carolinaclouds

[carolinaclouds]

After Hours

pairing | au!bucky x teacher!reader

word count | 7.8k words

summary | when bucky barnes keeps showing up early to pick up his nephew from school, it’s definitely not just about being a good uncle—it’s about the sharp, no-nonsense kindergarten teacher who won’t give him the time of day. one desperate club night and a locked bathroom later, you finally do.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), dominant!bucky, flirty!bucky, modern au, cocky!bucky, no-nonsense!reader, slow burn to smut, mutual pining, enemies to lovers-ish, no description of reader, BUT reader does have surname (racially ambiguous as always), ABBOTT ELEMENTARY CROSSOVER (this is fanfiction so I can do whatever I want)

a/n | this is filthy you guys, based on this request, and after reading this if you haven't I beg you to watch abbott elementary, literally rewatching for the fourth time, it's everything and changed my entire personality

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

“You do realize we’re ten minutes late, right?”

The voice came from the backseat—small, unimpressed, and filled with the kind of quiet disappointment usually reserved for tax season and slow Wi-Fi.

Bucky glanced at his rearview mirror and caught sight of his nephew, Danny, hair flattened oddly on one side from sleep, Superman backpack twice the size of his torso, and the most judgmental frown a five-year-old could possibly muster.

Bucky cleared his throat, shooting the kid his best reassuring grin. “Ten minutes is nothing, buddy. Trust me. Back in the day, I once showed up to basic training a whole hour late.”

Danny blinked. “Did you get yelled at?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did you cry?”

“…No.”

Danny leaned back in his booster seat like a seasoned war general staring down a doomed campaign. “Ms. Lane’s gonna be mad.”

Bucky huffed a laugh as he pulled into the parking lot, spotting a scattering of parents still dropping kids off at the entrance. “Your teacher’s not gonna be upset you when I explain. You’re five. You’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Danny shook his head slowly, solemnly.

“Not with me. You.”

Bucky paused mid-parallel-park, one hand still on the wheel, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Danny didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead at the entrance to Abbott Elementary like it was the last checkpoint before war. Like he was waiting for the music from The Godfather to start playing.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grabbing his backpack straps like they were armor.

Bucky frowned as he helped him out of the car. “What’s with the dramatics, huh? She gonna throw a book at me?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s just… Ms. Lane.”

And with that, the kid marched ahead like a tiny soldier into the building, leaving Bucky trailing behind, wondering what the hell kind of teacher scared a kindergartner more than a DC-level supervillain.

He was about to find out.

Bucky followed Danny down the hallway, trying not to feel like he was walking into a parent-teacher trap. It smelled like crayons, wet sneakers, and disillusionment.

A cluster of teachers loitered near the front office—one of them with an armful of broken rulers, one loudly arguing with a printer, and one sipping coffee with the grace of a woman who’d already survived decades of nonsense.

He made a beeline for her. Elegant, composed, a pearl necklace that said “respect me,” and an aura of calm he hadn’t felt since his last decent nap.

“Ms. Lane?” Bucky asked, offering a smile that had gotten him out of more than one parking ticket. “Sorry for the delay, I was doing my sister a favor—her son, Danny? He’s in your class.”

The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed. He could practically hear the mental pen clicking as she filed him under Oh no, not another one.

“I am Mrs. Howard,” she said, calmly correcting Bucky like he'd just misquoted Scripture. “Ms. Lane is the other kindergarten teacher.”

Bucky opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t done.

“She’s just down the hall. Room 3B.” Then came the pause. The head tilt. The look.

“Young man…” She gave him a once-over. Not flirtatious. Not judgmental. Just quietly disappointed—like he'd shown up to church in jeans.

Bucky blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Howard offered a solemn shake of her head. “Good luck.”

And with that, she turned and glided off, coffee in hand, already done with his entire existence.

Bucky stood in the hallway for a second, frowning. How bad could this Ms. Lane be? What, was she going to quiz him on phonics or glare him into a coma?

The door was already open a crack, but Bucky still knocked first, because that’s what you did when walking into enemy territory.

There was no chaos. No screeching. No glue sticks flying through the air. Which was immediately suspicious for a kindergarten class.

Instead, he stepped inside to find… silence.

Twenty tiny heads bent over worksheets like they were prepping for the SATs. Crayons moved in eerie unison. No one screamed. No one licked a desk. A kid in the back raised his hand quietly—quietly—to ask if he could use the bathroom.

That was his first warning.

Because when were kindergarteners ever quiet?

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, feeling like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. What kind of boot camp were they running in here?

Danny nudged him forward, but Bucky’s attention was already drifting to the figure at the whiteboard across the room—spine straight, skirt fitted, heels clicking as you scrawled a date across the board with clean, efficient precision. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You radiated authority from thirty feet away.

He half-expected to see gray hair, maybe glasses on a chain. Strict. Sharp. The kind of teacher whose name gets spoken in terrified whispers on playgrounds.

Then you turned around.

And Bucky’s mouth dried up instantly.

You weren’t old. You weren’t scary. You were stunning. Not just pretty—gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that hits you like a left hook. And you didn’t smile when you saw him. Of course you didn’t.

You just turned, one brow raised, assessing him like a problem you were deciding whether to fix or eliminate.

Bucky cleared his throat, defaulting to his most practiced, most lethal move: the smile. The one that had gotten him out of bar fights, jury duty, and once, weirdly, an IKEA return policy.

“Hi. Sorry—I’m Bucky Barnes,” he said, stepping inside. “Danny’s uncle. Rebecca asked me to drop him off today. It’s my first time—”

“Kids are supposed to be in class by eight,” you interrupted, voice calm, level, and sharp enough to slice drywall. “It’s eight fifteen.”

Right. Okay.

The smile faltered just a fraction.

You crossed your arms, waiting, watching him like you were unimpressed by his entire bloodline.

Danny, standing a little behind Bucky now, mumbled, “Told you so.”

Bucky sighed and shot him a look before stepping forward a bit, trying again with a little more Sergeant, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, holding onto the edge of that smile. “That’s on me. My sister got called in early, and I didn’t realize traffic near the school was… a situation.” He gave a little shrug, trying to soften the blow. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

One kid—front row, bowl cut, way too invested—visibly winced for him as you took a step closer to him. Bucky barely caught the movement before he felt the weight of your stare.

“Danny,” you said, never breaking eye contact with Bucky, “you can go take your seat.”

Danny didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for his desk like he was escaping a hostage situation, never once glancing back at his uncle.

You turned your full attention on Bucky then, your eyes sweeping him head to toe in a single motion so dry, so thoroughly unimpressed, it made his spine straighten instinctively.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “is long enough for a child to lose their morning routine. It’s long enough to miss foundational learning, to feel behind before they’ve even started the day. It’s long enough to build a habit of dismissing responsibility.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

You didn’t stop.

“Fifteen minutes late to school turns into fifteen minutes late to interviews. Fifteen minutes late to jobs. Fifteen minutes late to life. That might not seem like much to you, Mr. Barnes, but to a five-year-old trying to learn structure in an unpredictable world? It matters.”

