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artficlly · 3 days ago

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lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face.

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer.

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away.

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.”

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath.

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it.

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower.

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen.

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly.

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing.

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side.

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger.

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need.

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth.

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.”

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache.

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter. “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade.

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed.

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs.

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up.

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare.

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much.

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder.

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace.

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you.

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—”

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.”

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough.

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.”

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat.

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed.

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long.

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.”

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something.

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop.

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole.

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling.

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?”

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either.

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace.

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him.

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above.

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium.

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words.

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle.

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore.

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected.

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it.

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel.

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard.

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in.

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you.

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap.

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure.

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you.

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic.

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you.

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt.

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips.

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene.

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #thunderbolts*#marvel au #marvel #lessons in lovemaking

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anglbunny · 3 days ago

Text

FIRST TIME RIDING SUKUNA

smut mdni, hand kink, size kink, visual overstimulation

You didn’t expect it to feel this way.

You’d seen his cock already — thick, veiny, way too big for comfort — but seeing it and riding it were two completely different things. Right now, with your thighs trembling around his hips and your chest heaving from the effort of trying to take just the tip — reality was finally settling in.

He didn’t fit. Not really. Not all the way.

But Sukuna wasn’t known for patience.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice rough with a dark kind of amusement. His hands — those huge fucking hands — were gripping your waist, spanning damn near the whole thing. One twitched slightly, then forced you down an inch further. You cried out, your insides fluttering and squeezing instinctively around him. “That little pussy’s gonna stretch whether she wants to or not.”

You shook your head, fingers clawing at his chest, trying to keep some distance. “I-I can’t—! It’s too—fuck, it’s too big—!”

Sukuna laughed, deep and dangerous, his thumb brushing over your swollen clit in slow, deliberate circles that made your hips jolt involuntarily.

“Oh, you can,” he said, voice all smoke and cruelty. “You’re already halfway there. Just look.”

Your eyes snapped downward — and your stomach flipped.

Only half his cock was inside. And you already felt full, stuffed, stretched wide open. Your lips were spread around him in a taut, obscene O, slick glistening down his shaft, and he still hadn’t bottomed out. You tummy sporting a very prominent bulge from his cock.

“Shit…” you whimpered.

“You’re takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ,” he purred, almost mockingly. His fingers moved again — not just on your clit, but his other hand shifted up to your neck. Not choking, just resting there. Heavy. Possessive. Thumb brushing your throat like he could feel the noises spilling out of it.

“So damn loud already,” he grinned, cock twitching inside you. “And we haven’t even started moving.”

When he did move — when he bucked his hips just slightly, sinking another brutal inch into you — your moan turned into a strangled sob.

“Fuck—Sukuna—!”

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, voice feral. “Ride it. Scream if you need to — scream loud. Let everyone know this pussy’s mine now.”

You tried to lift your hips again, to ease the pressure, but he grabbed you again — both hands on your ass now, big fingers digging in mercilessly as he held you down and thrust up, slamming in deeper, deeper—

You screamed.

Back arched, eyes rolled back, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes as you choked on his name again and again. Your body didn’t know whether to fight it or come.

“Too big,” you sobbed, even as your cunt clenched around him. “I can’t—gonna break—”

Sukuna grinned, all teeth and filth and menace.

“Then break.”

TL: @samm1e13 @syleepy @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @yanderebluelockfan @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @valexqpt @snowsilver2000 @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @ravenbc @mihyas-dieehefrau @laslowchan @ethxrxxlity

A/N: haven't wrote for him in a while

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

Masterlist

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sevarchive · 2 days ago

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sae wakes up after anesthesia ♡ based from this tiktok!

he’s blinking up at the ceiling when you walk into the room dazed. slightly frowning. you walk over slowly.

“hey, sae. how’re you feeling?”

he turns his head. stares at you. eyes wide, mouth stuffed with gauze. you raise a brow.

“what?”

he tilts his head. “you look like someone i’d have a crush on. probably.”

“probably?”

“yeah. you’ve got that… annoying face i’d fall for.”

you snort. “annoying?”

“in a good way,” he says, dead serious. “like… dangerously pretty.”

“thanks, i think.”

he stares at your hand. at your ring then blinks.

“…wait. are we dating or something?”

“sae. we’re married.”

he nods, deep in thought. then frowns. “did i ask nicely?”

“you wrote me a whole speech.”

he blinks. “…did it rhyme?”

“no.”

“okay. good.”

you sit down next to him, brushing hair from his forehead.

“…do i get to kiss you?”

“we’re married. we kiss all the time.”

he looks mildly stunned. “no way.”

“yes way.”

another pause. he leans in, very slowly, and squints at your face. “…do i like you?”

“a lot.”

he nods again. “okay. yeah. makes sense. i’d probably flirt with you if i met you right now.”

“you literally just did.”

“…did it work?”

“unfortunately, yes.”

he hums, eyes almost closed now, like he’s finally about to drift off. you’re just about to stand when he mutters, half-slurred,

“…do we still do married stuff?”

you pause. “...what kind of stuff?”

his lips twitch. almost a smirk. “the fun kind.”

“sae!”

“just checking,” he mumbles. “’cause if i forgot that part too… that’d be tragic.”

you cover your face, flustered beyond belief. “you are so lucky you're cute right now.”

he sighs, content. “and married. don’t forget that part.”

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist ; like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

#sevarchive ۶ৎ #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock fluff #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #sae itoshi x reader #bllk sae #blue lock sae

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danysdaughter · 3 days ago

Text

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4.2k words

summary | after a hot date night, you decide it’s time to introduce bucky to the world of sex toys. but as he watches you come undone under a vibrator and dildo, curiosity quickly gives way to jealousy—and before you know it, the lesson turns into a possessive, desperate claim with his cock buried deep inside you where, as he puts it, you belong.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, sex toys, vibrator use, dildo use, edging, orgasm denial, reader gets absolutely railed, jealous!bucky, possessive!bucky, rough sex, desperate sex, “That Should Be Me” energy, mutual orgasms, praise kink, clingy post-sex bucky

a/n | based on thissss request. said I'd post on tues and here it is. enjoy, you little freaks <3 you don't need to read the previous chapters to read this one

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

The door slammed shut behind you, a little louder than it needed to, the echo sharp against the dim hallway light of your apartment.

