyone,” you said.

He nodded. “I don’t.”

That sat between you for a second.

“ But I'll keep coming back here,” he added.

You went still.

He didn’t say it like a confession. Just a fact. He wasn’t asking for anything. He wasn’t waiting.

You shifted, just slightly. Your shoulder touched his for a second before you pulled back.

The warmth stayed.

“I’m not going to be fun to be around for a while,” you said. “You know that, right?”

“You think I’m fun to be around?”

You snorted. Quiet. Barely there. But it was real.

His mouth twitched. That almost-smile. The one you remembered from car rides back from missions when the radio was just static and his boots were scuffed and his voice was low with exhaustion but full of something steady. Something solid.

After a few seconds, he cleared his throat. You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the faint pinch of hesitation at the corner of his mouth.

“I think the team’s doing a movie night tomorrow,” he said. “Yelena’s picking the lineup, so probably something ridiculous. Walker’s gonna pretend to hate it and Ava’s gonna make popcorn no one eats. I think Alexei invited someone’s dog.”

You blinked.

“I mean—no pressure,” he added quickly. “Just… if you wanted to come. No mission talk. No gear checks. Just noise. And maybe food that doesn’t come in a plastic box.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But the idea of sitting on that shitty couch in the tower’s rec room—Walker complaining, Yelena loudly shoving her feet into Ava’s lap, Bob quietly slipping you your favorite candy without anyone noticing—it didn’t sound as far away as it usually did. It didn’t sound impossible.

“You can say no,” Bucky said again. “Or nothing. Either one’s okay.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let the offer hang in the air a little longer than necessary, like if you breathed wrong it might collapse. But it didn’t. It stayed. And Bucky didn’t rush you to fill the silence, didn’t jump to explain it again or soften it further. He just watched you with that same patience you remembered from briefing rooms and after-hours check-ins and late flights home when you could barely keep your eyes open but knew he was still watching your six.

Eventually, your fingers curled slightly against your leg. Not a big movement. Just something to remind yourself you were still here.

“That sounds nice,” you said finally. Quiet, but without hesitation.

It wasn’t much. But it felt like enough.

He nodded once, slow. “I can come get you. If you want.”

You swallowed. The offer shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did, but it did. The idea of trying to get up on your own tomorrow—trying to find the energy to dress, to move through public spaces, to exist around other people—felt impossible. But if he came for you… if he waited on your porch with that silent steadiness of his, like he always did when he knew you were struggling… maybe it wouldn’t be.

You blinked once, twice, and then it all started to catch up with you. Not as a flood, just as a shift. Like someone turned the volume back on inside your own head. The tension. The exhaustion. The self-loathing that had calcified over the last week. The part of you that hadn’t moved from the floor for hours because it felt easier to disappear than admit something was wrong.

The pressure behind your eyes grew sharper.

You took another breath. Not as clean as the first. It caught halfway in your throat, then pushed through.

Your face felt hot.

Bucky must’ve noticed the shift, but he didn’t call it out. He didn’t panic. He just shifted closer again, his knee brushing yours, then staying there like an anchor.

“I can come early,” he said, voice low. “Walk you over. If you change your mind, I’ll make something up. Say you got called into a last-minute intel brief. No one’ll question it.”

You let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh. Or a sob. It cracked, either way.

Your shoulders tightened. Your hands twitched like they wanted to curl into fists, like your body was gearing up to brace against something, but there was nothing to fight except the emotion creeping up under your skin like static.

You blinked hard. Your vision went shiny. You didn’t want to cry. Not like this. Not now.

But it was happening anyway.

One tear. Then another.

Not fast. Just steady. Like your body had finally decided it was safe enough to let go of something it wasn't allowing you to feel for so long.

You heard a small sound in your throat. Didn’t recognize it as yours at first.

“Hey,” he said, soft. “You’re okay.”

That phrase used to piss you off when people said it. It always felt performative. Too clean. Too quick to mean anything.

But from him, it wasn’t a fix. It was a touchpoint. A marker in the ground so you didn’t lose where you were.

Then there was movement.

Not loud. Not rushed.

Just the soft shift of fabric and the subtle dip of weight beside you as Bucky leaned in.

You felt his hand at your back first. A slow, gentle pressure—his palm between your shoulder blades, warm and steady like the weight of a coat. Not pushing. Just there.

You exhaled, shaky and long.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

You weren’t sure if you nodded. But you leaned into the contact without meaning to. Just a little. Just enough that he didn’t have to hesitate before moving closer.

He wrapped an arm around you, slow and careful, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You didn’t.

Your cheek hit his chest, and the fabric of his hoodie smelled faintly like clean laundry and city air and the kind of sweat that only came from being worn all day by someone who never stopped moving.

His hand moved gently over your arm once. Just a pass of his fingers. Then it settled, resting lightly, holding, not gripping.

“You’re okay,” he said again. Quieter this time. “It’s okay.”

You didn’t mean to lean in further, but your body moved without asking. Your hands, which had been useless in your lap for hours, lifted just barely. Your fingers brushed the edge of his hoodie like you weren’t sure where to put them. You didn’t grab him. You didn’t cling. But you held on, lightly, like you might fall through the floor if you didn’t touch something real.

He shifted again.

You felt it first in the curve of his arm, the way it tightened around your shoulders, then in the slight pull at your waist.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice low, close.

You didn’t answer with words.

Your weight shifted, almost imperceptibly. Your arm moved to rest more fully against his side. You let your body relax into his like your own skin wasn’t something you had to manage alone anymore.

That was enough for him.

You felt the movement in stages—his hands steadying you, adjusting so slowly it barely registered until your legs stretched across the floor and his body pulled back just enough to brace you both. He moved you into his lap. Not fully cradled, not like something fragile, but supported. His arm wrapped around your back again, his other hand bracing at your knee.

It was stupid how safe it felt.

You hated that word. Safe. It didn’t mean anything most of the time. People threw it around like it came cheap. But this wasn’t soft lighting and false promises. This was a man who had seen the worst of you, all of it, and was still holding you like nothing about you made him flinch.

You didn’t know how long you sat there like that. Minutes. Maybe more. Long enough for your breathing to steady again. Long enough for the trembling to pull back into something manageable. Your body had stopped trying to run from itself, and now it was just there—folded in his arms, stretched out enough that your muscles were no longer locked in place, your heartbeat no longer pounding in your ears.

Your head stayed tucked against his collar. You could feel the soft scratch of the stitching where the seam of his hoodie had started to unravel. You focused on that. On the way his thumb moved in slow circles near your elbow. On the quiet, rhythmic sound of his breath above you.

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because it was the only thing left that made sense.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

You felt him freeze, just for a second.

The smallest pause in his hand. A shift in the way his chest moved beneath you. Not tense. Just surprised.

You’d never called him that before.

Not once.

Not in seventeen months of working beside him, not in post-mission reports, not in morning coffee runs, not in late-night briefings or casual texts or quiet jokes in rented armored SUVs. You never crossed that line. Not out of coldness. Not out of fear. Just because Barnes had always felt safer. More neutral. More like armor for both of you.

But this moment had nothing neutral in it.

His arm tightened around you. Just a gentle pull, like he needed to make sure you were real. That this was happening. That you’d said his name like it meant something personal. Like it belonged to you.

His breath moved against your hair.

“Anytime,” he said, voice low. Serious in a way that made your chest throb. “You don’t even have to ask.”

And then, without rushing, without making it a big thing, he leaned in.

You felt the softest brush of his lips at the top of your forehead. Just one. No follow-up. No hesitation. Just a quiet kiss pressed into your skin like a promise he didn’t have to speak aloud.

Your eyes fluttered shut. Your body stayed still.

And for the first time in a week, you didn’t feel like a burden. You didn’t feel like a ghost. You just felt… held.

The rec room lights were too bright when you first walked in.

You blinked at the overhead fluorescents, already buzzing with that soft static hum that made the air feel warmer than it should’ve. Someone had cracked open a few windows, probably Bob, and the spring chill from outside drifted in just enough to cut the scent of microwave popcorn, lime seltzer, and three different kinds of pasta.

You were the last one to arrive.

Bucky had kept his promise—he showed up at your apartment thirty minutes early, said nothing when he saw you still half-dressed and staring at the same two shirts like the choice might split the earth. He didn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes or the way your shoulders kept inching toward your ears. He just leaned in the doorway, sipping from the coffee he’d brought you, and waited.

Now, you stood in the doorway of the communal rec room, your fingers twitching against the hem of your sleeve.

Yelena looked up from where she was aggressively rearranging throw pillows and raised a single brow. “Well, well,” she said. “The ghost lives.”

You almost turned around right then.

