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goodgirlofglory · 2 years ago

Text

A successful trial run/ One-shot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 9,2k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, explicit language, smut, making out, nipple-play, dry-humping, coming in pants hehe, me making up a lot of unconvincing sciency talk about tech and engineering and whatnot.

Summary: As a newly recruited scientist in the royal technical institute of Wakanda, your first task involves a certain Winter Soldier fresh out of cryostasis and in need of a new arm. Intrigued by his mysterious figure since forever, you’re brimming with fascination over the subject. Little did you anticipate capturing his eye in return.

Note: This takes place somewhere between Captain America: The Winter Soldier and Avengers Infinity War. Kinda wanted to write something from the time Bucky spent in Wakanda. I enjoyed writing this one, hope you enjoy reading it😘 Likes, replies and reblogs are amazing. Luv you guys, you are the best, i am always so grateful and excited to receive all your feedback💕💕🦋

The first time the Winter Soldier entered the lab, he was flanked by the entire Dora Milaje and led by the king himself. Apart from the usual ceremony of greeting the king and his guest of honor, no one seemed jittered nor particularly preoccupied with the new project - or its primary subject. The engineers, scientists and technicians of the royal technical institute and Wakandan Design group were used to making much more extravagant and complicated designs than a prosthetic arm.

It was a regular Tuesday for everyone - except you, that was. Extraordinarily gifted from a young age, you had quickly advanced and surpassed your peers and even superiors in your studies at the university of the capitol. Subsequently, you were the youngest person in the lab - apart from princess Shuri herself.

And you were almost jumping out of your skin with excitement at having the Winter Soldier as your very first test subject. Or rather, you were on the team that was to build his next vibranium arm. You’d read all about him and watched all the news over the years, but you had started working in the lab after he’d been brought to Wakanda and put in cryostasis, so you’d never actually seen him in the flesh. Now he was out of cryo for rehabilitation and with that came the need for a new arm. Shuri had picked the team herself, and to your utter surprise, chosen you as a part of it.

Your task was fairly simple: organize and execute the fitting of the prosthetic prototypes with the subject himself, take notes and report to the team whatever adjustments the soldier would prefer. The others would do most of the engineering, creative modeling and building - the more prestigious work. You didn’t really care that your tasks were relatively simple and low level though - it was an amazing learning experience for a newbie like you. Plus, it meant you were the primary contact person for the soldier himself, which had you flushing hot for both professional and decidedly less professional reasons.

The soldier was an enigma; lethal chaos and extreme discipline spliced inside the body of what was once a regular American. His mythos was both intriguingly detailed and all at once a mystery - a sort of dangerous puzzle you couldn’t help but be drawn to like a moth to a flame. Everything he had lived and experienced and represented was so very very far from your own safe and mundane world. It wasn’t that growing up in Wakanda had been boring per se, but everything was just so… perfect, and despite yourself, you were drawn to the Winter Soldier and the extraordinary case of his unusual life. And from the moment you’d laid eyes on him, you knew you were out of your depth.

He was beautiful - in a rugged, unpolished sort of way; raw and hauntingly real, he only seemed to move when it served the explicit purpose of his visit. Otherwise, he stood still as a statue. He had an air of mystery to him, but despite his huge, menacing and burly form, he wasn’t scary. His eyes were soft, the babiest of blue, his stubble revealed tiny streaks of silver, and his hair, though washed and groomed, had a consistently shaggy look to it that made him seem…human. Just another regular white guy to everyone else in the lab - the most intriguing person in Wakanda to you.

Along with the king, the soldier had silently shaken the hand of everyone on the team, looking them in the eyes with a polite, though quite stoic expression that betrayed nothing of what was happening on the inside. You’d stared at him as he'd made his way down the line, scrutinized every inch of his face, trying to gauge the tiniest twitch of muscle, any indication or hint of emotion - to your utter astonishment, you could see nothing. Then he'd reached where you stood at the end of the line of team members, and your heart'd kicked into a sprint at the way he suddenly loomed before you in all his muscled, mystical and deadly glory. Holy shit, he was huge, surely a foot taller than you, with the most obscenely broad shoulders and thighs that bulged in a way that had your mouth going dry.

Get yourself together! Stop ogling the subject!, you had admonished yourself harshly.

By the time you got back in contact with your body and reached a hand out to him, your palms were sweaty and your face hot. And then, as he engulfed your hand in his pale, calloused one, hot like a multilayered sonic solar panel during july, you thought you saw a muscle near his eye twitch, catching your gaze the same way his eyes did a moment later when they glinted with something suspiciously alike curiosity, a flashing moment of undivided interest that had you flushing even hotter.

Oh yeah, you were in big, big trouble.

Three months later you no longer broke out in panicked sweating whenever Barnes came in for a fitting (most of the time). You’d had a total of four meetings so far, all of which had been professional, short and silent. Barnes hadn’t spoken more than a few words to you in all your time together in the lab, and none of them of much importance.

("Here?" he'd asked that first fitting when you’d asked him to take a seat on the surgical bench.

"No" he'd said when you asked if the new fastenings at his shoulder were uncomfortable.

"Yes", he'd said when you’d asked if the first prototype arm was lighter than what he was used to.

Other than that, the winter soldier mostly communicated in grunts, nods and shakes of his head.)

The hiss of the sliding door alerted you to his arrival as you were readying the newest prototype for the fitting, and just like always, the door was the only sound even hinting at his presence. He was impossibly silent for a guy his size.

“Sit down, please, I’ll be ready in a moment,” you threw over your shoulder, keeping your eyes on the clasps you would try on the shoulder today.

When he didn’t answer and you could hear no sound of the shifting padding on the surgical bench, you threw a look over your shoulder and froze.

Barnes stood by the bench, his one flesh arm raised high, fingers adjusting something on the…bun on the back of his head. His…bun of…gorgeous, thick locks of shaggy brown hair. You gulped, a tingling sensation of adrenaline starting to well up in your chest. He hadn’t worn his hair like that before, at least not around you, and man were you a sucker for a nice hair do on a man. Combined with this man it seemed to be suddenly and quite effectively lethal. His locks were collected and pulled away from his face, revealing high, chiseled cheekbones and a jawline that could cut diamonds and -

A screw fell out of your hand as your mind worked overtime to process the image before you, and then, so quickly you didn’t even see him move, the soldier was there, crouching at your feet, catching the screw before it could clink onto the floor.

It felt like an eternity went by as you stared at his bent form slowly straighten up up up to his full height, the screw looking more like a grain of sand in his big, calloused and rough hand, his body so close you swore you could feel the warmth radiating off him. The lulling scent of fresh earth and spices filled your nose, taking you to luscious lands far away.

You heard the hitch in your tiny, involuntary intake of air like a siren in a dead silent night, and your face blazed to a million fucking degrees, your heart galloping in your chest. Swallowing thickly, you looked up into his pale eyes - eyes that betrayed nothing in an equally neutral face.

Fuckfuckfuck, he’s so close. Fuck, his eyes are so blue, shit, he smells good, is that freckles on his cheek bones -

He held the screw out expectantly, and you mentally shook yourself for being so fucking slow. Stop ogling him! Take the screw! With fingers you were relieved to see didn’t tremble, you reached out and plucked it from his light grasp, furiously not hyperfocusing on where your skin grazed his.

“Um,” you started, and painfully cleared your throat before trying again, cheeks burning, “t-thanks. Please, sit.”

He stayed unmoving for half a second longer than was strictly necessary, and then he turned and moved to sit on the surgical bench.

Turning back to your table of tools, you took a few calming breaths, breathing as softly as you could in case the soldier could hear you (which he probably could quite well considering what you’d read about his enhanced body and senses.)

You turned back to find him watching you from a seated position on the bench, eyes following your movement as you walked up towards him, pulling your table behind you. You plastered on your best carefree smile and picked up the prototype vibranium arm, sleek black with silver accents, and like you always did, held it up so he could inspect it if he chose to. Like always, he didn’t seem remotely interested in the design. Only, he didn’t stare ahead out into the room like he usually did during these parts of the fittings. Instead his eyes remained on you, his form so fucking unmoving he could be a statue. You swallowed thickly, absurdly nervous. His scent still lingered in your mind.

He’d removed his shirt, revealing the new shoulder prosthesis in the same black as the arm, fitted to mold over his scarred tissue and make a clean transition from steel to skin. Your eyes caught on the tiny sliver of golden, muscled skin peeking out from where his white t-shirt had been cut above the shoulder, and you quickly averted your gaze even as your mind started conjuring images of wide expanses of soft, golden skin under the tips of your fingers as you explored under rays of soft, morning sunlight.

Why did he have to look so god damned good, with his stupid hair up in a stupid bun and stupid t-shirt that dared show even a square centimeter of his stupid skin, you thought perturbed as you started fitting the arm to the shoulder, hands working on autopilot while your mind frayed at the edges.

All through the fitting, you felt his eyes linger on you, not staring per se, just…observing. Three times you peeked up from your work to catch his eyes on yours, and three times you hastily averted your gaze back, your cheeks heating anew, your heart picking up speed. He’d never done that before. He’d always just stared at the floor or the wall during his fittings, eyes vacant, seemingly far far away. He’d never been fully present, never watched you, very rarely met your eyes. It was what had kept your own visceral reactions to such a minimum you could easily manage them. But now, under his weighty gaze, your body started tingling all over, sweat gathering on your brow, your breathing going just slightly too fast. You didn’t know if it was excitement or some instinctive fight or flight-reflex kicking into gear. Why was he looking at you like that?

“There,” you said just a little too hastily when at last the final screw was in place. You retreated to the other side of the room under the guise of organizing your tools back into their rightful place on the wall. “Please test it out, feel how it fits, tell me how it feels,” you said with your back to him, reciting the instructions you always gave him during this part of the fitting. Usually, you observed him closely as he walked around the room, lifting the arm, flexing the fingers and grabbing at random objects to test grip and reactivity. Now it was all you could do to not flee the room all together due to how embarrassingly flustered you were. The fittings in themselves weren’t really necessary from an engineering perspective - the royal technical institute all but guaranteed the highest mark of quality and a near zero percent chance of faults. The fittings were more beneficial from a psychological point of view - to give the subject a smooth transitional introduction to their new limb.

You heard him shuffling about for some time while you randomly moved tools and screws around your table while trying to collect and promptly ban all the inappropriate thoughts running wild in your head. It was so unprofessional to be affected like this! Sure, he was handsome (wildly so) but you couldn’t call yourself a proper scientist if you acted like this! It was disgraceful! Even as you scolded yourself for being this way around the poor, innocent hunk - SUBJECT - your mind flooded with the thoughts you tried so hard to keep at bay. What did his hair feel like sliding through your fingers? Did he always gaze so intently? What would those eyes look like in dark rooms surrounded by soft sheets? What would that new metal hand look like wrapped around your -

The sound of a throat clearing had you yelping - for fuck’s sake, girl - and whipping around to find him right behind you, looking down at you with that expression that betrayed nothing.

You stared up at him for a moment, heart thumping in your chest, stunned to silence by his clear initiation of contact, and then abruptly found your sense.

“Does it feel right? Is anything uncomfortable or -”

Your words died out as he extended the vibranium hand between you. He let it hover there, hand straight, expectant. You stared for a moment, and then praised yourself for daring to reach your own hand out to clasp his, a bit unused to the flip to using your left hand to shake his, hoping to God this was what he was getting at and that you didn’t just make a fool of yourself.

Your interpretation was correct, and the smooth, slightly cold metal closed around you, dwarfing your hand. The soldier squeezed your fingers and then shook your hand a bit stiffly a couple of times before stilling. You gulped, acutely aware of your heartbeat running a gallop in your chest, the silence around you so severe you could hear your own breathing like a wind tunnel. The feel of the vibranium, so alive in this form and shape, squeezing your fingers in a firm, unyielding grip had new, strange sensations slowly trickling south, and you fought the instinct to clench your thighs as unwelcome heat pooled in your lower stomach. Mortified by your own, inappropriate and decidedly unprofessional reaction, you hoped to all the dead kings and Bast herself that the soldier didn’t notice. Disturbingly, there came no sound from the soldier, not even from his breathing.

After a moment of nothing happening, the both of you just standing there, clasping hands, you dared a peek up at his face. He was watching you again, but instead of pale, dead eyes, the blue of his irises simmered with something…something hot and wicked and -

You abruptly pulled your hand out of his grasp, and gave him a far too fake gleeful smile. “Good grip,” you jipped, voice coming out far too strained and shrill to be casual. Barnes looked at you with those captivating eyes for a moment longer before looking down at his vibranium hand, flexing the fingers a little.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

It took you a moment to register the words, and then elation swept through you. You smiled and clapped your hands together and spun to go note his comment down. “How wonderful, I’m so glad,” you said, not able to keep the excitement out of your voice. A happy subject meant you’d fulfilled your task! The project could move onto its final stages of rendering and documentation. Happy progress! You scribbled down some fast notes on the screws and fastenings, how he’d tested grip by shaking your hands and his own feedback, putting his exact words down as a quote.

“The team will be so happy to learn you’re satisfied, they talked so much about the latest updates on the interface between sensory input and mechanical automobility - they wouldn’t shut up about it for days, I swear to Bast,” you said, the words falling out of your mouth in your excitement, and then you turned back towards him and again fell silent.

He was staring at you, and for the first time, you could actually detect emotions on his face. He looked…dumbfounded, or something akin to that, watching you with avid eyes, mouth slightly open and brows for once out of their trademark downturned frown. You were stunned yourself for a moment seeing him so out of character, and then you promptly lowered your gaze.

Oh great, first you’re fumbling and awkward and then you start rambling like a lunatic. What is wrong with you?, you asked yourself silently. You cleared your throat and motioned for him to sit back on the bench. He obliged, and you found yourself slightly disappointed to see him schooling away his emotion behind the stoic mask.

“So, I’ll have to take the arm off so it can be finalized, and then you’ll just have to have it fastened a final time, and then you’ll have your arm, Mr. Barnes,” you said as you got to work unscrewing and removing the prosthetic limb. He nodded, eyes glued to you like before. He didn’t seem happy, or if he was, he didn’t show it. You hoped he’d feel elated like you did, but considered how the whole metal arm thing might still be a little complicated for him. You wondered if he was going to a therapist, or a support group or anything. You didn’t dare ask, though. “I imagine the finalizing process won’t take much more than two weeks. I’ll send you a suggestion for the next appointment once it’s clear, and you can confirm using your compad like before. Sound good?” you asked, thankful you could keep a clear head through this part at least.

“Yes,” he said, still watching your eyes as you removed the arm and returned it to the table. You nodded to him, and managed to stay upright until the door hissed shut behind him as he left. Then you curled into a mortified little ball and hid your flaming face in your hands.

Fucking. Great.

Your heart had been hammering harder for every mile that passed as your cruiser made its way into the heart of the Wakandan landscape. The prosthetic arm had been finalized within a couple of days and your superiors thought the best course of action was sending you out to fasten it instead of demanding Barnes make his way into the capitol on such short notice. Which meant you were on your way to his home, to be completely alone with him…in his home.

Part of you was insatiably curious to see how he lived, to peer into such a private, revealing place. Everyone knew seeing how a person lived was like seeing a reflection of their soul. Your apartment for instance, was a hot fucking mess, but one you could navigate perfectly. You hadn’t allowed yourself to picture Barnes’s home, though, or make any assumptions. How he lived was of no scientific interest, and therefore no interest to you! Or so you told yourself, at least…

It’s fine. Everything is fine, you chanted in your head as the cruiser arrived at its destination, the small hut Barnes had been gifted as his indefinite residence. It was a beautiful place to keep a residence, right by the river, the surrounding trees providing plenty of shade from the hot sun and a gorgeous view over the plains. It only made you more curious about Barnes, and subsequently, more furious with yourself.

Everything is fine.

As you shut the motor down and climbed out of the vehicle, his large, burly figure emerged from the hut, and a spike of energy went off inside you as you locked eyes with Barnes. He was as stoic as ever, but he walked up to meet you right away and surprised you when he reached to grab the case with the arm in it to carry it for you.

“Hi,” you said, and quickly added, “um, thanks for being available at such a short notice.”

You’d felt kinda foolish for giving such a roomy deadline prognosis at his last fitting only for it to take a few days, and were sweating with the hope it hadn’t inconvenienced him in any way. There was a whole delicate, psychological process involved in getting a new limb - a process one shouldn’t meddle too much in - especially when there was significant trauma involved in losing the original limb. Fuck, you were so nervous.

He looked a bit puzzled for a moment, brows drawn down in consideration.

“No. Thank you for coming all this way,” he said a bit haltingly, and to your astonishment, he sounded almost as unsure of himself as you felt. Uncomfortable warmth spread in your chest. That must have been the longest sentence he’d ever spoken to you. His voice was low and gruff, a smooth rumble that seemed to vibrate through the ground, across to you and straight into your chest. Fuuck, how were you supposed to survive that voice, and with him being uncharacteristically timid and polite?

Suddenly you felt like laughing. Here you were, both of you so awkward and unsure, and what for? This was a joyous occasion, for Bast's sake, and you were being silly! Forcing your nerves down, you leveled him with a smile.

“Not at all. Let’s get that arm on, shall we?” you said, letting your actual excitement for the happening fill you instead. You were after all, genuinely excited to finally give Barnes his new prosthetic limb, and see him back to full mobility.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes fluttering around your face, and then abruptly stepped aside and gestured for you to proceed him into the hut. You obliged, holding your spirits high as you dared venture past the curtain and inside the hut.

Barnes’s home was sparsely furnished but…surprisingly cozy. Brightly coloured pillows, blankets and tapestries lay everywhere, a window to the right letting in the bright, midday sun, casting a glowing light on everything. You recognised the patterns and color scheme from your own parents and grandparents houses, it was a traditional home in all senses of the words. You’d think Barnes would stick out like a sore thumb here, but really, he seemed to fit in well. There was a low table to the left with stacks of books and a mug on it, surrounded by more pillows and blankets. Your eyes caught on and swiftly ignored the cot at the back of the hut, made perfectly with a mountain of pillows.

That’s where he sleeps. That’s where he rests. That’s where he’s most vulnerable. That’s where you would lay if he - NO!

Barnes squeezed around you where you stood just inside the entrance studying the space, and you quite viscerally realized how small the hut was for the two of you, how small it was for him alone really. This was gonna be way more tight and intimate than the lab, you thought with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Barnes put the case down by the low table and proceeded to start clearing the table of books and pens and the mug. He looked down into the mug and then over at you.

“Coffee?” he asked, and taken aback by the unexpected question, you shook your head quickly before immediately regretting it. It would’ve been more polite to accept, and you did feel a bit strung out by your morning so far.

Barnes nodded in response, and then seemed at a loss, turning the mug in his hand. Was he…fidgeting?

“Where do you -?” he started, and you cut him off.

“Right there is fine. We can sit on the floor, no problem,” you said reassuringly, giving him another smile, suddenly filled with sweetness for this big hulk of a man and his nervous fidgeting. He nodded and proceeded to plump down where you assumed he normally sat. You quelled a smile at how normalcy seemed to bleed through even this exceedingly awkward situation, and was kind of enamored by the way Barnes seemed to relax once he was seated in his usual spot. It gave you the impression that this space was a comfort to him, which you were glad to see.

You neared and sat down on your knees at his side, opening the case and swiftly taking out everything you needed as he took off his shirt to reveal the same t-shirt he used to wear underneath, sleeveless on the left side. Without further ado, you started the process of permanently fastening the arm. You slipped into a calm concentration as you worked, the familiarity and comfort of your skills calming you, a comfortable silence descending upon you both, only interrupted by the sounds of your electric screwdriver. The whole thing took no longer than ten minutes, and then you sat back and looked upon Barnes in silence as he took in his new arm, knowing it was finally, and wholly, his.

He stared down at it for a long while, and then the hut was filled with sounds of gentle, almost silent whirring as he started flexing mechanical muscles, then fingers, then the whole arm, lifting it to examine and compare to his other arm, running them both through his loose hair and picking up different items on his table and tossing them lightly from hand to hand. He seemed completely engrossed, and for long minutes it seemed almost like he’d forgotten you were even there as he explored his new arm.

It was awe-inspiring to see, to be allowed to observe such a vulnerable moment, to witness him seemingly letting himself really connect to this new possibility of having two arms and two hands again, in a way he hadn’t even seemed to entertain while in the fittings. It touched something deep inside you, witnessing with honor what you hoped might be a moment of healing, and tears pricked the back of your eyes. It felt so incredibly moving to be part of a team that could give something like this to a person who’d been through so much hardship, and the feeling filled you, making you feel all warm. This was why you’d gotten into this field, this was why you wanted to be a scientist. To be able to help people recover precious things lost.

Your heart swelled with emotion, and then Barnes looked at you, his own astonished joy blasted clear across his face, completely unencumbered, letting you see it without any pretense or facades. Your breath caught in your throat at the sheer volume of his joy, and how intimate him sharing it so openly with you was. You were stunned.

And then you kissed him.

One moment you were looking at his broad smile full of slightly crooked, white teeth, and then you’d leaned across your own knees and half across his and unceremoniously pressed your lips to his. It was closed-mouthed and a bit off-center, your bottom lip caught awkwardly on his top one. But sparks crackled through your body all the same as you felt how soft his lips were, how warm his skin was, the slightly surprised gust of warm, gentle air from his nostrils.

And then your senses kicked in, mortification hot on their heels, and you broke the kiss abruptly, all but ready to flee the hut. You didn’t get the chance to move away though, before cool metal fingers slid up the sensitive skin of your throat and back to cup your neck, gently, but firmly pulling you right back into the kiss.

A fire caught in your loins, sizzling hot sparks shooting up your body and you drew in a shaky breath through your nose only for the air to be caught in your throat, making a small, needy, desperately embarrassing sound. The metal fingers on your neck tightened at the sound.

You felt completely blown off your center. Nothing had felt this good before, nothing in your whole, perfect life full of joys and pleasures and fulfillment had felt so sensationally good as James Buchanan Barnes's lips on yours while his brand new prosthetic hand cradled your neck.

The surge of desire that welled from that feeling propelled you to buck forward and crawl into his laps, straddling him with even more clumsy frenzy as you kissed him again. He answered in kind, his flesh hand landing tentatively on your hip before moving up your back to pull you tighter against him once he seemingly caught on to the fact that you were there in his lap of your own fruition.

You kissed again and again, hungry, exploring, closed-mouthed but growing more desperate, more daring. You opened your mouth to catch your breath and was met by the shy swipe of his tongue just inside your mouth, and your whole body shuddered at the sensation before you wrapped your arms around his neck and swiped your own tongue to meet his.

A growl came out of nowhere and exploded in Barnes’s chest as you tongue-kissed him with everything you had, and then the world was spinning, and your back hit the brightly earth-coloured rug. Barnes followed you closely, and laid down on top of you, pinning you down with his huge, burly body, claiming your mouth in an honest-to-Bast breath-taking kiss.

It was explosively good, this gorgeous, muscled beast of a man pinning you to the ground, broad shoulders shielding you from everything above, leaning on his elbows while his hands cradled your face, holding you perfectly still as his mouth descended upon yours again and again, growing hungrier with every kiss. Your mind whirled with images of his metal arm wrapping around your throat, pinning you down, tearing your clothes to shreds and holding you put exactly where he wanted while the soldier ravished you, and it became even harder to pull air into your flaming lungs. You heard yourself whimpering into the kisses, your own desperation growing like a galloping crescendo inside you. You were suddenly, unexpectedly, and totally irrationally ready for him to tear your clothes off and take you right there on the floor of his hut, heat flaming in your lower stomach, a molten ache starting to let itself be known between your legs, everything else in the world be damned and forgotten if you could just feel him ins -

A small beeping sound cut through the fog of desire overtaking you, and it took you a moment for your melting brain to recognise it as your pager. You wrenched out of the kiss and put your hands on Barnes’s broad, warm chest, feeling his strong heartbeat jackhammer beneath the layers of clothes and flesh. His lips followed you for a split second, his eyes opening to slits in order to find you again. Then, as he realized you’d intentionally ended the kiss, he immediately let you push him half-way off you to fish the pager out of your pocket. It was your boss, they needed you back by lunch.

Fuck

Fuck, what the fuck were you doing? It dawned on you the incredibly inappropriate situation you were in, had put yourself and Barnes in. This was reckless and rash and completely not who you were or had ever been. With anyone! No, no, no, this was bad, you were so fucking stupid. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes as you pushed him gently all the way off you to sit back on his haunches and swiftly extracted yourself from under him and got to your feet.

You were mortified, absolutely mortified, shame and embarrassment and guilt washing over you in tidal waves, slamming into your chest.

“I’m so sorry, that was so…um…I have to go, but er, enjoy your hand - ARM and hand,” you sputtered out as you began fleeing the hut all together. Then you remembered what you were supposed to say upon leaving, and turned while halfway out the door, “If you have any trouble or complications, don’t hesitate to contact the institute. On behalf of the technical institute and design group, we hope you will be pleased with the product. Um, bye!”

Barnes remained in the same seated position on the floor while you made your stumbling exit, and you missed the look of longing in his eyes as you left.

A week passed while you marinated in your own embarrassment and guilt, trying and failing to get the whole incident in the hut out of your mind. Partly because it was the most unprofessional and out-of-control thing you’d ever done, and partly because you just couldn’t get the memory of Barnes’s lips out of your head. The warmth emanating from him like a furnace, the way his hands gripped you gently, but possessively, the thrill that had gone through you when he flipped you and pinned you to the floor like you were nothing more than a rag doll. Had he been as turned on as you? Had he enjoyed himself? Surely he’d enjoyed it a little bit with the way he’d reciprocated, but had he really wanted it?

You shook yourself out of your daydream for probably the dozenth time that day, not a single word written on the personal essay you were to turn in with your other documentation in a couple of days. Fuuuck, this was so bad, you had to be able to focus and put this from your mind! If you were lucky and if everything went as it should with the prosthetic, Barnes would have no reason to contact the institute and seek you out ever again, and you would never have to see him again after your blunder.

The project would be over soon, you would move on to new ones and the one tether you had to Barnes would be severed. It was best for everyone if you just forgot the whole thing.

Except, in your panicked flight from his home, you’d completely forgotten the case that had contained the prosthetic arm, along with some screws and your most beloved screwdriver. You hadn’t even noticed it was left behind until you were halfway back to the lab, and had been completely at a loss on what to do. You couldn’t go back after the way you’d left, but you couldn’t just leave it either. The equipment wasn’t of that much value and the lab had plenty more, so that wasn’t the greatest issue. But you loved that screwdriver, and felt it as an obligation to retrieve it. Plus, it wasn’t fair to just leave it there, in Barnes’s home, what use did he have of it? Still, you couldn’t bear the thought of going back after the way you’d left….

Your head thumped down onto the workbench at the back of your lab. You were spiraling down the rabbit hole of warring thoughts for the upteenth time that day and was about to hurl something at the wall when the clearing of a throat came out of nowhere.

Whipping your head up, you practically leapt from your chair when you saw Barnes standing in the middle of your lab, clad in light pants and a loose-fitting half-sleeved shirt, completely unexpected, looking exceedingly unsure of himself (...and obscenely gorgeous)

Your immediate thought went to his arm, but as far as you could see, it was still intact and working perfectly from the way he clenched and unclenched the vibranium hand at his side. Then your eyes slipped to his other hand, and saw the case he held in it.

“I, um, hello, I thought you might like this back,” he said, looking down and holding out the hand with the case. You immediately walked up to him and took it.

“Thank you! So much, you didn’t have to come all this way just for that,” you rushed to say, feeling sheepish and grateful at the same time.

“Oh no, I, uh…I…I have some errands in the… uh, the city and whatnot,” he said, and you almost smiled a little at the way he suddenly fumbled for words. Was this even the same guy that had pinned you to the floor and ravished your mouth a week ago? The same guy that had walked into the lab that first day, all menacing silence and calculated movement.

“Oh, okay, well, this was really nice of you, thank you again. Um, what did you say to the guards to get in here?” you asked, suddenly remembering the levels of clearing he had to go through to get here. Did he tell the truth? Would your superiors know you forgot the case? That you’d made a fool of yourself and made the whole institute look chaotic and unprofessional?

“I told them I had some more questions about the arm, and that I wanted to speak with you since you’re so knowledgeable and good at your job,” Barnes said, waving his metal hand in the air a little as if to show you it was indeed made of vibranium.

He’d protected you? Kept your secret? A warm sense of giddyness spread through you, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling to broadly.

“God, you didn’t have to tell them all that,” you said, feeling warmth bloom on your cheeks from his compliments.

“I meant it, though,” he said seriously, and then he took a step towards you, “And I wanted to, needed to apologize…for what happened at my house…last week.”

Your heart surged in your chest and you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. Apologize? What could he have to apologize for? You were the one who’d acted out of line. Did he regret what’d happened? What if you’d overstepped his boundaries and added more to his trauma?

“No, no, please, I’m the one who should apologize here. It was completely unprofessional to do that when I was working on a project with you, and so inappropriate to force myself upon you like that, all in this emotional moment and without knowing if you’d enjoy it or -”

“I enjoyed it,” he interrupted, voice clear and strong.

You looked up to find him another step closer. So big, and strong, and handsome, your insatiable desire whispered to you as he gazed down into your eyes, only inches between you. You wanted to kiss him again suddenly, your lips tingled with it.

“You did?” you asked, only half paying attention as you lost yourself in his heavenly baby blue eyes, framed by thick lashes paled by the sun. Your eyes flicked down to his full lips, and when they went back to his eyes, they glinted with a spark of that same ferociousness that’d awakened in him on that floor in his hut. A glint that had your lower stomach going all molten.

He nodded, breathing a little laugh that surprised you. Your heart started soaring in your chest despite your best efforts to keep from getting ahead of yourself.

“Yeah,” he breathed, swallowing and licking his lips, “a lot. I, uh, I was really sorry to see you leave so abruptly too - before I could speak with you,” he said.

Arousal welled up in your body, and you felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. He’d enjoyed it…

“Me too,” you whispered, not trusting your voice not to crack.