A low “oooh” rippled through the class like someone had just witnessed a verbal assassination.

You turned your head—just slightly—and every single one of them went silent like a switch had been flipped.

Then you turned back to Bucky with a smile so polished it might’ve passed for genuine, if not for the gleam in your eye that said this isn’t over, and you will remember me.

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

He blinked. “I—”

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

His mouth shut. His posture shifted. He nodded, respectful this time. “Of course.”

You turned back to the whiteboard without another word, already moving on like he was just a bump in your perfectly structured morning.

As Bucky stepped out of the classroom, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time.

The kids were still silent.

You were still terrifying.

And now?

You were stuck in his head.

From then on, Bucky made a small but strategic adjustment to his week.

He got Rebecca to agree—grudgingly, at first—to let him handle school drop-off twice a week and pick-up three times. It was about being involved. Showing up. Being a solid, male figure in Danny’s life. A steady one. That’s what he told himself. And his sister.

And sure, maybe it was also because Danny’s kindergarten teacher was the most infuriatingly magnetic person Bucky had ever met.

Ms. Lane.

You.

Every time he stepped into that classroom—on time, now, thank you very much—you were there. Clipboard in hand, spine like steel, eyes that didn’t blink when he smiled at you like he’d invented it.

You never giggled. Never blushed. Never let him get so much as a twitch of a lip curl when he dropped a line like, “Careful, you keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think we’re in a PTA scandal.”

Nothing.

You’d just stare at him, arch a brow, and hand him a paper that said ‘Parent Reading Night RSVP – Required.’

At one point, he was pretty sure you gave Janine more reaction for sneezing glitter.

And the worst part?

The kids loved you. Danny adored you. Sure, you also partially terrified them all, but you had their respect. Which meant Bucky couldn’t even pretend to resent the way you owned every room you walked into. He just had to lean in, play along, keep showing up, and try not to let it get to him when you ended every conversation with a clinical “Have a good day, Mr. Barnes,” like he was some stranger in a waiting room.

So he tried harder.

He wore better jackets.

When Becs didn't have the time, he made Danny’s lunches look like they were packed by Pinterest moms.

He learned all the traffic patterns around Abbott to avoid being even one minute late.

He even tried calling you “Ms. Lane” in that flirty voice he’d once used on girls outside jazz clubs in Brooklyn.

You looked up from your lesson plans, dead-eyed, and said, “Are you choking, or is that how you normally talk?”

You were unshakable.

Immovable.

He was in hell.

Beautiful, dry, completely-uninterested-in-him hell.

And he couldn’t stop coming back.

The door creaked open just as you were nodding along to whatever Janine was rambling about—something involving manifesting healthy communication with her plants or possibly something about moon phases and exes.

You barely suppressed a sigh. You liked Janine in small doses. She was enthusiastic. Kind. Chronically incapable of taking a hint. And lately, she’d made it her personal mission to turn your life into a rom-com, complete with imaginary “will-they-won’t-they” tension and way too much commentary.

“See, what I’m saying is, if he keeps showing up early, that’s basically a love confession. And if you weren’t so emotionally repressed—”

The door opened and he walked in.

Bucky Barnes strolled into your classroom like he owned a portion of the lease. Jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled, hair an intentional mess. He gave Janine a familiar nod and then locked his gaze on you like he always did—like you were the only person in the room.

He smiled. That easy, smirky, I-know-you-hate-this-but-maybe-you-don’t kind of smile.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly. “Miss Teagues. Ms. Lane.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d show up before the bell, for once.” He leaned against the edge of a desk, far too casual. “I hear being punctual really impresses a certain someone.”

You deadpanned, “My class is in the library for story time. They won’t be back for another twenty minutes.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

“God, you two are so adorable,” Janine burst out, hands clasped like she’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie climax. “The way you flirt—so classic enemies to lovers. It’s giving Pride and Prejudice. But like, modern. And in a school.”

You didn’t even blink.

“Janine. Leave.”

You looked at her. Just looked. One long, unimpressed, soul-shearing glance.

“Right. Right, right, right,” she mumbled, fumbling for her tote bag. “I have… bulletin board stuff. Laminating. Paper… science.”

She took two steps backward, then paused, giving Bucky the most exaggerated wink a human could physically perform.

You didn’t react. You were too tired.

She nodded like she was passing the torch of your romantic destiny and literally backed out of the classroom like Homer Simpson into a hedge.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky exhaled dramatically, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “She’s like a human glitter bomb. No warning. No escape.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “She’s enthusiastic. It’s exhausting.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “So I guess that means I’m not your type either.”

“You’re not glittery.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, that damn smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I sparkle a little.”

You glanced at him then—slowly, flatly.

“You always this persistent?” you asked, voice dry as ever.

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You always this impossible to impress?”

You shrugged, tapping your pen once against the clipboard before setting it down. “Only with people who try this hard.”

He gave a low whistle, grinning like you’d just scored a point in a game he didn’t mind losing. “Damn, but I bet if I said I was here for the stimulating curriculum and not to see you, you'd kick me out.”

“I’d consider it,” you said coolly. “But I’m invested in Danny’s education.”

“Ouch.”

He stepped a little closer again, but not too close. Like he was testing a line with his toe, just to see if you’d swat him back or finally step over it yourself.

“I ever make you laugh, Ms. Lane?” he asked, real curiosity under the velvet of the question.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker if you do?”

His grin turned into something a little rougher. “I’d rather earn one of those gold stars I see on your discipline chart.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was a flicker in your eyes he caught anyway, and his grin deepened like he’d won something.

You turned back to your desk, flipping a folder open without looking at him again.

“You know,” he said, glancing around your empty classroom, “this is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. Kind of eerie. I was starting to think the kids were fake—like one of those training simulations.”

You gave a low, unimpressed hum. “If they were fake, they wouldn’t sneeze directly into my coffee when I’m not looking.”

He chuckled, eyeing your desk. “Is that why you’ve got three different mugs over there? Just in case?”

You didn't respond. But the faint upward curve of your mouth—blink-and-miss-it—was the closest he’d gotten to a laugh since the first day he met you.

It made something curl low in his stomach.

“I know I keep saying this, but I’m not just here to bug you,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice edging toward sincere despite the grin still playing at his mouth. “Danny likes it when I pick him up. Says it makes him feel cool when I show up.”

You looked up, just slightly. “He does like showing you off.”

Bucky’s smile softened, just a little. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Then his eyes slid back to you, the cocky glint returning. “Speaking of good taste—what are the odds I could convince you to grab coffee sometime?”

You gave him a long, slow blink. Not mean. Just… devastatingly neutral.

He added, “I’ll be on time. And I promise not to flirt with the barista.”

You opened your mouth—possibly to respond, possibly to destroy him—but before a single word could land, the bell rang.

Shrill. Loud. Unforgiving.

You sighed like the universe had interrupted you on purpose.

“Danny’ll be waiting for you outside the library,” you said, already picking up the clipboard again like this was over and done. “Probably trying to con the librarian into letting him borrow another comic book.”