But Bucky’s hand brushed the small of your back. Just once, just long enough for you to register the quiet pressure of it. It grounded you.

“Don’t give her shit,” he said to Yelena, voice easy.

Yelena didn’t flinch. She was used to Bucky’s moods by now. “I would never,” she said innocently, before throwing a pillow with surgical precision at Walker’s head. “You brought her. You deal with the consequences.”

Walker grunted without looking up from the beer in his hand. “Better her than Alexei. He tried to make us watch The Exorcist dubbed in Russian last week.”

Alexei, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a plate of ribs in one hand and a Capri Sun in the other, looked entirely unbothered. “It is a cultural experience.”

Ava, curled up in one of the beanbags, didn’t even glance up from her phone. “You fell asleep halfway through it.”

Alexei shrugged. “I trust my instincts.”

Bucky guided you to the couch with a quiet ease, like he’d been doing it for years. He didn’t lead you by the hand or hover, just existed beside you in a way that made your body stop bracing.

You sat down in the middle of the couch, spine too straight. He sat next to you, close but not pressed in. You didn’t lean into him. Not yet. But your knees touched.

It was enough.

Bob handed you a plastic cup full of something vaguely orange. “Hi,” he said with his usual too-soft voice. “Glad you made it.”

You gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”

The movie started ten minutes later, some ridiculous vampire flick Yelena had apparently picked for research purposes. You didn’t ask what that meant. Walker made a show of groaning at every line of dialogue. Alexei laughed in the wrong places. Ava looked like she was cataloguing the stunts for later study.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been quiet until Yelena tossed a piece of popcorn at your shoulder and leaned over with a grin.

“Bucky’s been weird all day,” she murmured. “You showing up has nothing to do with that, I’m sure.”

You shot her a look.

She smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing and turned back to the screen.

Bucky didn’t say anything, but he shifted next to you, just slightly, and you could feel him watching you from the corner of his eye.

You weren’t touching, but his hand was resting on the couch between you. Close. Not casual. His pinky brushed yours once when you both reached for the same handful of candy, and neither of you pulled back.

It was stupid. Small. But it felt like enough.

Halfway through the movie, Walker made a comment loud enough to earn groans from the whole room. You rolled your eyes, and without thinking, leaned your head back against the couch. You didn’t realize it had tilted closer to Bucky’s shoulder until your hair brushed his hoodie.

You stiffened. Started to pull away.

But then he leaned the slightest bit toward you. Just enough to keep the distance closed. Just enough to let you stay.

You didn’t move again.

No one said anything. No one stared.

Except Yelena.

You saw it in your peripheral—her narrowed eyes, the smallest twitch of her mouth like she was biting back a smile. She didn’t say a word. Just raised a single brow at you when Bucky reached forward and silently placed your favorite candy in your lap without saying a word.

You mouthed shut up at her.

She just grinned wider and turned back to the screen.

The rest of the night passed in flashes. Yelena muttered something about the film's budget. Ava shushed her with a rolled-up sock. Walker tried to pass off a real yawn as a fake one, then blamed the dialogue for both. Someone changed the lights on the smartbulbs to an awful neon green and no one owned up to it. The second movie started and no one acknowledged that the first one had ended.

You didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to.

Bucky kept his arm on the back of the couch, fingers ghosting just above your shoulder without touching. You could feel the shift in pressure every time he leaned forward—usually to snag more candy, once to toss a water bottle at Alexei that hit him square in the stomach and went completely ignored.

You sat still, mostly. Ate two pieces of candy. Drank half your cup of soda, warm and flat. When Bob leaned over to ask if you wanted one of the weird pudding things he brought, you surprised yourself by saying yes.

You didn’t notice you were still leaned against Bucky until your arm started to fall asleep. By then, his hand had drifted down from the couch and come to rest lightly against your shoulder. Not possessive. Not careful, either. Just like it belonged there.

Every so often, you’d catch him watching the screen with that faint, unimpressed squint of his. Like he couldn’t believe he was giving up a night for this. But he hadn’t moved. Not once. Not even when you shifted, when your body leaned closer without thinking. He didn’t shift away. He didn’t tense.

His fingers curled against the fabric of your hoodie like he was bracing. Like he was waiting for you to disappear again. You didn’t.

And when the second movie finally sputtered to a stop, some godawful horror-comedy hybrid that Yelena claimed was "underrated", the lights stayed dim and no one moved. You didn’t either.

You were tired. Not the kind that sleep fixed. The kind that felt like it lived in your bones. But your head stayed where it was, your weight tilted ever so slightly toward Bucky’s side. And for once, your chest wasn’t tightening at the thought of being perceived.

You didn’t say anything. Just let your hand drift a little closer on the couch, your fingers brushing his this time—intentional, quiet. Like maybe the next time he’d ask you to dinner, you’d say yes.

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#cheekybarnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic rec #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #This is such a raw and perfectly encapsulated scenario #What an amazing piece #need me a Bucky too please where can I get a Bucky 😭😭😭

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imitationplay · 3 months ago

Text

Filed Under: Inappropriate

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Scheduler!reader

Summary: You’ve worked hard to keep things professional—his schedule tight, your distance tighter. But when the scent of Congressman Barnes’ cologne lingers too long, it cracks your restraint wide open. You know better than to touch. But he hears everything.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni!), explicit sexual content, p in v, consensual workplace power dynamics, sensory kink, scent-based arousal, referencing hyper-sexuality, audio surveillance (non-malicious), oral (f receiving + m receiving), breast play, desk sex, possessive undertones

Word count: 4,720

You hated being in his office longer than five seconds. Not because Congressman Barnes was difficult—he was polite, measured, always thanking you after meetings. Not because he was cold—though his steel-blue eyes had a way of sliding over you like he was analyzing your pulse rate. No, you hated it because every time you stepped within range of him, something primal and traitorous stirred low in your belly.

It was the damn cologne.

Parfums de Marly Layton. You’d once caught a glimpse of the deep navy bottle on the edge of his hotel bathroom sink while reviewing his itinerary, and you cursed yourself for ever learning the name. Now, you knew exactly what it was each time it hit you: that heady swirl of green apple and vanilla spice, warm cardamom softened by the heat of his skin, all wrapped in something darker—amber, maybe. Something that clung to the cotton of his shirts and refused to leave even after he did.

You never asked about it. You wouldn’t dare. But every time you leaned over his desk to drop off his briefing binder or hover by the door to confirm his next flight to D.C., that scent latched onto you like it had hands.

And he didn’t know. Of course he didn’t.

You were just his scheduler. The woman in black slacks and button-downs who kept his life running in military-level precision. You booked his appearances, called in favors with lobbyists’ assistants, negotiated down overbooked town halls, and sometimes—God help you—had to step inside his hotel room to lay out the next day’s itinerary when he was too buried in calls to read his own calendar.

Those were the worst. When he’d answer the door in a fitted T-shirt, damp hair curling at his nape, Layton now mingling with sweat and steam, and you’d have to act like your knees weren’t about to buckle. You’d linger by the desk, pretending to triple-check the flight number. He’d pace behind you, reading notes off his phone, totally unaware you were trying not to moan like some harlequin heroine because of the way his scent swirled in the air-conditioned quiet.

You knew your place. And you played it well.

But God, if he ever caught on—if he ever looked at you the way you sometimes caught yourself looking at him—this whole operation would go to hell.

──

Your morning began, as it usually did, in his suite.

A quiet knock. A barely audible “Come in.” Then the ritual began.

You stood by the small conference table in his living area, tablet in hand, while Congressman James Buchanan Barnes moved with military-grade precision behind you. He never rushed. Never wasted a single second. His routine was something sacred—ironed shirt, gold cufflinks, navy suit freshly pressed and waiting on the valet hook by the door. You glanced at the clock. Right on time.

Then came the part that always undid you.

Three spritzes.

You didn’t have to look to know the bottle—Parfums de Marly Layton. He passed by you on his way to the mirror, the scent trailing him like a shadow: apple-spice and something almost resinous beneath. One spray around the base of his neck. Two on the insides of his wrists, which he then tapped against his collarbone in fluid, practiced motions.

Everything about Bucky was deliberate. Disciplined. Controlled.

You hated that it turned you on.

The ten minutes you spent inside that room felt like a test. You spoke as little as possible, eyes fixed on the screen while your body vibrated with restraint. The scent of his cologne—warmed by his skin and the faint trace of post-shower steam—curled through the suite, wrapping around you like velvet shackles. Your thighs pressed together more tightly the longer you stood still.

You reminded yourself—again—that this was your decision. You were maintaining abstinence. You’d been attending therapy. Learning to manage what had once consumed you. Learning how not to chase every high your body demanded. You hadn’t slipped in over six months.

But today…

Today something broke.