He took a final, tiny step closer, too close for any kind of professionalism or even decency, really, so close you could almost sense the atoms sparking to life in the tiny space between your bodies. Just like that, you were back in his hut, the moment swelling to level with the heavy, sizzling churn of when he'd flipped you to the carpet and caged you in underneath him. He had such a presence, his body thrumming with life and power and fuck, you wanted it on top of you. Again.

“I’m relieved to hear that. And,” he said, slowly reaching his flesh hand to tentatively cup your neck, hot and possessive in one, tender gesture, his calloused thumb coming up to stroke over your jaw, the intimate touch sending fireworks through your nervous system, ”though I don’t want to disrespect your work ethic, I’d like to point out that we’re not working on the same project anymore, so if you’d like to -”

The case hit the floor with a loud bang the moment you wrapped your arms around Barnes’s neck and threw yourself into his arms, your lips meeting in a sizzling kiss. Barnes caught you around the waist and hauled you up into his arms, your feet dangling off the ground as he crushed you to his chest, returning the kiss tenfold.

His tongue was immediately in your mouth this time, licking hot and wet and dominatingly over your own, and you whimpered at the sheer intensity, the way it blazed to a fire in your loins.

You clung to him like your life depended on it, and moaned into his mouth as you felt him turn and lower you to the bench in the lab, not letting much space get in between you before he draped himself over you and continued putting his mouth to yours. Your hands found their agency and started moving, mapping out his shoulders, feeling the muscle ripple under your fingertips as you caressed down his chest and around his sides to stroke his long, chiseled back.

His loose cotton shirt rode up as he moved to step further in between your opening legs, pressing himself closer, and your hands were unable to resist the pull as your fingers met the hot flesh of his lower back, stroking over silky smooth skin up again under his shirt.

His whole body shuddered against you, a small gasp emanating from him as he broke the kiss, and your excitement went through the roof. You opened your eyes and stared at his expression going lax, eyes closing and mouth hanging slightly open as you continued your caress up his back. You hooked your hands over his shoulder and pulled him down to you again, nibbling on his lip before kissing his open mouth, your fingertips dancing in swirling patterns down his back.

His body shuddered again.

“Oh my god,” he whispered a little breathlessly against your mouth, mostly to himself it seemed, and your discovery made you almost feverish with desire.

He was sensitive, and probably more than a little touch-starved.

You brought your hands forward and found the top button on his shirt, staring to undo it as you breathed into each other's mouths. You’d gotten to the third one when Barnes gave a (admittedly adorable) little huff of impatience and pulled free to wrench his shirt over his head, revealing a sculpted torso right out of your wettest dream. You had to take a moment just to stare at him, hard abs, flat stomach, pecs that stretched into rounded, muscled, obscenely broad shoulders. Tight, sculpted muscles that shone in the dimmed, bluish fluorescents of the ceiling lights, one muscled arm with prominent veins running down to a calloused hand, one arm reflecting the lights in shiny, sculpted, black vibranium.

His chest rose and fell with his labored breath, his abs flexing, the muscles of his torso and arms tensing and shifting as he stood before you and it was just so different from the statuesque, almost frugal way he’d moved before, when he only exerted energy at the utmost importance. This man was alive in a completely different way. And he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

You’d barely raked your eyes up to his and caught the feral glint in his eyes before he was on you again, ripping your lab coat open and sliding his hands up and down your sides. His touch sent shivers of warmth through you and you moaned into his mouth as he kissed you. That only seemed to spur him on. When his hands slid under the cotton sweater you wore, exploring the folds and dips of your abdomen, you shuddered. He was touching you like he hadn’t touched anyone before, all curious and explorative with just the hint of inexperienced clumsiness, fingers curious for such a mundane thing as the fold of skin over your ribcage as you lay there crouched beneath him.

Bast, you needed more, his touch sending you into a frenzy. You wanted him, all of him.

You started awkwardly extracting your arms from your lab coat, and when Barnes caught on, he was more than willing to help you shed it before his fingers went to the hem of your sweater. He paused then, and looked into your eyes for permission. You nodded, a bit eagerly perhaps, but whatever.

He slowly slid the fabric of your sweater up your torso, and in a move more gentle than you’d anticipated from the way he removed his own clothes, he bent down and tentatively kissed your stomach - right on your tummy, soft kisses following the fabric up. It stole your breath away as you watched the movement avidly.

He pushed the fabric all the way up over your bra, and reached with a curious hand to tug the cup down, revealing a hardened nipple. You were nearly shaking with want at this point, and shuddered embarrassingly hard when he took the nipple in his mouth and swiped his hot, wet tongue on it, nibbling gently and curiously with his teeth until you shuddered again.

You let your hands wander and found his hair, finally, finally getting to feel the soft, straight locks of hair sift through them, basking in the opportunity after having snuck peaks at it for months. It was even silkier than you’d imagined, despite its shaggy appearance. You combed your hands through his hair as he moved to suck on your other nipple, pulling the cup of your bra down to free your breast to the open air of the room.

Scraping your nails over his scalp, you felt the way his form trembled atop you, and he almost purred, a deep, rumbling groan vibrating through you and into the very bench beneath you. You scraped over his scalp again and bit your lip as it elicited another rumble.

He let your nipple go, puffy and a shade darker than usual from his bullying, and you watched the string of saliva connect it to his lips with a blush burgeoning on your face. Oh, this might get filthy, you thought to yourself, almost embarrassed by how much you liked it when he closed the distance between you and licked into your mouth again, seemingly not caring about his spit getting everywhere, the kiss messy and wet.

There was a tell-tale hard bulge pressing against the heated spot between your legs, and you rolled your hips down on it. Barnes gasped out of the kiss, looking almost shocked as he quickly looked down between your bodies to where he was pressed against you, and you wondered if he might’ve forgotten where all of these horny urges came from. You rolled your hips into him again, experimentally, and watched as realization hit him, as his eyelids drooped and a tiny groan escaped him. Then he rolled his hips to meet yours and it was your time to groan.

“Just like that,” you whispered encouragingly, and met his gaze as he returned his eyes to yours, watching you intently as he rolled his hips again and again, grinding himself between your legs.

He felt…big, to say the least, and he was grinding against your clothed clit in a way that you knew had you gushing into your panties. You could already feel the fabric getting soggy, sliding along your flesh as Barnes widened his step and grinded against you with more grounded precision.

Fuck, it felt so good it was getting hard to think, and when his - oh god - vibranium hand slid down your side to grab your hip, effortlessly pinning you down into the bench so he could grind even harder against your core, the breath in your lungs fucking punched out of you. You knew just how much strength was packed into that metal arm. Knew there was a fine line between using too much strength and keeping you pinned firmly enough so you couldn’t move your hips an inch. Barnes traversed that line perfectly.

Your pussy was on fire, the grinds of Bucky’s big, hard bulge against your clit too much while - simultaneously - the layers of clothes between you made it somehow not enough. It had been so long since you’d just frotted, clothed, like this, and you now wondered how you could’ve forgotten how fucking good it felt - or if it’d ever felt this good at all before. You seriously doubted it, for you couldn’t really believe it, but the rhythm and weight of Bucky's hips while his mouth lowered to mouth at your neck was somehow actually propelling you towards the edge.

You tried to move your hips to grind back, to make him go faster, harder, but found yourself utterly - and deliciously - fully at his mercy as he nuzzled the crook of your neck and laved his tongue on your skin, tasting it in that fascinating curiosity of his.

Fuck, it was right there, you could feel it, he was gonna make you come, you just needed a little more.

Through the haze of your impending, building release, you could hear yourself start to whimper. Needy and a little embarrassing, the sounds escaping you despite you biting your lip and clutching at Barnes’s shoulders, barely holding on as he hurled you towards that precipice.

His face suddenly appeared from the crook of your neck, and it took you a second to realize he had a look of confused concern on his face as he looked down on you.

To your utter distress, his hips slowed their steady, hard thrust against yours, and he gave you a once over you had a hard time understanding. Then it hit you that he must be concerned he’d done something wrong; that he’d mistaken your sounds of need for ones of pain or that you didn’t want it or something utterly ridiculous like that. Sweet, respectful, slightly confused and apparently wildly inexperienced man, you thought with an almost woeful endearment. You could feel yourself slipping further under the power of his spell as his eyes returned to your face, flitting about to try and decipher your expression.

That elusive orgasm you were dancing up to started to slip away as his hips grinded to a halt, and you reached out to cradle his face in near panic.

“No, please, please, please don’t stop. It’s so good, please,” you practically whined, trying to move your own hips to get more of that sweet, intoxicating friction. You barely managed a little squiggle under the pinning strength of his hand on your hip and his body on top of yours.

A great gust of breath whooshed out of him, and he started up his rhythm again almost immediately, meeting your tiny writhing with thrusts of his own like he just couldn’t help it, and you threw your head back, biting your lip and nodding frantically as the pleasure built inside you again, picking up just behind where you’d left off.

His hand, the one of flesh, slid up your torso to caress the exposed column of your neck, almost curiously, exploring, holding it in an almost tender grip as you moaned in delirium. His thrust grew harder, your moans louder and his hand gripped harder like he enjoyed the feeling of your moans being forced from you by his moving hips.

You could tell the moment he started climbing his own precipice, how his movement grew more focused, more intent, leaving all exploration behind to chase a goal with an almost singular, feral possession. His breaths turned to gasps, which turned to grunts and then low growls. His movement turned frantic, almost feral in their one mindedness. He was losing himself to the pleasure and you whined, mind turning to slush under the onslaught of his ferocity. You were going dumb on his cock and he hadn’t even taken it out of his pants. Didn’t matter, you were done for.

The wild, animalistic abandon with which he chased his own high was so blastingly hot it sent you tumbling over the edge almost entirely on its own. You gasped, your body tensing and then exploding under his as his grinding thrusts sent wave upon wave of searing, orgasmic bliss crashing into you, riding you so hard you nearly passed out.

Your sight went blurry, blood roaring in your ears, but you heard the moment his breath caught in his throat, such a vulnerable sound, and then the bulge pressed to the sticky, clothed cunt between your legs started throbbing in an uneven, staccato rhythm, which you could feel against you even through the layers of clothing separating you. His grip turned to bruising steel and you gasped anew as the intensity of the pain mixed with your abating orgasm, making a shocking, intoxicating cocktail of sensation blast through you.

He threw his head back, the thick column of his neck stretching taut, and growled like he was in pain, and it sent vibration straight through you down to the table beneath you. Fuck, he was like nothing you’d ever experienced - pure, raw power, lust, shocking honesty and a sense of almost ardent fascination - mixed together in this anomaly and mystery of a man.

It felt like several minutes passed as you tried to catch your breath and gather your mind from where it’d melted out of your ears to puddle on the bench around you. Bucky’s face had made its way into the crook of your neck, where he seemed just as slow and sluggish to come back down to earth. He was like a furnace on top of you, even hotter from his exertion, forehead damp and hot where it pressed to the sensitive skin of your neck.

His weight on you was a comforting one though, making you feel safe and protected, covered and nestled into a cocoon of muscles and warmth and soft, puffing breaths. Taking a cheeky chance, you carded a hand through his hair, the brown strands soft, glinting in the fluorescents above as they shifted through your fingers. Bucky’s whole form shivered as you raked your fingernails along his scalp, and the bulge nestled tight between your thighs and his body throbbed once as he grunted softly, neck twisting to push his head into your hand, almost like a cat rubbing against your palm to get more scritches.

A chuckle left your mouth as you kept carding your hand through Bucky’s hair. He looked up at you then, and the moment caught up with you. A blush had the audacity of spreading on your cheeks even after everything you’d just done. He looked into your eyes, silent but for your deep, still slightly labored breaths. You couldn’t help smiling.

He looked a little dazzled for a moment, then a slow, beautiful smile spread on his own lips to answer yours.

"Um, it's been a long time, and I d-don't remember much, but I'm pretty sure this is not how you court a lady properly," he said a bit self-deprecatingly. You chuckled again, and he joined, his form vibrating with myrth. He made no move to get off you though. You wrapped your arms around his neck.

"I don't know, this doesn't feel too bad," you said, and you could practically feel the relief in Bucky as he let you keep him laying draped across you.

"Still. I'd like to take you out sometime. It was the real reason I came here, after all," he said.

You felt your smile turn wry.

"I thought you said you had errands...and whatnots," you said.

His gaze wavered for only a moment as he realized he'd revealed his own bluff. Then his smile grew sheepish, and so warm it sizzled.

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x wakandan!reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader

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alwaysaglader · 3 months ago

Text

A HEART WIRED FOR WAR (Ch. 4)

(BUCKY BARNES X READER)

Chapter 4 - His Mind & Mine

The soft crunch of gravel under their boots was the only sound as Bucky and Y/N followed the path leading away from the main compound.

No guards. No scientists. Just trees and open sky.

Two huts - one for each - stood nestled near the edge of a vast lake, where lotuses bloomed in soft pinks and whites, their petals swaying gently on the surface. The water was still, glass-like, reflecting the sky and the edges of the forest that hugged the shoreline.

"They really meant it when they said peace and quiet," Bucky muttered, half to himself, half in awe.

She looked up at him with a small smile.

For once, he didn't feel like he had to look away.

Later, as the sun dipped low, casting streaks of gold across the lake, Bucky lingered in the doorway of his for a while, staring out toward the water. Something in him refused to settle.

When he finally stepped outside, he saw her—Y/N—kneeling by the lake, boots off, toes in the water. She reached for a lotus, holding it gently, fingertips brushing the petals like it might fall apart if touched too hard.

Bucky stood frozen. He had never seen anyone touch anything with such care. Not him. Not his past. Nothing in his world had ever deserved that kind of gentleness.

She noticed him and looked up, eyes soft. "Evening, Sergeant"

He opened his mouth, paused, then said quietly, "Bucky."

She smiled faintly, repeating it with intention. "Bucky." Then, without breaking his gaze, she extended the lotus toward him.

He hesitated before reaching out. His hand—rough, scarred, trembling—closed around it carefully. The cool water droplets still clinging to the petals kissed his skin, and for a moment, he stilled. But then—something shifted.

The chill reminded him of blood. Of damp concrete and red staining steel. Of screams and silence that followed. His hand tensed. Shook.

And before he could stop himself, he crushed it.

The petals crumpled in his fist with a wet sound, delicate beauty turned to pulp. His breath caught as he stared at what he'd done. His hand opened slowly, trembling, and the ruined flower sat in his palm like a wound. A few silent tears slipped down his cheek before he even realised they were falling.

He turned his face away from her. Guilt and grief tangled in his chest, too much to hold in.

"It's okay to cry," Y/N said softly. "I did too."

He looked at her then. Her voice—kind and gentle—cut through the storm in his head.

She looked like she wanted to brush his tears away, but her hands stayed at her sides. She didn't want to push.

"I'm too broken," he said through clenched teeth. "It's not just pain—it's damage. And it doesn't go away".

She nodded, drawing in a quiet breath before reaching out—slowly, so he could see her hand coming. "I know," she said softly. "But when something's broken, I don't throw it away. I stay. And I fix it."

Her fingers brushed lightly over his, gathering the crushed petals from his open palm. They stuck to his skin, damp and torn, but she was gentle. Patient. Like she wasn't afraid of the mess.

Bucky didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched her.

Her touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, then she let the pieces fall into the water beside them. "You didn't mean to hurt it," she said softly.

He swallowed hard. "Doesn't change that I did."

"No," she said. "But it means you care that you did."

His chest tightened, something caught between grief and relief.

Then Y/N spoke again, softer this time. "You keep thinking you need to redeem yourself, like you have to earn your right to heal. Maybe it’s not about that.”

He looked at her, brows drawn, guarded.

She met his gaze. "Maybe it's about reclaiming who you were before they got to you."

Something in him faltered. The words didn't just land—they settled. Like she had named something he hadn't known he was reaching for.

"You think there's something left to reclaim?" he asked, not like a challenge—just a question shaped by fear. Y/N didn't hesitate. "I know there is."

Her voice was steady, soft. "You're sitting here. You're still fighting it. That part of you never left, Bucky. It just got buried."

She looked at him—not through him, not past him. At him. "And I see it. Even when you don't."

He didn't answer. Didn't trust himself to.

Bucky stared at the water, at the broken petals drifting just beneath the surface. His hand was still open, as if the weight of them lingered even after she let them go.

He didn't understand how she could touch something so gently. How she looked at him like he wasn't dangerous. Like he wasn't a thing to be avoided.

He'd spent so long believing he wasn't worth saving. That whatever was left of him wasn't really him anymore. Just muscle and memory, wrapped around a list of things he couldn't undo.

But she hadn't flinched. Not when he broke. Not when he told her the truth.

When something is broken, I don't throw it away. I stay. I fix it.

The words echoed, low and steady.

It is about reclaiming who you were.

No one had ever said that to him before—not like that.

Maybe he wasn't ready to believe them. Not yet.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to.

He looked at his hand—the one that had crushed the flower—and then at hers, still resting nearby. Close. Unafraid.

I want to be better, he thought.

And maybe that was enough to start.

Step 1: Feeling Safe

It started with distance.

Not emotional—physical.

Y/N never stood too close. Never moved too fast. She always gave Bucky space—knocked before entering, never stood behind him, never closed a door without saying so first.

She didn’t stare. Didn’t force conversation. Just… existed nearby.

Most afternoons, she sat at the lake with a small black book, writing quietly under the same tree. Not watching him. Just being there.

When he finally sat on the opposite side of that tree—she didn’t look up or didn't say anything. She just turned a page and continued.

He waited for that spike in tension he is used to receiving from people—the one that told him he needed to be alert, guarded. But it didn’t come.

That’s when it started to shift—something low in his chest uncoiled. Not trust. Not yet. But a question: What if this place didn’t need him to be ready for war?

No one here wanted to use him. No one needed him to be a soldier.

And she never looked at him like a risk. That unsettled him more than anything.

Why aren't you afraid of me?

But over time, the question faded. And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the need to brace for impact. He just… existed.

And that felt almost like safety.

Step 2: Facing The Guilt & Nightmares

He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t.

The dreams weren’t just images. They were voices too. Russian commands he didn’t understand anymore, but his body did. Screams he couldn’t forget. A nameless man’s eyes.

Y/N didn’t say anything when she found him outside her hut. Just crouched beside him in the mud and draped a blanket around him and waited. Night in and night out.

Eventually, the words started to come—in fragments. Out of order. Not every night. Sometimes it was just two words—bloodied hands. Sometimes it was a name he hadn’t spoken in decades.

The first time, his voice was flat. “I remembered someone I killed. I don’t even know his name.”

She didn’t tell him it wasn’t his fault. She didn’t list reasons or explain the programming. Instead, she said, “You can mourn him. You can hate what they made you do. But don’t hate yourself.”

He mumbled it aloud, barely a whisper. “He was a helpless victim. Right in front of my gun”.

Her voice didn’t waver. “And so was the man forced to pull the trigger.”

He flinched. The words didn’t heal—but they landed. Sank in deep.

Bucky stared ahead in silence, then glanced down at his hand. “I should’ve fought harder.”

“You were surviving,” she said. “That was your fight.”

He didn’t believe it. Not fully.

But the weight in his chest loosened just enough to let him breathe.

In time, she taught him to ground.

But most of all, she taught him not to run.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she said once. “You still have to carry it. But you’re not the only one holding it now.”

That night, for the first time in a long time, he slept inside.

Not perfectly. Not peacefully.

But enough.

And that was a start.

Step 3: Regaining Autonomy

They started with the basics. Simple stretches. Joint rotations. Breath awareness.

“Move because you want to,” she said. “Not because you were trained to.”

At first, it frustrated him. Every movement felt mechanical—practiced, automatic. His arm snapped into position before he could even think. His gait stiffened the moment a routine began.

“Again,” she’d say. Not harsh. Not commanding. Just patient.

“Close your eyes this time. Don’t follow instinct. Follow what you feel.”

So he did. Awkwardly. Badly. But slowly, his movements stopped being drills. His steps stopped being rehearsed.

She helped him rebuild muscle memory—from the ground up.

Sometimes she would ask him to draw a weapon and not strike. Just hold it. Feel the weight. Set it down again.

“You don’t have to use it,” she reminded him. “You have a choice now.”

He didn’t believe it at first. But one afternoon, he caught himself mid-motion—triggered by a sudden sound—and chose to stay still.

No voice told him to.

No command fought him.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

His body was finally his.

Step 4: Breaking The Triggers

She waited until he was ready.

Not just physically—but steady in his body, in his guilt, in the knowledge that he could choose now. The nightmares had dulled. His muscles no longer moved on autopilot. He'd begun to sit with stillness rather than brace against it.

And that’s when the trigger word testing began.

At first, Y/N read the words from behind the room’s bulletproof, vibranium-reinforced glass, with Shuri monitoring every biomarker.

Every word made him feel it—the pull, the switch inside him.

Like a hand reaching for a gun already cocked.

But he held the line. Until word five. Then six.

The edge got thinner. The breathing heavier.

Then the shutdowns came.

He could hear her voice, but it felt far away. Like it was echoing down a hallway he no longer stood in.

The Winter Soldier had taken over. And everything that made him Bucky faded into the background.

Then one day, Y/N didn’t stay behind the glass.

She stepped into the testing room and closed the door.

She hadn’t told anyone beforehand—not even him. But she couldn’t stand watching anymore. Couldn’t stand the way he fought the Winter Soldier alone, surrounded by empty walls.

If he was going to face it—then so was she.

Bucky looked up from the mat, already tensing. “Do you have a death wish?”

Her voice was calm and steady as she walked and stood her ground firmly right next to him. “If it means healing you, then yes.”

Then, turning to the glass, she spoke with quiet authority: “Do not enter. No matter what happens.”

Shuri and Ayo stood motionless behind the bulletproof glass.

And then—the first trigger word left her mouth.

And he felt it.

The programming didn’t pull—it activated.

By the sixth word, he was gone.

The Winter Soldier rose behind his eyes like a shadow reclaiming its host. Breath even. Eyes empty.

She didn’t run.

He slammed her into the mat. She didn’t fight back. Didn’t even try to block. Another hit. A boot against the floor. A twist of her wrist. Still, no retaliation.

And then—his hand around her throat.

She choked, breath shallow, pain blooming across her neck and chest.

But her eyes stayed open.

Her lips parted.

“You are no longer the Winter Soldier,” she rasped. “You are James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. My friend.”

He didn’t stop.

Not right away.

Then—

He saw it.

Tears. Not from fear. From him. Sliding down her face, her eyes still locked on his.

That cut deeper than any blow.

Something inside him cracked, split through the fog. Her voice. Her words. Her belief—despite the pain, despite the bruises.

His grip loosened.

Then dropped.

He stumbled back, blinking hard, lungs seizing like he’d just surfaced from drowning. The mat swayed beneath him.

She was still on the floor, breathing ragged. But conscious. Watching him.

“Y/N,” he rasped, voice breaking. Her lips curved faintly. “You came back.”

Bucky knelt a few feet away from her, the hand that had closed around her throat trembling uncontrollably in his lap.

Y/N sat against the wall, her breathing shallow, bruises already blooming across her collarbone. She noticed Shuri preparing to enter with a cold compress, but lifted a hand to wave her off—her eyes never leaving him.

“I could’ve killed you,” he said, voice low and raw.

She didn’t answer immediately. When she did, it wasn’t with comfort. “You didn’t.”

“That doesn’t change what I did.” His jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”

“I did,” she said softly. “And I’d do it again.”

He looked at her then, finally. She was hurt. Because of him. And she still meant that.

“I don’t understand you,” he murmured.

“I don’t need you to,” she said. “I just need you to keep coming back.”

He didn’t sleep for days after that session.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Not afraid. Not fighting. Just there—voice breaking, throat bruised, calling him Bucky like it still meant something.

And that was what haunted him.

Not the fight. Not the programming.

The fact that he hurt someone who chose to believe in him.

So he chose something too.

Y/N.

Not as comfort.

As a promise.

He didn’t want to be the reason she got hurt again. He wanted to be the reason she never had to be afraid.

The next session, Bucky made a request - his first, by choice.

“Y/N, I think… I need you to stay behind the glass this time.”

His voice didn’t tremble—but something in his eyes did.

Y/N didn’t ask why. Didn’t offer reassurances.

She just held his gaze and nodded once—not surprised, but quietly proud. Because it was the first thing he’d asked for—not as the soldier he’d been trained to be, but simply as Bucky.

It wasn’t rejection. It was safety. A boundary he set for his own peace.

She moved behind the glass with Shuri and Ayo, giving him the space he asked for.

The barrier let him focus. Let him feel safe—not from her, but from the version of himself he didn’t trust yet.

Even separated by walls, her voice still reached him.

Clear. Steady. Familiar. But the words still hit hard.

By the fifth trigger, his breath hitched. By the sixth, he was gone.

He surged forward—full force—shouting in Russian, his fist slamming into the reinforced glass.

Shuri’s hand hovered near the failsafe. But Y/N stepped forward, calm but firm, eyes locked on him.

“Bucky.” Her voice didn't rise. Just anchored. “Look at me. You’re not lost.”

He hit the glass again—once, twice—and then froze.

Her hand rested on the other side, palm flat.

“You told me to stay behind here. You did that. You chose it.”

“So choose again" she said.

His breath was ragged. Chest heaving. Fists trembling.

But he didn’t strike again.

He sank to his knees, back against the wall.

It took time to come back. But this time—he did.

Over time, as the grip of the programming weakened, so did Bucky’s fear.

It wasn’t gone. But it no longer ruled him.

One morning, just outside the training room, Bucky stood in front of Y/N, his hand flexing at his side, trying to keep his voice steady.

“If you’re okay with it… I want you in the room today.”

He met her eyes, hesitant but sincere.

“Not close. Just… at the far end of the room. Where I can see you.”

A beat.

“If I get too close—leave. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, waiting. “You didn’t hurt me.”

His jaw tightened. “Y/N—”

“That wasn’t you,” she said gently. “That was the Winter Soldier. And that's not who you are.”

He didn’t answer. But hearing it like that—as fact, not reassurance—shifted something inside him as they stepped inside the training room together and walked to their positions.

He took a breath. Then another. “I’m ready,” he said.

Y/N began.“Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace.”

His hand clenched, chest tightening.“Nine.” His muscles locked. “Benign.” His vision blurred, then sharpened—darkening around the edges.

He took a step forward. Then another. Toward her. “Bucky.”

Y/N didn’t move. Her hands stayed at her sides, calm. “This is your space now.”

But his fists curled again. His eyes started to haze—the Winter Soldier clawing up beneath the surface.

“Bucky,” she said again, firmer this time. “You told me to stand back. You asked me to trust you.”

Her voice dropped. “So trust yourself.”

His step faltered. His breath came ragged and short.

“You are no longer a weapon" she whispered. "You’re Bucky. You’re someone who chooses to fight for himself now".

He stopped. His fist uncurled. One shaky step back. Then another.

He dropped to his knees, breathing hard. Silent.

Not the breakthrough.

But closer than he’d ever been.

They kept at it—day after day, week after week. Some sessions were harder than others. But he kept showing up.

And then, a few weeks later, on a quiet evening, there was a soft, almost hesitant knock at the door of her hut.

Y/N looked up from her cup of tea just as Bucky’s head appeared in the doorway—hair tousled, eyes uncertain.

“Can I come in?” he asked. She nodded, already shifting to make space.

He stepped inside and sat across from her on the floor, legs folded, his hand resting in his lap. “Will you try them again?” he asked.

His voice was steady. “The trigger words. I want you to say them.”

Y/N didn’t ask why. She just set her tea aside, turned to face him fully, and said, “Okay.”

He closed his eyes. She began.

One word. Then two. Then the full sequence—calm, even, no tension in her voice.

And when it was over—nothing.

No twitch. No haze. No storm building in his mind.

Just breath. Stillness. Bucky.

He opened his eyes slowly.

"I'm still here," he whispered. Then again, softer—like it meant everything: "I'm still me. It doesn't work on me anymore".

She was already smiling, eyes soft but unshaken.

“Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes.”

And then it hit him.

The tears came fast—years of buried pain released all at once. Bucky didn’t try to hide his crying this time. He allowed it all out, his entire body trembling with raw emotion.

Y/N had longed to wipe those tears away back at the lake the first time, but she’d held back then, fearing he might retreat further into himself.

Now, she leaned forward without hesitation and gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. He didn’t pull away.

His hand sought hers, nuzzling into her warm touch as he closed his eyes, letting her cupped hands cradle his face.

A quiet, tender smile spread over her lips as her thumbs softly brushed away the final traces of his tears.

Then—he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

The kiss was gentle but full—like he was pouring everything he couldn’t say into that one moment—grief, gratitude, peace.

His lips rested there, as if trying to imprint on her skin his newfound hope—bridging all the pain with the promise of being truly, vulnerably himself.

Then he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was no hesitation in her response; she melted into the space without question, arms circling his waist, her chin resting gently against his shoulder.

And they stayed like that—wrapped in each other’s warmth, no longer survivors clinging to the edge.

They were simply Bucky and Y/N.

Two hearts, finally quiet.

Chapter 5 coming soon

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mariaxxxxx · 1 year ago

Text

Fantasize (Namor x Black!Reader)

Summary: Fantasy can be sweet compared to reality.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY/ Minors DNI, Angust, Sex, Apologies, Crying, Creampie, Passionate sex, size difference, smut, soft!dom!, slight degradation, unprotected sex (don't do that wrap this thing), aftercare, curse words, breeding kink.

A/N: English is not my mother tongue. I apologize for any errors.

Work count: 4.113

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

K'uk'ulkan is a man who earned his position as leader of Talokan through hard work and iron-fisted leadership. Considered by his people as a God and by his enemies as an executioner, admired by many for having the good characteristics that make a king and a physical appearance as divine as paradise. He wasn't the kind of guy to start a small conversation, but he knew exactly how to persuade a person with his words. There were also social subtleties involved, which You found adorable, the man was gallant and imposing and this made people respect him more. His father thought he was arrogant and proud. You agreed with him, but chose to describe that man differently; he was a bit of a jerk, a bit of a romantic, and incredibly powerful. These are really unique characteristics.

You look up as he enters Wakanda's council room. You open your mouth to greet him, knowing it's a bad idea. Luckily for You, a loud scoff from his father makes You both focus on the conversation going on in the room. He sits, next to his father, a place fit for a royal guest.