Bucky hesitated. “So… is that a maybe on the coffee?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a ‘your nephew’s in the library.’”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “I’ll take that as a soft yes.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Take it however you want, Barnes. Just go get your kid.”

He turned toward the door, still smiling, still smug—but quieter now. And before stepping out, he glanced back one more time.

You were already back to your paperwork.

But you hadn’t said no.

Bucky was still smirking to himself as he stepped out of your classroom and into the hallway—clearly riding high off your non-answer like it was a personal victory.

And, as luck would have it, he walked directly into Principal Ava Coleman’s path.

She had sunglasses on indoors and a folder she clearly hadn’t opened all week tucked under one arm.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, offering her a nod and a half-smile.

Ava turned so fast it was like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh it is now,” she said, eyes raking over him so blatantly Bucky actually paused mid-step.

She watched him until he rounded the corner, then turned on a heel and bee-lined straight for your classroom, heels clicking like trouble.

She leaned into your doorway with no regard for your personal space or your peace of mind.

You didn’t even look up as she strolled through your door, “Girl.”

You kept sorting worksheets. “Ava.”

She gave you a look like she just walked in on free tickets to a concert and front-row seats.

“Now that is the finest white man I’ve seen this whole year,” she said, plopping down into one of the tiny student chairs with zero grace and maximum chaos.

You glanced up, deadpan. “It’s March.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “I meant school year. Don’t try and be smart with me.”

You arched a brow. “Wasn’t trying.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured nail toward the door. “You better quit playing with that man’s heart before I mess around and pull rank.”

You blinked once. “I’m not playing with anything.”

Ava smirked. “Girl, please. You’ve got him showing up early on purpose. That man’s in here more than Gregory and he actually works here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just gathered your things slowly, expression unreadable.

Then: “He’s annoying.”

Ava stood, smooth as silk. “Mm-hm. And yet he’s got you so annoyed you keep your lipstick fresh after lunch.”

You glanced at her, unimpressed.

“I’m just saying,” Ava continued, striding around the room like she owned it (she technically did, unfortunately), “if you don’t take him, I will. That man is gonna give me some fine, emotionally stable mixed babies.”

You looked at her. Just looked. Slightly disgusted, mostly exhausted.

“Ava. Seriously?”

“What?” she asked, clearly unbothered. “You’re the one over here acting like you don’t notice. Always so uptight, hair all sleeked back like you’re about to defend someone in court. Girl, this is a school.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Ava, what do you want?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand like this was some kind of decree. “Clubbing. Drinks. Vibes. You’re coming.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

She pointed. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’re forced to. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s really not.”

“Also,” she added, shrugging, “you’re the closest thing to an equal I’ve got in this place. So you’re coming for moral support.”

You finally looked up, full eye contact. “Ava. No.”

She pointed at you. “Nine o’clock. I’m texting you the address. Now go home, let your hair down and let your scalp breathe for once. Wear something that says ‘I’m open to bad decisions.’ Not ‘I’m about to read you your Miranda rights.’”

You opened your mouth to decline again, but she was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about “energy healing” and “pre-gaming with affirmations.”

You sighed.

Loudly.

“You gotta stop lookin’ like someone stole your dog,” Sam said, nudging his shoulder as they walked toward the club entrance. “You’re killin’ the vibe.”

Bucky shot him a look. “You dragged me out.”

“I’m saving your sad, one-woman-man life,” Sam said. “You need to remember other women exist, Buck. The world’s bigger than that kindergarten teacher who makes you sweat like you’re back in basic.”

Bucky sighed, scanning the line outside the club. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Sam clapped him on the back. “C’mon. Maybe the actual girl of your dreams is in here.”

“Already found her.”

“You are so damn whipped, man,” Sam muttered.

Inside, the club was all neon glow and bass-heavy music. The air pulsed with energy and cheap cologne. Bucky kept his hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tense as Sam tried to steer him toward the bar.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near a tall cocktail table, back to him, dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by sin itself. That deep burgundy color against your skin, the sheer lace sleeves, the neckline that made his mouth go dry—fuck.

It was like the air got sucked right out of the building.

He stopped walking. Just… stopped.

Sam bumped into him. “What? Don’t tell me you already gave up—”

Bucky lifted a hand, pointing without looking away. “That’s her.”

Sam followed his gaze. “That’s Ms. Lane?”

Bucky nodded, dumbfounded. “Yeah.”

“She teaches kindergarten?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared a moment longer. “I’ve never wanted to re-enroll in school so bad in my life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were talking to someone—smiling, even, which was a rare enough sight that it nearly took him out.

Then he saw who was beside you.

“Oh. Ava’s here too.”

Sam turned. “Who’s Ava?”

“The principal.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me the tall one with the long hair and wearing that is the principal?”

“Yep.”

“I’m calling Sarah,” Sam said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re transferring my nephews.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you—his teacher, his girl, his quiet obsession—laughing in a club with a dress that made his palms sweat. All those weeks of buttoned-up shirts and sarcastic dismissals, and now here you were, looking like a damn vision.

Sam nudged him. “You gonna stand there drooling or go say something?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

But Bucky didn’t hear him. You’d turned just enough for your eyes to start sweeping the room, and the moment you looked in his direction—

He knew you saw him.

And he knew everything was about to change.

The club pulsed around you—sweaty, crowded, way too loud—and you were already regretting everything.

You weren’t the kind of woman who went out on Friday nights. You were the kind who wrote parent emails about glitter-related injuries and kept a drawer full of emergency dry-erase markers.

The kind who dodged PTA moms like landmines and maintained a firm no-nonsense reputation because the moment you didn’t, someone’s child would be climbing the bookshelf like it was Everest.

But here you were. Burgundy dress, heels too high, lip gloss too shiny, sipping on a drink that tasted vaguely like regret and melted candy.

Ava was beaming beside you, obviously thriving. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said, swaying to the music. “You, me, outfits that should be illegal. This is the energy we need.”

You took a sip, trying not to look like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. “I already want to go home.”

“You always want to go home. You're, like, emotionally married to your couch.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then Ava froze—gasped like someone had pulled the fire alarm—and grabbed your arm with enough force to startle you.

“Girl. Girl. You will not believe who just walked in right now.”

You frowned, confused. “What—”

“Look.”

You followed her eye line. The club suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Bucky Barnes stood at the entrance, taller than anyone else around him, leather jacket open over a dark henley, hair tousled, mouth set in that stupid half-smirk like he knew he didn’t belong there and didn’t care. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone.

And then they landed on you.

Oh no.

No.

“This is not happening right now,” you muttered, nearly tripping over your own words. “I have got to get out of here.”

You turned, already strategizing your exit route, but Ava threw an arm out in front of you like she was stopping traffic.

“Girl, forget you. Look at that man’s fine ass friend.”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to catch him—Bucky’s friend. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut. Smiling already like he knew how this worked. His eyes were on Ava like she was a problem he was already planning to solve.

“Hell yes,” Ava said. “That’s my man. Manifested. Claimed.”

You were too busy trying to make your brain reboot. Because Bucky was still watching you. He hadn’t looked away once. Like you were the only person in the club. His mouth curved slightly. Not cocky. Not playful. Just… locked in. Sure.