──

You shouldn’t be doing this.

You repeated that over and over again in your head, even as your thighs pressed together, even as you turned toward his chair—the one still warm from where he’d last sat—and let your body sink into it. The scent of him was stronger here. Thick in the upholstery, clinging to the wool of his blazer draped over the back. You exhaled shakily, nostrils flaring as Layton wrapped around you, pushed into every breath like it knew exactly what it was doing to you.

Your body throbbed with need, the ache long suppressed now boiling over. Your self-constraint screamed at you to leave. To remember your progress. To walk away.

But then your hand slid between your thighs.

And it was already over.

You felt the heat there—wet and pulsing—before you even touched yourself. Just the press of your palm over your panties made you gasp, the friction igniting a tremor that rolled through your whole body. The skirt you’d worn today—a rare choice—suddenly felt like a divine mistake. Or maybe it was fate. No slacks to fight with. No belt to undo. Just a soft fabric bunched around your hips as you slipped your fingers down the front of your underwear and found the desperate pulse of your clit.

“Fuck—” you hissed, biting down on your lip. One finger circled slowly, teasing and taunting, while the other hand gripped the armrest of his chair. Your head lolled back, the sharp scent of Layton clinging to your hair, your skin, sinking deeper with every ragged breath.

You didn’t realize how loud your breathing had gotten. The moans that had broken free weren’t whispers—they were real. Hungry. Shamefully sweet. And they drifted into the room like incense, thick and lingering.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—was that your voice wasn’t just trapped in the still air of Bucky’s office.

It was in his ear.

──

Bucky stood behind the curtain of the press hall, one hand on the mic clipped to his tie, the other curled into a tight fist behind his back. He was half-listening to the event organizer briefing him when something flickered in his earpiece. Static. Then—

“F-Fuck—Bucky…”

His name.

Moaned.

Soft and strangled and real.

His spine straightened like he’d been struck.

The voice was unmistakable. Yours.

The sound came again, clearer this time, riding a breathy whimper. His brow furrowed, sharp gaze shifting toward the assistant speaking in front of him—but he wasn’t hearing a word she said anymore.

He tapped the mic, subtly. The connection flickered. He recognized the signal.

It was from his office. From the hidden mic—one of several—planted into the base of his desk lamp. A holdover from another life. Not politics, but fieldwork. Survival. The kind of instinct that gets carved into your bones when you’ve spent years as a ghost, a weapon, an Avenger—an assassin. Even now, walking corridors of Capitol Hill instead of war zones, Bucky Barnes never truly relaxed. The security team had given him the green light to keep those recordings in place, citing precautionary measures. But really, they were for him. A way to feel safe, to control the perimeter, to know what was coming before it came.

But what he was hearing now had nothing to do with politics.

Your moans filtered through the line again, closer this time. As if you were leaning over the desk. As if your mouth was right beside the mic.

And suddenly he was hard. Painfully so.

The assistant cleared her throat. “Congressman? They’re ready for you.”

He blinked, nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. But his mind was miles away.

Still in that room.

With you.

Bucky didn’t remember half of what was said onstage.

He answered questions. Shook hands. Smiled for the cameras. But his mind was nowhere near the press hall. It was still up in his office—haunted by the sound of you panting his name in gasping, breathless fragments.

He lasted exactly twenty-two minutes.

When the moderator thanked him for his presence, Bucky slipped away with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to disappear without making it a scene. He brushed off staff with a tight-lipped smile and a dismissive wave. “I’m taking a break. I need a few minutes,” he said. “Thinking about my mom. It’s her birthday today.”

A lie. One he hated using. But it worked.

No one followed.

No one asked questions.

And he made sure—damn sure—his guards knew to stay posted far from the east wing of the building. His office sat in the corner of a quiet conference suite, tucked behind a frosted glass door that bore his name and seal. No scheduled meetings for the rest of the afternoon. No assistants buzzing in. No unexpected interns to stumble through.

Just you.

Still in there.

Still moaning like you didn’t know your voice was crawling into his earpiece like the world’s most dangerous prayer.

He locked the door behind him the moment he stepped inside.

The click echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Bucky leaned back against the wood, hand still at the latch, jaw tight and eyes closed as your voice spilled through the earpiece—raw, needy, filthy in a way that peeled his self-control back layer by layer.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

You were still in his chair.

One leg slung over the armrest, the other foot planted on the floor for leverage. Skirt pushed up, blouse half-open, hair mussed and falling out of its usual neat tie. Your fingers were buried between your thighs, moving in tight, desperate circles. His name fell from your lips in gasps, more broken each time. Whimpering. Pleading. Ruined.

He exhaled harshly through his nose, blood roaring in his ears.

“Christ,” he muttered.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He should’ve been furious. Should’ve been offended. Professional boundaries, and all that. But instead, something primal settled in his gut. A slow, molten heat that spread into his chest and pulled tight behind his zipper. Not just lust. Not just arousal. Possession.

You had no idea how close you were to being caught.

To being taken.

You didn’t even check the door.

Didn’t think about cameras or recordings or someone else walking in before him. You just trusted you’d be alone. Trusted that you were safe in his space. And instead of hating you for it, instead of calling it foolish—

Bucky felt proud.

Protective.

Turned on beyond belief.

Bucky stepped forward quietly, his boots making no sound against the polished floor.

You were close.

He could tell.

Your moans had gone breathless—rushed, rising in pitch. Each gasp of his name now came through the earpiece like a desperate confession. Faster. Wetter. Louder. He could see the way your hand moved beneath the hem of your skirt, the way your hips rolled against your own touch. That tension in your thighs. That flutter in your lashes. Your head thrown back like the chair was your altar and you were about to come in his fucking name.

He exhaled—slowly. Quietly.

You were so absorbed in your pleasure, so lost in that hazy world you’d escaped to, that you didn’t even hear the subtle swish of the door behind his desk opening. You hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t just in your head anymore—he was in the room. Close enough now to smell everything.

And God, he did.

He could smell the sweat on your skin, the arousal soaking through your underwear, the lingering trails of your perfume—the one you always wore on days you wore your hair up like that. Professional days, you called them. If only you knew how that messy bun was driving him wild now, the loose strands stuck to your damp neck, the little whimpers you didn’t even know you were letting out.

You made it so easy.

Too easy.

His jaw clenched as he watched you, throat dry with something that wasn’t just lust—it was fear. Fear of what could’ve happened if someone else had come up here. If a reporter had slipped in to snoop. If a staffer came to clean. If it hadn’t been him.

He was protective by nature. Obsessive by consequence. He didn’t trust easily, didn’t let people in, but you—

You were different.

You were the soft place in his otherwise brutal life.

And now, like a loaded gun left on the wrong table, you were vulnerable in the worst way imaginable.

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to touch you. To pull your hand away and replace it with his mouth, his fingers, his everything. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Because even with all that hunger burning in his blood, the soldier in him still wanted to study. Still wanted to watch.

Your breathing picked up again. Your body began to tremble, pleasure peaking. He could see it—feel it—in every breath.

And then you whispered it. “Bucky—please—” like you needed him to save you from drowning in your own ecstasy.

That did it.

He couldn’t let you finish—not without knowing he was there.

So he cleared his throat. Just once.

A low, deliberate cough.

──

Your whole body jolted.

Eyes flew open.

You froze mid-motion, thighs snapping together as if you could undo the last ten minutes by sheer panic alone. Heart hammering. Lungs stuck in your chest. The shame—white-hot and paralyzing—poured down your spine like ice water.

Then you saw him.

Leaning against the wall, suit jacket still buttoned. Tie loosened just slightly at the collar. His expression unreadable—but his eyes? Burning. Steady. Watching you like a man who had seen everything.

Because he had.

He’d heard everything.

And he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“You didn’t lock the door.”

His voice was low. Calm. But it carried—like a blade sliding from a sheath. Controlled. Dangerous. Precise.

Your whole body jerked upright in the chair, eyes wide, legs snapping closed so fast it made the chair squeak beneath you. You could barely breathe. Heart pounding, cheeks burning, hand yanking your skirt down in frantic, fumbling motions.

“I—I didn’t know anyone—God, I didn’t think—” you stammered, horrified. “I swear, I thought you’d be down there for hours—I didn’t mean—”

“Stop,” Bucky said gently.

Your mouth clamped shut.

He didn’t move toward you, yet. He stood just inside the office door, back against the wall, arms loose at his sides. But there was no mistaking the heat behind his eyes. That slow, burning intensity you’d only ever caught glimpses of in passing. Behind podiums. In briefings. When he leaned just a little too close with that cologne on and your legs would go weak for reasons you never wanted to admit.

“I’m not pressing charges,” he said. “You’re not losing your job.”