Your laughter was still spilling out into the room, low and breathless, caught halfway between amusement and anticipation.

You barely got two steps in before Bucky was on you.

His hands found your waist first—fingers slipping beneath the hem of your jacket like he needed skin contact now—and his lips were on your neck, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive curve just below your ear.

You let out a soft gasp, the sound immediately turning into a laugh as you stumbled backward into the wall, your shoulder hitting it with a dull thud.

“Jesus, Barnes,” you teased, tilting your head to give him better access, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair. “At least let me take off my shoes before you start undressing me.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing along your throat as his hands slid down, over the curve of your ass, gripping like he already forgot how to be patient.

You could still taste the wine on his breath—rich, red, something expensive you pretended to know about during dinner. He’d been charming, quietly smug, his hand on your knee beneath the table the entire time. But now, that cool confidence had turned into something hotter, something needier.

“Couldn’t stop looking at you all night,” he murmured into your skin. “Every time you smiled at me like that, I wanted to take you home and—”

You cut him off with a slow, satisfied hum. “And what?”

He groaned. “Don’t make me say it.”

You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You’ve already got your hands on my ass, Barnes. The hard part’s over.”

He laughed—soft and low—but it came out like a growl against your neck.

You pulled back slightly to look at him. His pupils were blown, his cheeks flushed, hair slightly messy from your fingers. He looked like someone undone by want—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

You gave him that smile—that one. The cheeky, up-to-something smirk that always made his brows furrow and his jaw tighten.

The one that meant you were about to make him feel something he wasn’t prepared for.

“Down, Sergeant,” you said sweetly, placing your palms flat on his chest and gently easing him back.

He groaned—more out of protest than pain—his grip tightening on your hips as he let you push him away, but just barely. His fingers didn’t leave you, still clutching your waist like he wasn’t sure if this was a tease or the start of something serious.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, suspicious, eyes narrowing as you started to backpedal toward the bedroom.

You shrugged, still grinning. “Nowhere dangerous.”

“See, it’s the smile that says otherwise.”

You took a few more steps back, tugging him with you by the belt loops. He followed, slow but curious, letting you lead him through the doorway. His fingers skimmed under your dress again, thumbs brushing skin like he was trying to anchor himself.

You stopped at the edge of your bed, then stepped aside, letting him take in the view behind you.

That’s when he saw it.

His eyes widened slightly. You caught the flash of confusion as he looked down at your mattress—lined neatly with a few very intentional things: a sleek vibrator, a wand, a slim, curved dildo, a bottle of lube, and your favorite black satin restraints.

He stared for a second.

Blinking.

Then blinked again.

“What…” he started, voice lower now. Rough. “What is all this?”

You leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“A surprise.”

He turned to look at you, brow raised. “Is this a setup?”

You smirked. “Have you met me?”

Bucky stood still, eyes sweeping over the bed again—over the glossy black wand, the lube glinting under the soft light, the silicone toy shaped far too perfectly for your body.

Then he looked at you, expression stuck between scandalized and turned on.

“Did you rob a sex store?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer to him. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I mean, that’s a lot of equipment.”

“It’s two toys, a bottle of lube, and a wand, Barnes. Not an armory.”

He didn’t move when you tugged him forward by the waistband of his jeans, but his jaw flexed—very slightly—as his knees bumped the edge of the bed.

You raised a brow, smirking. “What? Don’t tell me you didn’t see toys when you were on your little porn discovery mission.”

He coughed, averting his eyes for a split second. “Yeah, well—maybe. But I’m more of a, y’know… hands-on kind of guy.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear as your hands slid up under his shirt. “Old fashioned, huh?”

His fingers twitched against your hips again, not quite meeting your teasing with a response.

You pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes, grinning.

“Funny. That 69 we did with your hands tied says very otherwise.”

His breath hitched. You weren’t wrong.

And from the way his cock was already hardening beneath his jeans, he knew it too.

You rose onto your toes, hands sliding up his chest, nails dragging lightly through the fabric of his shirt. He was still tense—not resistant, but processing. Curious. Hesitant. Turned on out of his goddamn mind.

So you leaned in slowly, brushing your lips against his.

Just a light kiss. Then another.

And another.

Tiny pecks that softened him, unraveled that edge of caution from his shoulders.

“You can still be hands-on,” you murmured between kisses. “Just… with toys in your hands.”

Another kiss, slow and lingering this time. You felt him exhale through his nose, felt his lips finally part and press back into yours.

You smiled against his mouth, coaxing.

“You don’t even have to do anything complicated. Just…” You let your fingers trail down his arms, tugging his hands to your waist. “Use them. Use me. Learn what works.”

He groaned, barely audible, as his hands settled firmly on your hips again—like just the permission alone was undoing him.

You pulled back, just a breath away.

“C’mon, Sarge. Let’s see what those old-fashioned hands can do with some new tools.”

His jaw clenched again.

You stepped back from him slowly, feeling the heat of his hands lingering on your hips as your fingers curled around the hem of your dress.

Bucky’s eyes followed every movement—glued to your hands, to the slow shift of fabric, to the smug little grin on your lips that told him you knew exactly what you were doing.

And then?

You pulled.

The dress slipped over your hips and down your thighs in one fluid motion, pooling around your ankles like water.

Bucky’s breath caught.

You stood there, spine straight, head tilted just slightly to the side, watching his reaction as your body was revealed—deliberately chosen lingerie in inky black lace, sheer in all the right places, hugging every curve.

The bra pushed your breasts up just enough to tease, the fabric a whisper against your skin, while the panties sat low on your hips, lacy edges framing your stomach and dipping between your legs like an invitation.

The sheer mesh left little to the imagination.

Your stomach was bare.

Your thighs.

The delicate rise of your hips.

It was… artful, really.

And you knew it.

“You wore that to dinner?” Bucky asked, voice low and wrecked already.

You grinned. “Technically, I wore it for dessert.”

His eyes dragged over you, slow and reverent and hungry.

And then you stepped back again, toward the bed.

“Pick one,” you said, nodding toward the toys. “Whichever you want. Try it on me.”

He didn’t move right away. Just looked at you.

Like you were the most dangerous, beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And the most willing.

You climbed onto the bed with slow, fluid confidence, the mattress dipping under your knees as you crawled back into position. Leaning on your elbows, you propped yourself up, legs spreading easily, openly, like it was second nature to put your body on display for him.

And maybe it was. For him, it always had been.