“The situation with the Americans is under control.” His father is speaking to the leader of Talokan with a loud tone of voice, an annoying trait of his. “As agreed, our borders have been strengthened.”

“We cannot relax if we take into account the persistence of the colonizers.” As the river tribe leader speaks You watch K'uk'ulkan's eyebrows arch upward.

K'uk'ulkan is the type of man who is interested in subjects that disrespect his nation and enjoys strategic conversations to keep the colonizers' curiosity at bay. He likes to hear what his allies have to say, although he almost never agrees with the decisions made. He was a violent man indeed. He always responded to violence with more violence.

“The late king’s decision to open Wakanda’s borders brought dilemmas that needed to be resolved.” Says K'uk'ulkan with his apathetic face, but You can detect a small gleam in his eyes. You know how much he always has to fight not to reveal his dissatisfaction with being so far from home. “It is not enough to close the borders again, more brutal measures need to be carried out.”

Oh! There it was. The flame of war shining in his pupils. Two years ago Talokan went to war with Wakanda. A dispute that caused losses for both sides. It was still difficult for many to overcome the death of Queen Ramonda and the departure of the legitimate heir out of the country, leaving Wakanda once again without its protector. Black Panther chose to step aside, indefinitely, to deal with his grief. The decision was respected and accepted by the council, but the people did not look favorably on it; after all, Black Panther was the warrior spirit sent by Bast to protect us.

After the ascension to the throne of his father, King Jabari, diplomatic programs were created to formalize the ceasefire and the union of both nations to deal with attempts to steal Vibranium. His father chose to return to old policies; close Wakanda's borders and suspend metal extraction. Such an attitude made Talokan, the people and the council happy, but not the colonists who demanded the sharing of Vibranium.

The conversation went on for a long time; they talked about metal, about borders, bonds of friendship, trade routes... At some point, you disconnected and sank into the chair with your eyes fixed on the floor, shaking your head every time someone said something. Meetings were tedious for a young man like You with so much energy to burn.

“So, have we reached a decision?” Your father says suddenly, snapping You out of your thoughts. You look at everyone in the room and notice when everyone exclaims a resounding Yes. Only one says nothing. You notice K'uk'ulkan's fingers turn a little too white, as if he's gripping the arms of his chair. A clear sign of irritation and denial.

You're not surprised to see him get up and leave, but no one comments on it before your father says,

“At least he didn’t fondle us again.”

(...)

That night, You escaped the palace walls, all ready to go the moment the clock struck eleven. When this happens, you hide from the Dora Milaje. After all, it wasn't safe for a new little princess to walk the streets late at night. The big doors open and you walk out into the night. You knew the way with your eyes closed; Behind the palace, surrounded by large trees, there was a saltwater river little known to the inhabitants.

On the riverbank there was a rustic wooden cabin with opaque glass windows and a large oak door. You didn't know who built this place, but in the last two years it had become yours and his. Little by little you redecorated the place, filling it with luxurious furniture and yellow lights.

You silently enter the place, turning on the lights and observe the mess you and he made on your last date. You put on shabby clothes, tie your hair up and start working as if you were being paid to do so. You start by arranging the cushions on the couch, then clean all the dishes, counters and general surfaces. You finish by vacuuming all the sand from the place and mopping the floor with a cloth dampened with scented water. You don't care about the room. After all, he was always so tidy. Your lover would rather take You in the living room, or on the balcony, or by the river under the starlight; very few times did you use that bed.

When you finish your cleaning marathon, your watch beeps informing you that it was already midnight and he would be here soon. You take a break and run to the bathroom. After a shower, perfumed your skin and touched up your makeup, you put on a thigh-length dress made of transparent fabric. The dress leaves your breasts and intimacy exposed, so you minimize this fact by placing a padless lace bra and thin panties under the dress. You looked beautiful, like the Goddess Isis waiting for her Osiris.

You return to the kitchen to start preparing something to eat. There are just a few minutes left before the food is ready when the cabin door opens and you hear a familiar voice.

"My love, I'm here." K'uk'ulkan breaks the silence that has hung over the environment since You arrived. You don't bother shouting, you never do. You would do it in person in seconds instead of yelling at each other in different rooms. The last time you dared to perform such a vulgar act, K'uk'ulkan gave you slaps on the ass to educate you correctly. A good wife greets her husband when he walks through the door, he said as he slapped her behind. You loved being punished like that, but you hated spending three whole days without being able to sit down.

You leave the kitchen and go to him, with a big smile on your lips. You find him in the room wearing fancy clothes richly decorated with gold and jade. He keeps his shorts green with black embroidered details. You extend your arms and circle them around his neck. You give him a kiss on the lips in greeting. He returns the kiss, pressing your body against his.

"Hello my dear." You pull away from his lips and turn your head to give him a kiss on the cheek. "How was your day?"

“Stressful, but I managed to escape to be with my wife.” He smiles and plays with a strand of your hair. “Knowing that You are here to care for me fills my heart with joy.”

The kisses didn't stop as he spoke and You were struggling to remember the stew that was boiling on the stove.

“Fuck” You don’t think about the curse until a hand squeezes your hip. A subtle warning of how such verbiage was not allowed in that environment.

“Such a beautiful girl with such a dirty mouth.” He mutters. His lips brush your ear, and you have to concentrate to push him away.

“I need to go to the kitchen.”

“Just focus on me, my love.” You can feel in his tone he wants to break You, break the character You play. Like a dizzy duck You fall into his trap.

“K’uk’ulkan” You whine. "Is very fast! Our dinner will burn and it will be a disaster.”

You scream when you feel a sharp slap on your ass. His hand makes a circular movement at the impact site, easing the pain a little. This was her punishment for being so petulant towards her man.

“Don’t talk to me like that.” His voice is lower, a little dark.

"Sorry my love."

"Good girl." He removes his arms from your waist and signals you to go to the kitchen. You mumble a simple thank you and rush over to find the food boiling furiously over medium heat. You hang up and return to the room, to him.

“Now I’m all yours, my love.”

“What have You done to us?” He says it like he doesn't know. As if he hadn't instructed her what to cook.

“A stew with vegetables accompanied by cornbread.”

It was a rule established by both of you that you would do your best to please him. No easy or quick foods, no fatty foods with added sugar and pesticides. K'uk'ulkan didn't take care of himself, in his opinion. He woke up early to govern, stayed late in meetings and would certainly forget to eat if You didn't prepare something. You remembered how he claimed not to eat much, a phrase that made you want to care for this man who cared for others and neglected himself. Not that this was a surprise, however. K'uk'ulkan was born with a crown on his head, so difficulty taking time away from work and taking care of himself became commonplace.

There was also the pleasure of serving and being served. He was excited by the idea of having a wife ready to serve him at the end of the day, with the effort made by You to please him in every way. It excited both of you, knowing that you worked hard without complaining to please him. In addition to carnal pleasure, there was cuddling; although you and he never talked to define exactly what this relationship was, nights of cuddling and talking on the sidelines were not uncommon. He liked to please too, it would not be uncommon for him to give you gifts ranging from fabrics with gold thread to jewelry; You hid them in the back of your closet to avoid questions.

His hand snakes down your hips to your butt, he gives it a squeeze making you moan with a little discomfort at having your sore flesh being touched like that.

"Adorable." The words vibrate in you. His hands suddenly caress your body. The hand pauses, pulls back, and spanks her ass afterwards. “What do you say after being praised, my love?”

You stabilize yourself with the force of the blow, fight back a groan, smile at him and mutter a loud:

"Thanks."

“You’re such a good little girl” he reflects, pressing your body against his so you can feel the hardness that was forming between your legs. “You love this, don’t you? You love it when I discipline you.”

You don't answer because you think it's a rhetorical question, but a warm hand moves his hair away and thick fingers grab the back of his neck.

"Yes my love. Thank you for taking care of me and teaching me how to be a good woman.” You fight back a bratty response about how you could take care of yourself.

“Such a good queen to me.”

Your mind lights up at the word queen being expelled from his mouth. You're insecure about the current agreement to never discuss these things, so you just smile, and kiss him passionately, pretending that being called his queen hasn't affected you in every way possible.

You allow his tongue into your mouth savoring the feeling of him touching you so softly. His skin burns red hot from the hot trail his hands leave as they roam your body. A hand tangles in his hair and pulls his head back enough for You to feel the pressure on your scalp. K'uk'ulkan attacks his neck, distributing wet kisses while you moan and encourage him to continue.

“K’uk’ulkan” You moan shamelessly when he sucks on the sensitive skin of your neck. He walks away, leaving you a mess, the damn thing had the power to make you go crazy with so little.

"Let's play a game." He suggests. A part of You is disappointed by this, but You knew how he liked to prolong the night. He moves away from you, sitting on the navy blue sofa; You narrow your eyes, finding this attitude strange, but his smug smile prepares you for what comes next. “Take off your panties and climb up my thigh. Now."

You don't wait long and you're soon getting rid of your panties, straddling his thigh after doing so. The cool, bare skin damps beneath You which is clearly visible when K'uk'ulkan pushes you back to check, You gasp when you realize how wet you were. His face burns with embarrassment, so you cover him in a cute reaction. You can't meet his gaze when he grabs his hand and pulls them away so you opt to kiss him for a minute to hide the embarrassment. Until he pulls away and puts his hands on your hips.

“I barely touched you and you’re already wet.” His hands are firmly on your hips, he uses them to pull you against him causing friction. “I know how desperate You are for this. Keep your moans low. Anyway, good girls never act like whores.”

He was right about how much You needed this, of course. The bastard knew her like the back of his hand. He leans his torso against the couch, giving him a privileged view of the movements of his hips. You bite your bottom lip to keep from moaning loudly when a specific movement increases contact with your swollen clit. You can barely concentrate between your low sighs and the warm hand that snakes across your belly and over your breasts, the feeling of his hand drives you crazy and without you realizing it a loud moan escapes your mouth when one of your breasts are tight.

You come out of your little world of pleasure to be met with K'uk'ulkan's intense gaze. He arches an eyebrow and squeezes your hips when you try to seek more friction.

"Sorry." His breath catches with the need to be forgiven, your hands tighten on his shoulders and you, once again, try to move your hips only to have your plans thwarted.

"Stand up." He commands and You obey. “It looks like my beautiful girl is having trouble following my orders. What a shame!"

"Sorry my love." You falter when you see the expression on his face.

“We need to solve this problem” You can see the cruel smile and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Take off your dress and come onto my lap.”

You take everything off and stand naked in front of him. Hesitantly, you walk over to him and settle into his lap. K'uk'ulkan rests one hand on your upper back and squeezes your shoulder. Care before everything happens You understand. You arch into his lap due to the hard slap he gives your ass.

“Tell and be thankful.” He orders.

"To thank?" His question is rewarded with another hard slap on his ass. "Sorry. Thank you for the lesson my love.”

"Good girl. Too bad this one didn't count. I didn’t hear any numbers.” You can see his smile in your mind. "Count."

"Yes." You speak breathlessly, one hand gripping his leg to anchor yourself. A slap. "One. Thank you my love"

"Higher." Another slap.

"Two. Thank you my love."

You hear a chuckle and his hand covers your ass, rubbing it creating momentary relief.

“Behave and you won’t be punished again.”

The blow comes harder this time, catching You off guard enough to scream.

"Three. Thanks." You say breathlessly.

“I said it without groaning.” The slap is even stronger than the previous one, you bite your lip to keep from screaming. “Thank me and I’ll think about whether I’ll fuck you with my cock.”

“Thank you for punishing me, K’uk’ulkan” You lick your lips to moisten them. “Please fuck me with your cock.”

He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you up, the quick movement makes you slide off the couch and fall on your knees between his legs. You look up only to find the obsidian orbs watching you with intensity. This man has too much power over You, and You can't care about it. You were about to beg to suck his dick, but K'uk'ulkan grabs your jaw with his fingers and caresses your lips with his thumb, You suck it devotedly without looking away.

“I will be benevolent today.”

You are internally grateful for the decision. K'uk'ulkan had been teasing you for a long time and your pussy was throbbing, and you had never been so ready to be fucked in your life. He tightens the grip on your jaw, a reminder for you to thank him.

"Thanks." You say. “Fuck me with your divine cock, K'uk'ulkan”

“My good girl, so good to me.” He caresses his cheek with his fingertips. “Lie down on the mat and spread your legs.”

You find yourself crawling onto the carpet a moment later, laying your head on a cushion. You look at K'uk'ulkan, his body sculpted by gods, he worked to rid himself of the jewelry and green trunks.

“Eat me feathered serpent.” You say, making no move to hide the way you look at him.

K'uk'ulkan lets out a rough, savage growl, and you notice how hard and rigid his cock is begging for attention. Your pussy moistens even more at the knowledge of how thirsty he was.

“I'm going to fuck you soon, my love. I want to get You ready for me.”

He moves his body until he is on top of you and kisses you. You feel his cock in your belly, dripping with your juices, and you feel divine for provoking such a reaction in that man. You feel a finger slide through your intimate area, playing with your swollen clitoris and then being inserted into your vaginal canal. You groan at the intrusion. You kiss him harder when a second finger is introduced and then the third.

“K'uk'ulkan, You are stretching me. I cannot stand." You say only to receive a raised eyebrow before he goes back to doing what he was doing. With his thumb, he circles your clitoris in circular movements to the point that you see stars.

“You’re my good girl, you can take it.” He leans in, and the predatory tone of his voice when he speaks makes you squirm beneath him. “Cum on my fingers and I’ll give you my cock.

Her folds tighten tightly on the edge of a powerful orgasm. You try to beg, but only disjointed sounds come out of your mouth. You feel his thumb tease your clitoris with movements oscillating between slow and fast, in a sneaky movement he removes his thumb only to press it harder immediately afterwards. His orgasm hits you like a truck. You arch your back and scream for him when you feel your spirit leave your body and return shortly afterwards.

“K'uk'ulkan, I'm...”

“You’re going to cum again.” He says as he aligns his cock with your pussy, You moan when he purposely rubs against your hard and sensitive clit. “This time, it will be on my dick.”

He pushes hard. You're wet and open enough, but he was pretty big and the pain of penetration was inevitable, but it was a good pain. Every time You loved feeling his cock tearing your wet pussy. He supports himself on his elbows which give him the possibility to fuck you hard and he does so.

"Cum." You blurt out as he beats you mercilessly.

Above You, K'uk'ulkan ate you like a flesh-hungry beast. The dull touch of his skin hitting yours fills you with anxiety, and makes you think about the bruises that will appear. He grabs her waist with one hand just to stretch her a little and thrust her with more force.

“My perfect wife, good girl, my good good queen.” He babbled helplessly as he thrust hard into her pussy that was clenching around him, a clear sign of a new orgasm approaching. “I will spill my semen inside You. Filling Your womb with a baby will make You my queen and take them away.”

“Put a baby in me, K’uk’ulkan” You beg him. The hand squeezes his waist again as he attacks with a series of swear words in his mother tongue.

With a powerful thrust You cum again, screaming his name shamelessly. Your inner folds contract, squeezing his cock inside You, K'uk'ulkan tries to resist it, but it was a losing battle. He comes grunting like an animal spilling drop by drop of his seed inside You. He still gives a few more thrusts as if to ensure that You received every drop of his sperm. He collapses on top of you, with his cock still inside your pussy.

It stays inside You until You are uncomfortable. K'uk'ulkan Pulls away, pulling his softening cock out of You, a moan escaping when You feel the emptiness that was left. Your walls were sensitive and stained with his release; satisfaction filled every molecule of your body at this feat. K'uk'ulkan lies down next to him; you turn your head to him and smile, place a chaste kiss on his lips and sigh softly:

"Thank you my love."

To then be pulled closer and wrapped in a comforting hug.

“We need to eat.” You say snuggling into his chest, he pulls You into him.

“I already ate.” He says with his eyes closed. "I am very satisfied."

“You made me cook for nothing.” You speak of false indignation. “I’ll leave You hungry next time.”

“I will make it up to you later for cooking. Now, let's rest. Soon the sun will rise.”

Silence settles in the room, a sign that K'uk'ulkan was sleeping. You were not left behind, falling into a deep sleep with pleasant dreams.

The sun was rising when You awoke from your sleep. It wasn't a surprise to discover that you were alone. You never woke up next to him. As the leader of a nation he needed to return to his nation and, as painful as it was, he knew the implications that his affair with K'uk'ulkan could bring if he didn't go underwater. Hatred for surface dwellers was sown centuries ago and it would be difficult for a Talokanil's relationship with a surface dweller to be accepted.

You shook your head to dismiss such frivolous thoughts. I knew this was salt in the wound, a long time ago. You had already convinced yourself that you were nothing more than a concubine; You accepted this position with flying colors, although a little voice in your head always begged you to demand more. Being his queen, the mother of his children seemed like an impossible dream, so for the sake of your sanity You accepted the role to be played; sex is necessary and affection when requested. One day, this would end; You would marry a nobleman or some promising scientist and have his children, K'uk'ulkan would be nothing more than a youthful fling.

“Fuck” You cursed as you realized where your thoughts were taking you downs a dangerous path again.

After all, you and he would stay in this fantasy a thousand times if necessary. Until reality knocked on the door and took us back to the harsh reality. For now, you could be content with pretending he was yours; pretend he would come back every night as her husband to love her and possess her body under the starlight. You sigh as you realize how your reality wasn't as pleasant as your expectations. You snuggle on the rug, deciding to sleep a little longer until you return to the palace, your father would definitely be upset and question your disappearance, but you could deal with that later. Now, You just wanted to close your eyes and dream of a reality where You and K'uk'ulkan would be happy surrounded by children. Fantasy could be sweet compared to reality.

#namor x reader #black panther #namor x you #talokan #namor of talokan #namor the sub mariner #wakanda forever #namor x y/n #namor smut #namor #namor x black reader #black panther wakanda forever #wakandans #mcu

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mrs-johansson · 1 year ago

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Chapter 6 - Dark Phoenix II - Emergence of conflagration

Part 2:

We slowly moved inside, taking down guards one by one. Natasha secured the security room and Sam got the armory room.

Us 5 had successfully reached the entrance and the only thing we needed to enter was Nat’s signal of a clear path. “How are you guys doing?” I asked in the comms. “There are about 50 guards left inside. Klaue is at the top of the building,” Natasha informed us. “How’s our way inside looking?” I asked. “Just a second…” She said, clearly focused on what she was doing. “You’re clear, go get him.” “I’m planning on it.”

We made our way through each level quietly. Collected all the files we found, searching for Vibranium and Klaue.

In no time we were nearing the top floor. We were left with 7 men and Klaue. “You get the guards, I have Klaue,” I looked at the agents, and once they all nodded we broke in the door, not leaving a second for them to escape.

Our agents were on Klaue’s men quickly and I spotted Klaue at the other side of the room. “Sam get over here and collect the Vibranium, Nat get all their data from the main hardware, and send your team over here. I’ll get Klaue,” I said and ran to Klaue. As he saw me coming he held up a different-looking gun and he aimed at me. Kicked up a metal table and threw it at him, making him fall back into a door and roll down some stairs. I followed him to the stairway and before I got to him, he started running down the stairs. Sent a fireball in front of him, trying to stop him, but it didn’t bother him, and jumped over the burning area and continued running.

Trying to stop him I tried to fire at him but somehow he managed to run out of the building. I followed him closely and finally hit him with a fireball, making him fall to the ground. “Who are you working for? Who needs this much Vibranium?” I asked as I stood over the man. “A lot of people,” he said with a devilish smile. “Who are you providing this for?”

He looked behind me and the next second someone jumped at me, sending me about 100 feet away from Klaue. I rolled in the dirt making me cough. I looked up and saw a man in a black catsuit, helmet covering his head. “What the hell, man?” I got up and when I looked to Klaue’s way he was gone. “I lost Klaue,” I said in the comms. The cat man didn’t waste time and started punching me. I tried to block his moves, and when I grabbed his arm I burned him but it seemed he didn’t even notice. “Why are you stealing Vibranium?” He asked and I frowned. “Stealing? I’m trying to get it away from Klaue!” I explained while we kept fighting. “How do you know him?” He asked not even bothering to stop. “I’ve been after him for months, he’s supplying someone with Vibranium, I’m trying to find out who! Stop fucking punching me,” I said angrily and with a big kick I sent him back.

He got up and took his helmet off and my eyebrows shot up. “Aren’t you the Prince of Wakanda?” I asked and he frowned. “Yes, I am. And who are you?” He walked closer. “I’m Y/N Stark. I’m part of the Avengers.” His face dropped and looked where Klaue had been laying a couple of minutes ago. “I blew that up, didn’t I?” He asked and I spread my arms. “Yeah, kinda. This was the first time in 6 months that we had eyes on him, so thanks for that. Why did you even stop me?” I asked frustratingly. He seemed like he didn’t know the answer either. “I’m sorry, I thought you were with him.” “Y/N I think we found the person he’s supplying, you’re not gonna like this,” heard Sam over the comms. “Yeah, and I bumped into the Wankandan Prince. I’ll be there in a second,” I said then turned to the Prince. “If you’re after him, come with me,” I said and he nodded.

“So what is this cat thing? Are like a… Cat-Man?” I asked, not really sure what he was supposed to symbolize. “I’m the Black Panther. It’s been the protector of Wakanda for centuries, once I become king I’ll be the official Black Panther.” He explained. “Right and what’s your name?” “I’m T’Challa.”

Once we got up to where the team was I explained what happened and Natasha wasn’t happy at all to lose Klaue. “I can help you find Klaue if you hand over all the Vibranium you found so far. It belongs to Wakanda,” T’Challa said and Nat looked at me questioning if he was trustworthy. “That’ll work. Sam, what did you find?” I asked and he handed me some files. “Hadria Folks. She has an army of super soldiers with Vibranium armor. Klaue has been supplying her for the last 3 months,” he explained as I looked through the pictures of the armor and the amount of Vibranium she got her hands on. I looked at T’Challa and handed him the papers. “You’ve got a bigger problem than just stolen Vibranium.” He looked at the information splattered on the files and he glanced at me with a weird look. “Send your team home, you three come with me back to Wakanda, we’ll get to Klaue that way.”

We made our way to the Quinjet and I tapped Sam’s shoulder. “Take the files back to the Compound and look her up. We need every information we have on her. And look up this Black Panther guy too just to be sure,” I said and he sighed. “Why can’t I go with you? Wakanda must be so cool,” he whined and I chuckled. “You’ll get there, Wilson.”

Natasha and I followed T’Challa to his plane which looked very cool. “How did you lose Klaue?” Asked Natasha. “This guy jumped on me and when I got back up he was gone. I really hope he can get us to Klaue because if not I’m gonna be very angry.”

We got the plane and the technology was very advanced. It looked amazing. I stepped one step closer to a sand table and suddenly a blade was by my neck then I heard a gun being held up by someone. “I wouldn’t do that,” Natasha spoke and I carefully looked to my side to see the woman who was holding a long spear. I guess Natasha was holding a gun at her. “Okoye, they’re Avengers, lower your weapon,” T’Challa spoke and she took a look between Nat and I then pulled back the spear. I looked at Natasha and glanced at her gun, signaling that she should withdraw too. “Okoye, this is Y/n Stark and Natasha Romanoff. Ladies, this is Okoye, the commander of the Dora Milaje,” introduced us, the Prince. “Dora Milaje?” I asked. “Special forces of Wakanda,” said the woman with a straight and intense look.

Once we got off Natasha and I sat down, she still looked very unimpressed with the situation. “It’s gonna be fine, trust me,” I said to her and she just sighed, and I saw the look she gave me and it seemed she was trying to make an effort. “I trust you, not them,” said Natasha, and I put my hand on her thigh in a second, slightly squeezing. “Natalia, we know about Wakanda and they are trustworthy,” I explained and she looked at me with a tense expression. “She held a spear to your neck, Y/n.” “She didn’t know who we were.” Natasha sighed and leaned back in her seat. “I really hope you’re right.”

***

As soon as the jet landed T’Challa went ahead and then us two, Okoye followed behind. When we all reached the ground, I saw the King and Queen of Wakanda with two other women, one younger than all of us. “Baba,” he bowed slightly, then looked at us. “This is Y/n Stark and Natasha Romanoff, Avengers,” he said and we bowed too. “King T’Chaka, a pleasure to meet you,” I said and he nodded. “Likewise, welcome to Wakanda.” “Thank you, didn’t think this would be the reason for our first visit,” I said and he nodded. “Yes, it’s very unfortunate. In the meantime, this is my wife Ramonda, and my daughter, Shuri. And Nakia, member of the War Dogs, also the girlfriend of my son,” said the King, and T’Challa was quick to get flustered. “Now, I think we should get to work,” T’Challa said, trying to avoid the topic.

***

We made contact with Sam at the Compound and as he was on video call with us, we saw all the information on Klaue from what T’Challa and the others had so far. “We unintentionally found one of Klaue’s hiding places around six months ago. He had a full cabinet of Vibranium but we didn’t know who he was at the time. Then we went after him and retrieved over 100 million dollars worth of Vibranium in the last six months. And today was our first time locating such a big amount that led us to Klaue. Then we found out why he needs this much. Sam, what did you find?” I looked at him on the screen and the next second he sent over everything on the bigger screen in the room. “Hadria Folks, ex-KGB. She has approximately 15 super soldiers with Vibranium armor and weapons. There were multiple attacks in Europe, but nobody got them in time. Police can’t handle them obviously and Folks haven’t been seen in 2 months. Her station is said to be in Siberia, a familiar place, don’t you think?” Sam said and I looked at him immediately. “He’s not there,” I said, crossing my arms. “Who’s not there?” Asked Nakia and I just kept staring at the screen. “Another super soldier, he was a Hydra weapon until we got him and now he is hiding, keeping himself off the radar. Maybe he could help us,” I said and Sam interfered quickly. “We couldn’t locate him for a while now, how are we planning to do this?” He asked. “You haven’t been able to locate him. He sent me a letter about two weeks ago, saying he was in Romania. He’ll know where to find her. Nat and I will go to Romania, get Barnes and you find Klaue. I’ll get you all the Vibranium we retrieved. Are you familiar with super soldiers?” I turned to the Wakandans. Shuri typed it into her computer then multiple images came up on the screen. One particular picture is of James. “Captain America is one of them, right?” Asked Nakia. “Yes.” “Why not get him involved with this?” T’Challa suggested. “He’s got other stuff to deal with. And besides, I think we’ll be just fine doing this.”

After some discussion, they flew us back to the Compound and I was ready to go home. I really thought that this could be a promising opportunity for us to get more allies and maybe get James out of hiding.

“When will you pick up Rina?” Walked into my office Natasha but stopped at the door. “Dad picked her up already. I asked him and Pepper to watch her for a while. I don’t know how long this thing will last,” I explained and packed up all my stuff, ready to leave. “So, you’ll be alone?” She asked with a gentle but clearly seductive tone. My eyes lifted in her and the smirk on her face was undeniable. I began to walk past her and before I stepped out of the room, I looked her up and down. “Care to join?” Natasha didn’t answer, she just grabbed onto my hand and kissed me on the lips. “Great choice.”

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sumzskull · 3 months ago

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Marvel x reader(REQUESTS OPEN!)

Feel free to request any marvel x reader , anyone any time anywhere (if it’s the MCU)

Including: smut , fluff, angst and many more

((I will not do illegal such as pedophilia , rape and other disturbing story’s ))

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oph3liatlou · 1 year ago

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— THE SHADOW WARRIOR series

CHAPTER TWO; Quinnjet

pairing(s); recovering!buckybarnes x oc!victoriastark

warnings; light swearing

word count; 1,363

proofread?; yes.

note from author; link to wattpad, link to character's spotify playlist (comment songs also!), find the full masterlist here.

summary; In the depths of Africa, the mysterious nation of Wakanda has reached out to the outside world for help. A mission has been set in place for Victoria Stark, to save Bucky Barnes - the former brainwashed assassin - from his past self. Can she rescue him from HYDRA's grips as the world watches and waits or, will he forever be lost to the shadows?

Victoria had to get ready for her mission that she had been tasked with. She headed back downstairs to see her father, who had just finished fixing up his suit.

Tony turns around as you enter the workshop, wiping his hands on a rag. "Done pouting upstairs?" He's trying to keep it light. The tension between you has been growing for months. He needs to fix it, but he just doesn't know how.

She rolled her eyes. Their relationship was always sarcastic banter but sometimes, he didn't agree with her decisions. Especially when she avoided his monthly functions. "I wasn't pouting." She stated, leaning on one of the shelves. "I got a mission so, scratch my name off the guest list for tomorrow night."

Tony's smile fades. He looks at you for a long moment, his expression going tight. He's not happy about you skipping yet another event. But rather than start an argument, he asks instead, "Where are you headed?"

"Wakanda." Victoria answered, not elaborating.

Tony's eyes widened, a slight flicker of surprise crossing his face. Wakanda? He hadn't expected that. "Why?" He tries to keep the tension out of his voice, but there's no hiding the concern in his eyes.

She was happy that her father hadn't started giving her attitude about her not attending the party. "Steve's friend, Bucky." She started to explain. "He's in Wakanda, the Princess is treating his conditioning - trying to demolish the Winter Solider." Victoria shrugged. "You know me and advanced technology. He thought I could help...and he wants a friend there."

Tony's worry eases slightly. He knows about Bucky, of course. The Winter Soldier, the infamous assassin. Helping to undo what HYDRA did to him wasn't something he objected to. And he understands the need for support.

He gives you a small nod. "Alright. Keep me updated. And...Victoria?" His voice goes soft. "Be careful."

She nods, turning back to the door. "Oh, and I'm bringing FRIDAY with me."

Tony raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement returning to his expression. "Bringing the bots, huh? Trying to show off your tech prowess, aren't you?" He smiles, glad to see you a little more lighthearted for the first time in a long while. "Alright. Just watch out for Wakanda's tech. They've got stuff that will knock even you on your ass."

Victoria chuckled at his comment. "You better up your own game, then." She rebutted.

Tony gives you a wry smile. "Don't worry, kid. You forget who you're dealing with here. I'll have some new goodies for when you return."

He crosses his arms. "Now, get out of here. Before I change my mind about letting you borrow Friday."

She grinned. "Yeah, yeah." And with that, she left the workshop - her feet echoed on the floating stairs that shifted under her feet as she made her way to her room to get her gear.