And damn him—you felt it. That same heat in your chest you pretended didn’t exist every time he came to pick up Danny. Except now, there was no desk between you. No escape.

And then, the inevitable.

The two pairs drifted toward each other. Like planets colliding. Like destiny had a sick sense of humor.

It was Ava who broke the silence first.

“Hi,” she said to Bucky’s friend, offering a hand like she expected it to be kissed. “Ava Coleman. Principal. Administrator. Visionary. And I know you’re about to buy me a drink.”

Sam blinked once, clearly amused. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Visionary.”

“Mmhm. I know.” Ava looped her arm through his like it was nothing. “Let’s go, future Mr. Coleman.”

You turned, shocked. “Ava—”

She didn’t even glance back. “You’re on your own, counselor. Don’t mess this up.”

And with that, she strutted away with Sam trailing behind her, clearly both confused and deeply invested.

You turned back to find Bucky still standing there.

Still watching you.

And now it was just the two of you.

No classroom.

No clipboard.

No rules.

Just you. And him. And the truth you’d been ignoring.

He smiled.

And you suddenly couldn’t remember a single reason why you ever told yourself he wasn’t dangerous.

Bucky stood there for a second longer, drinking you in.

The lace sleeves. The curve of your waist. The neckline that made his brain stop working for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t just the dress—it was you in it. Out of your usual uniform. Out of your guarded shell. Still composed, but softer somehow. Looser.

“You look—” he started, voice low.

“Hot?” you cut in, arching an eyebrow, mouth twitching just enough to betray your awareness.

He laughed, quiet, head tipping slightly. “I was gonna say amazing. But hot works too.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of your drink to hide the way your pulse jumped.

Bucky stepped closer, just enough to speak without raising his voice. “I didn’t think you went to places like this.”

“I don’t. Ava dragged me.”

You glanced past him, where Ava was already leaned over the bar with Sam looking both impressed and slightly alarmed.

“And now she’s dragging him,” you murmured.

Bucky followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “Should we check on them?”

“No,” you said instantly. “Let natural selection take its course.”

He grinned again—less smug this time. Quieter. More real. The kind of smile that said he’d missed seeing you. The kind that made your breath catch a little deeper than you wanted to admit.

You took another sip, letting the pause stretch, then tilted your head at him.

The music pounded around you. People brushed past. The lights shifted.

But it felt like everything stilled between you and him.

“I thought maybe, outside the classroom... you’d stop pretending I’m not getting to you.”

Your grip on your drink tightened slightly.

You didn’t look away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze like it was a contest. Like you were daring him to blink first. Your chin stayed lifted, eyes steady, but something behind them flickered—just for a second.

Bucky saw it. That crack in your wall. And God help him, it made his pulse jackhammer in his throat.

You tilted your head slightly, that same biting calm in your voice. “You really think you’re getting to me?”

He stepped in closer, slow, careful—not touching you, but close enough that the heat rolled off him like static. “No,” he said. “I know I am.”

Your throat worked on a swallow you tried to hide, but Bucky clocked it.

You were still composed. Still wrapped in that hard-earned edge of professionalism, like even now, in heels and lace, you could throw a behavioral chart at him and end the whole thing.

But your body betrayed you.

The shift of your weight. The way your breath hitched when he looked at your mouth.

You didn’t push him away.

“You always this arrogant?” you asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“Only when I’m right.”

You opened your mouth, probably to put him in his place again—but then the music shifted, a heavy, pulsing bass dropping in from the DJ booth. A sea of people moved on the dance floor, but the space between you and him felt small. Pressurized.

His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His smirk curled slowly. “You heard me.”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to with me.”

“Accurate.”

“But you will.” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. “Because I’m asking. And because for once, I don’t think you want to walk away.”

You hated how that made your stomach flip. Hated it even more when he held out a hand—not cocky, not smug. Just… waiting.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then, slowly, you slid your hand into his.

And that was all he needed.

Big win. Massive win.

He tugged you gently into the swell of bodies, his hand warm against yours, his other settling lightly on your waist. And when he pulled you close—closer than you’d ever let him stand before—you didn’t pull back.

You danced.

At first, stiff. Calculated. Like you were trying to make it not mean something.

But Bucky? He knew how to move. Knew how to guide without pushing, how to lean in just enough to make your head spin. Every time your hips brushed, every time his hand slipped an inch lower on your back, you felt it in your knees.

You hated him for being good at this.

You hated yourself more for liking it.

And when his lips brushed your ear again, breath hot and voice low, you barely heard the words over the music:

“Just admit it.”

You swallowed, refusing to answer.

He smiled against your skin.

He already knew.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside you snapped the second his breath touched your neck. And the next thing you knew, your fingers were gripping his wrist, dragging him behind you through the crowd with single-minded purpose. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just moving.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He followed like a man being led to his own damn salvation.

You found the restroom near the back—single occupancy, thank God—and yanked the door open, pulling him in after you. The lock clicked behind you just as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

There was no space for that anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting weeks to do it—months actually. All teeth and tongue and heat, his hands gripping your waist like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You pressed him back against the wall, palms flat on his chest, lips dragging along his jaw, biting at the curve of his neck just to feel him shudder.

His hands roamed—your waist, your hips, sliding lower, greedy, hungry, completely unrestrained. His mouth returned to yours, catching your gasp mid-kiss as he backed you against the sink now, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, tugging it up around his waist.

“You sure?” he murmured against your mouth, breath ragged.

You answered by dragging his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that said he didn’t care about the lipstick smudging or the way your dress rode up or how his belt buckle knocked against the porcelain edge of the sink. It was all teeth and moans and hands gripping too tight.

Your fingers slid under his jacket, then his shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin—hot, firm, real. You ran your nails over his stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to be touched that way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he panted.

You gripped his belt, pulling his hips flush to yours. “You’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re doing to me too.”

He looked down at you like he was already wrecked—and still starving.

Like this wasn’t enough.

Like it was never going to be enough.

Then suddenly Bucky let out a breathless laugh, eyes darting around the cramped bathroom as he made sure to lock the door behind you. “In here? Really?”

You smirked, stepping backward until your back met the cool tile wall, the sink brushing your hip. “What?” you said, voice teasing, eyes locked on his. “You’ve never fucked in a public bathroom before?”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you?”

You shrugged, that slow, calculated way that always made him insane. “First time for everything.”

He stared at you for a beat, eyes dark and full of heat—then moved.

He was on you in a flash, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth finding yours again in a kiss that tasted like restraint snapping in half. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing together.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed you harder, deeper, needier. His body pressed into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you gasped when you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Then he dropped.

Literally—dropped to his knees, palms dragging down your sides with reverence and greed.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice rough as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Let me.”

His hands pushed your dress up slowly, worshipfully, bunching the burgundy fabric around your hips. He hooked a finger into your panties, pulled them to the side, and let out a soft, guttural groan.

“Jesus Christ…”

Then he dove in.

His mouth pressed against your cunt like he was starving, tongue parting your folds with a groan that vibrated against you. You cried out—soft, sharp—your hands flying to his hair again as he started to lick, slow and purposeful. Long, wet strokes that made your knees go weak.