You blinked, speechless, heart still galloping like a terrified animal.

“But…” he continued, pushing off from the wall, walking toward you now with the same deliberate, panther-smooth grace that reminded you exactly who he used to be. Not just the golden boy congressman. Not just the tailored suit. But him. The assassin. The Avenger. The man who moved like a weapon and looked at you like he already knew what you tasted like when you came.

“You are in trouble,” he said, voice lowering with each step. “Just… not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Your lips parted. Breath caught.

Bucky stopped a few feet in front of you.

And that’s when you saw it.

The outline pressing hard against his slacks, thick and demanding, straining against the zipper like it was fighting to be free. Your throat went dry.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. “Having to walk around with this—” he gestured to his head, his chest, his body “—with these senses. With you.”

Your brows knit in confusion, still trying to process the way he looked at you—like he’d already had this conversation with himself a hundred times and finally stopped trying to argue against it.

“I can hear your heartbeat spike when I walk by. Smell how wet you get when I lean too close.” His nostrils flared just slightly, steel blue eyes darkening. “You flinch like you hate me, but baby…” he chuckled, quiet and sharp, “your thighs say otherwise.”

Your apology died on your tongue.

Bucky took another step, now within arm’s reach.

“I know I shouldn’t have left that mic on,” he murmured. “Old habit. Leftover paranoia. I didn’t expect anything from it.”

His vibranium fingers flexed slowly at his side, gleaming under the low light of the office.

“But hearing you like that? Saying my name? Touching yourself in my chair? You’ve no idea what that did to me.”

He leaned down slightly, voice dropping to a rasp near your ear.

“Would’ve come up here sooner if I’d known you were hungry for me, sweetheart.”

Your whole body pulsed with heat.

And then, almost teasingly, he stepped back just enough for you to see his gaze drop to your lap—your thighs still trembling, your breathing still ragged.

“Now,” he said softly, eyes dragging back up to yours, “you’re going to help me.”

He glanced down at the ache visibly straining against the front of his pants.

“Fix the mess you started,” Bucky murmured again, voice low and rough.

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between his face and the bulge still straining beneath those expensive navy slacks. Your breath caught, your lips parted—but you didn’t move.

So Bucky did.

He reached out, warm hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing against your jaw—tender, but firm. Guiding. His vibranium fingers brushed your shoulder, trailing a cold path down your arm as he coaxed you out of the chair and down to your knees, right between his legs.

You looked up at him. The tie still loose at his collar. His jaw locked, blue eyes burning down at you like you were something sacred. Something he’d wanted for far too long.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, unfastening his belt slowly. “Show me what you’ve been dreaming about.”

You took him in hand, heard his sharp inhale. He was heavy, hot, twitching in your grip—already leaking from how long he’d been holding back. You kissed the head gently, teasing your tongue over the slit, and felt him shudder above you.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

But something changed.

As soon as you tasted him—salty and masculine, laced with the lingering warmth of that cologne—you snapped. Your restraint, your therapy, your rules—shattered. Your hyper-sensitive body surged with heat and hunger. You gripped him tighter, sucked him deeper, harder, hungry for it—starved for the man who haunted every dark corner of your fantasies.

Bucky hissed. His hand flew to your bun—not to guide you, but to steady himself.

You were taking control.

And he was losing it.

“Shit—slow down, baby—” he grunted, legs bracing, muscles twitching. “Fuck—gonna—”

He didn’t finish the warning.

With a stifled groan and a muttered curse, he came fast and hard, head tipped back, hand fisting in your hair as his body jolted. You swallowed, breathless, the taste of him still on your tongue as he staggered slightly—off balance, caught completely off-guard by just how fast you’d undone him.

He looked down at you with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. Then he gave a breathless laugh—soft, almost reverent.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re trying to kill me?”

You licked your lips and looked up through your lashes. “You told me to fix it.”

Bucky’s pupils dilated.

He was far from done.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need. “Lay down. Table.”

You rose—hands trembling, heart pounding—and climbed onto the edge of his desk, pushing aside the neat stack of folders and your own open planner. You laid back, thighs parting as his hands found your waist. He looked like a man possessed, hungry and undone, all that political polish burned away.

He pushed up your blouse, exposing your bra, then unclasped it with practiced ease—lucky for him (and unlucky for you) that you’d chosen the kind that fastened in the front. Your breasts spilled free into his waiting hands, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t just imagined this a hundred times over.

He didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, biting softly at the swell of your chest, leaving wet kisses and deep bruising marks as his vibranium fingers slid down—cool and deliberate—between your legs. You gasped at the contrast of metal and heat, moaning as they slid through your slick folds with expert precision.

You writhed. He growled.

Then, when you were panting and shaking again, he pulled back—stroking himself once, slowly—then slid his length between your breasts, pressing them together with his hands as you lifted your chin to tease your tongue against the head of his cock.

“Hold still for me,” he groaned. “Just like that.”

The heat in the room swelled—his cologne thick in the air, your arousal coating his fingers, his taste still lingering on your lips. He rocked into your chest slowly, hips rolling, your mouth chasing every pass like it was your last breath.

And for Bucky?

It might as well have been.

“Just like that,” Bucky groaned again, thrusting slowly between your breasts, your tongue flicking over his tip with every pass. His hands pressed them tighter, his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself—like he was trying to savor this, even as every nerve in his body screamed for release.

You watched him from below—eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from sucking him dry just moments ago. There was pride in your gaze now. Power. Your legs shifted, thighs rubbing together with desperate friction as you moaned softly, loving how undone he looked. This man—former assassin, super soldier, now walking the floors of Congress like he didn’t have blood on his hands—was losing himself for you.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

He pulled back, eyes raking over your body like he wanted to mark every inch of it. “Turn over,” he said hoarsely. “Hands flat on the desk. Skirt up. Now.”

Your breath caught.

You obeyed.

The desk was cool under your palms as you turned, bent forward, and arched your back—cheeks exposed, thighs glistening. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the low hitch of his breath as he took you in. Then—metal and flesh—his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned, dragging his cock through your folds slowly, teasing. “You’re soaking. All this just from my scent, huh?”

You whimpered.

He leaned over you, the scent of his cologne wrapped in heat and sweat now, curling around your senses like a drug. His mouth found your neck—kissing, biting, panting against your skin.

“Do you know how many times I wanted to take you like this?” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear. “Every time you walked into my office, pretending you didn’t notice how hard I was. You think I didn’t know?”

Then—without warning—he slammed into you.

You gasped. Loud. Fingers splayed on the desk for support as he filled you in one hard, deliberate thrust.

Bucky groaned behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back—vibranium palm splayed flat between your shoulder blades to keep you down. Pinned. Controlled. Possessed.

“You like this,” he growled, voice thick with filth and hunger. “You like knowing I can’t fucking hold back with you.”

He rolled his hips again, deep and slow, and your whole body shuddered from the inside out.

And then he lost the last of his restraint.

The thrusts turned punishing—each one knocking the breath from your lungs as his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you in place. He was relentless. The desk creaked beneath you. Your moans echoed off the walls. His name fell from your lips like prayer.

“Say it again,” he gritted. “Say my fucking name.”

“Bucky—oh God—Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby. That’s mine.”

You felt him everywhere—his cologne clinging to your skin, his heat against your back, the cold snap of vibranium fingers sliding back between your thighs to stroke you just right as he kept slamming into you.

And just as you were about to fall apart, just as your vision blurred and your moans turned breathless and broken—

He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulled you back against his chest, and growled into your ear:

“You’re coming with me.”

You didn’t stand a chance.

Not when he had your back arched, your hips bucking, your moans punched out of you with every ruthless thrust.

And definitely not when his mouth returned to your neck—nipping, dragging, claiming.

“Gotta warn you, sweetheart,” he panted, voice gone gravel-deep, sweat slicking his chest against your spine. “Cleanup’s gonna be hell.”

You gasped, eyes fluttering as he slid his vibranium fingers back between your legs, stroking where he knew you needed it—circling, pressing, dragging you up toward the edge again. Your thighs trembled. His cock dragged deep inside you, heavy and thick, already swelling again despite how hard he’d come earlier.

He was insatiable.

“You’re dripping down my thighs,” he groaned, cock twitching inside you. “Gonna soak this desk. The carpet.”

“I—I can’t,” you whimpered, dizzy from overstimulation, from the scent of him still curling through the room like a trap.

“Yes, you can,” he hissed, fucking into you harder. “C’mon, doll. One more. I need it.”

He wanted to feel it. Hear it. Your body breaking apart for him like it was made to.

And when your orgasm tore through you again—loud, shaking, guttural—he cursed and pulled out just in time to see the way your release shuddered down your thighs, messy and obscene and perfect.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, grabbing his cock and stroking it hard, fast, as he stared at the wreckage of you—your thighs spread, your mouth open, your body twitching from the aftershocks.