Bucky followed like a man in a trance.

His eyes roamed over you—down your torso, between your thighs, lingering at the edge of the lace still clinging to your hips. He was silent, almost hesitant. Until his gaze flicked toward the toys spread across the sheets.

You watched as he reached out and picked up the vibrator.

The sleek little device looked almost comical in his broad, calloused hand—lightweight, pastel-colored, clearly not made with 1940s masculinity in mind.

He turned it over slowly, brow furrowing, mouth slightly parted like he was reading a tactical blueprint.

“There are settings,” you murmured, voice soft and teasing. “Low, medium, high.”

He looked at you, and something about the way his mouth twitched made you narrow your eyes.

“Start on low, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer. Just clicked it on.

The low hum vibrated between his fingers.

And then?

He clicked it again.

High.

Before you could stop him, he pressed the tip of the vibrator directly onto your clit—still covered by your lace panties.

The jolt that tore through your body was instant and violent.

Your back arched, a yelp escaped your throat, and your leg snapped out so fast you nearly kicked him in the face.

“Jesus—BUCKY!”

He dodged your foot, arms up in surrender, laughing as he dropped the toy onto the sheets.

“What? You said there were settings, I was just—testing.”

You shoved at his shoulder, breathless, glaring as you tried to catch your breath.

“You tested high?! Right on my clit?! What the hell kind of logic—”

“I didn’t think it’d be that strong.”

You gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk, still panting, your thighs trembling slightly from the aftershock.

He was still laughing.

And blushing.

“You’re gonna kill me,” you muttered, reaching down to adjust your panties like your clit hadn’t just been sniped by Stark-level technology.

He raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Let’s try that again. Gently this time.”

You laid back again, eyeing him warily.

“Try it again,” you said. “And if you blast me like that a second time, I’m switching to the dildo and you can just sit there and watch.”

His grin vanished.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once your breathing evened out—once your pulse stopped thundering in your ears—you gave him a small, warning nod. Not exactly forgiving him yet, but willing to let him try again.

Bucky reached for the vibrator, a little more cautious now.

“Low,” you said again, firmly.

He smirked but obeyed, clicking it on to the lowest setting. The hum was soft this time, barely more than a buzz, and you could already see the change in him—his shoulders relaxed, his gaze sharpened. He wasn’t playing anymore.

He moved closer, crawling between your spread thighs, settling onto his elbows like he was preparing for something delicate. His metal hand slid over your thigh, holding you open with care as he brought the toy down, brushing it gently—so gently—against the lace over your clit.

You inhaled sharply. A good sharp.

His eyes flicked up, watching your face.

“How’s that feel?” he asked, voice low and steady.

You let your eyes close, lips parting on a slow, breathy exhale. Your body relaxed this time, no violent kicks—just heat curling low in your belly, spreading like fire.

“Nice,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “That’s… really nice.”

He made a quiet, pleased sound.

Then did it again.

Slower this time, moving the toy in gentle circles over the fabric. Not rushing, not pushing. Just watching—the rise and fall of your breath, the subtle twitch of your thighs, the way your fingers curled in the sheets when he hit just the right angle.

Your hips arched, just slightly, chasing the motion.

He smiled. Almost smug. But underneath it—something tender, too.

Like he couldn’t believe he was the one doing this to you.

Making you feel like this.

Your breath hitched as he moved lower, eyes flicking to your panties.

“Let me see you,” he murmured.

His fingers hooked the edge of the lace and drew it aside with care—so slowly, like he was unwrapping something sacred. His gaze dropped to your bare, glistening core, and the little sound he made in his throat—half growl, half groan—sent a fresh rush of heat through you.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so wet already.”

You smirked, lazy and indulgent. “Well, you did almost blow my clit off.”

He shot you a look, one brow raised, mouth twitching with that cocky little smirk you were quickly learning to associate with danger.

“Yeah,” he said. “About that…”

He brought the toy back down—still on low—and touched it directly to your clit.

Your whole body jolted.

But this time, there was no kicking. Just a soft gasp, your hips lifting off the bed, thighs twitching as pleasure rippled through you like heat lightning.

He moved it in tight, slow circles.

You whimpered.

He leaned in close, voice low and full of intent.

“You remember edging me?” he asked.

Your eyes blinked open, hazy with heat. “…Bucky—”

He clicked the toy off.

You whined.

Your hips bucked, searching for friction, desperate and denied.

His grin widened.

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s exactly what it felt like.”

You reached for him—maybe to swat him, maybe to drag him down onto you—but he dodged easily, clicking the toy back on and touching it just to the side of your clit this time, not giving you the full pressure you craved.

You moaned, head falling back onto the sheets.

He was toying with you.

Teasing, circling, pulling you to the brink and pulling back just before it broke.

“Feel that?” he asked softly. “How close you are?”

You nodded frantically, thighs trembling.

He lifted the toy away again.

Your whole body arched, a strangled noise escaping your throat.

“Good,” he said, smug and composed and ruthless. “Now let’s do that a few more times.”

He edged you once.

Then again.

And again.

Each time pulling the toy away just as your body reached that shattering precipice, just as your thighs began to shake and your moans turned to pleas. Your voice cracked somewhere between curses and whimpers—rage and lust and raw need colliding in your chest.

“Fucking—Bucky! I swear to God—”

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, smile far too calm for someone committing such heinous crimes against your orgasm.

“You’re doing great,” he said, maddeningly sweet. “Almost as pretty as when you edged me.”

“Bucky, I will end you.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, clicking the toy off again. “But first—”

You whined. Actually whined. Fisting the sheets as your entire body trembled with pent-up release.

Then you saw him reach for the next item on the bed.

The dildo.

Smooth, curved, a little thicker than average—his choice.

He looked at it, looked at you.

Then leaned forward again, eyes gleaming. “Can I try this?”

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded, gasping, your whole body tight and twitching with denial.

He ran the toy through your folds first, slicking it with your arousal. Then, slowly, he pressed it in—inch by inch—watching your body stretch around it, his lips parted, his breath caught in his throat.

The groan that left you was wrecked.

He pulled it back.

Then slid it in again.

And again.

His strokes were smooth, unhurried, his gaze fixed where your body took it, sucking it in with every glide.

You felt his focus—too much of it.

“Stop looking at my cunt like a science experiment,” you muttered, voice wrecked and trembling.

He didn’t even blink. “You’re fascinating.”