One hand clutched the sink for balance, the other fisted in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You bit your lip to keep quiet—pointless, really. Your hips bucked against his face and he held you there, arms locking around your thighs, face buried between your legs like he had no intention of coming up for air.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, voice muffled as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with maddening precision. “Been thinking about this since the first day I saw you.”

You choked on a gasp, head tipping back, the edge already building—too fast, too strong.

And he wasn’t stopping.

Not for anything.

Your grip tightened in his hair as Bucky’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous circle around your clit, only to suck it between his lips with a low, obscene groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck—” you gasped, breath hitching as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

He wasn’t having it.

His left hand braced against your hip, holding you open, steady, while his right slid up your thigh—palm rough, fingers sure—until he reached your slit. One thick finger slipped inside, slow, dragging along your walls as he moaned like he felt it too.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed against your cunt. “So wet for me. This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

You shuddered, jaw slack, hips rolling down onto his face and hand like your body knew exactly what it needed. He pumped the finger slowly, deliberately, curling just right to make your knees buckle. Then he added a second—stretching you, filling you—and the heat in your belly twisted hard.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his fingers curled deep inside you. “Let me hear you, baby.”

His mouth returned to your clit, licking in messy, desperate circles while his fingers fucked into you faster—his rhythm syncing perfectly with your shaking body. Every thrust hit that spot inside you with aching precision, your thighs trembling as your moans broke free.

You weren’t composed now.

You weren’t silent.

You were his, unraveling in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of your body and the obscene groans he made as he devoured you like it was his last meal.

“I could do this all night,” he panted, fingers curling hard as your hips jerked. “You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my fuckin’ fingers?”

You couldn’t even form words—only nod, only whimper, only clutch at his hair and the edge of the sink like you might float away if you let go.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, tongue flicking your clit fast and filthy now, fingers pounding into you. “Come on my face.”

Your body clenched, the pressure snapping like a whip crack—your orgasm crashing over you so hard you cried out, hips shaking, thighs locked tight around his head. He groaned, licking you through it, fingers still working you until you were whining, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening, chest heaving.

He looked wrecked.

And proud.

Bucky stood, chest rising hard, his jaw clenched like he was fighting off every urge he’d ever had. His mouth was slick with you, his fingers still glistening, and he looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Then he cursed.

“Shit—” he growled, hand dragging down his face. “I don't have a condom.”

You blinked, still breathless, still shaking.

Then you reached for his belt.

You pulled him close with both hands, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard—tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groaned, loud and broken, his hands flying to your waist, gripping tight.

“I’m on birth control,” you panted against his lips. “It’s fine.”

He froze for half a second.

Then everything snapped.

He spun you around, bent you over the sink, and shoved your dress up around your waist again with a growl that sounded like it was ripped from his chest.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, dragging his pants down just enough to free himself—his cock hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes dark, daring. “Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you still were, and then he thrust in—hard, deep, one sharp movement that made both of you cry out.

“Jesus—” he bit out, buried to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your hands bracing against the sink, your head dropping between your arms as he pulled back and slammed into you again, rougher this time, like all the control he’d been clinging to shattered in one thrust.

His grip on your hips was bruising.

His rhythm? Relentless.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping into you again and again, cock dragging perfectly over your walls. “All that attitude. All that sass. And now you’re fucking dripping for me.”

You moaned, arching your back, pushing back onto him. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He pounded into you, deep and rough, grunting with every thrust, each one sharper than the last. Your hands scrambled for grip, one of your heels slipping as he rutted into you like he was trying to claim you, pull every sound out of your throat that you’d refused to give him in daylight.

“Been thinking about this since the first time you called me Barnes like it was a threat,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. “And now you’re letting me fuck you in a goddamn club bathroom?”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Shut up.”

He fucked you harder.

“You love this,” he growled in your ear. “You love the way I feel inside you. Admit it.”

Your nails scraped the porcelain.

He yanked you upright against his chest, his cock still buried inside you, pounding you with punishing, perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Say you wanted this.”

You moaned, nearly sobbed. “I—fuck—I wanted this—”

He groaned, low and guttural, lips dragging over your shoulder and hand drifting to your neck.

His hand on your throat wasn’t choking—just holding. Just claiming. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot, voice wrecked. You were bent over the sink but upright now, your chest flush to his, and your eyes—

He made sure they were on the mirror.

“Look,” Bucky growled, fucking into you hard enough to make the sink creak. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

Your gaze caught the reflection—and fuck, it was obscene. Your lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. His broad chest against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other still around your throat like he was holding you steady so you couldn’t escape how good it felt.

Every thrust slammed into you from behind, deep and fast, his cock stretching you wide, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking.

You whimpered, unable to hold back anymore.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear you. No classroom. No clipboard. Just you. And me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, fucking you in front of the mirror like he wanted you to remember this—to see exactly what he turned you into.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me?”

You moaned, body tensing, orgasm coiling hard in your belly, your thighs trembling, the pressure too much.

His fingers moved down your stomach, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he slammed into you.

“Come for me,” he growled into your ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

It was sharp, messy, loud—your cry bouncing off the bathroom walls as your pussy clenched around him, body locking up, hips jerking uncontrollably. You came so hard you saw white, barely able to hold yourself up as your orgasm rolled over you in crashing waves.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky grunted, and then he lost it.

His rhythm stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep one last time and came inside you, hips jerking, breath ragged against your neck.

He held you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, both of you shaking and panting, sweat-slicked and spent.

The mirror caught everything.

Two people undone.

Two people who couldn’t take it back.

And neither of you wanted to.

The room was quiet now, save for your breathing and the soft hum of music bleeding through the walls.

You blinked slowly at the mirror, still bent over the sink, your hair mussed, dress bunched around your hips, Bucky’s body heavy and warm behind you. He was still buried inside you, both of you barely recovered.

He exhaled, lips brushing your shoulder, then your neck. “Well, damn.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

He finally pulled out with a low groan, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he did, and then helped smooth your dress back down over your thighs. His touch lingered just a second too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You straightened, turned slowly to face him, your expression mostly neutral—but your eyes were warmer than before. He saw it. He always did.

Bucky leaned back against the sink beside you, tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced ease, still watching you with that lazy post-orgasm smirk.

“So,” he said, running a hand through his hair, still slightly breathless. “Now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way…”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That was the hard part?”

He grinned. “Figuratively. And literally.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to check yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was gone. Your cheeks were flushed. Your neck had the faint outline of his stubble. You looked exactly how you felt: fucked out and dangerously close to letting him in.

You dabbed at your collarbone with a paper towel.

He watched you quietly for a second, then said, softer now, “Come on, baby. Just one date.”

You froze.

He didn’t miss it.

“One date,” he said again, stepping a little closer, voice still low. “Not the club. Not the classroom. Just you and me. Dinner. Or drinks. Hell, coffee if that’s all I get.”

You looked at him, really looked.

He was flushed, eyes bright, hopeful in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. There was something real behind that smirk now. Something open. Unprotected.