He didn’t last long.

One sharp exhale—your name on his lips—and he came again, painting your lower back and ass with hot, thick ropes of it. The kind of mess that would take more than tissues to fix.

Bucky stumbled back a step, chest heaving, hands braced on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. A beat passed.

Then he chuckled, dark and low.

“I told you we’d need time for cleanup.”

You groaned, still face-down on the desk. “That’s… not my department, Congressman.”

Another breathless laugh. “Lucky for us, I’ve got some experience erasing evidence.”

He moved toward the far wall of his office, tapped a hidden panel under a shelf, and revealed a small screen linked to the CCTV system. A few taps, and he was deep into the security matrix—something no one but Bucky Barnes had access to.

His fingers hovered over the delete command… then paused.

A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Or…” he murmured, glancing back at you, still sprawled across his desk, flushed and glistening. “I keep this one. File it under inappropriate.”

Your breath caught.

Then his voice softened—still low, still dark—but careful now. “Only if you’re okay with that.”

You looked at him, cheeks burning, chest still rising and falling in uneven gasps. And then you smiled—slow and shameless.

“Only if I get a copy too.”

He chuckled, full and rich, before locking the footage away behind a new encrypted file. His name. Today’s date.

And a folder labeled simply: INAPPROPRIATE

He turned back to you, still drinking in the sight—hickeys blooming across your chest like war paint, lips kiss-bitten and eyes half-lidded in the aftermath.

If anyone asked why the door had been locked for so long…

“I’ll tell ’em I needed a moment,” he muttered, tucking his shirt back in with a wry twist of his mouth. “Missing my mother. Or some bullshit like that.”

You snorted through the heat still burning on your skin. “You’re a menace.”

He stepped back toward you, buttoning his shirt halfway, not even bothering to fix the tie. “You have no idea.”

Then he leaned down, kissed the curve of your shoulder—warm, slow, almost reverent—and whispered:

“We’re not done, by the way.”

You blinked up at him, still trembling. “We’re not?”

“Nope.” He slid two vibranium fingers through your slick folds again, slow and deliberate, and smirked at your sharp gasp.

“I haven’t even had lunch.”

#buckyseternaldoll #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #congressman!bucky barnes #10/10 SPICY

3K notes · View notes

imitationplay · 3 months ago

Text

Protect my heart

Pairing: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Don’s Daughter!Reader

Summary: Protection. His job. Bucky has a duty to uphold for the daughter of his best friend. But he often finds himself exceeding the baseline expectations of his job because of you.

Warnings: fluff, Dad’s best friend, mention of mafia, protection, sweetness,

Wordcount: 1.219 Words

Authors Note: Beta’d by @soelstress and @thevillainswhore. Mollie, thanks for the help and your encouragement, too! Written for Mafia Bingo [The don’s daughter] by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor. Divider made by me.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Blue eyes. Ocean blue — deep and stormy. They watch you, every day. Every hour. Every minute.

You’re not even sure if he keeps an eye on you when you sleep, or if he allows himself some sleep too. He should.

But no matter if he’s had a long night with you at one of your dads clubs and gets up early the next morning, or if you call it an early night and he finally manages to rest for himself. He always looks good. Always.

Brown locks fall often into his face, curling just underneath his piercing eyes. Soft stubble covering his cheeks, trimmed like he spends at least an hour in the bathroom every morning. You longed to push them back behind his ear, if only to touch him for a little while.

He’s always just a few feet away. Never distracted. Never busy with anything but keeping a close eye on you. It’s his job. And he does it like his life depends on it.

And maybe it does. Because you’re not just someone. Not when your father is the Don of the biggest mob in the country.

So, you have Bucky to follow you. To protect you.

James Buchanan Barnes, but has a preference of being called Bucky, is your dads best friend. They have known one another for years. Decades.

And you were afraid that now you had grown an attachment towards him; one that border lined on the cusp of danger.

“Buck?” You hum as you turn your head toward the man who’s protecting you day by day.

He’s standing with his hands crossed above his belt next to you. His eyes scan the surroundings, but stay mostly on you. Bucky’s suit is neat, dark blue and highlights the light of his bright eyes.

He nods, acknowledging that you talked to him. But he doesn’t say anything. Barely does. Somehow you both still understand one another.

You’re the one who talks. He’s the one who listens. Has to. Or maybe he does it because he wants to. Because most of the time he really looks interested in the one-sided conversation. It shouldn’t give you butterflies, but it does.

“Croissants or sandwiches?” You ask, pouting at the baked goods of your favorite bakery.

He raises an eyebrow at you. His plump lips twitch slightly at the corners as he looks at you instead of the food. Then he shrugs. “Whatever you like.”

You groan, crossing your arms in front of your chest. There it is, he thinks to himself as he smirks at you. Slightly. Almost not even visible. But you catch it, of course you do. Always do.

“Don’t gimme that attitude now, princess,” he hums, shaking his head slightly. Before Bucky gets the chance to do anything further, a man in a suit walks closer.

Bucky’s callused hand immediately shoots to the gun that’s tucked in the back of his pants. His shoulders tense and he takes a step closer to you until your side is tightly pressed against his stomach. His other hand reaches out, grasping you by the shoulder and pulling you flush against him. He does that. All the time when there’s the possibility of danger.

Bucky would wrap himself around you like a soft blanket in a rain of bullets. He wouldn’t hesitate. He would jump in front of you to catch them all, only to make sure you will never get hurt. Never with him around.

The man smiles softly at you, but his eyes widen as he notices Bucky behind you. His glistering metal hand on your shoulder causes the other guy to sweat and take a step back.

Poor guy. He just wanted to buy some baked goods. And now? He’s walking backwards, slowly, his hands lifting just as slow. He’s no danger. Never was.

But for Bucky? Everything could be a risk. Protect at all costs. Danger or not. Protect.

As the guy walks away, shaking and mumbling under his breath, he’s wiping his sweat off his forehead.

The moment he’s out of your view, Bucky relaxes. He lets go of your shoulder and takes a step backwards. His hands gripping the front of the belt as he watches you like nothing happened. Nothings ever gonna happen as long as he’s around.

While you hated having an unwanted shadow following you when Bucky first got the job, you appreciate it now. As long as he’s there you know you’re safe. But not only that, Bucky’s also really funny… sometimes.

There’s very few times he cracks a joke. Mostly when you’re alone together. It’s the only time he allows himself to stop being so guarded. So protective.

“So, croissants or sandwiches?” You ask once more, causing another small smile to tug on his lips. “Or something else?”

“Whatever you want,” he repeats again.

“Bucky,” you whine, almost stomping your feet. This man. This man. Sometimes he makes you go crazy.

Handsome idiot.

“What do you want?” You grumble, watching a waitress walking toward you.

“You don’t need to always buy food for me. First off all, I own money myself. And I’m here to protect you, not to have dinner with you, sweetheart,” he says, his tone rough and almost cold. Almost.

There’s always a hint of softness when he talks to you. In public less, but it’s still there. For you. Only for you.

You roll your eyes. The attitude again.

Secretly, he loves it. Obviously, he huffs at your display of defiance.

You won’t let him off the hook that easily. You never do. Taking care of him like he’s more than just the guy who’s your shadow. More than just your bodyguard.

“But you need to be strong to protect me,” you say, smiling so damn sweet at him. You greet the waitress as she waits for you order, telling her what you would like before you turn to Bucky to wait for him to tell her, too. “And maybe… I like having lunch with you.”

And breakfast. And dinner. And a midnight snack after a party. He knows, because you always ask him to eat with you.

“Fine,” he huffs, his voice holding a rough edge but you know deep down he’s melting for you. “A sandwich, please. And one of these bread rolls with chocolate.”

You grin. He hates those. Too much sugar. Way too sweet for him.

Bucky’s the guy that drinks his coffee black. His whiskey neat.

But he would be damned if he didn’t pick up on your habit of always having something sweet after a meal.

“Happy?” He asks and you nod with a wide grin. His eyes light up, slightly showing the joy he feels. Bottled up inside, deep down. But for you, always visible.

He’s an open book for you. Voluntarily. He could hide his emotions, but he doesn’t. He wants you to know. Wants to see that smile on your face when he’s feeling joyful. A smile that could light up a whole town. A smile that lights up his whole universe.

Then he’s taking the baked goods the waitress offers and thanks her before leading you toward a table in the corner. He can watch everything from there, but not everyone can immediately see you.

Privacy. Safety. And your favorite: lunch with Bucky.

Comment and Reblog to share some love!

Written with the prompt: "You don't need to always buy food for me." "But you need to be strong to protect me." by @creativepromptsforwriting.