As Victoria ascended the floating stairs to her room, thoughts of the upcoming mission start to swirl through her mind. She begins packing her gear, making sure she has everything she might need in Wakanda. As she sorts through her supplies, a mix of anticipation and apprehension fills her. The unknown always holds a thrill, but it's also a constant reminder of the dangers that lie ahead. Despite the nerves, she can't help but feel a sense of excitement. She's eager to see Wakanda's advanced tech and how it compares to Starks. As she packs, she notices two pictures. One is of her as a kid, asleep in her dad's embrace, and the other is her and Tony, taken not long after, on their first successful mission together. They're a team. She smiles softly before placing both pictures safely inside the bag.

With all the essentials packed, she heads towards the garage. The Quinjet is waiting for her, already fueled and prepped for takeoff. As she approaches, she can see the familiar shape of Friday's housing unit being loaded into the jet.

"All ready to go, Tori?" She asks, her voice filled with anticipation. "I've already downloaded a comprehensive database on Wakandan technology. It's quite impressive."

Victoria nods gently, though Friday can't see her. She was secured in an earpiece in her ear. "What else should I know? About Barnes, about Wakanda...?"

"Barnes' condition is improving with the help of Wakanda's healers and tech. They've already managed to dismantle some of the indoctrination that HYDRA instilled in him," Friday informs. "As for Wakanda, they value their privacy and highly protect their technology. The Dora Milaje, the warrior women, are formidable and will likely keep a close eye on us both." She pauses. "Oh, and the food is fantastic."

Victoria chuckled. "Sadly, I'm not going there for the food." She paused when both her father and Steve stood at the entrance of the Quinjet.

Tony and Steve stood near the Quinjet, watching as Victoria approaches. Tony's expression is a mixture of concern and pride, a look she's seen time and time before. Steve, ever the serious one, nods in greeting. The two men can't help but worry about your well-being, especially for this mission.

"I'll be fine, yeah?" She said to the two of them, in reassurance. She turned to Steve. "I'll bring your best friend home."

Tony gave a small nod, his expression softening, but the worry remains in his eyes. Steve, however, gives a small, almost imperceptible smile of approval.

"We know you will," he reassures. "Be careful in Wakanda. And don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

Victoria nodded. "Sure thing." She went to go into the jet before turning back around and hugging her dad.

Tony is taken aback by her sudden show of affection. His eyes widen slightly before he quickly composes himself. He hugs her tightly, ruffling her hair affectionately. It's a rare moment of parental vulnerability from him, and he cherishes it.

"Stay safe," he whispers, holding her close for a moment more. "We still have plenty to argue over when you get back."

She chuckled. "Yeah, like who let you wear those shoes."

Tony playfully rolls his eyes. "Kid, these shoes are a fashion statement. You wouldn't know style if it smacked you in the face." Tony pulls back, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looks down at his worn-out sneakers, a comfortable staple in his wardrobe. "Besides, these are just... comfortable."

Steve, still standing nearby, can't help but chuckle at the exchange between the two. It's moments like this that remind everyone of the family bond they've formed over the years.

Victoria walked backwards onto the boarding ramp and snickered. "You do realize, I'm the one who did most of the draft designs for your suits?"

Tony gives her a mock-indignant look, his hand over his heart. "Are you saying my suits are outdated?" He feigns hurt, though the playful glint in his eyes reveals his true feelings.

"Maybe we should leave the redesigning to the professionals," he quips with a grin. "Besides, we can't all pull off the casual sneaker-and-suit look."

Steve piped up, waving goodbye to me with a chuckle. "You definitely can't, Tony."

Tony rolls his eyes but can't resist a smile. "Keep it up, Cap. I could always program Friday to play baby shark on infinite loop in your helmet next time we're in the field."

"Hey Friday, keep that as a note." Victoria chuckled loudly...getting onto the Quinjet.

Friday's holographic form appears, shimmering beside you. "Noted," she assures Victoria, her voice filled with digital amusement. "Any other requests for Captain Rogers, while you're at it?"

Victoria smiled. "I'll think of something."

With a final farewell wave, the Quinjet's door seals shut behind her. She's enclosed in the sleek interior, the hum of the engines signaling that the adventure is just beginning.

As the Quinjet soars into the sky, heading towards the unknown lands of Wakanda, Victoria is filled with mixed emotions: excitement, anticipation, and a touch of anxiety. But as long as she's got Friday and her wits, she knows that she's ready for whatever comes her way.

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babychaosworld · 2 years ago

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I’ve noticed there aren’t many Namor playlists on Spotify.

So, I made one 🌊🐚💦🫧

hope you enjoy & danceeeee 🐍🪶🧜🏾‍♂️

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lovebugism · 2 months ago

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How about something smutty for the Thunderbolts headcanons 😳 Like how each of them would react to you making them cum in their pants

thank you so much for requesting and feeding my hyperfixation!! below you will find four separate baby blurbs for bucky, john, yelena, and bob. each section will have it's own summary, warnings, and whole lotta smut! enjoy :D

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you're with him in wakanda when he's cured of the trigger words in his head. he's able to touch you for the first time without feeling scared of himself. (established relationship, post-cacw | 1k words)

Bucky Barnes can’t remember the last time he felt this free. Maybe sometime in 1942, he guesses — before he got drafted, before Hydra captured him, before they put those goddamn words in his head. It feels weird that they’re gone now; to be without the dark cloud of impending doom that, at any moment, someone could utter the words and he’d just snap.

But now, freshly cured and living on the Wakandan countryside, he can touch you for the first time without being terrified of himself.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles as his vibranium hand trails up the expanse of your bare back. He keeps his flesh one on your thigh, smoothing his thumb over the plush skin there, and tilts his scruffy chin to smile up at you. He’s got you straddled over his lap, barely clothed and bathed in golden candelight, like some kinda angel brought to life.

“You’re pretty,” you correct with a lovesick grin, raking your hands through his silky, growing locks.

Bucky leans instinctively into your touch. “Don’t make this about me,” he says, squinting.

“It is about you,” you remind him with a giggle, ducking down to kiss his neck. “I’m supposed to compliment you—” Your lips brush his pulse in a chaste kiss. Bucky fights back a shiver. “—Supposed to make you feel good.”

“You do,” Bucky sighs a contented moan, pulling you further into him. “You always do…”

His vibranium hand curls up your back and towards your shoulder. His other one holds tightly to your hip. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck until your bare chest is flush with his scruffy one — until your clothed cunt brushes his cock, half-hard and throbbing within the confines of his boxers.

A moan rumbles in Bucky’s throat. You feel it against your lips when you press them to his adam’s apple. “Do you want to?” you murmur against him, voice low like honey. “‘Cause it kinda seems like you want to.”

Bucky’s head is too clouded to respond properly to your teasing. He just nods his heavy head and flexes his hips beneath you in a desperate attempt to relieve the pulsing ache in his boxers. You let him, and with his consent, begin to rock slowly over his lap.

“Say it,” you whisper in his ear.

“Want it,” he pants in yours. “Want you.”

“You have me, Buck,” you slur, trying to peer at him through the haze in your vision. Your panties drag over his stiffening cock and leave a damp spot at the center of them. You find yourself chasing your high just as much as Bucky’s.

You snuck a few sips of alcohol to quell your worry before watching Ayo recite the wretched words back to the man haunted by them. You feel the consequences creeping up on you now and find yourself rambling before you can stop it, half-deluded with pleasure.

“‘M already yours. My pussy’s already— shit,” you whimper in time with Bucky’s groaning when your clit drags over his lap. Through pants, you beg him, “Say you wanna fuck me. Please. Don’t wanna cum ’til you’re inside me.”

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky whines, face screwed and eyes shut tight. He tries to form the words in his head, but all he can think about is how wet you are — and how his leaking cock has left a damp spot in his underwear — and how the combination of both makes the friction between you so dizzying. “I wanna… fuck—”

“Uh-huh,” you tease with a slow nod when you sense he’s getting close. “You can do it, Buck. C’mon. There you go.”

He can’t tell if you’re trying to coach him into saying the words or push him headfirst into an orgasm. He hopes it’s the latter, ‘cause he feels himself bursting into his boxers a second later.

“Fuck!” he blurts when he cums, half-muffled and half-whined, like it pains him.

He holds your hips in both hands, keeping you still above him in a crueler grip than he means to. The quiet bedroom fills with the sound of crackling candles and his groaning. He tilts his face to the ceiling and moans into the golden darkness with his eyes squeezed shut. The sudden orgasm racks through his body in so many shivers up his spine, three warm ropes spit into the confines of his boxers.

“‘M sorry,” he pants when it’s done, still slightly airy from the aftershocks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— Didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” you promise with a soft laugh as your own building pleasure begins to subside. You cup his scruffy face in your palms and try to kiss him through the smile on your lips. “You deserve it, Buck,” you whisper against his mouth, between your delicate kisses. “You deserve everything.”

Bucky shakes his head between your palms and smooths his fingers over the bruises he unknowingly stamped into your skin. “Don’t care about everything,” he murmurs lowly. “Just you.”

Your eyes narrow in a sarcastic squint, though you can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Do you think we can get Shuri to erase the cheesiness from your brain, too?”

“Sure,” Bucky scoffs, smiling still, as he shoves you playfully onto your back. You giggle when you hit the mattress, caging your smile between your teeth as the man crawls back between your legs. He lies flat on the mattress, face-to-face with your clothed pussy. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, obviously sarcastic. “Mhm. Very much.”

“Maybe I’ll just go get her then,” Bucky murmurs, punctuating his quip with a kiss to your inner thigh as he spreads them apart. You shiver when his scruff scrapes your delicate skin. “Tell her to put me back under the ice—”

Your feet lock behind his back to keep him against you. Bucky laughs and curls his arms around your thighs as you prop yourself on your elbows to shoot him a death glare. “You’re not going anywhere, Sergeant Barnes.”

And, truth be told, Bucky’s exactly where he wants to be.

JOHN WALKER X READER — john hates when valentina pairs the two of you on missions together. until he doesn't. (enemies to lovers, pre-thunderbolts, cw for brief mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)

John Walker can’t stand you most days. You’re too reckless, too impulsive, too quick to put yourselves in situations that might kill you. He hates that Valentina paired you together just as much as he hates that he cares so much about your well-being.

He knows it’d be easier to let you get yourself killed, to have one less thing to worry about, but he somehow ends up kissing you instead.

“I can’t fucking stand you,” he grumbles through labored breaths, with your spit still shining on his swollen mouth. He cages your body between his larger one and the unforgiving wall behind you. The men guarding the vault outside surely won’t mind the sexual tension rising inside it, seeing as they’re half-dead already.

You smile in the face of his anger until the fresh cut on your mouth starts to sting. “But you can fuck me?” you pant, eyes glazed over as they dart back and forth between his dilated ones. “I mean, you want to, right? ’S why you locked me in here, isn’t it?”

“I locked you in here because there were three guys outside trying to kill you, if you forgot.”

“Two,” you correct in a witty deadpan. “I killed the third one.”

“And I killed the other two, who gives a shit—”

“You’re obsessed with me, Walker,” you grin, pulling him close by the belt loops on his suit.

Despite his near palpable rage, he melts into you with ease. The blonde man stumbles closer until he’s towering over you — hair messy from his helmet, face bruised, ocean eyes staring daggers into you.

“Well, that’s very presumptuous of you,” he gripes.

“I don’t think it is,” you lilt lowly and nudge his clothed crotch with your thigh.

You watch the words of an argument form and dissolve on his tongue all at once. John exhales hard through his nose as his eyes go glassy. He hadn’t realized how hard he was until you pressed yourself against him — how sensitive he was — how long it had been since he’d had any sort of release.

“Admit it—” you whisper, pulling him closer until his stiff cock is pressed between your bodies. He smells like cologne and copper pennies, likely from the blood darkening his navy blue suit. You’re almost sure you’d be able to feel his racing heart from here, if it weren’t for the thick layers separating you. “—You love me…”

“I hate you,” he corrects, though his dark eyes cloud with lust.

Your smile widens. The cut on the corner of your mouth begins to weep all over again. John reaches for your jaw without thinking, cupping his palm there and swiping the crimson away with his thumb.

“No, you don’t,” you coo with a shake of your head. The room goes quiet then, filled only by John’s heavy breaths and the clinking of his belt as you undo the buckle. You keep him close with one hand around his belt loop while the other creeps around the front of him. His breath catches in his throat when your fingers dip beneath the hem.

You don’t think he realizes how he’s rocking himself against your thigh. Or the way he subconsciously shakes his head in agreement.

“You’ve always thought about this, haven’t you?” you continue mercilessly, grinning when your fingertips meet the coarse thatch of hair above his cock.

John nods his heavy head and leans further into you, propping himself on the wall as his eyes flutter shut. He deserves this, he tells himself, for saving your ass a hundred times over. You owe him one, really.

“I know you have,” you whisper in his ear. “I bet you’ve gotten yourself off to the thought of me a thousand times.”

Again, John nods in response without ever really noticing it. Just like he doesn’t really notice the release building within him — like a creeping hand up his spine, or a tightening knot in his lean stomach. He just keeps rubbing himself against you, chasing a high he barely knows is there.

“But I think when you imagined me making you cum…” you trail off and smile when John moans against your pulse. “…You always thought it’d be inside me.”

John tenses at the thought of fucking you. He’s left trembling above you as a sudden orgasm racks through his body. The quiet room fills with his poorly heldback groans and your giggling while he cums in his pants. He feels the evidence, warm and wet, blooming in his boxers — just like the red-hot embarrassment exploding in his chest.

He pulls away to find you grinning like the devil.

“Told ya,” you monotone and pull your hand from his boxers, only slightly mourning the fact that you never actually got to touch him. “You’re obsessed with me.”

John scoffs, like he has any room to be ambivalent after humping your thigh like a dog. He zips up his pants, belt buckle clinking as he fastens it again. “You ruined my suit,” is all he can think to say as you walk past him.

You roll your eyes and wrench open the heavy door to the vault, stepping over the bloody bodies littered on the other side of it. “Bill me,” you call over your shoulder.

YELENA BELOVA X READER — yelena is full of adrenaline after a mission, and you only know one way to calm her down (established relationship, post-thunderbolts, cw for very brief mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)

Yelena Belova has you flat on your back. The rest of the Avengers tower is dark, quiet, and asleep — each of you recovering from the latest mission in the sanctuary of your bedrooms. The blonde Russian girl is too full of adrenaline to rest, though, never mind how much she could probably use the sleep. She’s a relentless force on top of you — because of the adrenaline, of course, and not because she nearly lost you.

She tugs your pants down your legs with a pair of merciless hands, bruised knees digging into the foot of the mattress across from you. The mattress squeaks with each of your movements, and you fight back a laugh. “Be gentle, Belova!” you scold in a whisper. “Walker’s gonna hear.”

(John had the misfortune of his bedroom being one story below yours. And the floors were surprisingly thin. Or so he says.)

Yelena scoffs, face screwed. “I don’t care,” she mutters, voice accented and low like honey. “Let him hear.”

She makes a big show of climbing back over your body, moving much more violently than normal over the worn bed frame, so it creaks louder beneath her. “Yelena!” you snap quietly through gritted teeth, but hold her gently by the hips when she straddles you just the same.

“What?!” she exclaims, louder than necessary for the late, late night, as she tugs her shirt over her head. She throws the fabric to the side, discarding it with the rest of your pajamas littered on the floor — leaving both of you in mismatched sets of old, cotton underwear.

“God, you’re such a child,” you grouse and cross your arms beneath your head.

Yelena grins. “Stop flirting with me,” she lilts lowly and ducks down to kiss you.

Your eyes flutter shut when her plush lips trail from your jaw down to your neck. “We should rest, Lena…” you tell her, sighing when her teeth scrape your pulse. “We’re gonna be sore in the morning.”

You feel her mouth curl into a smile against your skin. “I hope so.”

“Child,” you repeat.

Yelena gets relentless rather quickly, feral in a way only a previous world-class assassin could be. She forgets about the exhaustion and the bruises that ache to the bone, littered across both your bodies. Her head fills only with thoughts of making you feel good, touching you like it could be the last time she ever gets to.

“Lena, Lena, Lena—” you echo, reaching for her wrist where her hand’s shoved into your panties. “Slow down,” you laugh.

“Why?” she whines.

You find her pretty face contorted in a girlish pout when you cup her cheeks in your hands. “Because we have all night,” you coo, smoothing your thumbs over her flushed jaw. “We don’t have to rush.”

Your words strike something deep in her chest. She refuses to let the vulnerability show.

“I know that,” she scoffs, trying to look unbothered as you smooth the top of her tank top down her chest. You tuck it beneath her breasts, and her pink nipples perk when the cool air hits them.

“Good,” you hum, lifting your head to take her left breast in your mouth.

“I just— I wanted to make you feel good—” she whines in her low Russian accent, voice cracking when you nudge her clothed cunt with your thigh. “—Oh…”

You smile into her chest, teeth scraping her sensitive nipple. Yelena keeps you pressed against her with a hand on the back of your head. Your arms curl around her back to keep her flush to your thigh. You feel the warmth of her cunt against your skin, and the wet spot slowly forming there.

The stubborn girl turns into a puddle above you, in more ways than one. You feel her shuddering as she buries each of her moans in your hair. Your mouth leaves her nipple with a quiet pop, and a thin string of saliva threatens to connect you when you pull away.

“Are you gonna cum, Lena?” you coo, swollen mouth curling into a soft smile. “I’ve barely even touched you—”

Her fingers tighten in your hair. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she pleads in a broken voice.

You return to her chest, sucking on her sensitive nipple until she keens. She exhales a hoarse moan above you, flexing her hips over your thigh to keep her clit flush to your skin. She lets out several pretty “Uh, uh, uh”’s before tensing suddenly above you.

Yelena holds her breath, grips you tight by your shoulder and the back of your neck, and begins to tremble over your thigh. “Oh, shit…” she moans, then sighs. “Oh, shit—”

It comes out more disappointed the second time, as she pulls back from you to flash you a girlish pout. “What?” you laugh, mouth shining with spit, as you smooth a rouge blonde tendril behind her ear.

“I was supposed to make you feel good,” she whines, Russian accent sounding deep in her mouth. “I had it all planned— I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing we’ve got all the time in the world, right?”

Yelena’s frown curls into a more devilish grin at your words.

Neither of you get any sleep that night. Walker, included.

ROBERTY REYNOLDS X READER — a year after the void nearly destroyed new york, you're still teaching bob that it's okay to feel good (new-ish relationship, post-thunderbolts | 1k words)

Robert Reynolds is still getting used to touching you. He’s spent nearly every day with you since you found him — learning how to use his powers for good, how to touch you without hurting you, how to be human again. It’s been a year since then, and he’s starting to get the hang of it. But sometimes he thinks you have more faith in him than he does in himself.

You kiss him hard enough to bruise him on the center of the living room couch, with Sunset Boulevard playing quietly on the large TV behind you. Bob’s anxiety is only partly quelled by the rest of the Thunderbolts’ absence, but he’s still slightly scared of himself — what if The Void returned and swallowed him whole again? Who would be there to stop him from hurting you if it did?

You don’t seem half as panicked about the whole thing as your lips stamp wet kisses up and down the expanse of his long neck. “You’re so pretty, Bobby,” you murmur into his warm skin. “Such a pretty boy…”

Bob swallows hard at your praise, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He shifts uncomfortably beneath you on the sofa when he feels his cock twitching in the confines of his sweatpants. There’s a need for release inside of him that he can’t ignore, but he cares more about keeping you safe. Safe from himself.

You pull back, mouth swollen from your assault on his neck. “Can I…?” you smile and trail off, hands sliding down his clothed, lean chest to the waistband of his sweatpants.

Bob doesn’t know what you’re planning. It excites him as much as it frightens him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish until he finds the words. “Oh. I— I don’t— I don’t know,” he stammers through an awkward chuckle.

You shrug despite the pang of disappointment in your chest. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—”

“It’s not that!” Bob blurts, rushing to hold you by the waist when you threaten to move off him. (He forgets, for maybe the first time ever, to be scared of touching you.) He swallows hard at the look you give him, blinking wildly with glassy eyes. “I just… I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You’re not gonna hurt me,” you assure him with a pretty laugh. “You don’t even have to touch me.”

Bob’s brows furrow. “What?” he wonders aloud.

You don’t answer him with words. You just flash him a mischievous smirk and shift on the couch until you’re no longer straddling him. You press your lips to his — once, twice, and then a third time — in a silent reminder to relax before your mouth trails down his neck once more.

You move past his jaw, to his pulse, and down towards his collarbone, sinking further onto your knees as you kiss down his body.

Bob exhales a shuddering breath and tilts his heavy head towards the back of the couch. He feels his hands start to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists, instead.

“Relax, baby,” you murmur between the kisses you press to his clothed sternum. “Let me make you feel good.”

Bob tenses beneath you when your hands brush his cock, growing harder in his boxers by the second. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore the need swelling inside him. “Um… Maybe we should…” he stammers, voice shaking. “Maybe we should, like, slow down?”

He covers his desperate plea with a wavering half-smile.

You nod, now fully on your knees between his spread thighs, and give him a kind, tight-lipped smile in return. “‘Course. I’ll go slow. Promise.”

You feel Bob trembling beneath your hand when you lift the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fine hair sprinkled on his lean stomach as you press chaste kisses to every inch of revealed skin. He takes in a shaking breath, burning red hot under your touch.

He doesn’t know how to tell you how sensitive he is — how, if he thinks about you and your soft touches for too long, that he’ll explode. So he doesn’t. He just squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think about anything other than the way you’re making him feel just now.

“I’ll take care of you, Bobby. I promise,” you slur between languid kisses, holding his shirt up with one hand while your other teases the hem of his boxers. “I’ll make you feel so good—” Your lips brush the coarse hair peeking from his waistline. You flash him a pair of glassy, mischievous eyes.

“And maybe—” A kiss. “If you’re real good—” Another, a bit lower this time. “I’ll let you fuck me—”

Bob face twists. His brows furrow, his eyes shut tight, his nose scrunches at the bridge. He makes a strangled noise in his throat, growing so tense beneath you that it makes him tremble.

You just freeze, frightened that you might’ve done something wrong. You did just promise to take it slow, after all — and here he is now, cumming in his boxers.

He feels the warmth of his orgasm wetting the plaid fabric and sticking awkwardly to his skin. He fails to stave off the pang of embarrassment searing his chest.

“I’m sorry,” both of you blurt at the same time.

Bob’s eyes snap open, still slightly glazed over. “You’re sorry?!” he gapes. “What are you sorry for?”

You falter for a moment. “I don’t know,” you answer and start to laugh.

The pretty sound fills the quiet tower, and Bob can’t help but laugh along with you. He tilts his heavy head back against the couch as you rise from your knees, straddling him once more and avoiding the sensitive mess in his pants.

“Did it feel good, at least?” you ask, smoothing your palms over his trembling shoulders.

Bob nods and swallows hard. “Yeah,” he mumbles, then clears his throat. “I haven’t— Haven’t been with anyone in a while, so… I guess you could say I’m… a little out of practice.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” you coo, ducking down to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. Even with his eyes closed, he can hear the smile in your voice as you whisper, “I’ll whip you back into shape in no time, Reynolds.”

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mind-empty-just-fictional-people · 4 months ago

Text

Fingerprints

main masterlist | marvel masterlist

summary: bucky remembers every time your fingers graze his skin

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 2.4k

warnings: mentions of torture, bucky is touch starved

timeline: set in an au after civil war

author’s note: touch starved!bucky barnes is so heartbreaking </3. (picture this bucky during the story, but he has the vibranium arm)

Bucky remembered every bad thing he did as the Winter Soldier. Like scars on his soul, he remembered watching the life drain from their eyes. He remembered every grueling torture session Hydra subjected him to.

He hated how well he remembered his past, and it haunted him nightly. The only thing that was keeping him sane was… you.

He had met you several months ago during the mess with the Sokovia Accords, but he’d only really known you a couple of weeks now. The moment he re-met you, your kind nature swept him off his feet. Up until then, he’d only received kindness from the Wakandans and Steve. But here you were, a stranger who only knew his worst sides, yet you were so gentle with him, so soft-spoken.

“Morning sunshine,” you chirped from the compound’s kitchen, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. “How’d you sleep?” you asked Bucky as he sat down at the kitchen island, facing where you stood.

“Slept fine,” he replied. His eyes were tired, burdened with the memories of the nightmares last night had taunted him with. He kept his focus on you. He watched as you stirred creamer into your coffee and as you blew on it through pursed lips to cool it down.

“You okay?” you asked, noticing how intensely he was watching you.

“I’m fine,” he repeated the word.

“Uh huh, sure hun.” You nodded your head. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes please.”

“Coming right up.”

You grabbed a Stark Industries mug from the cabinet and poured him some coffee. After asking if he wanted any you poured in some creamer as well. You slid the cup across the counter and your fingers brushed his knuckles as he took it.

“Thanks, doll,” he said. He wasn’t just thanking you for the drink, he was thanking you for the fingerprints you left on his right hand, the hand that now held the warm cup of coffee. “How’d you sleep?” he asked, wanting to keep the conversation going but unable to think of a topic change.

“I slept fine,” you replied in a lowered voice, mimicking his. The impression worked because he let out a short laugh.

Bucky thought about this short interaction all day. He thought about it as he trained in the gym and as he took a quick shower afterward. He thought about it as he fell asleep that night; he thought about your soft hand brushing his calloused one. He tried to focus on the thought of you as he drifted off the sleep, yet his dreams were still plagued with ghosts of his past.

The next few mornings went about the same.

“How’d you sleep?” you’d ask.

“Fine,” he would respond.

You would ask him if he wanted coffee and he always did. You’d give him the cup and each time lightly brush his hand with the tips of your fingers.

It was barely an interaction. But to Bucky? He looked forward to it. He looked forward to the soft touch of your hand, he looked forward to the smile lines that would deepen when he made you laugh, and he looked forward to the brief conversation the two of you shared each morning.

One morning was different for Bucky, though. He could barely get himself out of bed; images of his dreams still swirling in his mind. He all but collapsed onto the kitchen chair as he sat to speak with you.

“Whoa, you don’t look so good, Bucky. You alright?” you asked, your voice laced with concern and kindness.

“Just didn’t sleep great, that’s all,” he grumbled, slightly slurring his words.

You shrugged it off and began making his coffee just how he liked it. When you handed it to him, your fingers brushed against him like they had done mornings prior. He savored the moment of skin-to-skin contact before it was broken again.

He thanked you and began sipping the coffee. You watched him intently as he did so.

“What’s wrong, Bucky?” you asked him after a beat of silence.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he protested.

“Are you sick?” you asked. You walked around the island table and stood closer to him. “Can I touch you?” you asked as you brought your hand up to cup his cheek.

He couldn’t believe his ears. You’d just asked for his consent to do something to him; something as gentle as touching his cheek.

He couldn’t get the word out fast enough; “Y-Yes.”

You quickly put your hand on his cheek and furrowed your brows with concentration. You then put the back of your hand against his forehead.

“You don’t seem to have a fever,” you commented.

It was official; Bucky was in heaven. He was relishing in the feeling of your touch. Your left hand on his forehead, your right hand resting on his shoulder. He felt like he had been in darkness for ages and had only now begun to see pure light.

It was over too soon when you pulled back.

“Maybe you need some more sleep, Bucky,” you suggested.

It’d been two weeks since Bucky’s favorite moment with you. Since then he’d barely gotten alone time with you; it was always interrupted by Sam or Steve coming into the kitchen for breakfast.

He cursed the timing; he’d sit down just as Sam and Steve entered the kitchen, completely disrupting the routine he had going.

Today was no different.

“Morning gorgeous,” Sam exclaimed when he walked into the kitchen. “You make me those pancakes again?”

“You know it, stud.”

Bucky hated the “will they, won’t they” tension you two seemed to have going. He didn’t know you both swore up and down it was platonic flirting.

“You’re too good to me, baby.” Sam smiled widely.

Bucky stared daggers at him, wishing the earth would swallow himself or Sam up whole, anything to put an end to this torment.

But then you glanced his way and suddenly all his annoyance dissipated. The color of your eyes, hair, and lips under the harsh kitchen lighting made him feel like the luckiest man in the world just to be in your presence.

“Bucky, you want some?” you offered him a plate with two pancakes. He happily accepted yet your fingers didn’t brush his hand when you gave it to him. Stupid plate, being big enough for two people to hold onto at the same time.

He began eating the pancakes along with Steve and Sam.

“Goddamn these are good,” Sam practically moaned dramatically. “You are an angel, woman.”

“Oh stop it,” you laughed off his comment. Bucky hated feeling so jealous of Sam.

The next time Bucky touched you was during a sparring session in the gym. Several trainees along with Sam, Steve, Wanda, and Nat were paired up and fighting each other. You were partnered with Bucky, Steve was partnered with Wanda, and Sam was partnered with Nat.

You threw a punch and he blocked it just as you expected, you kicked at him and again he blocked it.

After a while, Steve yelled “Switch,” which meant it was Bucky’s turn to play offense.

As he was punching you missed a block and he punched you square in the cheek with his vibranium hand.

“Fuck,” you gasped, covering your right cheek with both hands. “Oh fuck, that hurts!”

Bucky hadn’t felt such pure, immediate guilt in so long.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “Shit, fuck, I’m so, so sorry!”

“It’s okay, not your fault,” you said between pained gasps. While you were a trained fighter and Avenger, you weren’t a super soldier. And without powers, a vibranium punch hurts like hell.

Bucky wanted to punch himself in return for hurting you. He wished to take the bruise forming on your cheekbone and give it to himself instead.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, sounding defeated.

He had been so excited to be partnered with you for training, he had been looking forward to it for days (Steve put the pair schedules up early) but now he wished you had been paired up with Sam instead.

“Let me kiss it better,” he could imagine Sam saying if he had made the same mistake. The bruise wouldn’t be half as big if it had been Sam’s left hand instead of his own. He could imagine Sam would pull you into a hug to express his apologetic sorrow, yet Bucky assumed you’d rather not get a hug from himself.

“Not your fault,” you told him again. You could tell by the expression on his face what he was putting himself through. “Make it up to me by walking me to the freezer for some ice?”