You should’ve shut him down.

Should’ve said something cold. Dismissive.

But instead, you leaned in—kissed him, slow this time, less teeth, more tongue. Just a whisper of what could happen again if you said yes.

When you pulled back, your lips barely brushed his.

“You’re gonna regret asking me out, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned.

“Not a chance, Ms. Lane.”

[carolinaclouds]

Obsession

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.

word count: 6021

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, masturbation, dirty talk, degrading, praising, desperation, fingering, teasing, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex and he talks through it, breeding, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), possessive behavior.

A/N: i’m horny, okay?…

You don’t have a crush on Bucky Barnes.

That would imply affection. Admiration. Maybe even a little emotional investment.

You don’t have any of that.

What you do have is a deeply inconvenient, soul-destroying case of lust. A constant, throbbing ache between your legs every time he walks past. A full-body reaction to the way he stretches, or leans on the counter, or wears those fucking grey sweatpants like a goddamn weapon.

It’s chemical. It’s hormonal. It’s not personal.

Because Bucky Barnes is grumpy. Bucky Barnes is quiet. And Bucky Barnes has absolutely no idea that he’s the reason you can’t go three days without needing to fuck yourself stupid.

Like right now.

He’s just standing there in the kitchen, back to you, broad shoulders stretching that worn black Henley like it’s a second skin. His hair’s short now, freshly trimmed at the nape, the kind of cut that shows off the sharp line of his jaw, the back of his neck.

You’re staring. Again.

You don’t mean to. But he makes a little grunt when he stretches — just a tired noise, nothing sexual — and you nearly whimper like a kicked dog. Instinct. Pavlovian response.

And he doesn’t notice. Not even a flicker of awareness as he pours his coffee and walks out, oblivious, muttering something about the mission report.

You just stand there, holding a spoon, clenched thighs and flushed cheeks like you’ve just been fucked by the idea of him.

It’s getting worse.

Like, medically worse.

You’ve gone from horny to feral to clinically unwell, and it’s all because of one man.

One grumpy, emotionally constipated, vein-poppingly hot man who can’t say a sentence without sounding mildly irritated. Who barely even looks at you unless you’re in the way. Who definitely doesn’t like you — and yet somehow owns your nervous system like a fucking landlord.

And it’s not fair.

Because he’s not even nice to you.

He’s short with you in meetings. Scoffs when you crack jokes. Gives you that look when you say something mildly reckless on a mission — like you’re exhausting. Like you’re annoying.

But then he’ll do something that ruins you completely. Like grunt your name low and gravelly when tossing you your gear. Or casually push you out of the line of fire with one big, rough hand and say, “Watch it, sweetheart,” like you’re some dainty little thing.

You pace your room that night, ranting to no one.

“I don’t even like him,” you mutter, folding laundry with violent purpose. “He’s so rude. He never smiles. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless he has to.”

Your shirt gets yanked onto a hanger too hard. You nearly snap it.

“And he doesn’t even like me. Not even a little. I’m just some girl who laughs too loud and gets in his way and—oh my god, I would let him ruin me.”

That’s probably the most honest thing you said all week. You’d let him manhandle you. Throw you over his shoulder. Rail you into the mattress like a war crime. That arm? The metal one? You’ve thought about it. God, you’ve thought about it so much it’s starting to feel like a sin.

You can’t help it.

You collapse onto your bed, still in your T-shirt and underwear, legs kicking uselessly against the sheets. Your body is hot — too hot. Your skin prickles, stomach twisting tight with the sheer need of it.

You shouldn’t do it.

But fuck it — you do.

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties like second nature, no hesitation. You’re already soaked — of course you are. One fucking grunt from Bucky in the kitchen and you’ve been like this all day, wound tight and throbbing.

Your fingers slide through the slick heat of your folds, and your hips twitch. You let out a soft, breathless whimper, biting your lip like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

He’s all you can think about.

Bucky, with that low rasp of a voice. Bucky, sweat-slicked and panting, muscles straining above you. Bucky, staring down at you like you’re a mess he likes making.

You rub lazy circles around your clit, teasing yourself, letting it build slow. Letting the images crawl behind your eyes:

His hands gripping your thighs, spreading them open.

That cold metal arm wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he pounds into you, relentless and filthy.

His voice in your ear, rough and possessive —“You been thinkin’ about this, sweetheart? Been touching yourself like a needy little thing?”

Your fingers move faster.

You arch into the mattress, breath stuttering, hips chasing the pressure. Your other hand slides up under your shirt, finds your breast and squeezes hard, tugging at your nipple.

“Fuck,” you whisper, squirming, already so close it’s pathetic.

You imagine his hand — that hand — between your legs. Imagine him shoving your panties to the side with those cool, precise fingers and just… watching you squirm. Watching you come undone with that unreadable expression of his, like he’s filing it away for later.

You imagine him making you come like this. Telling you you’re not allowed to stop. That you’re gonna do it again, and again, until you’re crying.

Your thighs start to shake.

You gasp, pressing harder, grinding down. Your toes curl, muscles tensing, pleasure tearing through you like lightning — sharp, wet, overwhelming.

You come hard, moaning into your pillow, breathless and ruined, hand still trembling between your thighs.

And then?

You lie there. Sticky. Hot. Unsatisfied.

Because no matter how many times you make yourself come, it’s never enough.

Not when it’s him you want.

Not when it’s Bucky fucking Barnes.

———

You’re minding your business. Truly. Peacefully. Drinking your stupid little smoothie, scrolling through intel reports on your tablet, trying so hard not to think about last night and the shame spiral that followed.

You’re in the common room, feet tucked under you, hair up, living a clean and quiet life.

The front door hisses open. Voices filter in—Sam laughing, Nat muttering something dry, Steve’s boots heavy on the floor.

And him.

Bucky.

You don’t look up at first. You don’t need to. You can feel him. Like some sixth sense activated just by his presence, like the air itself is different when he walks into it.

But then you do look up and you regret it immediately.

He’s just back from the field. Tactical gear still clinging to him, black shirt soaked through with sweat in that way that makes it stick to every hard line of muscle underneath. The sleeves are tight around his biceps—dangerously tight—making it look like the fabric’s seconds from giving out under the strain of his arms.

His hair’s damp, just messy enough to be criminal, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Dog tags resting against his chest. Black cargo pants slung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like they were custom-made by someone with your exact problem.

He’s flushed from exertion, a little dirty, jaw tight like he’s still coming down from combat.

And he doesn’t notice you. He just walks past, arm flexing as he drags his glove off with his teeth.

You actually—physically—have to grip the edge of the couch.

You squeeze your thighs together so tight your eyes almost roll back. Your smoothie is sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your leg, and it’s the least of your problems right now.

Because that man?

That man could rail you into next week with the anger he carries in his shoulders alone. You’d let him wreck you in the debriefing room, up against the wall, still wearing that gear and not saying a word.

You’d tear those tactical pants off with your teeth.

And he just keeps walking. Oblivious. Like he’s not singlehandedly dragging you through the gates of horny hell.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, heart hammering. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He pauses for half a second like he might’ve heard you. Glances over his shoulder—just once.