You let out something between a sob and a laugh, hips canting up, thighs trembling as he thrust the toy deeper, angling just right and watching as your mouth dropped open in a silent moan.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispered, almost to himself.

And you? You were seconds from detonating.

Bucky’s focus sharpened to a point—you, spread out and glistening, shaking under his touch as the toy slid in and out of you with steady, unrelenting rhythm.

His hand never faltered, wrist rotating just enough to give the dildo that subtle curve each time it pushed deep, brushing against the spot that made your back arch off the mattress.

His other hand was braced on your thigh, holding it open, thumb stroking gently as your moans got louder, less controlled.

He was breathing harder now, jaw tense, the veins in his forearm visible as he picked up the pace.

Not just faster—deeper.

And every time he drove it in, you let out a sound that made his own hips twitch, his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans.

You were writhing, hands tangled in the sheets, eyes barely able to stay open as you looked down your body at him—watching him watch you.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, head dropping back as the pleasure built and built again. “Bucky—fuck—”

He bit his lip.

His strokes grew faster, rougher, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, your arousal coating the toy, your thighs trembling as your moans rose in pitch.

“You hear yourself?” he rasped, voice dark now, tight. “So fucking loud. So good.”

Your hands clawed at the sheets, your mouth falling open in a gasp as the toy slid in hard, again and again, your body so close to the edge you could taste it.

And still—he didn’t stop.

“Say my name,” he said, fucking you harder now, jaw clenched as he watched your hips lift to meet every thrust. “Say it.”

“Bucky—please—”

His rhythm stuttered for a second.

Then he leaned in closer, eyes burning.

The sounds coming from between your legs were obscene—slick, wet, relentless. The dildo slid in and out of you, faster now, your thighs twitching with every thrust, your moans ragged, needy, broken.

And Bucky? Bucky was watching.

Watching you come apart, shaking on the edge, and all he could think about was how it wasn’t him.

His jaw clenched as his hand moved, wrist flicking with practiced rhythm now, and still it wasn’t enough. Not for him.

He stared at where the toy disappeared into your body, at how easily you took it, at how you moaned his name—and something just… snapped.

The moment you let out a wrecked little gasp, your legs clamping around nothing as your orgasm finally hit—your whole body clenching around that silicone?

He yanked it out of you, fast.

You whimpered, high and startled, your hips chasing after it instinctively. “Bucky—what the fuck—”

But he was already tossing it across the room like it had personally offended him.

“That should be me,” he growled, low and tight. “That should be my cock inside you.”

Before you could say anything else, he was on you—mouth crushing yours, fingers dragging your panties down your thighs, then ripping them the rest of the way off with one impatient pull.

“Hey—!” you yelped against his lips. “That was new!”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his voice gravel and heat. “I couldn’t fucking stand it. Watching you fall apart like that—on that—”

You were still gasping when he shoved his jeans down just enough, cock springing free, thick and flushed and angry, and then—

He thrust into you in one long, rough slide.

You cried out, your head falling back, the stretch sudden and perfect.

“Fucking hell, Bucky—”

He groaned, forehead pressing to yours, voice breaking.

“Better,” he breathed. “So much fucking better.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your laugh half-moan, half-disbelief as he started to move.

“You’re ridiculous,” you panted.

He thrust deeper, harder.

“You’re mine.”

You didn’t argue.

Because fuck, it felt right.

Bucky didn’t hold back.

His thrusts were deep, fast, frantic—his cock slamming into you like it was the only thing grounding him to reality. Every drive of his hips sent you upward on the bed, your hands scrabbling for purchase, your thighs locked tight around his waist as he rutted into you like a man starved.

You were both sweat-slicked and gasping, your mouths clashing in messy kisses between moans and curses, teeth grazing lips, breath mingling.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer, angling you just right—and fuck, he knew what he was doing. He angled every thrust to drag against that spot that made your vision blur, made your nails dig into his back, made your cries rise to screams.

“Mine,” he snarled, over and over, like a mantra. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped back, helpless under the weight of him, your whole body coiled tight, heat building fast again after the cruel cycle of edging. “Fuck, Bucky—don’t stop—please—”

He groaned against your neck, his voice almost breaking from how good it felt, from how tightly you squeezed around him, from the way your body arched into him like you couldn’t get close enough.

You weren’t just taking it.

You were meeting him—rocking your hips up into every thrust, nails dragging down his back, your voice a breathless chant of his name.

You whined, the sound pure filth, your orgasm charging through you like lightning, your body clamping down around him as your eyes rolled back.

Your whole body was already a live wire—trembling, hypersensitive, soaked from everything he’d done to you. So when he finally drove into you with that punishing, possessive rhythm, it didn’t take long.

Not after being edged so many times you forgot what release felt like.

His cock filled you perfectly, every brutal thrust driving you closer to the edge you’d been denied again and again.

Then he said it.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled into your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. “So deep—fuck—wanna keep you like this. Full of me.”

The growl in his voice. The strain. The desperation.

And that was what did it.

You came hard—violently—your orgasm tearing through you like your body had been waiting for permission to shatter.

You screamed his name, your back arched off the mattress, thighs locked around him as your walls clenched down on his cock in rhythmic waves, dragging him deeper, holding him there.

Bucky groaned, choked on the sound, hips stuttering as he tried to keep fucking you through it—but your body was relentless, milking him, coaxing him to the brink with you.

And then he lost it.

He slammed in one last time, cock twitching deep as he came with a raw, broken sound, burying his face in your neck like he could hide from how wrecked he felt.

His cum flooded you—hot, thick, and so much, mixing with yours, seeping down your thighs as you both stayed locked together, trembling, undone.

You were shaking under him, breathless, mind blank.

And still—he didn’t move.

Just held you.

Because he couldn’t let go. Because he didn’t want to.

Your breaths tangled into each other—harsh, broken, shared between barely-parted mouths.

You couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

Bucky was still inside you, still buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to yours, his forehead against your temple as the sweat cooled on both your bodies. The only sounds were the deep, ragged inhales, the soft exhales, the occasional, stunned fuck whispered against your skin.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing to say—not yet.

Just the feeling of him—warm, solid, trembling slightly as he held you like if he let go, the world might pull you away.

Your fingers curled into the damp strands at the back of his neck. His hand slid down your thigh, possessive even now, thumb stroking the inside like he still needed to touch you everywhere.