@armystay89 @rogersbarber

#buckyys-babydoll #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bodyguard!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff

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imitationplay · 3 months ago

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港の見える丘公園の薔薇2025yellow

#バラ #op photography

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imitationplay · 3 months ago

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This is so wonderfully written! The pacing of this piece had such a seamless flow, it felt so cinematic. I loved the way you wrote Bucky’s feelings and emotions as well! It’s such a pleasant entwinement with the reader’s.

What a great read! ❤️

The Weight of the Truth

Summary: You form an unlikely bond with Bucky Barnes during your time with the Avengers. What begins as mutual trust and quiet companionship slowly deepens into something more. However, when Bucky begins pulling away without explanation, it leaves you hurt and confused. Tension builds until a raw, emotional confrontation forces the truth out of both of you. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to compel people to tell the truth against their will. Light angst. Hurt/Comfort.

Word Count: 3k+

A/N: Based on the poll I ran, the majority voted Truth Compulsion and Telepathy. I chose the first for now and will do telepathy next, maybe something lighter or fun for the latter. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You weren’t born with the power to pull truth from people’s mouths. It came later in life one rainy afternoon, so suddenly, like a curse wrapped in silk. It didn’t matter how much someone wanted to lie; if you asked the question and truly wanted the answer, they had to speak it. Every word dragged from their chest like it weighed a hundred pounds. You didn’t need to raise your voice, threaten, or coax. No. Your voice simply made the truth impossible to hold in.

Some people thought it was a gift. However, you never saw it that way, knowing what people really felt, what they really meant, and what they were too afraid to say. You were too young back then when you failed to realize most people didn’t want honesty. And some truths, once spoken, couldn’t be unsaid.

Therefore, you weren’t used to people staying. Not when they learned what you could do.

Your presence alone made people uneasy, not because you were loud or threatening, but because you listened. People were afraid of what you might ask, afraid that even an innocent question like “Are you okay?” might unravel something carefully buried. Over time, you learned how to walk lightly, how to speak softly, and how to exist without pressing.

When the Avengers found you, you were a wild card to them. Useful indeed, but dangerous. You could end a fight with one question or tear a team apart with one sentence. As a result, most of them kept their distance. Not out of fear, exactly but more out of caution. As if being near you meant something deep inside them might be accidentally pulled to the surface.

Natasha was polite. Steve was kind but wary. Wanda, empathetic but unreadable. But Bucky? He didn’t avoid you. He didn’t tiptoe. That’s what made Bucky Barnes different.

He didn’t fill the space around you with noise. He didn’t dance around your power. He never stared, never fidgeted, never waited for you to break the silence with something intrusive or painful. He just… sat beside you. Quietly, like he had nothing more that could possibly be confessed considering the world knew most of his past by now.

You noticed him long before he noticed you. You picked up on how he scanned every room like someone would pop out and attack him. How he clenched his jaw every time someone brushed against him without warning. How he kept his left arm always at an angle, like he was guarding something, himself. It was like he didn’t know if he was allowed to be comfortable in his own skin.

Regardless, you never asked questions. Not even once. You gave him something rare: Space.

And in return, he gave you something rarer: Presence.

It started with him sitting near you in the common room during team meetings, even if it meant skipping an open seat to get there. Then came the training sessions, where you sparred silently, never needing to speak but always aware of each other’s limits. You matched each other’s pace like you’d done this for years. Then came the early mornings. You’d enter the kitchen with your favorite mug in hand and find him already there, black coffee in one hand, gaze out the window. The first time, he only nodded. By the third week, he was pouring you a cup before you even spoke.

You noticed the way he remembered things no one else did. That you hated synthetic fabrics, that the buzzing of certain lights gave you migraines, or that your favorite tea had to steep exactly three minutes. He didn’t say anything, he just did things. Adjusted the lighting, quietly requested your sheets be swapped for cotton, left your tea on the table with a timer set. It warmed your heart in some way. You never thanked him aloud, but you knew he felt your gratitude anyways.

In return for his kindness, you learned to read his silences.

There was a difference between when he was tired and when he was haunted. A difference between when he wanted company and when he couldn’t stand to be alone but didn’t know how to ask. On those nights, when the ghosts were louder than his thoughts, he’d find you. Sometimes just to sit beside you on the couch, sometimes to walk the perimeter of the compound in wordless patrol, and sometimes… to talk. Little things and often one sentence at a time. A memory or a sarcastic comment. Sometimes a moment of truth disguised as a joke.

You fell for him slowly. Hopelessly.

In the way his voice softened when he said your name. In the way he watched you like he was memorizing every move, not to predict it, but to understand it. In the way he spoke of nightmares but never had them when you’d fall asleep on his couch for movie nights. In the way you never had to use your power, but he always told you the truth anyway.

You told yourself it wasn’t love. Not yet. Just admiration or connection. It was just the beginning of something you’d never be brave enough to touch.

And still, you saw the way his eyes lingered a second too long when you laughed at one of Sam’s jokes. How he stiffened whenever someone else stood too close to you. How his voice dropped an octave when he asked “You okay?” like the answer would define the rest of his night.

There was always something unfinished between you. Something neither of you dared name. So when your moments of silence became distant and suffocating, it chipped away at your sanity and heart each time.

You had always thought that silence was something you could share. Something safe. But over the last few weeks, the quiet between you and Bucky had begun to feel like an unwelcome gap, a widening chasm neither of you wanted to cross.

It started slowly. You started to notice a coldness in his gaze when he used to look at you with an unreadable warmth. Distance in his movements that used to feel comfortable, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, now felt like two pieces of glass, edges sharp and unyielding.

It was subtle too, little things you thought you could brush off. Like when you’d walk into the common room after a long day and find him sitting there, but when you sat next to him, his shoulders would stiffen. He’d give a tight smile, then turn his attention back to the mission reports without saying much. Or when you found yourself at the training mats together, and he’d deliberately avoid your eye contact when he used to be the first one to look at you after a move. You wondered if he was just tired, or if it was something else but it didn’t feel like tiredness.

Then came the mission.

It was a routine operation. It was a simple extraction clean and precise. You and Bucky worked seamlessly together, as always. He covered your back while you disabled the security system. You moved in tandem, a perfect machine. But when you completed the mission, something shifted in the air. It was like he was pulling away, retreating into himself again. He didn’t speak much during the debriefing, and when you caught him glancing at you, there was something unfamiliar in his expression. Something distant. Something… closed off.

That night, when you returned to the compound, you thought it was just the usual exhaustion from a mission. But Bucky didn’t act like himself. He didn’t come by the kitchen for the usual quiet company. He hadn’t sat next to you during team discussions. He didn’t even bother to make small talk as he passed you in the hall. You caught him avoiding your gaze, his face a mask of calm, but his posture rigid.

It confused you. And it hurt more than you cared to admit.

Had you said something wrong? Done something wrong?

You spent the next few days wondering if you were the cause of it. Maybe he’d gotten too comfortable around you, and now he needed space. Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with whatever had started between you. He was still Bucky, still the same guy who’d saved your life more times than you could count. But now, everything felt like an impenetrable wall.

You didn’t want to push him. You never wanted to be that person. You never wanted to be the one who pried, the one who pushed when someone needed time to process. After all, your powers had long pried out the secrets and words of too many people to count. But Bucky was never like this before. His silences were always comfortable. The absence of his presence now felt like it was hollow, like it was filled with unsaid words and unexplored tension.

You tried to get his attention, at first, with small gestures. A shared look during a team briefing. A subtle joke meant to make him laugh. A fleeting touch of your hand on his arm when you walked by. But each time, he stiffened or pulled away. It wasn’t like him.

The hardest part was not knowing what you’d done. Maybe you had said something wrong, maybe you’d done something that made him close off. It wasn’t like you had any experience in relationships, not any real honest connections. You weren’t even sure what you and Bucky had, but you had thought it was something good and worth holding onto.

Days turned into weeks, and the distance between you both only seemed to grow. There were moments when he was still around, when he still spoke to you in clipped sentences, still walked beside you when the missions called for it. But there was no warmth behind it. No understanding or connection like before. And every time you tried to talk to him to try and ask what was wrong, he’d pull back. His responses were short, almost guarded. Every time you tried to bridge the gap, he’d distance himself further.

Finally, one night, after yet another cold interaction, you couldn’t take it anymore. You cornered him in the hallway. His steps faltered when he saw you, but you weren’t going to let him walk away this time.

"Bucky," You called out, your voice a mix of frustration and hurt. "What’s going on? You’re avoiding me."

He stiffened, eyes darting to the floor. His lips pressed into a thin line, like he was fighting a battle inside himself. “I’m not avoiding you," He muttered, but you could hear the lie in his voice. It wasn’t convincing and you knew it wasn’t the truth.