He was shocked by your words. You wanted him to accompany you to the gym’s kitchen? You weren’t going to immediately run to Sam and ask him for help instead?

“Of course,” he said. “Anything you need.”

“Ice that wound, Y/n,” Steve said from a few yards away.

“Already on it, Cap,” you replied.

You sat on a bench inside the gender-neutral lockers with Bucky on your left. You held the ice up to your cheek as you both stayed silent for a while.

“I’m really sorry, doll,” Bucky whispered, wanting to break what he felt was an uncomfortable silence.

“I forgive you, Bucky,” you said. You wished he could understand it wasn't his fault, but at the very least you wanted him to know you forgave him. “Besides, it was kinda my fault for not blocking that punch, I should’ve seen it coming a mile away.”

“I thought I went too quickly,” he admitted.

Truthfully, he hadn’t in fact thrown too quick of a punch. In reality, you had been distracted by the color of his eyes under the gym’s harsh lighting. The way they shone such a beautiful, bright blue had you so mesmerized you failed to block the (fairly slow because Bucky was going easy on you) punch.

“Not at all, hun,” you assured him.

Again you both sat in silence. You didn’t mind it, you didn’t mind Bucky’s company. Bucky, however, felt awful about the silence and thought it was a sign you didn't want to talk to him.

“Can you do me a favor?” you asked. “It’s kinda a big one so feel free to say no.”

“Sure,” he replied. “Anything for you, Y/n,” he wanted to say.

“My hands are getting really numb, would you mind holding the ice pack for a bit?”

“Okay,” he said. You turned to face him, moving your left leg so you were straddling the bench as Bucky did the same with his right leg. The two of you now faced each other as Bucky asked; “Can I touch you?”

That warmed your heart and you nodded.

He reached out his vibranium arm and cupped the ice pack against your cheek as you let go of it. You smiled warmly and put your hand overtop his.

“B-Better?” he asked, his nerves running wild.

“So much.”

The punch had sent your relationship with Bucky back lightyears. Every time you talked with him he couldn’t help but stare at the swollen bruise he’d caused.

It bothered you how guilty he still felt even after you willingly took the blame. You could tell he was losing sleep over it so one night you decided to confront him while he stayed up past three AM.

“Bucky, what’re you doing up so late?” you asked, walking into one of the living rooms and seeing him sitting in the corner reading a book. “Is everything okay?”

You took a seat near him on the couch, your brows furrowed with worry.

“Could ask you the same thing, doll,” he retorted.

“I’m serious, Bucky, I’m worried about you.”

“You’re worried about me? Why?”

“Cause I’ve noticed how tired you are when you talk to me each morning, and I notice how you strain yourself trying to focus when you look at me.”

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout me, I’m fine.”

“I know I don’t have to, Bucky,” you said softly. “I worry about you because I care about you.”

“You… care about me?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” you replied quickly and reached out your hand. “Can I touch you?” He nodded and you rested it on his knee. “You matter, Bucky. Your health matters. And if you wanna talk about whatever’s keeping you up, I’m here for you.”

Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off your hand.

“Thank you,” was all he could choke out.

He eventually began to open up to you. Bit by bit, night by night, you were truly getting to know the great Lieutenant James Barnes.

The more you got to know him the deeper in love with him you fell. You felt selfish for wanting to kiss the pain away, but you couldn’t help it. All you wanted to do was hold him tight till he fell asleep in your arms. But that’s not what he wanted, you assumed. He seemed to be barely okay with the brief touches up till this point.

Whenever you could, whenever you weren’t too exhausted, you would stay up with him. A couple of times you both ended up sleeping on the couch because you fell asleep and Bucky didn’t feel right moving you without your permission. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep next to you, but it happened anyway.

One night you went to speak with him like you had done before but this time was different.

You stood in front of where he sat and when he looked up at you the light caught the glint in his eyes and made you aware of his tear-stained face.

“Can I touch you?” you asked, just as you had done time and time again.

“Always,” he replied. You cupped his face with your hands.

“Is this okay?” you asked, hands moving to tangle with his hair.

“It’s more than okay,” he replied, leaning on your stomach as he brought his hands to rest on your hips. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t merely thanking you for staying up with him, but for the fingerprints you were leaving on his very soul. The lingering feeling of your soft touch on his trauma-filled skin.

He didn’t dare tell you about his most recent dream — a dream in which the Winter Soldier took your life.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes comfort #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #sebastian stan #by mind empty just fictional people #by astrid #marvel x you #marvel x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel fic #userastrid #usermindempty

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rulerofstars · 2 months ago

Text

autumn whispers

oneshot: in the space between being a public hero and a private man, between the chaos of saving the world and the peace of your shared sanctuary, lies the most profound truth—that even after facing the darkness of the void, bucky barnes still finds his way home to you.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff, fluff... more fluff. thunderbolts. bucky barnes. 1.9k words.

The warm studio lights beamed down on the polished hardwood floor of the talk show set. Outside, autumn leaves danced in the crisp October air, but inside, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the audience quieted down. A montage of explosive battle footage played on the large screen behind the host's desk: scenes of the Thunderbolts fighting side by side against the latest world-ending threat.

"And we're back with our very special guest tonight," the host, Marissa, announced with practiced enthusiasm as the camera panned to her and her guest. "The man who went from war hero, to villain, to hero again, to congressman, and now back to saving the world—Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!"

The audience erupted into applause as the camera focused on Bucky. You couldn't help but lean closer to your television screen, heart fluttering despite yourself. There he was, Bucky Barnes, looking almost unfairly handsome in a navy blue button-down that brought out the steel blue of his eyes. His brown hair, now grown out to just below his chin, was tucked behind his ears with a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead.

He smiled politely, the expression warm but reserved in that way only Bucky could manage. The past decade had smoothed some of the harder edges from his face, but the slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was in the spotlight, remained.

"Thank you for having me, Marissa," he replied, his voice carrying that gentle gravel that always sent shivers down your spine.

"So, Congressman Barnes, or should I call you Sergeant Barnes again?" Marissa asked with a flirtatious edge to her voice, leaning slightly toward him.

"James is fine," he answered with a small, practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"James," she echoed, clearly delighted. "After three years representing New York's 14th district in Congress, many were surprised when you answered the call to rejoin the Avengers for this latest crisis. Tell us about that decision."

Bucky shifted in his seat, his vibranium hand, now sleekly designed with Wakandan tech that allowed it to appear almost indistinguishable from his right except for a subtle metallic sheen, rested comfortably on his knee.

"Well, when you've been fighting as long as I have, you learn that duty comes in many forms," he started, his voice thoughtful. "For the past few years, I thought my duty was best served in Congress, fighting for veterans' rights and rehabilitation programs for enhanced individuals. But when the call came that the Thunderbolts needed backup..." He paused, a shadow of something deeper crossing his features. "Some battles need to be fought on different fronts."

You smiled at the television, remembering the late-night conversations that had preceded his decision. The worry in his eyes, the way he'd held you close as if trying to memorize the feel of you in his arms before leaving.

"And what a battle it was!" Marissa exclaimed. "The footage we've seen is just incredible. Working alongside the Thunderbolts again after your own time on the team—how did that feel?"

Bucky's expression softened slightly. "Like coming home, in some ways. That team—we've been through a lot together. There's a trust that develops when you've fought side by side with people who've also known what it's like to seek redemption."

"Speaking of coming home," Marissa segued smoothly, her tone shifting to something more personal as she leaned even closer, "one thing our viewers are dying to know, is there someone special waiting for you when you return from saving the world? The Internet has been abuzz with speculation about Congressman Barnes' love life."

The camera zoomed in slightly on Bucky's face, catching the nearly imperceptible tightening around his eyes. You held your breath, knowing what was coming.

"No comment on that front," he replied diplomatically. "I prefer to keep my personal life private."

Marissa wasn't deterred. "So you're saying you're single and available?" she pressed, her smile widening.

A flash of amusement crossed Bucky's face, there and gone in an instant that most viewers would miss. But you knew that look, he was thinking of you.

"I'm saying that some parts of life are sacred enough to keep away from the spotlight," he countered gently but firmly. "I learned that lesson the hard way over many decades."

"Fair enough," Marissa conceded, though she looked slightly disappointed. "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of viewers who'll be happy to hear there might still be a chance with the heroic congressman."

Bucky gave a noncommittal smile as the conversation shifted to policies he had championed in Congress and how his perspective as both a veteran and an enhanced individual had shaped his legislative priorities.

You switched off the television with a fond shake of your head. He'd handled that perfectly, as always. The agreement you'd both come to early in your relationship, to keep your love life completely separate from his public persona had served you well. No reporters camped outside your door, no intrusive questions about your past, no scrutiny of every aspect of your relationship.

Just the two of you, living your quiet life together between his more public responsibilities.

You glanced at the clock, he'd be home soon. The interview had been pre-recorded three days ago, before he'd returned from Washington. With a smile, you headed to the kitchen to finish preparing his favorite autumn meal.

The door clicked open quietly just as you were pulling the apple cider from the stove. The familiar sound of Bucky's footsteps—always lighter than you'd expect from a man his size—made your heart leap.

"Something smells amazing," his voice called from the entryway.

You turned to see him standing in the doorway of your small but cozy kitchen, jacket already hung by the door, boots removed. His hair was slightly tousled from the autumn wind, cheeks tinged pink from the cold. The sight of him, not Congressman Barnes, not the Winter Soldier, not even Avenger Bucky, but just your Bucky—made warmth spread through your chest.

"Welcome home," you said, setting down the pot and crossing the room to him. "Just in time. I saw your interview."

His arms encircled your waist as he pulled you against his chest, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply as if drawing strength from your scent. "Yeah? How'd I do?"

"Mmm, very diplomatic," you murmured as his lips found the sensitive spot below your ear. "Marissa was really trying her best, wasn't she?"

Bucky chuckled against your skin, the sound reverberating through you. "Didn't even notice," he mumbled. "Was too busy thinking about coming home to you."

You pulled back slightly to look at his face, reaching up to tuck a strand of that soft brown hair behind his ear. His eyes, those incredible blue-gray eyes that had seen nearly a century of history—looked at you with such tenderness it made your breath catch.

"Missed you," he whispered, his voice dropping to that intimate tone reserved only for you.

"It was only three days this time," you reminded him with a smile, though you'd felt every hour of his absence.

"Three days too many," he countered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Congress, Avengers, interviews... none of it compares to this. To you. To us."

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, still amazed after all this time that this man—this complicated, beautiful, heroic man—had chosen a quiet life with you when he could have had anything or anyone.

"I made something special for you," you said, gesturing toward the kitchen where delicious aromas wafted through the apartment.

His eyes lit up with simple pleasure. "You spoil me, doll."

"You deserve to be spoiled," you replied easily. "Now go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

He stole a quick kiss before heading to the bathroom, and you returned to the stove with a smile playing on your lips. The routine was familiar, comforting, a pocket of normalcy carved out of extraordinary circumstances.

The small dining table in your apartment was already set, candles waiting to be lit. Outside your window, the trees on your quiet Brooklyn street displayed their autumn finery, reds, golds, and oranges creating a fiery tapestry against the darkening evening sky. You'd chosen this apartment together three years ago, when Bucky had first run for Congress, close enough to his district office but far enough from the heart of the city to give you both room to breathe.

Bucky returned, changed into a soft henley and comfortable pants, his hair damp and combed back from his face. The scent of his cologne, subtle notes of cedar and bergamot—filled your senses as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, helping you bring the food to the table, lighting the candles, pouring the cider into the ceramic mugs you'd bought together at a craft fair last autumn. As he passed behind you, his hand brushed against the small of your back, a gentle touch that sent pleasant shivers up your spine.

"So," you began as you settled into your seats, Bucky choosing to sit close beside you rather than across the table. He casually rested his hand on your thigh, thumb making small, gentle circles against the fabric of your pants. The warmth of his touch radiated through you as you leaned slightly into him. "How did the debriefing go? The real one, not the TV-friendly version."

Bucky took a bite of the food, closing his eyes briefly in appreciation before answering. His face was so close to yours that you could feel the gentle warmth of his breath, inhale the intoxicating blend of his natural musk and subtle cologne. "Better than expected. Bob says hi, by the way. Wants to know when we're coming over for dinner."

"Tell him anytime he's willing to cook," you teased.

Bucky smiled, a genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Will do." He took another bite, then added more softly, "It felt good, being back in the field. Different than Congress. More immediate. In Congress, you fight for change that might take years to see. Out there, you know right away if you've made a difference."

You nodded, understanding the complex relationship he had with his dual roles. "You make a difference either way, Buck. Different battles, like you said in the interview."

"Speaking of the interview," he said, a mischievous glint entering his eyes, "sorry about the 'single' implication. You know how it goes."

You waved a dismissive hand. "Please. I knew what I was signing up for." You took a sip of cider, the warm spices dancing on your tongue. "Besides, I kind of enjoy being your best-kept secret, Congressman Barnes."

His expression softened as he turned to face you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to cup your cheek. The candlelight caught the subtle gleam of his vibranium fingers against your skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He tasted of cider and something uniquely him, a taste that never failed to make your heart race. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Not a secret," he corrected gently. "Just private. There's a difference."

"I know," you assured him. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

The decision to keep your relationship out of the public eye had been mutual from the beginning. After everything Bucky had been through, decades of having his choices taken away, years of fighting to reclaim his identity—privacy had become sacred to him. And you, having seen the media circus that surrounded other Avengers' relationships, had readily agreed.

It wasn't hiding; it was preserving something precious.

After dinner, you moved to the small living room, settling onto the worn but comfortable couch that faced the electric fireplace. Outside, rain had begun to fall, pattering gently against the windows. Bucky pulled the handmade quilt, a gift from Wanda, over both of you as you curled against his side.

"Want to watch something?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

Bucky shook his head, his arm tightening around you. "Just want to be here. With you. No screens, no cameras, no reporters. Just us."

You nestled closer, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. His vibranium arm, always slightly cooler than his flesh one, curved protectively around your waist.

"Tell me something good that happened while I was gone," he murmured into your hair.

This was another ritual, finding moments of simple joy to share with each other, a practice that had helped Bucky learn to recognize the good in his life after decades of darkness.

"Mrs. Kapoor from downstairs brought up some homemade samosas yesterday," you told him. "Said they were a thank you for helping her grandson with his history project. I saved you some—they're in the fridge."

"She makes the best samosas in Brooklyn," Bucky said appreciatively. "What else?"

"The maple tree in the park has turned completely red now. It happened almost overnight. And I finished that book you recommended, the one about the lighthouse keeper. You were right, the ending was worth the slow middle."

He smiled against your temple. "I've been reading books long enough to know a good payoff when I see one coming."

"Your turn," you prompted, looking up at him. "Something good from your trip."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm. "There was this kid at the hospital we visited after the battle. Couldn't have been more than eight. Lost his arm in an accident last year." His voice softened. "He showed me his prosthetic—nothing fancy, but he'd decorated it with Avengers stickers. Had Steve's Captain America mask right at the top."

Your heart squeezed. "Bucky..."

"I showed him some of the basic maintenance I do on mine," he continued. "Simple stuff, things his parents could help with. But the way he looked at me, doll..." Bucky shook his head slightly. "Like having one arm didn't make him less. Like it made him special. Connected to something bigger."

You reached for his metal hand, bringing it to your lips and kissing the palm gently. "You changed how he sees himself."

"Maybe," Bucky acknowledged. "That's worth all the congressional hearings and PR interviews combined."

The rain grew heavier outside, drumming a soothing rhythm on the roof. The warm glow from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across Bucky's face, highlighting the contours you'd memorized with your fingertips on countless nights like this one.

"You know," you said thoughtfully, "if Marissa knew what she was missing: quiet nights, pot roast, and rainstorms—she might have tried even harder to get that dating confirmation."

Bucky laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Not a chance. This isn't for sharing." His expression grew more serious as he gazed down at you. "Sometimes I think about how different my life could have been. All those years as the Winter Soldier, then the fighting, the pardons, the political career... None of it prepared me for this."

"For what?" you asked softly.

"For how it would feel to come home to someone who knows all of me—every part, every history, every name I've ever had—and loves me anyway." His voice dropped to a whisper. "For how simple and yet impossible it seemed that I could have this kind of peace."

You shifted to face him fully, cupping his face between your hands. "James Buchanan Barnes, are you getting sentimental on me?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Might be. Happens every autumn. Something about the changing leaves makes a century-old man reflective."

"Well, this century-old man better save some of that reflection for tomorrow," you teased. "We promised to help Yori rake his yard, remember?"

Bucky groaned dramatically. "Why did I agree to that? I was just in a battle to save the world."

"Because he promised to make us sushi afterward," you reminded him. "And because you're a good friend, even when you pretend to be grumpy about it."

He sighed in mock resignation, then suddenly moved, pulling you into his lap in one fluid motion that reminded you of the superhuman strength he usually kept carefully controlled. "Fine. But that means we should make the most of tonight."

Your breath caught as his hands settled on your waist, warm and secure. "Any specific ideas, Congressman?"

His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned closer. "Several. None of which I'll be sharing on national television."

As his lips found yours, gentle at first and then with growing intensity, you smiled against his mouth. Outside, the autumn storm continued, leaves swirling in the wind, the world rushing by with all its complexities and dangers. It was an ordinary moment. And yet, as you padded across the room to join him underneath the sheets, accepting every kiss, every touch, every bit of his being— you knew this was everything neither of you had dared to dream possible.

Congressman, Avenger, Thunderbolt, Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, the world knew him by many names. But in the gentle warmth of a Brooklyn sunset, he was simply yours, and you were his, and that was the greatest truth of all.

#rulerofstars #marvel #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #thunderbolts #marvel thunderbolts #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky x you #the winter soldier #bucky #bucky barnes x reader #marvel fanfic #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfic

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mandoalorian · 14 days ago

Text

to be yours [bucky barnes x f!reader]

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

“nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart.”

inspired by the song turning page — sleeping at last.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

synopsis: when you break up with your boyfriend, you seek comfort and solace in the arms of your best friend, bucky barnes.

warnings: 18+ explicit content (unprotected p in v, f receiving oral, m receiving oral, fingering, body worship, bucky is obsessed with you) mdni, lots of pining and slow burn, friends to lovers, a smidge of angst in the middle, mentions of alcohol, bucky is in therapy, allusions to a toxic ex boyfriend, bucky comforts you through a bad breakup. set post endgame, pre tfatws.

w/c: 11,600>

masterlist

The Brooklyn skyline flickered through Bucky’s window, a jagged line of lights against the autumn dusk. Inside, his apartment was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a vinyl record spinning on the turntable—some old jazz standard Sam had insisted he’d like. Bucky didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t the music that held his attention. It was the phone in his hand, the screen glowing with a photo he couldn’t stop staring at.

You and him, last summer, sprawled on a picnic blanket in Prospect Park. You were laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled in that way that made his chest ache. He’d been mid-eye-roll in the shot, pretending to be annoyed at your bad joke about his “grumpy cat face,” but the corner of his mouth had betrayed him, curling into a smile. Sam had snapped the picture, saying something dumb like, “Y’all look like an old married couple.” Bucky had brushed it off, but the words had stuck, burrowing deep.

He set the phone face-down on the coffee table, like that could shut off the feeling. It didn’t. Bucky leaned back on the couch, running his flesh hand through his hair, the metal one resting heavy on his thigh. The apartment felt too big tonight, too empty. He’d gotten used to the quiet since moving back to Brooklyn after the Blip, after Wakanda, after everything. Therapy, amends, trying to be a person again—it was a routine, but it wasn’t a life. Not really. Not without you.

He’d known you for two years now, ever since Sam introduced you at one of those post-Blip support group things. You’d been volunteering, handing out coffee with that smile that could light up a room, and Bucky, fresh off his Wakandan reset, had barely known how to talk to you. But you’d made it easy, teasing him about his gloves, asking if he was hiding “super-secret spy gear.” He’d mumbled something sarcastic, and just like that, you were friends. Best friends, eventually. The kind who texted at 3 a.m., who showed up with takeout when the other needed it, who knew each other’s silences as well as their words.

And somewhere along the way, Bucky had fallen for you. Hard. Stupidly. The kind of love that made him feel like a kid again, all nerves and hope, but also like a fool, because who was he kidding? You were bright, whole, alive. He was a hundred-and-nine years old in a body that didn’t age, with a rap sheet longer than the Brooklyn Bridge and nightmares that didn’t quit. You deserved better. Always had.

His phone buzzed, snapping him out of it. Your name lit up the screen, and his heart did that traitor thing—skipping a beat before he could tell it to calm down. He grabbed the phone, swiping to open the message.

You: Hey Buck, you free this weekend? Things with Josh are… kinda weird. Could use some bestie time.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. Josh. Your boyfriend of eight months, the guy who’d swept you off your feet with his easy charm and lawyer job. Bucky had met him a few times—dinners, game nights—and every time, he’d had to swallow the urge to say something. Josh wasn’t bad, not exactly, but he didn’t see you. Not the way you deserved. He didn’t notice how your laugh changed when you were nervous, or how you’d ramble about your day when you were happy, or how you’d curl your fingers into your sleeves when you felt small. Bucky noticed. He always noticed.

He typed back, fingers steady despite the knot in his chest: Yeah, I’m free. Name the time, I’m there. You okay?

The three dots appeared, then vanished, then appeared again. Finally: Not sure. Just… need you. Talk soon?

Need you. The words hit like a punch, soft but deep. He wanted to be everything you needed—friend, protector, more—but he’d settle for what you gave him. He always did.

Always, doll, he replied, the old nickname slipping out before he could stop it. He hoped it made you smile.

He set the phone down and stood, pacing to the window. The city hummed below, indifferent to the war in his head. He’d never told you how he felt, not once. At first, it was because he didn’t trust himself, didn’t think he could love anyone without breaking them. Then Josh came along, and Bucky had locked his feelings up tight, because your happiness mattered more than his. But every time you hugged him, every time you fell asleep on his couch during movie nights, every time you looked at him like he was more than a ghost of a man, it got harder to keep quiet.

He pressed his metal hand against the glass, the cold grounding him. Maybe he was selfish, hoping things with Josh were falling apart. Maybe he was broken, wanting you to need him in a way you never had. But he couldn’t help it. He loved you in the quiet way he did everything—fierce, steady, unspoken.

The record skipped, pulling him back. He crossed the room, lifting the needle and setting it back gently. The music started again, a saxophone weaving through the melody like a sigh. He sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, and let himself imagine, just for a moment, what it’d be like to hold you. Not as a friend, but as something more. Your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, your breath against his skin. The thought was so vivid it hurt.

He closed his eyes. One day, maybe, he’d be brave enough to tell you. But not tonight. Tonight, he’d wait, like he always did, ready to be whatever you needed.

A sudden knock at the door jolted Bucky upright, waking him in an instant. It was sharp, desperate, not the casual rap you’d usually give. His heart kicked up a notch, and he crossed the room in three strides, the metal arm whirring softly as he moved.

He opened the door, and there you were—soaked to the bone, hair plastered to your face, mascara streaking down your cheeks like dark rivers. Your eyes were red, swollen, and you were shivering, arms wrapped around yourself like you could hold the pieces together. Bucky’s breath caught, a pang of something fierce and protective twisting in his chest.

“Jesus, doll,” he said, voice rough with worry. “Get in here.”

You didn’t move at first, just stood there, lips trembling. “He’s gone, Buck,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Josh… he just—ended it. Said I’m too much, said he’s done.” A sob choked out, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, like you could shove the hurt back inside.

Bucky didn’t think. He reached for you, pulling you inside and kicking the door shut. The rain had soaked through your jacket, your shirt, leaving you dripping on his hardwood floor, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a blanket from the couch—a soft, gray thing he’d bought because you’d once said it looked cozy—and wrapped it around your shoulders, guiding you to sit. “Stay there,” he said, softer now, but firm. “I’m getting you something warm.”

You nodded, barely, your eyes distant as you sank onto the couch, clutching the blanket like a lifeline. Bucky moved fast, filling a kettle, digging through his sparse kitchen for the chamomile tea you liked. His hands were steady, but his mind was a mess—anger at Josh, worry for you, and that selfish, nagging ache that always flared when you were this close. He shoved it down, like always.

When he came back with the steaming mug, you were still shivering, staring at the floor. He set the tea on the coffee table and crouched in front of you, his flesh hand hovering near your knee before he pulled it back. “Talk to me,” he said, voice low, like he was coaxing a scared animal. “What happened?”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to his, and the raw pain there hit him like a punch. “I don’t even know where to start,” you said, voice small. “It’s been bad for weeks. He’s been… distant, snapping at me for nothing. Tonight, we fought, and he just—he said I’m too emotional, too needy. Said he can’t deal with me anymore.” Your voice cracked, and you looked away, ashamed. “Maybe he’s right.”

“He’s not,” Bucky said, sharper than he meant to. He softened his tone, leaning closer. “He’s a damn idiot, and he never deserved you. You’re not too much. You’re…” He stopped himself, the words you’re everything catching in his throat. Instead, he said, “You’re enough. More than enough.”

You gave a shaky laugh, wiping your eyes with the edge of the blanket. “You’re biased. You’re my best friend.”

Friend. The word stung, but he forced a small smile. “Yeah, well, doesn’t make me wrong.” He stood, grabbing one of his hoodies from the armchair—a navy one you’d stolen before, the one he secretly loved seeing you in. “Put this on. You’re gonna catch pneumonia.”

You took it, fingers brushing his, and he felt that spark, the one he always tried to ignore. You peeled off your wet jacket, and he turned away, giving you privacy as you changed. When he glanced back, you were drowning in his hoodie, the sleeves too long, the hem hitting your thighs. His heart did a slow, painful flip.

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling the blanket back around you. You picked up the tea, cradling it, and patted the couch beside you. “Sit with me? Please?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He sat, close but not too close, though every nerve screamed to pull you into him. You sipped the tea, then leaned your head back, eyes closing. “You’re too good to me, Buck. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be fine,” he said, but his voice was rough, betraying him. “You’re tougher than you think.”

You opened your eyes, looking at him with something he couldn’t quite read—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper. “I don’t feel tough right now.”

He wanted to say a thousand things, but instead, he reached out, his flesh hand resting lightly on your arm. “You don’t have to be. Not tonight.”

You set the mug down and, without warning, shifted closer, curling into his side. Your head found his shoulder, your body pressing against his, and Bucky froze. The blanket slipped, and you were so close—too close—your warmth seeping through the hoodie, your breath soft against his neck. His body burned, every muscle taut as he fought the urge to wrap his arms around you, to pull you even closer. She’s hurting, he told himself. She needs a friend, not you losing it.

But then you tucked yourself tighter against him, one arm sliding across his chest, and he was done for. His heart pounded, and he was sure you could hear it, feel it. Your fingers curled into his shirt, and you sighed, a small, broken sound. “Can I just… stay here for a bit?” you whispered.

“Long as you need,” he managed, voice low, almost a growl. He draped his arm around you, careful, like you might break, but you only nestled closer, your legs curling up under the blanket. His metal arm stayed rigid at his side, afraid to touch you, afraid of what it’d mean.

The storm roared outside, but inside, it was just the two of you, the quiet stretching until you spoke again. “You ever feel like… you’re just going through the motions?” you asked, voice soft. “Like, no matter how hard you try, you’re stuck?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He knew that feeling too well. “Yeah,” he said, staring at the rain-streaked window. “More than you know.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him. “Your therapy… is it helping? You don’t talk about it much.”

He stiffened, caught off guard. He hadn’t planned to go there, but your eyes were searching, and he couldn’t lie to you. “It’s… something,” he said, exhaling. “Dr. Raynor’s got me journaling, making amends. Says it’s supposed to make me feel like I’m moving forward. But most days, it feels like I’m just… checking boxes. Like I’m still the guy who did all those things, and no amount of talking’s gonna change that.”

You frowned, your hand tightening on his shirt. “You’re not that guy anymore, Buck. You’re not the Winter Soldier. You’re you. The guy who makes me tea at 1 a.m., who remembers I hate olives on my pizza. The guy who’s here, right now, when I’m falling apart.”

He swallowed hard, your words cutting deeper than you knew. “You make it sound easy,” he said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Like I can just… be normal.”

“You don’t have to be normal,” you said fiercely. “You just have to be you. That’s enough for me.”

His chest ached, and he looked down at you, your face so close he could count the flecks in your eyes. You were still curled against him, your body warm and soft, and his control was fraying. He wanted to kiss you, to pour everything he felt into it, but you were raw, broken from Josh’s cruelty. So he just held you, his flesh hand stroking your arm in slow, soothing circles, even as his body screamed for more.

“You don’t know how much that means,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You… you’re the best part of my day, you know that?”

You smiled, small but real, and it was like the sun breaking through the storm. “Right back at you, Barnes.” You shifted, your head resting heavier on his shoulder, and within minutes, your breathing slowed, your body relaxing into his as sleep took you.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t dare. You were asleep in his arms, your warmth seeping into him, and it was everything he’d ever wanted and everything he couldn’t have. His heart was a warzone—love, guilt, need, all fighting for space. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, so light you wouldn’t feel it, and whispered, “I’m here, doll. Always.”

The rain kept falling, but for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn’t feel alone.

The first morning you woke up in Bucky’s apartment, the smell of coffee hit you before your eyes even opened. You were curled on his couch, still wrapped in his navy hoodie, the blanket tucked around you like he’d checked on you in the night. The storm had passed, leaving a soft gray light filtering through the windows, and from the kitchen came the clink of dishes, the low hum of Bucky moving around.

You sat up, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and caught sight of him—hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders, his metal arm glinting as he flipped a pancake with surprising finesse. He hadn’t noticed you yet, and for a moment, you just watched him, this man who’d become your anchor. The ache in your chest from Josh’s betrayal was still there, sharp and raw, but seeing Bucky—steady, quiet, there—made it feel like maybe you could breathe again.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he called without turning, his voice warm but teasing. “Thought you’d sleep till noon.”

You grinned, despite yourself. “Not all of us are super-soldiers with no need for rest.” You stretched, the hoodie riding up, and caught his quick glance before he busied himself with the coffee pot.

“Pancakes?” he asked, sliding a plate across the counter. “Figured you could use some comfort food.”