You breathed into his mouth.

He breathed into yours.

And it was perfect.

But then, slowly, your body relaxed.

And your hand drifted from his hair to his shoulder, giving him a light shove—not really pushing, more like reminding.

He groaned, still reluctant to move.

You gave him another nudge. “You owe me new lingerie.”

His head lifted slightly, enough for you to see the lazy smile that spread across his flushed, post-orgasm face.

“As long as I get to pick it out too,” he murmured.

You snorted. “If you pick something crotchless, I’m setting you on fire.”

His grin widened.

“You really are the most dangerous woman alive,” he muttered against your lips.

Just when you thought he might finally pull out, Bucky shifted—

Not away.

But closer.

Suddenly, you were bombarded.

Soft kisses.

All over your face.

Your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your lips—smothering, insistent, rapid-fire pecks between breathless murmurs, like he couldn’t kiss you fast enough to keep up with what he was feeling.

“Beautiful—”

Kiss.

“My girl—”

Kiss.

“So perfect—mine—mine—”

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

You burst out laughing, squirming under him as he grinned like an idiot and kept going, hands bracketing your head like he had no plans of letting you escape.

“Bucky—stop—get the fuck out of my face—!”

Your voice was sharp but your smile was wide, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, lit from the inside.

He didn’t stop.

“Never,” he whispered against your cheek. “You’re mine. I’m keeping you forever.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing breathlessly as your arms curled around his back, pulling him in anyway.

“God, you’re such a menace.”

He just kissed your nose again.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But I’m your menace.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@princeescalus @s-sh-ne @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @lilac13 @fayeatheart @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @person-005 @muchwita @ruexj283 @jarnesbames108 @iheartfictionalmen1 @daddyslilbrat962 @bucky-baby-barnes @bonnietate26 @1lorenzo-lover1 @heymydearheart @peanutbutt3rcup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @loganficsonly @taylorann2013

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

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darlingsblackbook · 3 days ago

Text

Zayne × Nurse!Reader - Part Six

The breaking point

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five

Love & Deepspace Masterlist

I | I was already tired, not just the kind of tired after a long shift, but the kind that’s been weighing down on your chest for weeks. The kind you try to ignore by staying busy.

II | I had a stack of paperwork in my arms, folders that needed filing, numbers- just, paperwork. It was not my favourite task to do, but gave me something to do. Something that I could distract myself with.

III | I walk behind the cardiology reception desk with my eyes low, just to pick up the rest of the papers I need to continue. Pretending I do not hear the familiar whispering tones that always seemed to settle when I was nearby. I’ve gotten good at pretending. I pretend a lot lately.

IV | “She’s acting weird,” one of them said. Her voice had that hushed excitement people use when talking about someone just out of earshot. "Don't you think?”

V | "Acting?” The other voice followed like venom wrapped in silk. “She’s always been weird. You remember how she used to stutter around Doctor Zayne? Now suddenly she’s pretending he doesn’t exist? Please.”

VI | I gripped the folders tighter, like holding onto them would anchor me to something solid. My cheeks burned. I knew people noticed, but I didn’t think… I didn’t think it had gotten this bad.

VII | “Maybe she figured out he’s way out of her league,” The same voice said, not even trying to lower her voice anymore. “Smart girl, even if it took her long enough.”

VIII | I didn’t look at them, just took what I needed and left to continue with my work. Or I tried to, but one of them- the one with the snake venom voice, stepped just slightly into my path. Her shoulder knocking into mine, sending every single piece of paper flying out of my arms like leaves caught in wind.

IX | The sound of paper hitting the floor echoed down the hall. My stomach dropped along with it.

X | “Oops,” She said, far too sweet.“You alright? You’re almost shaking. It can't be because of nerves, though. I mean, Doctor Zayne isn’t even around right now."

XI | I just stared at her. For the first time, not with fear. Not even with sadness. Just... disbelief. “What did you say?”

XII | Before she could open her mouth again, another voice cut through - calm, cold, and unmistakably unimpressed. "That is enough."

XIII | I felt a shock, like a lightning bolt struck me, at the sound of that voice. Zayne... I could hear his footsteps as he approached, yet did not dare to turn to face him. He wasn’t rushing at all, but something in his aura made the air shift. The same way it does right before a thunderstorm.

XIV | The nurse paled. “Doctor Zayne- I was just-"

“If I were in your place, I'd be very careful about my next words” Zayne interrupted, his eyes hard. “Do you even get any work done, or do you just sit around and whisper to each other all day?”

XV | She stumbled for a response, but he did not give her a chance to come up with any excuse. "Pick the papers up."

XVI | She blinked, as if she could not believe what she was hearing. How he was talking to her. Ironic, seeing how she had been talking to me. It's not funny anymore when you become the target. "D-doctor Za-"

XVII | "Did you not hear what I said? Pick. Them. Up." Zayne demanded, voice just as cold as the evol he wielded.

XVIII | Everyone was quiet. The kind of silence that buzzes behind your ears. She bent down with shaking hands, gathering papers like her life - or job - depended on it. Maybe, in that moment, it did. When she had gathered them all, she stood up but kept her head down, avoiding everyone's gaze. Then, she tried to hand the papers over to Zayne.

XIX | His eyes didn’t even flicker toward her. “Not to me,” he said, then nodded his head my way. “Her.”

She turned toward me like I was a executioner. She shoved them into my arms with a scowl but I could see her hands trembling.

XX | “Now apologize,” Zayne said, voice still flat. “Like a professional. Not like a child forced to say ‘sorry’ at recess.”

XXI | Again, the bitch started blinking as if they were as dry as a desert. “Doctor Zayne-”

XXII | “Apologize,” Zayne snapped. “Or you will not have a place in this team anymore.”

XXIII | The silence turned deadly. Her mouth twitched. Then, finally, through gritted teeth, she forced out, “I’m sorry.”

XXIV | “For what?” Zayne pushed for more.

XXV | Her eye actually twitched at that. “For- knocking into you. And being… unprofessional.”

XXVI | “There we go,” Zayne said, in a mocking tone as if he was speaking to a child. “Now go back to your desk and do your actual job instead of treating this hospital like a playground.”

XXVII | At that, she fled. And just like that, I was left alone with him.

XXVIII | Zayne looked at me. And the ice in his face shifted, melted. The voice I adored so much lowered. “Are you alright?”