"Then why is it like this? What did I do?" You couldn’t keep the edge of desperation out of your voice. “You’ve been pulling away from me for weeks now and I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’re driving me crazy, Bucky.”

His jaw clenched as he stood there for a moment in silence before he finally looked at you. His eyes were wide, vulnerable in a way that scared you. This wasn’t Bucky Barnes, the man who always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and kept his emotions under lock and key. This man, standing in front of you, was someone broken, someone you couldn’t fix with a touch or a kind word.

"Is it because of the mission?" You pushed gently, your voice softer. "Did I mess up somehow? If I did, just tell me. I’ll fix it."

Bucky shook his head slowly, his hand running through his hair in frustration. "No. It’s not the mission. It’s…" He looked away, and for the first time in a long while, you saw the weight of everything he’d been hiding in his eyes. "It’s me."

You were silent for a moment, the realization creeping up slowly. Your heart beat in your chest as you tried to keep your voice steady. "Bucky, you’re scaring me. You’re shutting me out, and I don’t know why."

“Just… nevermind. Forget it. Goodnight.” He said tightly, moving to depart with his gaze incapable of facing you directly.

It was then that something inside you snapped. The years of silence and loneliness, of holding back, and of not letting your power show when it was the only thing that might break through. You had to know the truth. You had to hear him say it. You had no other choice. You couldn’t just keep waiting for him to open up not after you’ve tried relentlessly and hopelessly the past couple of weeks.

You focused. You’d never used your ability on him before, not because you were afraid of the power, but because you never wanted him to experience another situation where he had no control. You were afraid of what you might find if you pushed him too hard; but tonight, you weren’t going to let him walk away.

You took a deep breath, your voice steadier than you felt, mentally asking for his forgiveness as you spoke firmly. “Bucky, I need you to answer me. Why are you really pushing me away?”

His body stiffened. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought against your words, as if he could physically resist them. But it was futile. The pull of your power was subtle, like an invisible tether pulling at him, a force beyond his control.

His mouth opened, and for a moment, it was as if he tried to choke back the words. It was like he tried to shove them down into the depths of his mind where he thought they’d stay buried forever. But they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged, his voice betraying him in a way you hadn’t expected.

”Because if I let myself love you,” Bucky whispered, his eyes flickering with the weight of the confession, ”I don’t know if I could survive losing you too.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the cracks in the armor that he’d built around himself. The fear, the raw terror, that if he let himself love again, he wouldn’t be able to bear the inevitable heartbreak. Because Lord knows how much he’s lost and had to grieve in his life.

You didn’t know what to say. For a moment, everything felt like it was frozen in time. You’d never seen him so exposed, so raw and it made your heart ache for him.

His breath hitched, like he was waiting for you to run, waiting for you to take his confession as an excuse to push him away, just as he had done to you.

"What do you mean?" You were barely breathing, every word feeling too heavy to bear.

"I’m not good for you," He spoke softly. "You deserve someone who doesn’t drag you down with their demons." He took a step back, shaking his head. "I can’t give you what you want. What you need."

And there it was. The wall he’d been building between you had a name: fear. Fear of opening up or of what you might see. Fear of the man he used to be and the damage he’d done.

But you weren’t afraid. You never were, not of him.

"I don’t need you to be perfect,” You stepped closer, heart hammering, and placed your hand on his chest. "I just need you to be here."

His breath hitched at your words. For a moment, you thought he might step back again. That he might raise those walls so high you’d never reach him. But he didn’t move. Instead, he just stood there, chest rising beneath your hand, heart pounding steadily under your touch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You repeated softly, like a promise. “Even if you try to push me away.”

He closed his eyes, and something in him cracked, right there in front of you. Not loudly or with any dramatics. But it was like watching winter thaw, slow and quiet and inevitable.

“I tried to stay away,” Bucky admitted, his voice low, rough, like it hurt to speak. “I thought if I could put some space between us, it’d fade. That maybe I could stop wanting you.”

The confession landed like a lightning bolt. Your lips parted, a thousand emotions flooding you at once: relief, confusion, heartbreak, hope.

“You tried to stop wanting me?” Your voice echoed, barely above a whisper.

His eyes opened then, meeting yours, and you saw it, everything he’d been holding back. All the pain, fear, and longing. “I’ve wanted you for months,” He said. “Maybe longer. But I thought if I kept my distance, you’d find someone better. Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming. Someone who hasn’t done what I’ve done.”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. “But I don’t want someone better,” You said quietly. “I want you.”

Bucky stared at you like he didn��t quite believe it. “Even after everything?”

You nodded slowly, fiercely. “Especially after everything. Because I’ve seen you, Bucky. Not just the soldier. Not an assassin. You. The man who watches bad movies with me in silence. The one who always notices when I’m tired or hurting and doesn’t say a word, just sits a little closer. The one who remembers how I take my coffee. Who makes me feel safe, even when everything else falls apart.”

He looked away for a heartbeat, jaw tight, like he was trying to keep himself together.

You moved forward, stepping a little closer. Your heart racing as you added in a firmer voice. “And you don’t get to decide that you’re unworthy of being wanted. Not for me. Not when I’ve been falling for you this whole damn time.”

And that, broke something in him. He exhaled sharply, like the weight he’d been carrying finally tipped over. His hand came up hesitantly before it settled over yours on his chest, warm and shaking.

“I don’t know how to do this,” He admitted. “I’m not good at… feeling.”

“That’s okay,” You whispered. “You don’t have to be. I’m not asking you to be perfect. Just to let me in.”

He looked at you like you were sunlight cracking through a storm cloud, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand. “You already are.”

And then, slowly, carefully, he leaned in. It wasn’t rushed nor desperate. Just real. When his lips met yours, it was tentative, like a question. But when you kissed him back, it became an answer. One you’d both been waiting for.

#orellazalonia #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #the urge to pat Bucky’s head here is so strong!!!

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imitationplay · 5 months ago

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Funeral Rites, Jean Genet

#Jean Genet #Quotes

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imitationplay · 6 months ago

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A Murder of Crows (2018) - Kathiucia Dias

#Art

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imitationplay · 6 months ago

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Strong and gentle

Pairing : Warrior prince Bucky x Timid Princess Reader

Warnings : R18, Teasing, Clit stimulation, Virgin reader, Orgasm denial

Word count : 2459

Bucky masterlist

He proved to be a warm light, drawing you in like the tiny moth to be burned by his flame. Yet, he never let you get burned by his fire, keeping your soft, velvety wings intact while showing you a new tantalizing dance with danger.

What an innocent little moth you were at first. So surprised, wrought with vapors at the sight of someone so much taller and older, with a personality and confidence that befitted a well-traveled and well-aged Man. He was no prince you had ever seen, a warrior that was cut and marred with aging scars along his skin. His eyes held no innocence while still gazing upon you with warmth and gentleness. You were so soft and plush compared with the deep callouses he carried both on his skin and in his weighted heart.

You shied away from him almost immediately. If your mother had accompanied you here, surely you would have been hiding behind her skirts.

You felt so terribly out of place at his side. So small, like a tawdry bauble. To be an opulent pearl, pinned to his collar with all the others. But, he never treated you as such, taking care to soothe your anxieties instead.

The many extra years he had over you was what made him so different. It was years of experience both in the political torment within his kingdom and the expansive world that sat far beyond its reaches.

But, he found it cute, endearing, soft, and especially delicate. He wanted to crack you, only a little, make you just the smallest amount sharp so as to be the edge that could cut him without losing your admirable shape.

He’d tend to your garden, watching with earnest as your flowers finally bloomed before him. Your beautiful hidden rose unfolding before his very eyes as you finally opened up to him. Slowly, but tantalizing without pushing your last boundary down just yet.

It would be his own fault, for it was he that made an awful monster out of you, coaxed it with his fingers and his tongue without having to break you open and ravage the rest of your innocence. He made you dirty, sullied by lust and yet still so pure.

You lifted the soft lace of your nightdress, pressing your knees and thighs apart and spreading yourself along the bed, nearly kneeling as you pulled the fabric up to show the soft skin of your legs to him in the dim candlelight. This is what you’ve been reduced to, tempting him, using your body as sweet succulent bait so as to seduce that feral side of your darling betrothed.

He stepped along the cold stone tile of your shared facilities, each large and hard muscle of his legs pinching with every slow stride, and you watched as the taut muscle of his buttock dimpled with a quick flex.

He was hard marble turned to flesh, a statuesque warrior brought to life before your young eyes.

Could he crack you with the simple twist of his wrist? Possibly. But, he’d never be so callous with you. He knew you to be delicate and pushed you only as far as you allowed so as to keep your clean porcelain from cracking. He knew his strength and knew even better how it was best controlled.