You padded over, barefoot, and leaned against the counter, peering at the stack. “You made these from scratch? Who are you, and what’d you do with Bucky Barnes?”

He chuckled, low and rough, and the sound warmed you more than the coffee. “Sam’s fault. Kept going on about his mom’s recipe. Had to learn it to shut him up.”

You took a bite, and damn if it wasn’t perfect—fluffy, just sweet enough. “Okay, Barnes, you’re hired. Personal chef from now on.”

He smirked, but his eyes were soft, watching you like you were the only thing in the room. “Deal. Long as you keep stealing my hoodies.”

The next few weeks blurred into a rhythm you hadn’t expected to feel so… right. You’d gone back to your place once, just to grab clothes and essentials, but the apartment felt haunted—Josh’s cologne still lingered on the couch, his half-empty beer in the fridge. You’d packed a bag and fled back to Bucky’s, and when you’d mumbled something about not wanting to impose, he’d just given you that look—half-exasperated, half-tender—and said, “Stay as long as you need, doll. I got you.”

So you stayed. His apartment became your sanctuary, a bubble of quiet warmth against the world. Mornings were coffee and pancakes or sometimes just cereal, the two of you bumping elbows at the tiny kitchen counter, trading sleepy smiles. Evenings were takeout or Netflix marathons, you sprawled on the couch with your feet in his lap, him grumbling about your cold toes but never pushing them away. You’d catch him watching you sometimes, his blue eyes soft but guarded, like he was holding something back. You didn’t push, though. You were too raw, too afraid of what you’d find if you looked too close.

But the moments piled up, small and intimate, stitching you closer. One night, you burned popcorn in his microwave, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch, teasing you about your “culinary skills” until you threw a pillow at him. Another day, he taught you how to shadowbox, his hands guiding your wrists, his voice low and patient as he corrected your stance. His touch lingered a beat too long, and you both pretended not to notice.

Then there was the morning you almost broke him.

You’d showered, forgetting to grab a clean towel, and figured you could dart to the linen closet without being seen. Bucky was out getting groceries—or so you thought. You stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair sticking to your shoulders, a towel barely wrapped around you, and froze when you heard the front door click open. Bucky stood there, bags in hand, his eyes locking onto you before he quickly turned away, cheeks flushing red.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered, staring hard at the wall, his jaw tight. “Didn’t know you were…”

“It’s fine!” you squeaked, clutching the towel tighter, your own face burning. You bolted for the closet, grabbing a towel and scurrying to the guest room—his room, really, since he’d insisted you take the bed. When you emerged, fully dressed in his hoodie and your jeans, he was in the kitchen, unpacking groceries like his life depended on it.

You tried to laugh it off. “Guess I owe you for the heart attack, huh?”

He snorted, not meeting your eyes. “Yeah, warn a guy next time.” But his voice was strained, and you caught the way his hands shook slightly as he shoved a carton of milk into the fridge. You didn’t know it, but his mind was a mess—your bare shoulders, the water droplets on your skin, the way the towel had clung to you. He’d spent a decade as a weapon, trained to stay calm under pressure, but you in a towel? That was a mission he wasn’t equipped for.

That night, you sat cross-legged on the couch, a pizza box between you, some old rom-com flickering on the TV. You were quieter than usual, the weight of the breakup creeping back in. Bucky noticed—he always did. He set his slice down, turning to you, his knee brushing yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft but searching. “You’ve been… off tonight.”

You sighed, picking at the crust. “Just thinking about Josh. Not him, exactly, but… how I didn’t see it. How I let myself feel so small with him.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it, hated how fragile you still felt. “I keep wondering what’s wrong with me.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, a flicker of anger in his eyes—not at you, never at you. “Nothing’s wrong with you,” he said, firm but gentle. “He didn’t see you, not the way you deserve. You’re…” He stopped, swallowing hard, like the words were too big, too dangerous. “You’re incredible, you know that? The way you light up a room, the way you make people feel like they matter. He was too weak to handle that.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy, and something shifted in the air—something heavy, unspoken. “You really think that?”

“I know it,” he said, and his voice was so earnest it made your chest ache. You reached for him, needing the comfort of him, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, your cheek against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. You wrapped your arms around him, sinking into the warmth of him, the familiar scent of cedar and soap that was so Bucky.

His body tensed for a split second, like he was bracing himself. You were so close, your arms tight around him, your breath warm against his shirt, and it was torture. His flesh hand rested on your back, fingers flexing like he was fighting the urge to pull you closer. His mind was screaming—she’s hurting, she’s your friend, don’t ruin this—but his body wasn’t listening, heat pooling low in his stomach, his pulse racing. He’d dreamed of holding you like this, but not like this, not when you were broken and he was supposed to be your safe place.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmured, voice muffled against him. “I don’t deserve you.”

He laughed, a low, shaky sound. “You got that backward, doll.” His metal arm stayed rigid at his side, afraid to touch you, afraid of what it’d mean if he let himself feel too much. But you didn’t notice, just held him tighter, and he let himself have this moment, even if it was all he’d ever get.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were softer, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks for letting me crash here,” you said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Anytime,” he said, and he meant it—every word, every syllable, every beat of his heart that belonged to you, even if you didn’t know it.

Weeks had gone by and the storm outside persisted, thunder cracking loud enough to rattle your nerves. Inside, the tension was worse—a coiled, unspoken thing that had been simmering all evening, growing sharper with every glance, every forced smile. You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, your phone gripped too tightly in your lap, the screen dark but burning with the memory of Josh’s text from earlier that day: Still living with Barnes? Figures. You were always his, even when you were mine. No wonder you’re alone now.

The words had sunk their claws into you, dragging up every doubt, every fight you’d had with Josh about Bucky. “You’re obsessed with him,” Josh had snapped once, months ago, when you’d canceled dinner to help Bucky through a rough night. “It’s not normal, you know? You’re too close, and he’s too screwed up to be just a friend.” You’d defended Bucky then, furious, but now, weeks after the breakup, living in Bucky’s apartment, leaning on him for everything, Josh’s voice echoed louder. Were you too much? Too needy? Had you pushed Josh away by being too close to Bucky? And worse—were you dragging Bucky down with you, burdening him with your broken pieces?

You glanced at Bucky, who was in the kitchen, drying dishes from your earlier dinner with that quiet focus you’d come to rely on. His hair was loose, brushing his jaw, his henley clinging to his frame, the metal arm glinting under the soft light. He was beautiful, you’d realised weeks ago, but tonight that thought felt like a betrayal—of Josh, of your friendship, of yourself. You didn’t deserve Bucky’s kindness, not when you were such a mess, not when Josh’s words made you question everything about who you were to him.

“You’ve been staring at that phone like it’s gonna bite you,” Bucky said, his voice cutting through the silence, light but tinged with concern. He leaned against the counter, towel slung over his shoulder, his blue eyes fixed on you. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”

You forced a shrug, setting the phone face-down on the couch, but your fingers twitched, betraying your nerves. “Just… nothing. Stupid stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, the metal one whirring softly. “You’ve been off all day, doll. Don’t give me that ‘nothing’ crap. What’s going on?”

The nickname—doll—hit you harder than usual, warm and familiar but laced with something you couldn’t name. You looked away, your chest tight, Josh’s text looping in your head. “It’s Josh,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “He texted me today.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. He stepped into the living room, sitting on the coffee table in front of you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. “What’d that asshole say?” His voice was low, controlled, but you could hear the anger simmering beneath it.

You hesitated, the words stuck in your throat. Telling Bucky felt like opening a wound, but his eyes were steady, waiting, and you couldn’t lie to him. “He said I’m still… living with you. That I was always yours, even when I was with him.” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. “He said that’s why I’m alone now.”

Bucky’s hands balled into fists, his knuckles whitening. “He’s got some nerve,” he growled, leaning forward. “He’s the one who hurt you, and now he’s throwing this shit at you? He’s wrong, you know that, right?”

But you didn’t know that. Not anymore. The doubt had taken root, and it was choking you. You stood abruptly, needing to move, pacing toward the window where the rain streaked the glass. “What if he’s not wrong?” you said, voice rising, sharp with self-loathing. “What if I am too much? Too clingy, too dependent? He always said I was too close to you, that I leaned on you too much, and now look at me—living here, eating your food, crying on your shoulder every damn night. Maybe I pushed him away because I was always running to you.”

Bucky stood, his boots heavy on the hardwood, and you could feel his presence behind you, solid and warm. “That’s his poison talking,” he said, voice firm but strained. “He wanted to control you, make you feel small. You’re not too much. You’re—”

“Then why did he leave?” you snapped, spinning to face him, tears burning your eyes. “Why did he say I was never really his? Because of this—because of us, because I can’t seem to function without you! And now I’m here, dragging you into my mess, making you deal with me when you’ve got your own life, your own demons. I’m screwing this up too, aren’t I? Just like I screwed it up with him.”

The words poured out, raw and jagged, and you saw the hurt flash across Bucky’s face, his eyes widening like you’d slapped him. He stepped back, his expression tightening, and your stomach dropped. Oh god, what did I just say? Your inner voice was screaming, replaying your words, realizing how they must’ve sounded—like you blamed him, like your closeness was the problem. But it wasn’t him, it was you, always you, ruining everything.

“Bucky, I didn’t mean—” you started, but he cut you off, his voice low, almost dangerous.

“You think you’re screwing this up?” he said, stepping closer, his eyes blazing with something you’d never seen before—anger, yes, but something deeper, more desperate. “You think being here, being with me, is some kind of mistake? Because let me tell you something, doll, I’ve been carrying this for years, and I’m done pretending it’s nothing.”

Your breath caught, confusion and fear mixing with the pounding of your heart. “Carrying what?” you whispered, but you knew, deep down, you knew, and it terrified you.

He laughed, a bitter, broken sound, running his flesh hand through his hair. “You really don’t see it, do you? I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you, and every single day since has been me trying to be what you need without asking for anything back. But hearing you say you’re dragging me down, that we’re the problem? I can’t take it anymore.”

The words hit you like a thunderclap, stealing your air, your thoughts, everything. You stared at him, his chest heaving, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and your mind reeled. He loves me. The realisation crashed through you, shattering every doubt, every wall you’d built. You thought back to the nights he’d stayed up with you, the mornings he’d made you laugh, the way his touch lingered, soft and reverent. Josh’s accusations had twisted it, made you question your bond, but now it was clear—Bucky wasn’t just your friend. He was your home, your heart, and you’d been too blind to see it.

“Bucky,” you said, voice trembling, stepping closer, but he shook his head, backing away like your nearness hurt him.

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough, his hands clenched at his sides. “Don’t come closer, because if you do, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself. I’ve been holding this in for so long, and I can’t—I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you.”

Your heart was racing, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you hated yourself for hurting him, for making him think he was anything less than everything. Josh’s words were ash now, meaningless against the truth standing in front of you. You’d been running from your feelings, afraid of ruining what you had, but now you saw it—the way your heart leapt when he smiled, the way your body craved his touch, the way you felt whole with him in a way you never had with Josh.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, stepping toward him, ignoring his warning. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not blaming you—I’m blaming me, because I’m scared, Bucky. I’m scared I ruined everything with Josh, and I’m terrified I’m going to ruin us too. But I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you, because…” Your voice broke, and you took another step, close enough to feel the heat of him. “Because I love you too.”

He froze, his eyes searching yours, like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “What?” he whispered, voice raw, vulnerable.

“I love you,” you said again, louder, surer, the words spilling out like it was the purest thing you’ve ever known. “I was too stupid to see it, but I love you, Bucky. I’m in love with you.”

He stared at you, his breath ragged, and then he moved—fast, desperate, his hands cupping your face as he crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was fire, years of longing and pain pouring into every press of his mouth, his teeth grazing your lip, his tongue sweeping against yours like he needed to taste you to believe you were real. You gasped into him, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer as you kissed him back with everything you had. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the hard planes of his body, the heat of him, the way he trembled like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You stumbled back, his arms steadying you, and you hit the wall, his body pressing into yours, pinning you there. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, hot and urgent, and you moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I’m sorry,” you gasped between kisses, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He pulled back, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in sharp pants. “You didn’t,” he said, voice rough but soft, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re here. You love me. That’s all I need.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, deep and tender, savoring the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he held you like you were everything. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t fear anymore—it was certainty, love, the kind that burned away every doubt. “I’m yours,” you whispered against his lips, and he groaned, kissing you harder, his hands sliding under your hoodie, his touch setting your skin alight.

“Bucky,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt, needing more, needing him, but he pulled back, his eyes dark with desire but searching, checking.

“You sure?” he asked, voice strained, like it was killing him to pause. “Because I’m all in, doll, but I need you to be too.”

You nodded, your hands framing his face, thumbs tracing his jaw. “I’m sure. I want you. I want us.”

He exhaled, a shaky, relieved sound, and then he was kissing you again, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you toward the bedroom, the storm outside fading as you fell into each other, ready to claim what you’d both been denying for too long.

His kiss was a wildfire, consuming, years of unspoken love and longing poured into every slide of his mouth, every graze of his teeth. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he pressed you against the doorframe, his metal arm holding you effortlessly, his flesh hand gripping your hip like you were his lifeline.

“Bucky,” you gasped, breaking the kiss, your forehead pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the dim light. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but beneath the hunger was something softer—reverence, awe, like he couldn’t believe you were here, in his arms, saying you loved him after all this time. “I need you.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your core, his lips brushing your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, his voice rough with need, his teeth grazing your pulse point, a soft nip that made you shiver, your hips rocking against him instinctively. “I’ve wanted you for so long, doll—every day, every night, for years.”

His words were a spark, igniting something deep inside you, a mix of love and desire so intense it stole your breath. You tugged at his henley, your fingers clumsy with urgency, needing to feel his skin, to know he was real. He set you down gently, just long enough to pull the shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow across his chest, illuminating the hard planes of muscle, the faint lines of old wounds, and the stark, jagged scars where his metal arm fused with his shoulder. He froze, his breath hitching, his eyes flickering with a shadow of doubt, like he expected you to pull away, to see the broken parts of him and flinch.

You didn’t. You stepped closer, your hands trembling as they reached for him, your fingers tracing the raised scars with a tenderness that made his breath catch. The skin was uneven, a map of pain and survival, and you felt a lump in your throat, not from pity, but from love—so fierce it hurt. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice thick, “these don’t make you less. They make you you. And you’re beautiful—every part of you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You’re gonna ruin me, doll,” he said, his voice raw, almost broken, and when he opened his eyes, they were glistening, a mix of desire and vulnerability that made your heart ache. “You don’t know what it means… hearing you say that.”

“I mean it,” you said, stepping closer, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thump of his heart. “I love you—all of you. The scars, the past, everything.” Your fingers traced the line where metal met flesh, and he shivered, a low sound in his throat as you pressed a soft kiss to the scarred tissue, your lips lingering, reverent.

He exhaled shakily, his hands—flesh and metal—finding your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, but there was no conviction in it, only wonder, and then he was kissing you again, slow and deep, his lips soft but urgent, like he was trying to memorise the taste of you. His hands slid under your hoodie—his hoodie, the navy one you’d claimed weeks ago—and he paused, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your waist, his eyes searching yours for permission.

You nodded, lifting your arms, and he peeled the hoodie off, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The air was cool against your skin, your bra the only thing left, and his gaze was searing, drinking you in like you were a dream he was afraid to wake from. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hands hovering, trembling, before they settled on your shoulders, tracing the curve of your collarbone, the dip of your throat. “You’re so goddamn beautiful. I’ve imagined this so many times, but you’re… more.”

Your cheeks flushed, your body humming under his touch, and you reached for him, needing to feel him too. Your hands roamed his chest, mapping the planes of muscle, the faint scars from battles long past, the warmth of him that felt like home. You traced the line of his metal arm, marveling at the smooth, cool vibranium, and he watched you, his eyes dark with something like awe. “You don’t mind it?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant, nodding toward the arm.

“No,” you said, firm, your fingers curling around the metal, feeling its strength, its weight. “It’s you. I love every part of you.” You pulled his metal hand to your lips, kissing the knuckles, and he groaned softly, his eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said, but his voice was thick with emotion, and he pulled you closer, his hands sliding down your sides, exploring every curve, every inch of skin like he was committing you to memory. He unhooked your bra with a flick of his fingers, letting it fall, and his breath caught, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp. “So perfect,” he murmured, his lips following his hands, kissing the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing but reverent.

You arched into him, your hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the contrast of warm flesh and cool metal under your palms. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice shaky with need, and he looked up, his eyes meeting yours, raw and unguarded.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, his hands stilling on your hips. “Anything, doll. I’ll give you anything.”

“You,” you said, your hands sliding to his face, framing his jaw, your thumbs brushing his stubble. “I want you. All of you.”

He groaned, kissing you again, his hands roaming lower, tracing the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your jeans, teasing but not yet undoing them. He was taking his time, savouring every touch, every gasp you let out, and you could feel his obsession, the way he worshipped every inch of you like you were a miracle. Your hands explored him too, sliding down his back, feeling the ripple of muscle, the faint scars, the way his body tensed under your touch.

He pulled you toward the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you onto his lap, your thighs straddling his, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin. His dog tags dangled between you, cool against your chest, and you tugged at them, pulling him into another kiss, deep and slow, your tongues tangling as you pressed yourself closer. His hands roamed your back, one warm, one cool, and you shivered, the contrast driving you wild.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your lips, his hands sliding to your thighs, squeezing gently, then up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. “Dreamed of touching you, feeling you like this.” His lips moved to your neck, kissing, nipping, a soft bite that made you moan, your hips rocking against him, feeling the hardness of him through his jeans.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his chest, your fingers brushing his scars again, and he tensed, his breath hitching. You pulled back, meeting his eyes, seeing the flicker of insecurity there. “Hey,” you said softly, your hands framing his face. “These scars? They’re proof you survived. They’re proof you’re here, with me. And I love you for it.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands tightening on your hips. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, but you shook your head, kissing him softly, your lips lingering on his.

“You do,” you said, fierce, your hands sliding to his shoulders, tracing the scars again, kissing them, one by one, until he was trembling under your touch. “You’re everything, Bucky. Everything.”

He groaned, flipping you gently onto the bed, hovering over you, his dog tags brushing your skin as he looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire and love. “I’m never letting you go,” he said, his voice rough, and then he was kissing you again, his hands exploring every inch of you, slow and deliberate, like he was worshiping you, like he’d never get enough.

You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently to pull him closer. “I’m here,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “And I want you, Bucky. Every part of you.” Your hands slid down his shoulders, tracing the scars where his metal arm met flesh, a reminder of his past, his survival, his strength. He shivered under your touch, his breath hitching, and you leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred tissue, your lips lingering as you murmured, “You’re perfect to me.”

He groaned, a sound that vibrated through you, and kissed you deeply, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and deliberate, tasting of desperation and devotion. His hands roamed your sides, warm flesh and cool metal igniting every nerve, and you arched into him, needing more, needing him. He pulled back, his lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, nipping softly at your pulse point, the sting of his teeth making you gasp, your hips bucking against his.

“Need to taste you,” he rasped, his voice almost pleading, his hands moving to the button of your jeans. His eyes flicked to yours, asking permission, and you nodded, your breath shaky, your body already aching for him. He unbuttoned your jeans with deft fingers, sliding them down with your panties in one slow, deliberate motion, his hands grazing your thighs, your calves, as he bared you completely. You kicked the jeans aside, vulnerable under his gaze, but the way he looked at you—like you were a goddess, like he’d worship at your altar—made you feel powerful, desired, loved.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them gently as he knelt between your legs, his eyes drinking you in. “You’re… everything. So goddamn perfect.” His voice was reverent, his fingers trembling as they traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing, exploring, making you squirm. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your hipbone, then another, lower, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, his lips hovering just above your core, his breath warm and teasing. “Wanted to make you feel good, to show you how much you mean to me.”

“Bucky, please,” you whimpered, your hands fisting the sheets, your body already trembling with anticipation. Your inner voice was a whirlwind, marveling at the intensity of this moment, at the man before you who’d held your heart for years without you realising.

He didn’t make you wait. His tongue flicked out, a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and you cried out, your hips bucking as pleasure sparked through you. “Oh, god, Bucky,” you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as he groaned against you, the vibration sending another wave of heat through your core. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, then flattening, licking with a reverence that made you feel cherished, worshipped. His metal hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady, while his flesh fingers traced your entrance, teasing but not yet entering, drawing out your need.

“You taste so good,” he murmured between licks, his voice muffled, raw with desire. “Sweet, perfect, mine.” He sucked gently on your clit, and you moaned, your body arching, your mind blanking as he lavished you with attention. His fingers finally slipped inside, one at first, then two, curling just right, finding that spot that made you see stars. He pumped them slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and you felt the coil tightening, your body trembling as he pushed you closer to the edge.

“Bucky, I’m—” you started, but the words dissolved into a moan as he grazed his teeth softly over your clit, a hint of a bite that sent you spiraling. Your orgasm crashed over you, sudden and intense, your body shaking as you cried his name, your hands tugging his hair, grounding yourself in him. He didn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through it, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you were oversensitive, trembling, pulling him up to kiss you.

You tasted yourself on his lips, the intimacy of it making your heart race, and you kissed him harder, your hands roaming his chest, his shoulders, needing to feel him. “Your turn,” you whispered, your voice husky, your fingers trailing down his abs, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. You reached for his jeans, your hands fumbling with the button, and he chuckled, low and shaky, helping you push them down with his boxers, freeing him.

He was thick, hard, the sight of him making your mouth water, your core clenching with renewed desire. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, feeling the velvety heat of him, and he hissed, his hips bucking into your touch. “Fuck, doll,” he groaned, his head falling back, his hands gripping the sheets like he was holding himself back. You looked up at him, his eyes dark with need, his chest heaving, and felt a surge of power, knowing you could unravel him like this.

“I want to taste you,” you said, your voice firm, and his eyes widened, a mix of awe and desperation. “Let me, Bucky.” You pushed him gently, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed, and he obeyed, his hands trembling as they settled on your shoulders. You knelt between his thighs, your hands spreading them wider, and he watched you, his breath ragged, his dog tags glinting against his chest.

“You don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft bite to his inner thigh, making him gasp, his hands tightening on your shoulders. “Jesus, doll,” he breathed, and you smiled, kissing the spot you’d bitten, then higher, your lips brushing the sensitive skin near his base.

“I want to,” you said, echoing your earlier words, and then you took him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his hands tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needed the anchor. You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, bobbing slowly, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. His thighs tensed under your hands, his breath coming in sharp pants, and you moaned around him, the vibration making him curse, his grip tightening.

“God, your mouth,” he gasped, his voice rough, his hips twitching like he was fighting not to thrust. “Feels so fucking good, doll.” You looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and the way he looked at you—like you were his everything—made your heart swell, your movements growing bolder. You took him as deep as you could, your tongue pressing against the underside, and he groaned your name, his hands trembling, his control fraying.

You pulled back, licking a slow stripe along his length, your hand pumping him as you kissed the tip, teasing, drawing it out. “I love you,” you whispered, your lips brushing against him, and he shuddered, his eyes glistening with something more than desire.

“I love you too,” he said, voice breaking, and you took him back into your mouth, working him faster now, your hand and lips in sync, determined to make him feel as good as he’d made you. His groans grew louder, his hips bucking slightly, and you felt him tense, his breath hitching. “Doll, I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained, but you didn’t pull back, wanting to give him this, to show him how much you wanted him.

He came with a groan, hot and sudden, spilling into your mouth, and you swallowed, your hands stroking him through it, drawing out his pleasure until he was shaking, pulling you up to kiss you. His kiss was desperate, messy, tasting of both of you, and he held you close, his hands roaming your back, your hips, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, his forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t deserve you, but I’m never letting you go.”

You smiled, kissing him softly, your hands framing his face. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.” Your body was still humming, your desire for him burning hotter, and you knew this was only the beginning, the storm outside a mere echo of the one you’d unleash together.

Bucky pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes dark and glistening, pupils blown wide with need but softened by something deeper—love, raw and unguarded. His dog tags dangled between you, brushing your chest, cool against the flush of your skin, and you reached up, tugging them gently, pulling him into another kiss, slow and deep, your tongues tangling as you savoured the taste of him, of us. He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sent heat pooling in your core, and you pressed yourself closer, your thighs straddling his, feeling the hardness of him against you, still bare from the jeans you’d stripped away.

“God, doll,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost broken, as he kissed along your jaw, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I can’t believe you’re here, that you’re mine.” His hands slid down your sides, warm flesh and cool vibranium tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, like he was memorising every inch of you, worshipping you with every touch. His lips found your neck, nipping softly, a hint of teeth that made you gasp, your hips rocking instinctively, seeking friction.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice shaky with desire, your hands roaming his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the faint scars, the warmth of him that felt like home. Your fingers brushed the jagged lines where his metal arm met his shoulder, and he tensed, just for a moment, his breath hitching. You paused, pulling back to meet his eyes, seeing the flicker of vulnerability there, the fear that his past, his scars, might still push you away. “You’re so beautiful,” you said, fierce and sure, your hands framing his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

He exhaled shakily, his eyes glistening, and leaned into your touch, his metal hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was soft but searing, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion, and you smiled, kissing him deeper, your hands sliding to his shoulders, tracing the scars again, grounding him in your love.

“I love you,” you whispered, and he groaned, flipping you gently onto your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he hovered over you, his dog tags brushing your skin. His hands roamed your body, slow and deliberate, one cupping your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, making you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. His lips followed, kissing the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking against your skin, teasing, reverent, before trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin just above your hipbone.

“Need to feel you,” he murmured, his voice low, almost pleading, his hands settling on your thighs, spreading them gently. His fingers—flesh first—traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing, making you squirm, your body already aching for him. “Gonna take my time, doll,” he said, his eyes meeting yours, dark with promise. “Wanna make you feel so good you forget everything but me.”

Your breath hitched, your inner voice a whirlwind of love and desire. He’s here, he loves me, and he’s looking at me like I’m his whole world. The thought made your heart swell, your body humming with need, and you reached for him, your hands tangling in his hair. “Please, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling, and he smiled, soft but wicked, his fingers finally slipping between your thighs, brushing your folds, already slick from your earlier release.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, his voice rough, his fingers teasing your entrance, circling but not yet entering, drawing out your need. “All for me, doll?” His eyes flicked to yours, and you nodded, biting your lip, your hips bucking slightly, seeking more. He leaned down, kissing your thigh, his teeth grazing the skin, a soft bite that made you gasp, the sting blending with pleasure. Then his fingers—two, warm and sure—slipped inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right, finding that spot that made you see stars.

“Oh, god,” you moaned, your hands fisting the sheets, your body arching as he pumped his fingers, slow at first, then faster, his thumb circling your clit in perfect rhythm. His metal hand gripped your hip, holding you steady, the cool vibranium a contrast to the heat of his touch, and you felt the coil tightening, your body trembling under his attention. He watched you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, like he was committing it to memory.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent. “So fucking beautiful, falling apart for me.” He leaned down, kissing your stomach, his lips soft but urgent, his fingers relentless, pushing you closer to the edge. “Come for me, doll,” he whispered, his thumb pressing harder on your clit, and you did, shattering beneath him, your orgasm ripping through you, your body shaking as you cried his name, your hands reaching for him, needing him closer.

He worked you through it, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every wave until you were trembling, oversensitive, your breath coming in sharp pants. He kissed his way up your body, his lips soft on your ribs, your breasts, your neck, until he reached your mouth, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You’re so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire, his fingers slipping out, leaving you empty, aching for more.

“Bucky, please,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his back, feeling the scars, the muscle, the warmth of him. “I need you—now.” Your hips rocked against him, feeling the hardness of him, and he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut, his control fraying.

“Gonna give you everything,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, as he positioned himself between your thighs, his hands guiding your legs around his waist. He teased you first, dragging the tip of himself through your folds, slick and warm, making you whimper, your body desperate for him. “You sure, doll?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

“Yes,” you said, fierce, your hands framing his face, pulling him into a kiss. “I’m sure. I love you.” Your words seemed to break something in him, and he pushed in, slow and deliberate, inch by inch, filling you, stretching you in a way that was perfect, overwhelming. You both groaned, your foreheads pressed together, his breath ragged as he stilled, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his lips brushing yours. “So tight, so perfect, like you were made for me.” He started to move, slow and sensual, every thrust deep, deliberate, hitting that spot inside you that made you gasp, your nails digging into his back. His hands roamed your body, one cupping your breast, the other sliding to your thigh, pulling you closer, deeper, like he couldn’t get enough.

“Bucky,” you moaned, your hips meeting his, matching his rhythm, your body humming with pleasure. His lips found your neck, kissing, nipping, a soft bite that made you cry out, the sting blending with the heat building inside you. He was everywhere—his hands, his mouth, his body—filling you, consuming you, and you wanted it all, wanted him in a way you’d never wanted anyone else.

“Love you,” he gasped, his thrusts growing faster, harder, the slow sensuality giving way to something raw, desperate. “Love you so much, doll.” His metal hand slid between you, fingers circling your clit, and you arched into him, your body trembling, the pleasure building to a crescendo. His other hand gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise, and you loved it, loved the way he held you like you were his, like he’d never let go.

“More,” you gasped, your hands sliding to his ass, pulling him deeper, and he growled, his pace quickening, his thrusts rougher, the bed creaking beneath you. He bit your shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you moan, the sting sending you closer to the edge. His fingers on your clit were relentless, his thrusts primal, desperate, like he was pouring years of longing into every movement.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice rough, possessive, but there was love in it, a vulnerability that made your heart ache. “Say it, doll.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your body clenching around him, the pleasure overwhelming. “I’m yours, Bucky.” Your words seemed to push him over the edge, his thrusts erratic, his breath coming in sharp pants, his fingers circling faster, pushing you both toward release.

“Come with me,” he groaned, his lips crashing into yours, his kiss messy, desperate, and you did, shattering beneath him, your orgasm ripping through you, your body shaking as you screamed his name. He followed, his body shuddering, his release hot and deep, his face buried in your neck as he gasped your name, his hands gripping you like he was afraid you’d slip away.