XXIX | I turned and ran. Bolted down the hall, because at that question, with that tone- coming from him - something in me had snapped loose. I couldn’t let him see it, the tears, the pain, the way his concern gutted me wide open - the shame. All kinds of things raced through my mind, but there was one dominant thought- He had heard what she said.

XXX | I flung the stairwell door open and collapsed on the cold steps, pressing my palms to my face. I didn’t want him to follow, but I knew he would.

I felt it the door open. That sudden shift of air pressure. The soft click of a handle that carried more weight than any shout ever could. His footsteps were not rushed, they were decisive. Heavy with something that made my breath catch.

I didn’t lift my head. I couldn’t. I stayed seated on the second step from the bottom, but wrapped my arms around my knees like that could hold me together.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Zayne said. His voice was low again, no ice.

I shook my head, to disagree and because I didn’t know what to say. Because my throat was too tight to let anything out. He thought I ran away because he scared me?

He didn’t sit next to me, not at first. He stayed a few steps above me, towering, but at a respectful distance. Like he knew I was splintering and didn’t want to push.

“This isn’t the first time, is it?” Zayne asked. “The way she treated you. The way she talked. She's probably not the only one either, is she?"

My lips parted, but nothing came out.

“It’s been going on for a while,” Zayne answered his own question. “And I did not see it."

I finally looked up at him. My vision was blurry, lashes wet, and cheeks flushed from the pressure in my chest. “It’s not your fault.”

Zayne flinched. Literally. Like I had hit him.

"You didn’t know,” I whispered. “How could you? You’re not… you’re not supposed to know everything happening in every hallway.”

“But I should’ve seen you,” he said. “You pulled away. You barely even looked at me the last few weeks. I noticed, and I still didn’t-”

“Because I had to,” I interrupted. My voice cracked. “Do you know what they were saying about me, Doctor Zayne?”

He didn’t answer, because he couldn't.

“They said that I was throwing myself at you. That I didn’t deserve to be here, that I was just some pathetic little nurse with a crush who thought smiling at a doctor meant I had a future.”

I saw the way his face twisted, something between rage and heartbreak. It hurt to see that expression on his face, it made me want to scream.

“So, I kept my distance, I stopped speaking unless I had to. I became so fucking small just so I had no way of giving them something to talk about anymore.” I said, my voice breaking.

“They don’t get to talk about you like that,” Zayne said, after a moment silence. “They don’t get to decide your worth. And I don’t give a damn if you were smiling at me or the walls. You earned your place in this department. Every day.".

My eyes welled up again. “You really didn’t know?”

“No,” he said, firmly. “And I hate myself for that. I saw something was off with you but I thought something might've happend in private and I did not want to intrude- I still should’ve asked. I just wanted to give you space- time- to come back to yourself again-"

Zayne took a step closer, slow not pushing. "I sincerely apologize, I can't take back what happened to you but I can make sure that you'll never have to experience anything like this ever again."

AND THEY LIVED A HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Yo, I am no good in romantic scenes, I can't help but cringe at every sentence- angst is my speciality- BUT I tried my best okay. 😗🙂‍↕️ I finished this while listening to gummy bear and ppap to keep myself awake lmao.

Taglist : @sylusgirlie7 @jeonjenny @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @draftbeerbibi @weebinator01 @satorustorm @asilaydead @ninaandtuna @gremlinartstudio @keyiswatching @dreamlesssleepsaga @eurynam @amerti @neobitch127 @m30wk1ttycat @yuurisfavblog @dysphxriaii @zainaaryam @floofycookie @beesin03 @thatpersonnamedrook @chiikasevennn @ollie-the-fae @dramaticalsachan @babylilxc @minsified @destinysrequiem @xsammijoanneex @hirostrvw @pepperushia @starllight613 @seris-the-amious @moonlight-inthe-sea @luvvhue @gojosballsack69 @ellarchives @xinnn6 @marmandarina @kithyyy @aixyraus @marmandarina @goomimii @evadnesworld @reirakurenai @estiesbestiesworld @albenyx @asgwendollie @avis-writeshq @sohhzzy @elizabeth-von-winken-universe @bitchynightmarepost @treeteaofversailles @mwritin6s @happygalaxymilkshake @dprweganggang03 @nommingonfood @cadesthings @insidious-innocence @sharieb @pinksaiyans @needvbunni @gawa-ng-gabi @craic-on-a-cracker @canthavetoomuchchaos @neobitch127 @edens-melodies @sanzy4 @betsybetts @animegamerfox @lemonn015 @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @sunnyilis @safeinyourheart @bluelilyofthevalley @vintag3u @jlynns-posts @69-gojos-wife-69 @burn-it-all-for-your-love @whimsicalcup @blitziwitch @roschea-arts @seung185 @lalaluch @jadeymeciela @everywherestrs @mrwind-upbird

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #lads x reader #love and deepspace imagines #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x you #zayne fluff #lads zayne #zayne x reader #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne angst #lads x you #lads #lads angst #zayne x nurse!reader #zayne x non mc #zayne x y/n

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rottingpink · 3 days ago

Text

control | simon "ghost" riley

cw. pet play, age gap, finger sucking, oral (m receiving), needy! reader, teasing, dumbification, established relationship

synopsis. you remind simon a lot of an untamed puppy in need of self-control

masterlist

pt ii will be linked here!

simon adores his girlfriend and all her hyperactivity on most days. but when the man's knackered from work, all he wants is a chilled beer, a good football match on tv and you cuddled next to him. maybe some soft kisses and lovemaking once he relaxes.

however, you have an affinity for pestering him the moment he gets home. after all, when you haven’t seen your loving boyfriend all day, the first thing you’d want to do is put your hands all over him, obviously.

you're being such a little brat, squirmy, loud and restless as hell. you're not realizing he's currently not in the mood for your nonsense. you're perched in his lap, pawing his face and shoulders and hair and blowing cool air on his ears to make him flinch. you whine "simon" and pull his palm to your face so you can nuzzle it.

“y’bein' needy,” he says without looking at you, his voice coming out deep and calm. he intentionally uses a cautionary tone in his voice. you don't heed his warning, nipping his fingers playfully. "don't care, i want attention, simon. i missed you."

simon turns his head to look at you, raising one eyebrow. his deep blue eyes rake over you, analyzing your tousled hair, smudged lip gloss, and one of the straps of your nightdress slipping off your shoulder. your messy appearance is accompanied by the big smile on your face. he rubs his thumb along your bottom lip, then taps your cheek twice, firmly. it's one of the only ways to get you to pay attention.