And then he’s gone, down the hall.

You stare at the door for a long time, smoothie forgotten, thighs still clenched like your life depends on it.

You need help. You need prayer. Exorcism. A cold shower.

Or maybe you just need him to ruin your entire existence.

You barely make it back to your room.

Your legs are shaking. Your mind’s a blur. All you can see is him—sweaty, panting, muscles strained beneath that black t-shirt. His arm flexing, the curve of his jaw, those goddamn tactical pants hugging every inch of thigh like a threat.

You lock the door behind you with trembling fingers.

You don’t even bother taking your clothes off properly—just shove your hand down your shorts as you collapse back onto your bed, legs spread, head spinning.

He looked so good.

Your fingers slide through your folds, already wet, your body acting like it’s been starving for him. Like it’s been waiting all day, all year, for a glimpse of that man so it can break down on command.

You rub your clit in tight, needy circles, moaning quietly.

Your eyes flutter shut.

You picture him over you, sweaty and still in gear, that black shirt pushed up just enough to show the cut of his stomach. You imagine his voice, low and rough, right next to your ear—“Couldn’t even wait, huh? Needed me that bad?”

Your hips buck, thighs shaking, pleasure building fast and desperate.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you gasp, breath catching.

You don’t hear the quiet footfalls in the hall.

Don’t hear the door next to yours click shut.

Don’t know he’s just gotten back to his room.

But he hears you.

Bucky stops with one boot halfway unlaced.

He frowns—still half in mission mode—until he hears it again: a faint whimper through the wall. A soft gasp. Then—his name. Muffled. Almost whispered.

His blood goes still.

He steps closer to the wall, heart suddenly pounding, every nerve pulled tight.

Another moan. Higher this time. Desperate.

He can hear the rhythm now—quiet, wet sounds, a bed creaking slightly with every movement. You’re touching yourself. Saying his name. Whimpering like it’s been torturing you.

His mouth goes dry. Something low in his stomach twists.

He shouldn’t listen.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

You don’t know he’s there—don’t know you’ve already ruined him. That he’s standing on the other side of the wall, jaw clenched, cock straining against his pants, while you moan into your pillow and come with his name on your lips.

———

The next day, you tell yourself you’re fine.

You look fine. You act fine. You sit in the common area with your laptop open and a mug in your hands like a picture of peace. The night before? Never happened. The hand between your thighs? The breathy moans into your pillow? The orgasm that left you limp and half-ashamed?

A delusion. A private, pathetic delusion.

Until he walks in.

And your entire body remembers.

Bucky enters like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Joggers low on his hips, black T-shirt riding up in the back, hair damp from a shower and curling just slightly around his ears.

You look up instinctively.

And he looks right at you.

Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. He holds your gaze for half a second—half a second too long—then nods, casual as ever, and heads to the kitchen.

No hello. No smirk. Nothing to suggest he heard the way you moaned his name with your fingers stuffed between your thighs like you were starving for him.

He doesn’t say a word.

You try to refocus, try to look at your screen and breathe, but your eyes keep flicking back.

He’s moving around the kitchen now, calm, quiet, efficient. Forearms flexing with every movement. The joggers cling when he crouches to grab something from a low cabinet, and your mouth actually goes dry.

Your thighs squeeze together.

He knows.

He has to know.

But he’s pretending like he doesn’t, and it’s driving you fucking insane.

You don’t even want to like him. He’s grumpy and rude and dismissive. He doesn’t flirt. He barely talks. He exists like a thundercloud with muscles and you still want to cry from how badly you want him.

And now he knows.

Now you’ve moaned his name with a hand between your legs, and he’s seen you since and said nothing.

You want to crawl into the floor.

You want to jump him.

You want him to ruin you until you can’t even say your own name.

He walks past you again with a cup of coffee, eyes flicking toward you—slow, heavy, unreadable.

And this time?

You swear there’s a hint of a smirk.

He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, that black mug dwarfing in his gloved hand. The steam curls around his face, catching the light, and he’s just staring at nothing—completely unreadable.

Until he speaks. “Sleep okay last night?”

You freeze. Your heart flatlines. Then kicks into overdrive.

You glance up too fast, trying to act casual, but your grip on the mug betrays you—tight, white-knuckled.

“Yeah,” you say, blinking. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs. Sips again. His face is all calm, cold stillness. Like he’s discussing the weather. Not like he heard you moaning his name behind the paper-thin wall like your soul was leaving your body.

“Nothing,” he says, low and even.

You swallow hard. Try to hide the heat crawling up your neck.

You stare at him. Waiting for something. A look. A smirk. A single flicker of anything.

But he gives you nothing.

Just turns back toward the hallway, casual as ever, coffee in hand, like he didn’t just dangle a loaded gun over your head and walk away.

And as he disappears down the hall, your thighs press together again.

You’re so fucked.

———

You try to sleep.

You really, really do.

You toss. You turn. You fluff your pillow. You kick the blankets off and pull them back up. You stare at the ceiling and beg your brain to stop replaying the way he looked in that shirt. The way his voice dropped when he asked about your night. The nothing he gave you like a damn grenade and walked away.

It doesn’t stop.

It won’t stop.

You squeeze your thighs together for the fifth time in twenty minutes, but it only makes it worse. Your whole body’s aching—burning. Tight with the need that’s been building for the entire day.

You glance at the door. You know you should get up and lock it.

But you don’t. Because you’re tired. And turned on. And pathetic.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, dragging your hand under the sheets. “I’ll be quiet.”

You bite your lip as your fingers slide down, already warm, already soaked. You work slow at first, trying to stay silent—just enough to relieve the pressure. Just enough to breathe again.

But then your mind starts drifting.

To him.

Always him.

Bucky in the gym, sweat-slick and scowling. Bucky walking past you post-mission like a walking sin. Bucky pressing you into your mattress with that big metal hand wrapped around your throat, voice rough in your ear—“You’re so fucking loud for me, baby.”

You gasp. Then whimper. Soft. Barely audible.

But he hears it.

He’s in his room again. Reading. Trying to pretend like he didn’t spend all day imagining the look on your face when he asked about your sleep. Trying not to picture your hand between your thighs again.

And then he hears you.

Again.

A muffled moan, breathless and aching, like it’s being pulled out of you against your will.

He stands without thinking.

Crosses the hall with quiet, deliberate steps. His pulse is steady, but something low is stirring—something primal. Something possessive. The kind of heat that doesn’t burn—it consumes.

He stops outside your door.

Closed. Not locked.

He doesn’t even knock.

The handle turns with the softest click, and then—

He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet snick.

You don’t hear it.

You’re on your back, one knee bent, your hand buried under the hem of your shorts. Your head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in these soft, gasping little whimpers as you chase the edge, hips twitching, breath fogging in the dim light.

You have no idea he’s there.

Not until you hear him speak.

“Didn’t I just ask if you slept okay?” The voice—his voice—cracks through the quiet like a whip.

You bolt upright.

Everything inside you lurches, heart ramming against your ribs, a violent rush of heat and panic rising through your chest like you’ve been caught in a fire. Your hand yanks back from your shorts like it’s been scorched, and you scramble to pull the blanket up, dragging it over your thighs as your breath shatters.