His skin was marred and scarred, years of pain littering a man you know to be so gentle and equally devilish.

He turned back through the open door to see you, baring more of his body to your hungry gaze. Soft but still long, growing as you engulfed his view.

“What are you doing, little one?” He asked as if he didn’t have a very good idea as to what you were playing at.

You pushed your round, soft, and still covered ass back and arched your spine, making your supple breasts more prominent through the nightdress. “Tempting you.”

“Tempting me?” He chuckled, a blissful smile pulling along his darkened pink lips shadowed by the stubble of his beard. “You needn’t do anything more than exist to be a temptation.”

“Is that so?” You giggled, letting the bottom of the lace gown fall back against the bed, blanketing your legs once more.

“You weren’t serving yourself like this to me when I was first inveigled by your charm. You had even tried to hide that beautiful skin from me our first night.”

“I still am, in most ways, quite tame. Aren’t I?” You spoke with the smile pull of a pout at your lips.

“You seek to be tame, and yet you tempt. What a curious creature you are.” He folded his previous sentiments, like a note creased and tucked away for a later rebuttal, choosing instead to counter with his previous musings. He already missed the sight of your bare thighs, smoothed by the drag of a pun ice stone over your now silky skin and doused with sweetly scented oils.

“Is this your way of begging?” He asked, smiling with something akin to both joy at your flowering devotion with the drip of thick honeyed desire at the mynx he’d made you to be.

“Pleading, more like.” You said back, lip wobbling with a needy lilt to your voice.

It sent small jolts of something hot, burning even, along the ridges of his back. It made his skin vibrate as it rushed with blood, filling and stiffening his already long member. It was like the buzzing feeling in the air after a crack of light preceded by the roar of booming thunder on a dry night. You made something tempered, like melting stone, glow within him more and more with each dalliance.

“And how is it that I deny your pleas?” His voice rumbled with a soft purr of any predatory animal.

“You must have far more self-control than I, my love.” Your voice was like the tired mewl of a spoiled cat, something soft and easily overindulged.

“I don’t agree.” He mused back, anchoring his knee to the top of the plush bedding before leaning in towards your wicked smile. He nipped up at your roseate lips, playfully prying them apart to wet his little bites with the tip of his warm tongue.

You giggled, turning your head only a fraction at the tickle of his pink muscle. He’d chase you back even at a fraction of an inch to devour your sweet cherubic laughter. You were such a sweet, innocent rabbit, not seductive but still incredibly desirable, and he wanted only to ravish all of it.

Once he can lock the two of you together, lips pressed tightly and tangled with the dip of his head, he steals from you a kiss, slow and delicious.

Like lapping up fine honey from your tongue, he tasted every inch of you that you’d lend to him.

He was intoxicating, stealing the very breath from your lungs to lighten your mind and making your sway and limpen to his hold, still keeping you aloft. Your nimble little fingers danced drunkenly along his neck, tangling upward into his thick dark hair until they were tied into very roots. As your pearly teeth clashed with his, the knocking crystal with the tapping of nerve endings, you curled your fingers against his scalp.

Your nails dug inwards, and he felt the small sting at the back of his head as the hair was pulled into your building fist.

He was only amused, wincing slightly as he continued to take your quivering tongue between his teeth to suckle at the pink muscle before lapping at it with his own.

You were heavy, hanging ivy in his arms, begging for light to peel your limp leaves. Begging for air before you could feel faint and fall from his fingers. He pulled his lips with a long drag, nearly pulling you back with him. Your hands fall from his thick locks to catch the crook of his elbows so as not to fall against the sides of your night dress.

“Bucky. Please.” The pet name rolled along your little tongue so sweetly, tipping back and falling into the soft bedding. He followed, blanketing your body with his, cradling you against the hard plains of his stomach as it pressed to your soft belly.

His large hands met the little bit of your leg that peeked from beneath your night clothes, dragging his fingers further along your skin and slipping underneath the fabric. The dress was bundled, balled into his fist

before being pulled upwards to slip away from your arms and past your head.

You laughed, both nervously and amused, as he brought out more of your bare body to lighten the room.

A little hook of his fingernail catching the seam along your small cotton undergarments. Your nimble digits caught his own to stop his insistent tug at the only barrier left to your chastity. He had coaxed them off of you before, stripping you bare so as to taste you. He can still remember the last time you allowed him to lap at you, lick up your sweet nectar, and even tease your entrance with the tip of his thick tongue.

He had lavished at your soft petals and even teased at your little hidden seed. Pearly, round, and sensitive when provoked into swelling just a small amount. True to his word, he never breached your supple opening, nearly dipping but never breaking through.

His previous kiss has left you lightheaded, but this was something sobering enough to brush his fingers away. “No, Bucky.”

It was your only request. No matter how far you let him wander, you’d always stop him short of taking you fully. You were still a good princess, and even though your betrothed would pull you closer and closer to the edge, you knew the final leap would have to wait until the night you are both finally wed. You strived to stay pure both for and against James.

Your hands had flown towards him in a frenzy and flutter of worried fingers, stopping him from tearing the cloth away while the throbbing pink tip of his member bobbed so close.

But, James was a man of his word. He respected your vow while bending its boundaries all the same.

“I won’t, darling. I promise.” He chuckled, always amused by your acts of modesty.

“What I have in mind will feel wonderful, my doll. Trust me.” His rosy lips bloomed with a gentle smile, not devilish intentions to push you any further than he knew you’d be willing to go in the end.

He will please you, leaving you damp and needy after meeting a shattering end. You lay back, skin flushed with warmth as you let him pull your dainty white undergarments away, sopping and soaked with the thick drip of slick that pooled from the opening of your succulent flower. This time he was determined to play too, pressing his bare member so that the tip rested on the wet channel, spreading the dew along your dampened petals.

“You promised,” you pleaded again, blubbering to not have your flower plucked just yet. It would be the last boundary you could keep after he tempted you into breaking all others.

Your whine was needy, deliciously pathetic, and he had to stifle his next bout of soft laughter. “And I intend to keep my promises. Patience, my love.”

No, this time he slid himself along your folds, bumping the head of his furious member against a small hidden node at the top of your folds.

That little bundle of nerves nestled above your cunt, semi-hooded and yet swollen with your pent-up desire. That would be his object of torture; he’d glided his cock over your dampened pool of a pussy, coating himself in slippery slick as the head of his longer member slid over that little pearl until you burst and bubbled with the sharp squeaks of pleasure.

You simply melted, your voice humming that beautiful tune as your legs began to tremble with each stroke of his cock over your tender pearl. To send a tickle of pleasure over your core and along your belly with each push through. It made your flower shiver at its center, being teased with something it had to be denied. It begged all the same, as it was only ghosted with the press of his member, only to slide further and knock your perked bud. Working your flower to slowly bloom along his shaft.

“You sound so sweet. For my ears only.” His voice rumbled with a low pur, arms tightening around your bending body as his hips continued to drag himself along your soft folds. It was a true homage to his self control to not break his vow when presented with something so soft and beautiful. Even as he pressed himself so closely, with the singing of praise by the crack of your weakened voice ringing through the air of his room, he did not break his vow.

It is a fight well fought to keep his own composure, but you are completely overtaken by his movements, already overwhelmed by being so close to breaking that barrier.

Quickly, you came undone, gushing sweet sticky sap all over his cock, dripping into the thatch of a thorny brush at the base of his twitching shaft.

He could laugh, finding pure joy at how little you could take before you were screaming to your sputtering end at his own hands.

He dribbled with his own nectar as he fought not to burst and pepper your soft tummy with a spattering of thick white seed. He would not lower himself to paint you with ropes of his warm semen like a common tavern whore meant to lick it up from your own skin as a cat would lap at spilled cream.

He loved you far too much to let you sink further into such depravity, so he let his moment to finish pass, watching you catch your breath instead.

He held the base of himself with a strong, tightly coiled fist to stop the blood from swelling and bursting. The better to will his own ending away so as not to scare you with an unnecessary mess. Only then did his heartbeat become steady, and he was able to breathe in relief before lying beside you.

Taking in the soft rise of your glistening, sweat-stained belly and the blissful pull of your sweet pink lips as they curled into a devious and yet tired smile.

‘What a wonderful wife you’ll make.’ It was a sentiment that would echo through his mind like a prayer each and every night he spent with you tangled in his arms.

#shamrockqueen #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes au #this is so immersive and atmospheric #I’m the biggest sucker for medieval settings and this is just so well written

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imitationplay · 6 months ago

Text

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit.

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.”

—

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

#thebarneschronicles #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #I loved the tension so much omfg so well written

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