“off,” he says as if he’s talking to a dog that keeps jumping on the bed. you blink up at him and pout, staying exactly where you are. you don't feel like moving, so you won't. you wanna be with him. simon tuts and stares into your big, glassy eyes, grabs you under your arms, and lifts you onto the couch.

"simon!" you cry out his name in dissatisfaction. why won't he let you cuddle him? you try and sit up, but he pushes you back into the cushions, big hand pressing against your body to hold you still.

“stay,” he commands sharply.

you go still under his hand, blinking up at him. you can feel a flutter in your body and a spike in your heart rate. you like when he talks to you this way, even though he’s being firm. the casual dominance makes your head swirl.

“i don't want to,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself. maybe he'll get mad and punish you by pounding you into the mattress. he breathes out through his nose and leans down, miffed by your smug little look.

“you don’t listen,” simon scolds softly, curling his hand around your jaw. “yappin’ at me the second i get home. climbin’ on me. whinin’. y’can’t sit still for five seconds.”

“cause i want you. haven't seen you in hours.” you say dramatically, leaning into his touch. "you're always busy."

he leans down and cages you in, hovering over you from where you're positioned on the couch. "y'need to settle down." he chastises, then taps your cheek again. "open f'me."

even though you do want to keep being a brat to rile him up, you reluctantly obey. he slides two thick fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. he starts off gentle, then holds your jaw in place when you try to wriggle. "mmh..." you hum around his thick fingers, lips sealing tight around the digits.

you try to suck, but he pushes deeper every time you get too comfortable. "y'too wound up, pup."

"mmm... more simon," you keen around his fingers, drool trickling down your chin, sliding his fingers along your tongue. he's trying to keep you busy so you calm down, but it's clear you have a long way to go. he clicks his tongue. "settle." he repeats firmly.

your eyes flutter, and your mind slows down the longer you suck on his fingers. you nod as best you can, feeling melty and warm. the sheer size of him as he crowds you makes you crazy. your panties are already damp. simon strokes your cheek with his pinky, fingers still buried in your mouth.

you behave for maybe five seconds longer, mouth full, lashes heavy, your jaw slack, letting him rock them against your tongue. you respond in soft suckles and breathy hums. his body slouches back a little and he thinks for a moment that you're starting to fall asleep on him, until your fingers slip under his shirt. you climb towards him, releasing his fingers from your mouth with a sloppy wet pop, and begin nosing at simon's clothed crotch.

his breath hitches the moment he looks down and sees you pawing at his zipper with both hands. meanwhile, your hips rut against the couch cushions and create friction on your clothed cunt under your flimsy nightdress. he murmurs out your name in warning.

you don’t answer, still breathing heavily. your eyes are blown out and desperate, and you tug at his boxers pathetically.

“stay still, pup.” he bites out, grabbing your throat in an attempt to hold you in place, and nudges your jaw with his fingers to tilt your chin up. his grip is firm. “y'not listenin' .”

you blink up at him, lower lip trembling. “but i want you!” your voice comes out so helpless, he honestly thinks about stuffing his fingers back into your mouth just to shut you up again. simon drags one hand down his face while you writhe in his hold.

“you can’t stop movin’, huh? need it that bad?” he mutters, almost fond. he remains somewhat annoyed by you, though.

when you try to grope his now swollen cock, he grabs your wrists and pins them to the cushion under one big palm.

“no,” he growls. you try to push into his thigh again even though he’s not moving.

“i said no,” he hisses. “y'so bad. bad fuckin’ puppy. can’t even behave for five minutes.”

you nod eagerly, seeming to be proud of yourself. "mhm... train me then, si, please, please i'll be so good-"

“y'won’t be good,” he snarls, cutting you off. “y'like being bad. y'like gettin’ told off. y'like bein’ treated like a mutt that can’t stay down.” he reaches between your legs with one hand, pressing his fingers hard into the middle of your soaked panties.

"see?" he tuts, rubbing the mess and glaring down at you patronizingly. "all that whining 'n you're soaked. fuckin' hell." you tremble under him, lip caught between your teeth. each time he rubs or pats your soaked panties it spreads your mess all over your cunt and makes soft soggy noises.

“you don’t get to make demands, pup. you don’t get to climb into my lap and rub all over me when I tell you no. you don’t get to beg with your mouth full and your panties soaked through.” he can feel you rocking your hips the entire time he scolds you, trying to get even the smallest bit of friction.

again, he shoves you down to hold you in place, keeping you still and under control. “you done?” he asks, looking at your flushed face, your ruined lip gloss, the need swimming in your eyes. you shake your head briskly, and the second you open your mouth to babble some more nonsense at him, he pushes his fingers back into your mouth and shoves you back down flat on the couch.

simon has you spread under him, his fingers working slowly in your mouth once more while he catches his breath, but you don't want fingers anymore. you tug at his wrist, spitting out the digits, chest heaving. a tantrum’s been building in you for a while and now it wants out. “i don’t want your fingers!” you bark, thrashing. "don’t want them anymore, I want your cock-!”

"need it," you’re panting, not even trying to be lax now. "i need it. i’ve been good... no i’ve been bad, i know i’ve been bad, but... i’ll be better if you just-! please, simon, please!"

“puppy.”

you ignore him, hands going back to his pants. you're a lot more determined this time, hands dragging at his waistband, trying to unclip the buckle, yanking and fumbling.

“pup.”

you snarl at him and try once more-

he grabs your wrists and pins them to your chest so fast you let out a choked yelp. your head falls back against the cushion, legs thrashing, fists caught in his grip. you try to buck your hips up into his again.

“stop it,” he bites. “you’re actin’ out.”

“don’t care, want your cock, simon!" you refuse to shut up, trying and failing to reach the bulge in his pants. "need it now! put it in!” that's his last straw. he shifts, knees caging your hips, holding you down completely. his weight alone stills you a little because the sheer size of him is so intimidating.

“you think you deserve cock?" he sneers in your face. "when you’ve been mouthy and grabby and ignoring every fuckin’ thing I say?”

"mmh, yes, i do, i do si, i do!"

“no, pup. you don’t. you don’t get cock just ‘cause you cry for it.”

he lets go of your wrists and sits back on his heels. “y'know what,” he says. “since y'don’t want fingers, show me what y'want." he sits back on the couch and spreads his knees widely, cocking his head towards his lap.

you've been granted permission.