You held each other, trembling, the storm outside a distant hum as your breathing slowed. He didn’t pull out right away, staying close, his lips brushing your temple, your cheek, soft and reverent. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice raw, his eyes searching yours, and you nodded, your hands stroking his back, feeling the scars, the sweat, the warmth of him.

“Perfect,” you said, smiling, and he laughed, a soft, shaky sound, rolling you both so you were on top, still connected. You leaned down, kissing him slow, deep, tasting the salt of sweat and tears—yours, his, it didn’t matter. His hands traced your spine, gentle now, and you felt cherished, worshipped, loved in a way you’d never known.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his eyes soft, and you believed him, every word, every touch, every beat of his heart against yours.

By the time morning crept into Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment, soft gray light filtered through the bedroom curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled sheets. You woke slowly, your body heavy with a delicious ache, every muscle humming with the memory of last night—Bucky’s hands, his lips, his desperate, reverent love poured into every touch. He was still beside you, his arm draped across your waist, the cool vibranium a soothing contrast to the warmth of his bare chest pressed against your back. His breath was steady, soft against your neck, and for a moment, you just lay there, savouring the weight of him, the reality of us.

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, but his arm tightened, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy murmur. “Where you goin’, doll?” His voice was rough with sleep, laced with that familiar warmth that made your heart flutter, and you smiled, turning in his arms to face him.

His eyes were half-open, blue and soft in the morning light, his hair a messy halo on the pillow. The dog tags rested against his chest, glinting faintly, and you reached out, tracing them with your fingers, feeling the engraved letters under your touch. “Nowhere,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Just… looking at you.”

He chuckled, low and lazy, his flesh hand sliding up your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. “Creep,” he teased, but his eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners, and you laughed, the sound light and free in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Guilty,” you said, leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow, your lips lingering against his. He hummed into the kiss, his hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and for a moment, it was just this—just you and him, tangled together, the world outside a distant hum. The kiss deepened, a spark of last night’s heat flickering, but you pulled back, grinning. “Careful, Barnes. You’re gonna start something we don’t have time for.”

“Who says we don’t have time?” he murmured, his voice low and playful, his metal hand sliding to your hip, squeezing gently. But his eyes softened, and he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your lips. “You okay? After… everything?”

You nodded, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “More than okay,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “Last night was… perfect. You were perfect.” You traced the scars where his metal arm met his shoulder, a habit now, and he didn’t tense like he used to, just watched you with a quiet intensity. “I love you, Bucky. I’m just… still wrapping my head around the fact that this is real.”

His expression faltered, just for a second, a shadow of doubt flickering in his eyes. “Real enough for you to stick around?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he was bracing for an answer he wasn’t sure he could handle. “I mean, you’ve got your life, your place… I don’t wanna hold you back, doll. Not after everything you’ve been through.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, the way he still thought he might not be enough, even after last night, after you’d poured your love into every kiss, every touch. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him fully, your hand framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Bucky, listen to me,” you said, fierce but gentle. “You’re not holding me back. You’re my home. I don’t want to go back to my place, not if it means leaving this—leaving us. I’m all in, okay? For you, for us, for whatever comes next.”

He stared at you, his eyes glistening, and for a moment, he didn’t speak, just swallowed hard, his hand tightening on your hip. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice rough, and you nodded, leaning down to kiss him, soft and sure, pouring your certainty into it.

“Every word,” you said, pulling back, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere unless you’re with me.”

He exhaled, a shaky, relieved sound, and pulled you into his arms, rolling you both so you were tucked against his chest, his lips pressing to your forehead. “Good,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your hair. “’Cause I don’t think I could let you go now, even if I tried.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his skin, and nuzzled closer, relishing the warmth of him, the way his arms felt like the safest place in the world. “You’re stuck with me, Barnes,” you teased, and he chuckled, the vibration rumbling through you.

“Worst punishment I ever heard,” he shot back, but his voice was warm, playful, and you swatted his chest lightly, grinning.

You lay there for a while, tangled together, the drizzle outside a soft backdrop to the quiet intimacy. His fingers traced idle patterns on your back, and you let your hand wander his chest, feeling the scars, the steady rise and fall of his breath. The weight of last night—of your confessions, your fight, the way you’d finally given in to years of love—settled over you, not heavy but grounding, like a promise you both intended to keep.

“So,” you said eventually, your voice soft, playful, “what’s the plan now, super-soldier? You gonna keep cooking me pancakes every morning, or is that just a temporary-roommate perk?”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm, and rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a grin that made your heart skip. “Pancakes are a lifetime deal, doll,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “But I’m thinking we upgrade from roommates to… something else. What do you say? Wanna make this official?”

Your breath caught, not from surprise but from the joy that flooded you, the certainty that this was right, that he was your future. You reached up, tugging his dog tags to pull him closer, your lips brushing his. “Official sounds good,” you whispered, smiling. “Boyfriend has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Boyfriend,” he repeated, testing the word, his grin widening. “Yeah, I like that. Long as you’re my girl.”

“Always,” you said, and he kissed you, deep and slow, like he was sealing the promise. The kiss lingered, soft and sweet, until your stomach growled, loud and unromantic, and you both burst out laughing, the tension breaking in the best way.

“Guess that’s my cue,” Bucky said, rolling out of bed, and you couldn’t help but admire him—his broad shoulders, the way his muscles moved under his skin, the scars that told his story. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants, pulling them on, and caught you staring, smirking. “Keep looking at me like that, and breakfast is gonna have to wait.”

You grinned, sitting up, the sheet clutched to your chest. “Tempting, but I’m starving. You promised pancakes, Barnes. Don’t make me regret this whole boyfriend thing.”

He laughed, tossing you his navy hoodie—the one you’d claimed weeks ago—and you pulled it on, the familiar scent of cedar and Bucky wrapping around you like a hug. You followed him to the kitchen, barefoot, the hardwood cool under your feet, and leaned against the counter as he started pulling out ingredients, his movements easy, practiced.

The morning unfolded like a dream—Bucky flipping pancakes with that super-soldier precision, you stealing bites of batter and teasing him about his “grumpy cat face” when he pretended to scold you. You sat at the counter, knees brushing, trading stories about nothing and everything—memories of your friendship, plans for a real date, the quiet hope of a future together. He reached over at one point, brushing a smear of syrup from your lip with his thumb, and the simple touch sent a spark through you, a reminder of last night, of the love that had finally broken free.

“So,” he said, setting his fork down, his eyes soft but serious, “you really wanna stay here? Not just crash, I mean… move in, make this our place?”

You paused, your heart swelling at the question, the way he said our like it was a prayer. “Yeah,” you said, reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “I want that. This feels like home, Bucky. You feel like home.”

He smiled, a rare, unguarded smile that lit up his face, and pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you, his lips brushing your temple. “Then it’s yours,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “We’ll make it ours.”

You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and for the first time in weeks, the ache of your breakup, the doubts Josh had planted, felt like a distant memory. With Bucky, you were whole, loved, and ready for whatever came next—pancakes, late nights, fights, and all.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat

Let me know if you want to be tagged in future works<3

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan fic #james bucky buchanan barnes #avengers #endgame #tfatws #iamsebastianstan #seb stan

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writingfics-passingtime · 5 days ago

Text

Endorphins

synopsis: you're working yourself to the bone in preparation for a big event, unwilling to take a break or de-stress, so Loki takes matters into his own hands.

pairing: Loki x female reader

wc: ~3400

cw: mostly a whole lotta fluff! but some swearing, tickling, and mentions of stress/burnout

minors DNI: this fic does not contain smut, but includes an adult-aged character experiencing attraction towards the reader; I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: a little fluff-bomb palette-cleanser after the intensity of my last couple of Loki fics. if you'd like to read more fics like this i'd love for you to let me know!

The common room of the residential wing of the Avengers Compound wasn’t empty, but it was quiet. The kind of lived-in calm that came after half a morning’s worth of coffee and sleep-laced banter.

A newscast flickered on the television with the volume mostly down, just enough for background noise. Steve was reading something on a tablet with that technology-induced furrowed brow. Bruce sat nearest the windows, flipping through a medical journal with one socked foot tucked under the other knee, looking up only when Natasha approached, all too quietly, and wordlessly refilled his coffee with a small, satisfied smile.

Others were scattered amongst it, all were uncharacteristically peaceful.

Except for you.

You were perched on the edge of the sectional with a stack of reports beside you, laptop open on the coffee table, pen cap clenched between your teeth. Your eyes were sharp, shoulders high with tension, jaw visibly set. You’d been like this for days - edgy, overworked, quiet, insular. Everyone knew why.

There was a summit in two weeks. A UN delegation. An avalanche of new diplomatic threads to untangle, several of which involved countries you’d gone on missions in recently. Your name was on every page of briefing notes and draft statements, and now you’d been snowed under.

"Hey. You good over there?" Sam broke the calm, directing his attention pointedly to the way your leg was bouncing.

You didn’t look up, but some kind of awareness flashed across your face and your leg fell still.

"Yeah. Good. Just focused."

Curt. Efficient. Not unkind, but final.

Loki, from his armchair, eyes appearing focused on the book in his lap, quirked a brow.

Bruce glanced up. "You've been at it for a while. You should really take a break."

"I was at the punching bag this morning."

Steve chimed in, not looking away from his tablet. "That’s training. Not a break."

"Feels like a break; I like training."

"You need to do something that isn’t work," Sam offered gently from his couch, falling easily into counsellor mode. "Take a beat. Do you have a hobby? A creative outlet would help."

You didn't look up. Just exhaled slowly through your nose. It was the kind of breath that meant I’m trying to be polite.

"I appreciate the concern," you said, very diplomatically, "but I have a pile of actual responsibilities in front of me, and knitting or bouldering is not going to rewrite the second paragraph of this response to the Wakandan delegation. If you'll excuse me."

You stood, gathering your laptop and papers, and exited the room with a measured grace that only barely masked how tense you were.

There was a moment of quiet as everyone waited for you to be out of earshot.

"She’s gonna snap," Bruce said, setting his mug down.

Sam sighed, arms crossed. "She’s in pressure mode. Doesn’t mean she’s angry. Just means she thinks stopping will make it worse. But we let it sit too long and it’ll turn into the wrong kind of burnout."

Steve sipped his coffee. "I’m watching it."

"She has been boxing," Natasha pointed out.

"She doesn't need more cortisol," Bruce muttered, "She needs a damn serotonin drip. Or something. Or someone. Honestly, just- someone make her laugh."

Natasha shrugged. "I could try."

Bruce winced. An unspoken: maybe it's best you don't.

"Wilson," Loki said aloud, not looking up from his book.

Sam turned. "Yeah?"

"You fancy yourself a comedian."

Sam's brow furrowed. "I mean... I am funny-"

"Then for Norns’ sake," Loki said, flipping a page with precise disdain, "do your job."

Natasha choked on a laugh.

Steve chuckled under his breath.

Loki felt his chest tighten.

The discussion annoyed him more than he expected. Not because of the concern - no, that part made sense. It was how they discussed it. They were talking in circles, wringing their hands, musing about serotonin and yoga, all while you were in the next room slowly grinding yourself down to the bone doing work that, if Loki wasn’t mistaken, concerned all of them.

Yet... you wouldn't allow a single report to be taken.

"Rogers." Loki snapped the book shut and settled back into his chair, perching his elbows on the upholstered arms. "Might I ask," he drawled, "are you the leader of this team or not?"

Steve’s brow furrowed slowly. "Excuse me?"

"You," Loki said plainly. "Stars and stripes. Human embodiment of a rousing inspirational speech. Are you in charge, or do you all simply loiter in proximity to each other?"

Sam raised his brows.

Loki didn't wait for an answer. "Delegate."

Steve sighed, long and deep.

"I’ve offered. But she’s protective of it; she cares a lot about the work, and her name is all over it. I can't just take it from her."

"Then order her to accept help."

"That's not how we do things," Steve said firmly.

Loki hummed under his breath as the others went back to their own little worlds.

Fascinating.

A room full of soldiers, spies, and scientists...

And yet none of them, not one, had the teeth to intervene.

The following morning, Loki found himself happening across an tiresomely similar scene, this time in the kitchen. The room smelled like toast and bacon and freshly ground coffee and the underlying tension of one person trying very hard to pretend they didn’t have basic human needs.

You sat at the island, dressed in your running tank and leggings, one foot planted on the stool, knee tucked to your chest. The thin veil of control you were clinging to was starting to crack, but you kept working, stubborn and relentless.

Sam leaned against the counter, nursing his coffee like it was a tactical manoeuvre.

"Just saying," he offered gently, "summit’s a couple weeks out. You could afford a break."

"I'll take a break," you said without looking up. "Once this section’s clean. It’s almost there."

Sam glanced over his mug, still trying to be gentle. "You said that yesterday. And the day before that."

"And when you said it Monday, it was 'just a few more paragraphs.'" Steve was crouched by the oven, checking on the bacon.

"I finally got a response I've been waiting for just before I was about to go for a run," you muttered, tapping a line of text and deleting it without mercy. "I'll go outside once I edit this section with this new info."

"Running is training. Training is work," Sam said. "You need something that’s not work. Something for you."

You sighed, long-suffering. "Something for me - something that'll make me feel better - is having this done."

"You know this is how burnout starts, right?" Sam’s voice was calm, but not soft. The therapist was peeking through. "You run hot for too long, you crash hard. You'll think better when your brain’s had room to breathe."

You gave him a look. It wasn’t angry. Just tired.

"And you think a watercolour landscape will clear my head?"

"You need fun. Your body needs endorphins."

"Exercise gives me endorphins."

"And cortisol. Which you've been running high on for almost a week. You need to let loose. Laugh. Give your body a break from the tension."

"I laugh," you said, with the driest tone possible. "You’re all very funny."

"Nope," Sam shook his head. "That’s not real laughter. That’s the social ‘ha.’"

"My ha is perfectly adequate," you snapped, deadpan, looking back to the screen.

Steve snorted.

From the other side of the kitchen, as his coffee trickled through the filter, Loki’s gaze narrowed on you, his eyes sharp as he observed the exchange. It didn’t escape him - your composure had cracks in it, the way your shoulders were wound tight, the way you barely breathed between sentences. His lips curled into a faint, knowing, endeared smile.

So stubborn.

Sam leaned his elbows on the island across from you, clasping his hands together. "What can I do?"

You raised a brow. "I’m not your responsibility, Sam."

"You’re my teammate."

You looked up. And to your credit, there was no venom in your eyes. Just that same brittle exhaustion that’d been following you like a shadow for days. You blew out a breath.

"I’m fine."

"You’ll think better with food," Sam coaxed.

Your jaw tensed. "I know. I'll eat in a bit."

"C'mon," Sam pressed, his voice light but serious. "Sit with us for half an hour, eat something, then you can get back to your 'almost done' report, and we'll all leave you alone."

You looked back at your screen. "I can’t tell if that’s a bribe or a threat."

"Bruce says the stress will kill you," Sam said, half-joking.

"Your jokes might beat it to the punch," you muttered back.

"Wow."

You resumed typing. "I promise, once this summit is over, I'll watch a Netflix special of your choosing and get more than my fill of endorphins."

Loki uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, smooth and deliberate. Unhurried, but with the weight of purpose behind them. He could feel the tension rolling off you, and for reasons he wouldn’t fully admit - couldn’t fully understand... he couldn’t stand it.

"Why," he began, his voice calm but with undeniable mischief laced beneath, "do you all insist on doing this the hard way?"

He rounded the island and approached you from the side, calm, not rushed, but without delay.

He had nothing to do with this - he told himself. This wasn’t about you or your exhaustion. This was just him solving a problem. A problem they were clearly too inept to fix.

Your shoulders didn’t move. You didn’t acknowledge him. You kept typing as he stood behind you.

His hands were on you before you registered the intent.

Loki’s fingers dug into your ribs, pressing and wiggling into the soft spots just beneath your arms with an expert precision.

You jerked, hands flying off the keys with a sharp sound of protest, an involuntary giggle bursting from your throat as you half-twisted, elbows snapping protectively to your sides.

Loki dropped his tickling hands, looming behind you like an impending storm, and let out a sharp and satisfied puff of air. "Thank the Norns."

And then, before you could gather your wits and react, he grabbed you around the waist and hauled you effortlessly off the stool.

You kicked and cursed in wild shock, flailing against the solid vice of his arm around your middle. "HEY!"

Loki looked to the others - their faces painted in quiet hesitance.

"Oh, don’t look at me like that," the god said with cool amusement, adjusting his grip as you writhed in his arms. “You’re all too bloody soft. Someone has to be the villain, and I rather enjoy the role." He then shot a sharp glance to Rogers. "You’re welcome."

He turned and started walking towards the living room.

"LOKI!" You snarled through gritted teeth, pushing at his forearm.

You were squirming like a snared hellcat in his arms, but your body gave you away. You were tired. Overextended. Tied in so many knots you couldn't tell where your own edges begin anymore.

"Let me go!"

"Yes, yes…" he sighed, striding into the large common room. "Once this matter is dealt with."

Bruce glanced up from his usual armchair, blinking behind his glasses. He took in the scene - you writhing in Loki’s arms, Loki’s expression impassive and focused, the faint storm in his stride.

From the threshold, Sam and Steve peered out with matching expressions of amused disbelief.

"Uh…" Bruce looked to the others, eyes wary and uncertain, coffee half-raised to his lips. "So we’re all just cool with whatever this is?"

Loki looked at the doctor briefly. "You said she needed endorphins. Laughter. Yes?"

"Well yeah but-"

"Lovely."

And then he threw you onto the couch.

It wasn't a gentle toss, but not cruel either. It was precise. Designed to disorient, and it did a hell of a job.

You landed on your side with a sharp bounce, half-seething, pushing yourself up with both murder and a giddy sort of nervousness in your eyes. You twisted and moved to scramble away, but he was already there - moving fast and smooth, settling down beside you.

He sat side-on, one knee on the cushion, the other foot braced on the floor. His hip pressed flush to yours, caging you in where you lay half-twisted against the backrest of the couch. His torso leaned across your waist, the angle perfect for blocking your every attempt to curl or wriggle away.

"You son of a-"

You reached up, maybe to push, maybe to slap, maybe to claw his face off - but it didn't matter. He caught your wrist easily, trapping it in mid-air.

"Easy," he said, voice low and warm. "Let’s not make a scene."

"Don’t you dare."

You didn't stand a chance.

He released your wrist and his hands darted fast - intentional, no wasted movement - his fingers dragging and digging into the sensitive space between your ribs and waist, thumbs pressing with precision.

You slapped at his hands, trying to hold back your giggles, still trying to fight, but he already had you.

Fingers spidered across your sides, precise and ticklish, pressing into the spaces between your ribs, the grooves of your waist. You jolted like a live wire. And then-

"Nnn-shit!"

You broke.

Giggling laughter exploded out of you, bright and helpless, like it had been waiting days to claw its way free. You bucked against him, hands slapping at his chest, knees curling up against his back.

He smirked, not even looking up at you, just watching his own hands move, thumbs circling, working the lines of your waist like a musician playing a their attuned instrument.

"Gods above," he muttered with an exhale, actually smiling. "You’re so ticklish."

"Asshole," you managed an adorable little snarl between breaths, but the laughter didn't stop. You were so consumed by the giggles that your protest didn’t sound as defiant as it should. "I ha-hate you!"

He chuckled, low and dark, his voice so teasing. "Oh, you’re going to have to try harder than that."

You let out a squeal when his fingers dug under your arms for half a second - then lower, finding the softest edge of your waist. You shrieked, bucking again, and Loki's grin deepened. His hands settled there with ominous precision.

Oh, he’d found something.

The spot just under your ribs, where nerves tangled and skin jumped at the slightest pressure. He focused there, thumbs pressing maddening circles, fingertips dragging with infuriating care.

You gasped, laughed, cursed - tried to twist, tried to curl - but it was useless. Your muscles had gone soft with the laughing. Your hands pushed at his chest, but there was no strength in them anymore. You were melting under him. And gods, he liked it.

"That’s it," he murmured, low and amused.

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Instead, you started going boneless beneath him.

He tilted his head, fascinated.

So expressive, mortals. All heat and breath and sudden collapse.

You could be a fury incarnate at any waking moment - sharp-tongued, iron-willed, as comfortable with a combat knife as you were in geopolitical briefings. And just as precise.

You’d spent the last week grinding yourself into steel and silence, undereyes shadowed with exhaustion, soaked in irritation, swatting away gentle jokes and light-hearted concern.

And now - reduced to this. Caught somewhere between defiance and surrender. Giggling, shaking, flushed and boneless beneath his hands.

Adorable.

He narrowed his eyes.

When had that word started surfacing in his brain so often?

God of Mischief, he reminded himself. This was simply the application of chaos toward emotional regulation. A necessary correction. Nothing more.

And yet, he could not look away.

He was a trickster, schemer, a thousand-year-old weapon of mass destruction. He had absolutely no business finding a mortal this... this charming.

And yet, he did not want to look away.

What a ruinous little thing you were becoming.

Your slaps were weaker now, your kicks barely jostled him. Your body had given up trying to fight and was just reacting, all frantic little spasms and helpless gasps. Your hands swatted for a second more- then simply curled around his wrists.

Not to push him away.

Just… to hold.

Your knuckles pressed into his sleeves, clinging without purpose, your palms warm against his skin. You were laughing, really laughing now - wild and breathless and beautiful, the sound pouring out of you with no control, like your body had finally found a way to purge the stress.

He watched you unravel under his hands, and it did something to him. Bended something inside him.

The laughter had knocked the fight out of your limbs. You were still squirming, yes, but without aim now. Pure reflex. He could feel the tension in you - the pressure that had been building for days - finally start to release.

He slowed his fingers, letting them glide lightly now, teasing, drawing out that helpless warmth until your laughter turned soft. Sweet. Still squirming, but relaxed.

When you went completely pliant, Loki stilled.

He watched your chest rise and fall, fast but looser. He'd felt the fight seep out of your shoulders, the weight in your brow gone. Your laughter trailed off into a breathless smile, your lips parted, eyes dazed with that post-laughter glow.

"There you are," he murmured, low and quiet, brushing his thumbs gently over your sides, not tickling anymore.

Something knotted tight in his chest as he looked at you - you, who could break bones and weaponise words. You, who had glared at the others like you wanted to bite them for suggesting a break. You, who hadn’t smiled in days, eyes heavy and sleepless with the unbearable weight of caring so very much.

Now a flushed, giggling heap on the couch. Under him. His body curved over yours, his hands still warm at your waist. Your fingers still wrapped loose around his wrists like you didn’t even realise it.

He swallowed.

This had been about endorphins. About tricking your nervous system into resetting. That was all.

Just… good strategy.

Right?

He kept his weight over you, hands still in place, but his voice dipped - lower, closer, with that subtle edge.

"I think your teammates are perfectly capable of helping you finish off those reports," he said. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

You nod without thinking, eyes unfocused. "Yeah."

Loki glanced up. Met Rogers’ gaze. Held it.

Steve was standing there in the kitchen archway, arms crossed, brow lifted. Loki didn't say a word - but the look was pointed.

"Captain Rogers will have Sergeant Barnes review the response to the Wakandan delegation," Loki continued, speaking to you but keeping his eyes on the one apparently in charge. "The others can proofread the rest, and deliver you notes... tomorrow."

"Yeah okay," you sniffed, still dazed, still sputtering residual giggles, but fully aware of your defeat.

Steve's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

Loki turned towards the good doctor.

Bruce was still watching from his chair, coffee in hand, one brow raised. Loki cocked his head, gesturing to your giggling form.

"Well, Bruce? What’s your diagnosis?"

Bruce watched you for a long second - your loose limbs, your lazy grin, the visible ease now where tightness had controlled your frame just minutes before. The corners of his mouth turned down in an analytical frown.

"Tension’s down. Endorphins kicked in. She looks lighter. I’d say she could use... another minute or so."

Loki’s smirk turned feral.

You didn't even protest.

You barely registered it, not until his fingers at to your sides started tickling with that same precision, but just a little gentler now, and your body danced with a squealing giggle you didn’t know you had in you.

The couch shook with your laughter again, the sound of your heels thudding against the cushion. You were completely wrecked. And you let it happen. You let him ruin you with laughter, your body betraying you, all your sharpness and strength replaced by unguarded sound and colour and heat.

And Loki...

He was half-smiling down at you like you were dangerous.

Like he was just realising you might be the only thing on this wretched planet that could bring him to heel. That could... soften him. That could make him enjoy softening.

And that, in itself, was terrifying.

But your laughter hit that beautiful, breathless pitch - and he knew he’d be doing this again.

end note:

i need to be clear that the tickle fluff in this fic is not meant to present as the solution to the reader's stress; the delegation of work is. tickling can be fun and sweet and help with relaxation, but it does not fix systemic issues or mental health concerns. this may seem like a weirdly intense note to end on for a fun and fluffy fic, but it wouldn't sit right with me to leave this up to interpretation. lots of love xo

#loki x reader #marvel reader insert #no y/n #loki x you #ticklish!reader #marvel fanfiction #loki x female reader #loki fluff #loki x reader fluff

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societyfolklore · 3 months ago

Note

Hiiiii 😍 can I pretty please ask for an imagine where Bucky and you are a couple and you're there with him in Wakanda when he is freed from the word controlling him. Like the heartbreaking scene around the fire, where he knows he's free, and you are there for him and he's holding you close like he would fall apart without you. Then later in his hut it's all fluffy maybe a bit smutty, but only if you want. Thank youuuu !

Title: Freed

Pairing: Wakanda!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: After years of torment, Bucky is finally free from the words that once controlled him. You’re by his side when it happens.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Established relationship, Emotional hurt/comfort, canon-level trauma, soft/romantic smut, post-deprogramming intimacy, light angst with a healing ending, one-arm Bucky (but Vibranium shoulder) unprotected sex, slow burn tenderness, praise, body worship, crying during sex, firelight sex, fluff A/N: Thank you for this request, but want to take this chance to recommend @angelremnants series HEAT WAVES Part One (There are three parts) which explores Bucky's recovery in Wakanda. ALSO I’m so hoping I got the trigger words right.. google translate is a bit iffy sometimes) The fire crackled softly under the Wakandan sky, casting flickering gold across Bucky’s face, making the lines of pain and exhaustion etched into his features all the more visible. You watched him from a few feet away, your heart in your throat, barely daring to breathe. Ayo stood across from him, on the other side of the fire, quiet and focused, her voice calm and unwavering as she said the word that once meant devastation.

"Zhelaniye. Rzhaviy."

He flinched.

Your breath caught painfully in your chest.

"Semyadca"

He shuddered, his shoulders jerking like the word had pierced straight through bone.

"It's not going to work."

His voice cracked with quiet despair, thick and raw with fear, barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words too loudly might make them real. His eyes stayed locked on the fire, unblinking, like it held the answer to his freedom- or the confirmation of his doom. The flames reflected in the blue of his eyes, dancing like ghosts of the past he couldn't escape.

His jaw trembled, the muscle there feathering with the effort to stay composed. His shoulders were rigid, locked in place as though even the smallest movement might shatter him. You saw the tear before it fell, clinging stubbornly to his lower lashes, glistening in the firelight. A single bead of grief, of fear, of decades of pain refusing to be contained any longer.

You ached for him to look at you instead, to see your face, to feel your presence- to remember that he wasn’t alone in this, that he never had to face it alone again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He was caught in it, drowning in the weight of what might come next, and all you could do was be near enough to catch him when he fell.

"Rassvet. Pech."

Tears welled in your eyes. You hated those words. Hated the way they twisted into him like claws. But he wasn’t breaking- not this time. His lips were trembling, jaw clenched like he was holding the whole damn world together.

"Devyat. Dobroserdechnyy. "

His breathing got rough, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles- but this was no physical exertion. He was fighting ghosts, memories clawing their way through the cracks in his mind, each word like a trigger detonating deep within his soul. His hands were fists at his sides, not from rage, but desperation- as if gripping reality with all he had left. You could see the tension in his neck, how close he was to shattering. His eyes were filling with water, not just from pain, but from the unbearable weight of trying- fighting a battle no one else could see, but you felt every ounce of it with him.

"Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin."

One last time. You watched his face.

"Tovarnyy vagon."

And then- nothing.

Silence, except for the fire.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Even the wind stilled, as if it too was waiting to see what came next. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, echoing in your ears as your gaze never left him.

You stepped closer as Ayo said softly, "You are free."

Bucky didn’t move for a second. The words hung in the air between you, too powerful to fully believe. A single tear slipped down his cheek, catching in the firelight like a falling star. His chest heaved with a shaky breath. Then his eyes- wide, almost wild- snapped to yours. And you saw it. That tiny glimmer of disbelief. Of hope. Of something long buried beginning to rise.

He was free.

You crossed the space in an instant, barely aware of your feet hitting the earth.

His arms were around you before you could even speak. He buried his face in your shoulder, his body trembling with the aftershocks of a battle no one else could see. He clutched you like a man who’d been drowning and finally found air, fingers digging into your back like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. His breath hitched in your ear, uneven and broken and real.

"I thought it would never stop," he whispered, voice breaking like a dam under pressure. "I thought I’d always be... that thing. A weapon. A monster." His hands tightened in the fabric of your clothes, as if anchoring himself to something real, something good. "I didn’t think I’d ever come back from it."

You held him tighter, your arms circling him like a shield, running your fingers through his tangled hair, your lips brushing against his temple with reverence. "You were never just that. You were always more. But now? You're free, baby. You’re finally free." You felt his breath stutter against your neck, and your own eyes burned with unshed tears.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression cracked wide open, vulnerable and bare. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, but soft, so full of aching. "Don’t let go of me." His voice was small, almost childlike.

"Never," you whispered fiercely, your forehead resting against his. "Not now. Not ever."

Later, after the tears and the fire and the quiet walk back to his hut, you found yourself draped over him on the narrow bed, like one of the soft Wakandan blankets he’d grown so fond of. Your legs tangled with his, your head tucked beneath his chin, nestled against the curve of his body under his remaining arm. His vibranium shoulder shifted slightly as he breathed, but it was his right arm that held you, his warm hand resting against your back, protective, steady, and so achingly human.

Your fingers traced lazy lines over his new shoulder and up to trace little patters on his neck. He was quieter now, still raw but grounded, like the weight had finally been lifted from his soul.

"You stayed," he murmured. He sounded tired still, no wonder tonight had taken a lot out of him.

"Of course I did."

"I wouldn’t have made it through without you."

You sat up a little to look into those wondrous blue eyes of his, your hand cradling his cheek as he blinked up at you, content and vulnerable in the soft light. Then you pressed soft kisses into his forehead, lingering there like a promise. "You did this, Bucky. You fought. I just loved you through it."

He smiled against your skin, a real one. Soft and tired and safe.

Your touch drifted lower, skimming the line of his waist. His breath caught when your fingers teased beneath the hem of his waistband.

"Wanna show you how grateful I am," he whispered, voice husky now, warm and low in the dark. His hand brushed your hip, thumb moving in slow, reverent circles, like he was grounding himself in the reality of your body, your presence, the moment. There was no urgency, only need, the quiet, aching kind born from survival, from still being here.

"Yeah?" you breathed, heart fluttering.

You climbed over him, slow and careful, straddling his hips as he lay back against the bed. His vibranium shoulder shifted beneath him as he adjusted, but it was his right arm- his only hand- that reached for you, fingers brushing your cheek, then settling over your hip with a grounding, tender grip. The kiss he gave you was reverent, gentle, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to have you like this. To feel.

His hand roamed with quiet purpose, memorizing you like a map, fingertips trailing over your skin in soft devotion- like now, finally, he could touch you without shadows. He watched you through heavy-lidded eyes, jaw slack with awe, as you shifted above him with reverence.

You reached for the fabric tied low on his hips- loose Wakandan linen he’d gotten used to wearing. With deliberate care, you untied the knot and pushed it aside, revealing him to the cool air. You could feel his breath stutter as you slid your folds along the length of him, not taking him in, just gliding your slick heat over him in slow, languid passes. Your arousal coated him in wet desire, the glide of your body an erotic, intimate tease that made his jaw clench and a low growl rise in his throat. Each slow grind of your hips was deliberate, worshipful, as if marking him with the proof of how deeply you ached for him.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, and his right hand gripped your hip, fingertips pressing into your skin. You ground your hips against him, sliding up and down the length of him without taking him in, the friction enough to make you both tremble. The air was thick with heat and reverence, the firelight painting your bodies in gold and shadow.

When you finally shifted your hips and sank onto him, a shaky gasp spilled from both your lips. He filled you slowly, deeply, and you paused with him fully seated inside, your forehead resting against his.

"Fuck," he whispered, reverent and wrecked. "You feel like home."

Bucky sat up with effort, his shoulders bracing behind him as his right arm circled your waist. His lips found yours again, hungry, grateful. He kissed you like he was memorizing it, like he never wanted to come up for air.

"God, you feel so good," he murmured against your lips, breath hot and shaky. "So warm… so alive."

You whimpered softly, your forehead pressed to his. "You're here, baby. You're really here. I've got you."

His hand found your breast, cupping and kneading with aching tenderness, his thumb brushing over your nipple in time with your slow rolls of your hips. You gasped, your nails digging lightly into his shoulder as your body pulsed around him.

"That’s it, doll," he whispered, his voice rough and reverent. "Take your time… I wanna feel every damn second of this."

You rocked against him with lazy purpose, each motion deep and drawn out. Your head tipped back, a breathless moan escaping you as you felt him fill you again, stretching you just right, grounding you in a way nothing else ever had. "Nothing- no one- feels like you do, Bucky," you gasped, your voice breaking on the edges of pleasure. "You’re the only one I want..."

He groaned softly, kissing along your jaw, your throat, like he couldn’t get enough of your skin. The glow of the firelight cast you both in amber, your skin shining with sweat and reverence, the shadows flickering across the planes of his chest and the curves of your back.

He whispered your name like a prayer between kisses, like it grounded him to this world. "Tell me this is real," he murmured. "Tell me I’m not dreaming."

You cupped his cheek, voice thick with emotion. "It’s real. You’re mine, Bucky. You're here, really here."

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pressing your chest flush to his, your skin slick and warm where it met his. Each roll of your hips was met with a soft rock of his own, his thighs flexing beneath you, pushing deeper, drawing out breathy moans that tangled with the crackle of firelight.

His right hand held tight to your waist, guiding you gently, as if every movement was sacred. "You’re everything," he groaned. "You saved me."

"We saved each other," you whispered into his ear.

You stayed like that, chest to chest, sweat mingling, hearts beating in time, until the world outside that bed no longer existed, and all that remained was the rhythm you made together.

This was what it meant to be free. To feel, to be loved, to live.

You came first, your body tensing as the wave crested, your thighs shaking, your hips bucking slightly against him as your climax crashed through you. His name tumbled from your lips in a broken moan, high and desperate, as your walls clenched and spasmed around him, gripping him so tightly it dragged him right over the edge with you.

Bucky gasped your name with a raw, wrecked sound, trembling beneath you as he spilled inside, his grip tightening on your waist like he was holding on for dear life. You held him close through the shuddering aftershocks, your forehead pressed to his, grounding him in your touch.

Reminding him he was safe.

Reminding him he was loved.

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buckyseternaldoll · 11 days ago

Text

What We Never Said

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You weren’t lovers. Not really friends either. Just two people who found something sacred in the silence between them—until he left.

Disclaimer: Emotional angst, mutual pining, this story stretches between multiple MCU timeline, canon-divergent, past suicidal ideation (non-graphic), unresolved tension, heartbreak, self-worth struggles, soft reunion, slow-burn emotional resolution, gentle romance, happy ending

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: Based on this ask by @currentfacination 💜 I hope I managed to meet your expectation!

You hadn’t planned on surviving that night.

The city had been beautiful—lights like fireflies, air thick with the earthy scent of warm dust and distant spices. It was supposed to be a vacation, a distraction, a last-ditch effort to salvage whatever was left between you and the man who’d already made you feel small for months. He brought you to a city neighboring Wakanda—borderline tourism, he’d called it. A break from reality.

But by midnight, he was gone.

He left you in the middle of a dark, unfamiliar street with nothing but your passport and a half-broken phone. No money. No directions. Just a sneer and the cold slam of a car door. “Figure it out,” he said before driving off. “Maybe you’ll finally learn not to depend on anyone.”

You walked. Then ran. Then wandered until your feet ached and the cold crept through your skin like something alive. You hadn’t cried. Not until your legs gave out somewhere in the shadows of an unlit hill, and the weight of it all dragged you to your knees.

You remembered the rocks beneath your palms. The sharpness. The way the moonlight trembled over the trees.

You remembered the exact thought that struck you before you stood by the edge of that cliff:

No one is coming. No one ever comes.

But someone did.

Wakandan guards had spotted you—unknown, injured, emotionally unwell—and escorted you inside their borders with quiet, efficient urgency. You barely understood what was happening. You only remembered the soft hum of their aircraft, the cool press of water to your lips, the way they never asked you to explain anything until you could breathe again.

And then, there was Shuri.

She didn’t pry. She just sat beside you. Her presence—sharp and warm and quietly reassuring—was the first human comfort you’d felt in weeks. You told her everything in fragments: the manipulation, the loneliness, the cruelty of someone who had held your heart like it was disposable.

And she listened. God, she listened.

It wasn’t long before she asked you to stay. Just until you got back on your feet.

She gave you a quiet room in the science compound that overlooked the golden plains. She gave you time. You often spent the mornings watching the clouds curl above the mountains, a cup of sweet-spiced Wakandan tea in hand. The silence wasn’t so frightening anymore. Not with her.

You slowly helped in small ways—observing lab work, organizing inventory, even translating diplomatic notes from time to time. You weren’t a genius, not like her, but you were steady. Present. Trying.

When you laughed again for the first time, Shuri smiled and told you it suited you.

—

Then came him.

Bucky Barnes was a ghost when they brought him in. Tense shoulders, eyes like winter steel, breath always held too long—like he hadn’t decided whether he deserved to exhale.

You didn’t meet him at first. Shuri warned you that he didn’t trust easily. He didn’t want healers. He didn’t want psychologists. The few they sent in, he shut out. Too polished, too clinical. “They speak like they’re rehearsing something,” he’d said. “Like I’m just another case file.”

Still, Shuri saw something in both of you. And when she quietly suggested he try speaking to you instead, you nearly declined. What if he didn’t want that either?

Your first conversation was barely more than a shared silence. He sat at the edge of the outdoor bench beneath the acacia trees, arms crossed tight, left leg bouncing restlessly. You handed him tea and didn’t speak. He glanced at it, then at you.

You shrugged. “You don’t have to talk. I’m not going to fix you.”

He studied you with those guarded, worn-out eyes for a beat too long. Then took the cup.

It became a ritual. You met in that same spot every few days—sometimes talking, sometimes not. You never asked about the arm. He never asked about the scar on your wrist. But the understanding between you grew in the cracks of quiet.

He found out about your past when you told him—calmly, without drama. Just facts. Just history.

“I was ready to end it. I thought no one would notice.”

“They did,” he said. “That matters.”

When he told you about Hydra, about how pieces of him still didn’t feel like his, your heart didn’t recoil. You reached out and touched his shoulder—softly. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“You’re not what they made you,” you whispered. “And I’m not what he broke.”

He didn’t say anything. But he stayed.

—

Weeks bled into months.

He taught you how to spot storm clouds in his mood before they hit. You showed him how to stretch pasta by hand, how to make the perfect cup of tea that you liked. He let you see his laugh—rare and surprised, like it shocked even him.

You told him once that being around him didn’t feel like healing.

“It feels like… remembering how to feel safe.”

He blinked hard. Then nodded.

“Same.”

—

Then you planned to leave.

Not out of spite. Not to run.

You had healed—slowly, honestly—and Shuri encouraged you to return to the world you’d left behind. To rebuild something for yourself. You didn’t want to go far. But you also didn’t want to stay frozen in place.

You hesitated when you told Bucky. He was sitting on the windowsill in the corridor, metal hand gripping his knee. You could tell he already knew.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” you said quietly.

He met your gaze. “I know.”

“Come with me, then.”

He didn’t answer right away. But a week later, when your flight was confirmed and your bags were packed, he asked you if you’d want a roommate.

You tried not to smile too hard.

—

You agreed, of course. In your defense, it sounded like a great offer—logical even. You’d gotten used to having him around. His quiet presence, the subtle glances, the unexpected humor that crept in when his guard dropped. Living together might just add a little more spark, a little more comfort. Something to hold onto.

He flew to the U.S. with you, barely carrying more than a single bag and a book he didn’t read on the plane. The apartment you picked wasn’t fancy, but it was enough—a two-bedroom walk-up tucked in the outskirts of New York, where traffic didn’t echo and no one asked too many questions. Quiet. Livable. A little empty at first.

But over time, you made it feel like a home.

A rug here. Plants that almost died but didn’t. Candles you forgot to blow out more than once. You painted the living room together on a weekend afternoon, your playlist humming low from a Bluetooth speaker while paint splattered your forearms. He didn’t complain about your color choices, not even once. In fact, he helped mix the tones with care—sage green and soft grey.

You’d said the green reminded you of yourself—growing, healing. The grey was him, steady and familiar.

“We’re like an old couple,” you joked as you dipped the brush into the tray again.

“Minus the cute banters,” he replied without missing a beat.

You’d both laughed at that, but it stuck with you.

Living together was easy in ways you didn’t expect. You weren’t lovers. You weren’t just friends. But the line between those two kept blurring, kept tugging you closer to something unnamed.

He noticed when you weren’t okay—like the nights when your head stayed low too long or your eyes didn’t quite focus.

“Chamomile?” he’d offer, already steeping the tea. Always with honey.

And when he wasn’t okay—when his nightmares clawed him awake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, chest heaving—you didn’t hesitate. You climbed into his bed without a word, pulled him into your arms, and rubbed slow circles into his back until his breathing evened out.

You never talked about those nights in the morning. But he always looked at you like he wanted to.

You started to feel things.

Maybe you had for a while.

You clung to the connection between you like it was sacred, like it was too precious to name out loud. It wasn’t love. Not officially. But some days, it felt like it—quiet, soft, blooming in the spaces where neither of you dared to speak.

Sometimes, it showed.

Like during movie nights—when your fingers brushed his as you both reached for the popcorn bucket at the same time. He didn’t pull away. In fact, he held your hand. Gently. Just for a second too long, like maybe he meant to.

Or the morning you woke up from a panic attack, chest tight and lungs refusing to work. He’d pulled you against him in one movement, holding you so close, so steady, you almost cried. He didn’t let go, not even after you calmed. And when you fell back asleep in his arms, he stayed awake until sunrise—just to make sure you didn’t fall apart again.

There were moments.

Almosts.

And they confused you.

Blurred the lines between what-if and reality.

You were starting to wonder if maybe—just maybe—he felt it too.

—

Everything changed the day Steve died.

Bucky stopped being Bucky. It was like watching someone slowly slip beneath the surface—there, but unreachable. His movements dulled, his eyes emptied out, and whatever light used to live behind them dimmed to something barely breathing. He didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. He didn’t say much at all.

He just… stopped.

Stopped texting Sam back. Stopped answering when you called his name from the kitchen. He didn’t touch the food you made—just moved it around his plate until you eventually cleared it away in silence. The routines you’d built, the soft rhythm of your life together—it all unraveled.

Even Mr. Lim noticed. The old man at the corner store mentioned it with a frown when you came by alone one day to buy tangerines.

“Haven’t seen your quiet soldier lately.”

You forced a smile. “He’s just been… tired.”

Still, tired didn’t cover it.

He was hollow.

The nightmares got worse—violent, guttural, shaking him down to the core. You’d wake to the sound of him gasping for air, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, clutching at his chest like he couldn’t bear being alive in his own skin.

Still, you stayed.

You held his hand through every night he thrashed against invisible ghosts. You whispered through his silence, even when he barely looked at you. You made black coffee—bitter just the way he liked it, and left it by his door. You sat on the edge of the couch, brushing your fingertips lightly over his metal arm—not asking for anything. Just letting him know you were still here.

“He loved you, Bucky,” you told him one night. Your voice was soft. Careful. “Steve believed in you. Always.”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.

And then, finally, he spoke—quietly, brokenly:

“How do I keep living… when the only person from my past who saw me as more than a weapon is gone?”

“The only one who believed in me. Who never gave up on me—not once.”

You swallowed hard. That should’ve been a comfort to hear, but the way he said it—it hit different. Like a farewell. Like you had never even been part of the equation.

Your heart splintered.

Still, you managed to whisper, “You have me…”

He turned to look at you then—really looked. But it wasn’t the gaze you knew. His eyes were flat, empty, like he didn’t know what he was seeing.

“Maybe you’re next,” he said quietly. “You’ll leave me too. Die before I do. Or worse—realize I’m not worth your time and walk away like everyone else.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t say it like a plea. He said it like a certainty.

But behind his eyes, the truth twisted deep. You could feel it, even if he didn’t speak it aloud:

Can’t stop the voices in my mind.

Didn’t mean to hurt you, but I do it anyway.

You closed the space between you and him, placing a hand on his arm—flesh, not metal. Grounding. Present.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, steady and low. “Not now. Not when it hurts. Not ever.”

He didn’t move.

“You’re not alone in this,” you added. “Even if you push, I’ll keep pulling. I’ll be here, Bucky. With you. Not without.”

Still, silence.

But you stayed there beside him, even when he didn’t answer. Even when it felt like your words sank into nothing.

You stayed.

Because love isn’t just about being heard.

Sometimes, it’s about being there—unshaken, unmovable—when the person you love forgets they’re worth staying for.

—

The morning air felt wrong.

You woke up slowly at first—sunlight leaking between the blinds, warming the room in pale gold. The usual hush of early morning lingered in the space, but something about it… felt off. Too still. Too empty.

No kettle whistling from the kitchen. No soft thud of his boots by the door. No sound of him flipping through pages of the same damn newspaper he barely read.

Just silence.

Heavy. Final.

You sat up, your chest tight with something you couldn’t name yet. And then you moved—fast. Rushing across the hall to his room, barefoot against cool wood floors. You knocked once. Twice.

No answer.

You turned the knob.

The door swung open with a soft creak, and your heart dropped.

His room was empty.

Not messy. Not abandoned.

Just… cleared out.

The bed was stripped. The closet hangers bare. No duffel bag. No boots. No sketchbook left behind. Not even the little photo you knew he kept tucked between the pages of that worn paperback—gone.

You walked through the house like a ghost—checking the kitchen, the bathroom, even the tiny balcony where he used to stand at night, pretending not to smoke. Every drawer, every quiet corner whispered the same truth:

Bucky was gone.

No note. No explanation. No goodbye.

You called him immediately, fingers trembling as you held the phone to your ear. It rang. And rang. Until the line broke into voicemail.

“It’s me. Bucky. Leave something.”

You called again. And again. Voicemail.

You sent a text. Then another. Dozens. You begged, you pleaded, you asked why—but none of them delivered anything back. No read receipt. No dots. No closure.

You tried emailing.

Nothing.

You reached out to Shuri, desperately, hoping maybe he’d gone back to Wakanda. But her reply came back almost immediately.

“I haven’t heard from him either. I’m so sorry. Please take care of yourself.”

But the question hung there, unanswered: how?

How could you take care of yourself when every part of you felt like it had been ripped out in the middle of the night?

You sat on the couch—the one you picked out together, the one where he used to fall asleep during movie nights—and tried to breathe. But all you could do was sit there, phone in hand, silence screaming louder than grief ever could.

You spiraled. Of course you did.

Because you thought it mattered. What you had with him. The quiet mornings. The comfort. The way he used to watch you laugh like it was something rare.

You thought he was healing—not alone, but with you.

You thought you were walking side by side, not carrying him on your own.

And you started wondering if any of it had ever been real. If the soft things he’d said—like how he liked when you scrunched your nose because it made you look like a bunny—were just… words. Passing thoughts. Distractions from the war in his head.

Was any of it real?

Or were you just a temporary balm? Something warm to cling to while he held himself together?

You wanted to believe in the quiet touches, the lingering glances, the way he always made your tea just right—but now, all of it felt like a dream you’d woken up from far too late.

And you?

You felt hollow.

Like he’d taken something when he left. A huge, unspoken, unfillable part of you. A part you didn’t even know was his until it was already gone.

And now, you sat in the place you once called home—surrounded by the ghost of him—and wondered how you were supposed to go on living like nothing had happened.

—

He’d thrown the phone out on the second day.

Not because he was angry. Not because he wanted to forget. But because every time the screen lit up, he thought it might be you. And he couldn’t bear the weight of knowing it probably was.

He stayed off the grid after that. Remote towns. No names. No noise. A worn-out truck and a room above a hardware store with flickering lights and walls thin enough to hear the wind whistling through the seams.

It was better this way.

Or at least that’s what he told himself.

You need someone your age, he repeated.

Someone who smiles easy. Someone who’s not haunted every time the sun goes down. Someone who’s not made of fragments stitched together by other people’s regrets.

Someone whole.

Not a man rebuilt from blood and steel and frostbite. Not someone who still hears screams in German when he closes his eyes.

Not him.

He sat alone most nights, back pressed against a cold wall, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was loud—louder than gunfire, louder than any war. It carried your voice in it. Your laugh. The soft way you used to call him—

“Bucks Bunny,”

—with your nose all scrunched up, that ridiculous smile stretched across your face like you had no idea how deeply he loved you in that exact moment.

He’d smile back when he saw it in his head. But when he blinked, it was gone. Just bare walls and a crooked chair in the corner of a room that didn’t even have a clock.

He tried to imagine you happy. Moving on. Living somewhere bright. Somewhere warm. He liked the idea of you wearing light colors, surrounded by people who didn’t look at you like you were about to unravel.

But then the doubt crept in.

What if you hadn’t moved on?

What if you were still hurting? Still waiting?

What if walking away hadn’t saved you—just shattered you, the same way he’d shattered everything else he ever touched?

And that’s what gutted him the most.

Because he knew what you gave. What you sacrificed to stay with him. And he walked away anyway.

“I tried to let it go,” he whispered, voice hoarse from hours without speaking.

“But it’s eating me alive.”

He reached for the notebook tucked in his duffel, the one he barely wrote in anymore. Not since the lists stopped. Not since he stopped believing he was capable of making amends that actually mattered.

Inside it—tucked between two pages worn soft from touching—was the photo.

Shuri had taken it back in Wakanda. You were laughing at something he said, head tilted toward him like you couldn’t be anywhere else. His arm was slung behind you, relaxed. He hadn’t even known he was smiling until he saw the picture.

Now, the edges were frayed. The center had a faint crease, like he’d folded it too many times, taken it out too often just to look. It still smelled faintly of that herbal compound you used to keep in your room.

He brushed his thumb over your face in the photo.

“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath, barely audible.

“God, I’m so sorry.”

The picture didn’t answer. Of course it didn’t.

And neither did you.

—

Florence, 2025

You hadn’t meant to fall in love with the city.

It was just supposed to be work. A preservation site conference, assigned last-minute when your manager realized you hadn’t taken a single vacation in over two years—not even for sick days. He’d practically shoved the ticket into your hand and told you to rest, to go and “experience life under the excuse of networking.”

You’d laughed then. And now, walking through the soft burn of golden hour near Piazza della Signoria, you realized maybe he was right.

The square was still alive with tourists and locals blending into the buzz of early evening. Artists sketched under awnings, performers strummed soft chords on the edge of the fountains, and sunlight spilled across stone like something sacred.

Your conference had ended that afternoon, and you were scheduled to fly back in the morning. So you wandered. Took your time. Let yourself exist without urgency.

Then you saw him.

Or at least, the shape of him.

Across the plaza—taller now, more broad at the shoulders, darker in his clothes. His hair was a little shorter, salt and peppered. He moved slower, more grounded. But it was him. The weight of his presence was unmistakable, like your soul knew it before your eyes did.

You froze mid-step.

He hadn’t seen you yet. Or so you thought.

Until he turned.

His eyes met yours—and suddenly, the world narrowed.

For one heartbeat, you couldn’t breathe.

And then he moved.

“Hey—hey!”

He was already walking toward you, fast, almost a jog.

“Is that really—? God, it’s you!”

Your name fell from his mouth like it had never left his lips. Like it belonged to him, like it was sacred.

You barely managed to speak.

“Bucky…”

When he reached you, he stopped short, just an arm’s length away. His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes darting across your face like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Then he smiled. Soft and warm and unguarded.

“You look better,” he said, voice low. “Glowier.”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly bashful.

“I mean—you look… good. Really good.”

You smiled, heart hammering. “So do you.”

“Yeah?” he said, almost like he didn’t believe it. “Guess Florence is kind to broken people.”

There was a silence then. Not cold. Not tense. Just full—full of things you never got to say. Regret. Hope. Familiarity.

Time.

“So…” he asked quietly, “how long are you in town?”

You glanced down at your feet. “I leave tomorrow morning.”

His face flickered—something unreadable shifting in his expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

You watched as he brought it to his ear.

“Sam,” he said, turning slightly away but still within reach. “Yeah. I’m gonna stay behind a couple days. Something’s come up.”

A pause.

“No, I’m fine. Just—something I need to sort out.”

He ended the call, slid the phone back into his jacket, and looked at you.

No excuses. No overexplanations.

Just truth.

“I want to talk. If you’ll let me.”

You nodded, the corner of your mouth tugging upward, your throat thick with something almost too much to bear.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Me too.”

And maybe—just maybe—fate had finally decided it was time.

—

The café was tucked away on a narrow side street, shaded by creeping vines and half-silent bells ringing from the nearby cathedral tower. It was small—only four tables inside—but the kind of quiet that felt earned. Safe. Bucky gestured for you to take the corner seat near the window while he went to order.

You sat slowly, your fingers brushing over the grain of the worn wood table as you tried to keep your heart from racing. He still moved with that soft confidence, like his body had been trained for chaos, but now preferred gentleness.

When he returned, he carried a small tray—two steaming drinks and a plate of rustic pastries, flaky and golden, nothing too fancy.

He stood at the edge of the table for a moment, tray in hand, and hesitated.

You watched as his eyes flicked between the two cups—tea and black coffee—before he slowly picked up the coffee and hovered, uncertain.

It was such a small thing. But it felt important somehow.

“I… actually drink black coffee now,” you blurted, voice a little too fast, a little too soft.

Then you stopped yourself, realizing how it sounded.

Like you hadn’t just changed your drink.

Like you’d been holding on to a piece of him all this time, sipping memory in silence.

Bucky chuckled. Something tender shifted in his expression as he placed the coffee in front of you and sat down, curling his fingers around the tea.

“Funny enough,” he murmured, “I can only drink this tea now.”

Your heart squeezed.

Because somehow, without trying, you had become part of each other’s quiet routines—even after all the distance, even after all the years.

You sipped. So did he. And the silence between you wasn’t cold—it was charged. A humming space where every word felt too fragile, too sacred, to break first.

You fiddled with your fingers beneath the table, looking for courage, then finally let your voice cut the stillness.

“You look better too.”

“Shorter hair. Softer stubble.”

“Did you… meet someone? Someone who helped you heal?”

He didn’t even flinch.

He just chuckled, low and warm.

“Never met one.”

“No one’s ever been good enough to replace you.”

The air thickened with the weight of it.

He looked at you then, fully—like he was memorizing you all over again.

“I’ve carried the guilt for years,” he admitted quietly. “For leaving. For not staying. I thought it was what you needed. That I was protecting you.”

He looked down at his cup for a moment, then exhaled slowly.

“But even now—after everything—I still don’t think I know how to stay.”

“Not because I don’t want to. But because… I never learned how. Not with what I lost. Not with all the years that were stolen.”

You could feel the truth in every word.

“I went looking for you,” he continued. “Months after I left. The old place was gone. Demolished. No trace. I called Sam. Shuri. No one knew where you’d gone.”

“It felt like I’d become the ghost… but this time, you disappeared.”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening.

“So I told myself you moved on. That maybe that was good. Maybe I had finally done something right by letting you go.”

He paused, just long enough for the sadness to settle between you.

“But I never loved anyone else.”

“I couldn’t. It’s always been you.”

His hand moved slowly toward his coat pocket. He pulled out a familiar object—his old notebook, but more worn than you remembered. The leather was faded, the spine loose. He flipped carefully to a page halfway through and removed something tucked between the fold.

A photo.

The one Shuri had taken in Wakanda.

You, laughing—eyes closed, head tilted toward him. His arm behind you. His mouth caught in a rare smile. You’d barely even remembered the camera. He hadn’t smiled like that for anyone else.

You blinked at the photo, throat thick.

It was creased. The corners torn and softened. The ink slightly faded. You could tell he’d held it too many times. Folded it. Unfolded it. Looked at it again. And again. And again.

“You still keep this?” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“Every night. I… couldn’t let it go.”

And there it was—the proof you’d both needed.

That no matter how far the silence stretched, no matter how lost you became to each other—

You were never forgotten.

—

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, side by side in that tiny café tucked in the heart of Florence. The drinks had cooled. The pastries sat mostly untouched. The sun had begun to dip, casting golden light through the stained glass window beside you, catching the soft curve of Bucky’s jaw, the way his eyes looked just a little too full.

He was still holding the photo.

Still tracing his thumb over the image of you, years younger, smiling without knowing he was looking.

You finally broke the quiet.

“You know… I could never really erase you.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours. You could see the weight in them—hope, guilt, something fragile he didn’t know how to name.

“When you left, it felt like you took this huge piece of me with you,” you continued, voice low. “I didn’t know how to move forward for a while. I felt hollow. Angry. But…”

You paused, steadying your breath.

“I kept thinking about how you made it through everything. Hydra. The pain. The guilt. You kept going, even when you didn’t think you deserved to. Even when you were alone.”

You looked down, then back up at him, and there was something shining in your expression now—something soft and clear.

“So I followed you, in a way. I took it day by day. I learned how to live again. Not because it stopped hurting, but because I remembered you kept trying.”

Your hand drifted over your chest, almost absentmindedly.

“But I never forgot you. Not the way you held me. Not your voice. Not your arms around me when I needed them most. I could still feel you.”

He looked at you like you’d just split the sky in half.

You smiled, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as you leaned forward just slightly, scrunching your nose.

“Bucks Bunny,” you said playfully, tenderly—his name softened by time and love.

The sound cracked something open in him.

You held out your hand, palm up, between you on the table.

“Maybe we can stop running away this time?”

“Let’s start making amends with each other.”

He stared at your hand for a long second, lips parted like he was trying to hold back emotion. Then—without hesitation—he reached across and took it.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. Familiar. He wrapped them gently around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then he smiled. Fully. Finally.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Let’s.”

***

[EPILOGUE]

It was night now. The city had quieted into a gentle hush, the kind that only old places seemed to carry—ancient stone still holding the warmth of the sun, lanterns flickering on cobbled streets, casting long shadows between the alleys.

You hadn’t meant to stay out this late.

But after the café, neither of you wanted to say goodbye. So you walked. Nowhere specific. Past bridges and gardens, through quiet squares and narrow streets with laundry still hanging from windows. You filled each other in on life, on little things—jobs, books, memories, movies missed and people changed.

It felt like no time had passed.

But the streets were nearly empty now, shutters drawn, windows glowing faintly with the hush of bedtime.

When you reached your hotel, Bucky lingered behind you in the hallway, hands in his pockets, eyes warm beneath the soft golden light. You didn’t speak as you slid the keycard into the lock. The door clicked open.

And as soon as it shut behind you—

He pulled you in.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other curled gently around your waist as he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was soft and reverent, but hungry with years of restraint finally unraveling.

“Had been holding on for too long, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, voice husky.

“I’ve been dreaming about this.”

You deepened the kiss, fingers fisting in the collar of his jacket, and he groaned softly at the contact. There was no desperation—only love. The kind that settles into your bones. The kind that doesn’t ask anymore. That knows.

This was the end of yearning.

The end of waiting.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath came uneven, but his voice was steady.

“I love you,” he said softly. “So much. Too much.”

“I think even the other versions of me in alternate universes would probably love the other versions of you, too.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your eyes bright.

“Are you sure though?”

He smiled, thumb brushing your cheek as he leaned in again.

“Very sure.”

***

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes angst #requested fic by elle #tysm for the request! 💜#જ⁀➴ by elle #mcu!bucky angst #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky #mutual pining #emotional hurt/comfort

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