"..."

you pounce onto his lap, both hands on his chest to keep yourself steady while you begin to grind down onto his hot, clothed cock.

he hisses through his teeth, breathing picking up the faster you rock your body. his grip tightens around you, keeping the rest of your body still while you slide your soaked pussy back and forth on him, soaking your panties even more. he grabs a fistful of your hair.

"heel." he says firmly, and you whine, but pause.

your breath’s caught in your chest, eyes wild and glossy with your arms around him tensely to keep yourself from rutting more.

simon can hear the shallow, frantic sounds leaving your mouth, almost like panting. ridiculous. he finally indulges you, lifting you onto the floor between his legs, lowering his pants and boxers just enough to tug out his cock.

you moan just looking at it, thick, flushed and already leaking at the tip, heavy against his thigh. he’s still half-tucked in his pants, slouched low on the couch with one hand around the thick base. “go slow,” he warns.

you dive in greedily, mouth wrapping around the head tongue swiping over the leaking slit and lapping up any pre-cum that's already drooled out of him, then you go to lick along the underside of the tip.

“fuck,” he growls, jerking under you. his hand tugs on the handful of your hair. “told you slow, pup.” you suck him in fast and shallow, lips stretched and cheeks hollowing each time you bob your head. you gag once, but you don’t stop. you pull off just long enough to breathe and then take him back deeper, sloppier, your tongue lapping around his shaft while your lips stretch obscenely around his girth.

“fucking... mngh, slow down, baby, slow down-” he pants, but you just huff out through your nose, saliva coating your chin. he watches you push your mouth all the way down again, your nose brushing the soft skin above his base.

simon drags you off with a wet pop, his cock bobbing out of your mouth and lightly hitting your cheek. the entire tip is flushed an angry red, and you can see how his balls twitch. they're too full and need to be emptied. you blink up at him, mouth open, saliva stringing from your lips to his length. “you need a collar,” says simon. “an' a leash.”

"mhmmm, want it... please,"

“yeah, I bet you like that, huh?” he growls. “you'd follow me around the fuckin’ house with 'em on. you'd start humpin’ my fuckin’ leg whenever I sit down and i'd have to tug on y'leash to control you.”

you nod frantically, crawling a little closer until your cheek rubs against his thigh, tongue flicking out in desperation to have your mouth full again. he can feel your warm breath panting against his cock.

he slaps it against your face, heavy flesh making contact with your skin. “open,” he snaps, and your lips part immediately.

he pushes back in painfully slow this time, hand firm on your head to keep you down and control you. he's finally giving you what you wanted but on his terms. the second his delicious cock is back in your mouth, you start grinding on him again, the fabric of your panties grinding deliciously into your clit each time you roll your hips. his cock twitches in your mouth, the soft, wet suction of your lips making his head loll and loud pants and groans to leave him.

then, he nudges his leg forward, slotting it between your thighs for you to hump.

simon's hand and stays on your head, fingers tangled tight in your hair to guide the rhythm. he drags the tip of his cock along your tongue until it brushes the roof of your mouth, then pulls out, then thrusts back in and eases you to take it to the base.

“such a fuckin’ slut,” he holds you in place to keep you at the base of his cock. “my stupid little pup can’t think unless she’s got something in her mouth and her pussy rubbin’ on m'leg.”

you wail around him, swallowing him as deep as you can even as tears start to leak out of your eyes in masses. your body bounces with every thrust of your pussy on him. you start humping harder, determined to get yourself to the brink so you can cum with him.

you're bobbing fast and messy, making the most obscene little noises as your lips drag up the length of him, sucking him down again before he can even get a breath in. you're so close to what you want. you can the way his thighs start to twitch. "oh hell, pup. fuckin'... 'm close... keep... keep suckin'... shit, feels s'good," he mutters curses under his breath, cock jumping in your mouth.

you dip lower, licking a broad, nasty stripe down to his balls, then you lave your mouth over them and press hot kisses to the sensitive skin. you nuzzle your face into the sack, tongue swirling over the sensitive skin. grabbing onto his cock with one hand, you fist his length, pumping your hand up and down while you suck on one of his balls, then the other. "pup! fuck, oh my-fuck, where'd y'learn... mmnhh..!"

simon is loud, tugging on your hair while his hips jerk off the couch, and he doesn't last any longer. he shouts, cock throbbing and pulsing in your mouth, and you quickly go down and return to sucking on his length, eager to swallow up everything that comes out of him. he creams in your mouth, seed hot and thick on your tongue.

you don’t spill a single drop, holding still with your mouth so full that your cheeks are puffed out. you gulp down all of his cum, then, hoping to prove to him that you really are a good girl for him, you pull off and show him, tongue out, mouth open, shining and clean, not a trace left. you even make a soft little ahh noise.

simon stops and stares down at his pup in disbelief, cheeks very flushed, breathing ragged, and his heart is racing hard in his heaving chest. in all honesty, he doesn't know what to say to you just now when you've rocked his world and stare at him all glassy eyes and proud.

since you were such a good girl though, he does think his pup deserves a treat. he pushes his foot up firmly on your cunt, putting pressure on your pussy and grinding it in slow, steady circles against you.

you gasp, head falling back and hips instinctively jerking forward to chase the friction. the wet cotton clings to your folds, dragged taut between your clit and the pressure of his foot and leg. "so good! please don’t stop, don’t stop-” you cry out, hips bucking quickly against him. you rut against his skin like a bitch in heat, arms wrapped around his leg to steady yourself.

simon watches you with a hand lazily stroking his slick, still-hard cock.

your mouth drops open in a silent moan, fingers digging into his leg now as the pressure builds in your belly. you rock harder, sloppier, as your panties squish and slide and smear your arousal all over yourself and the arch of his foot. you’re so close that you feel lightheaded.

“you like bein’ a stupid little mutt, huh?” he growls. “say it.”

your body stutters at his words, face burning, but you don’t stop grinding. if anything, the humiliation makes you more frantic. you pant, trembling in his hold, desperate for release. “yes, yes, i love it, i love being your mutt, ngh! m'cumming! si, simon-cumming!”

your thighs twitch and your pussy pulses violently, soaking his foot between your legs with wave after wave of wetness. your whole body convulses as the orgasm overtakes you.

a.n; pt ii in 2-3 days!

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