Your eyes fly to the source of the voice.

And there he is. Leaning against the door like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.

His expression is unreadable—casual, maybe—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry. Like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you in one glance.

You can’t move. Can’t think.

Your heart’s thudding like a drumline, and your cheeks go hot, burning as your stomach flips over itself in full-blown horror.

You can still feel your arousal—sticky, heat pressed between your thighs, your pulse fluttering in places he’s not even touched.

“Bucky—” you croak, throat tight. “I—what are you doing—how—”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he says flatly.

Matter-of-fact. Like that explains everything.

And it kind of does.

You just sit there, still clutching the blanket to your chest like it can undo what he saw. As if it can erase the sound of you moaning into your pillow while your fingers worked yourself over to the thought of him.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches.

Like he’s curious. Patient. Like he’s giving you a chance to dig your own grave or shut up and let him lower you into it.

You look at him and it hits you how big he is. Broad and solid, filling the doorway like a wall. The black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, tucked into his pants just enough to show the lines of his waist, and that goddamn metal hand is flexing at his side like it’s already made its decision.

And still… he doesn’t leave.

Your voice breaks trying to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was quiet— I didn’t know—”

“I heard everything.”

That shuts you up.

His voice is calm. But it’s not soft. Not gentle. It sinks into your gut like a stone, and your thighs squeeze together before you can stop yourself—before your body betrays you again.

You look away. You can’t look at him. Not when you’re like this—hair messy, skin flushed, caught in the act like a filthy little secret with your want written all over your sheets.

He moves. Not quickly. Not harshly. Just decisively. Like this is inevitable. Like he knew the moment he opened that door that he wasn’t going to leave until you were ruined.

He crosses the room in two slow steps. Sits on the edge of your bed, right next to you. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid, and your breath hitches—your entire body tensing as his presence crowds the air.

Then his hand—the metal one—reaches out.

He takes your wrist. Your fingers are still damp. Still twitching from where they were buried between your thighs. He stares at them for a second, then meets your eyes.

“Touch yourself.”

You blink. “What—”

“I said touch yourself,” he repeats, a little lower this time. “Show me.”

Your heart slams. His grip stays locked around your wrist, not forcing—but not letting go either. He doesn’t need to threaten. Doesn’t need to beg.

He’s already heard you fall apart for him.

Now he wants the show.

And fuck—your body obeys before your brain can stop it.

You shift beneath the covers, breath shaking, eyes wide as your hand slides back down, slipping under the waistband of your shorts.

Your skin’s hot. Everything throbs and you’re soaked.

Shame prickles in your chest, but it’s drowned by the way he watches—focused and still, his hand still gripping yours like he owns it.

You let your fingers find that spot again, slick and swollen, and you shudder.

“Fuck,” you whisper, breath catching.

His voice cuts through it. Soft. Direct. “You’ve been touching yourself thinking about me?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“And now you can’t stop, can you?” he murmurs. “Poor thing. You want me this much, baby?”

You let out a tiny, broken sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and press harder.

His metal thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful, like he’s testing your pulse. You’re so wet your fingers glide without resistance, your hips moving on their own.

“Messy little thing,” he mutters. “God, you’re desperate. Didn’t even lock the door.”

His flesh hand moves too now—reaching up to push your hair from your face, tilting your chin toward him.

“You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, but your body betrays you—back arching, thighs tensing, rhythm faltering as your orgasm creeps up again, fast, tighter than before.

He sees it. Feels it. And he knows.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispers. “Right here, baby? With my hand around yours and your pussy soaking your sheets?”

You sob his name and he finally leans in—breath warm against your cheek.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers slip again—rhythm stuttering, body caught in that maddening edge.

He watches you falter. Watches your mouth fall open, brows pull together, your thighs start to shake with the pressure of holding yourself there. So close. Too close.

And that’s when he moves. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make you freeze.

“Let go,” he says.

You whimper. “But—”

“I said let go.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

You obey. Your hand slips from your shorts, fingers slick and trembling, and your chest rises in short, desperate breaths as he shifts closer.

“Bucky—” you gasp.

But he’s already there. His fingers slide between your folds—just one, at first, cool and unreal, brushing over your clit in a slow, torturous circle. Your hips jerk like you’ve been shocked.

“God,” you moan, clinging to the sheets, “fuck—”

“So sensitive,” he murmurs.

His eyes are locked on your face, hungry, focused—like he’s memorizing the way your mouth falls open for him, the way your lashes flutter when he presses a little harder.

You can’t stop the sounds you make.

You’re already too close—too much—your body wired tight from teasing yourself for nights and thinking of him, only him.

One metal finger dips lower—in now, slick and slow—and your breath punches from your chest.

Your hips grind into it, chasing it like you’re starving.

He fucks you with it slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Watching you unravel inch by inch.

“You’ve been dreaming about this?” he says, voice like gravel. “Getting off to the thought of my hands on you?”

You nod helplessly, fingers clenching around the sheets.

Another finger slides in.

Your body wails for it—so full, so good, the metal stretching you just right—and your thighs tremble, back arching as your orgasm builds so fast it almost hurts.

“Then come for me,” he growls. “Right now. I want to feel how tight you get when you finish.”

You choke on a cry.

And then you fall apart.

Hard.

Your walls clamp down around his fingers, body convulsing as the wave hits you—sharp and electric—shaking through your entire frame with a loud, wrecked moan that echoes in your room.

His hand doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it—slower now, drawing it out, holding your body steady with his free hand while you tremble and sob and drip around him.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You just know you’ve never come like that before.

Not in your life.

Not until him.

You’re still gasping, thighs twitching, brain static from how hard you just came—but he’s not done with you. Not even close.

His fingers slip from you slow, drenched, and he brings them up to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off you.

Then?

He smirks.

That low, dangerous smirk you’ve only ever imagined. Dreamed about. Touched yourself to. And now it’s real.

“You’ve been thinking about me so much,” he says, voice thick with heat, “I bet you want to feel my cock, huh?”

You don’t even answer. Can’t. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out but a broken moan.

He laughs. Dark. Rough. “You fucking slut.”

He stands. Hands go to the waistband of his pants.

Your breath catches, watching.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.

The black tactical pants slide down slow over those solid thighs, revealing the outline of what’s beneath—thick, heavy, hard. You feel your whole body clench at the sight.

He steps out of them, shirt already discarded somewhere between your moans, and he’s standing there now in nothing but black briefs—soaked at the tip.

And holy fuck, he’s big.

Your lips part, staring. You want to drool.

He notices.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Look at what you’ve been aching for every night.”

He pulls the briefs down—slow, shameless.

His cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed at the tip, veins running along the length like something out of a wet dream. You whimper, thighs pressing together reflexively.

“You wanted this inside you so bad you couldn’t keep quiet,” he says, climbing onto the bed again, crawling over you until his weight cages you in. “Moaning my name with the fucking door unlocked.”

Your body arches up to meet him.

“Please,” you whisper.

He fists his cock once, dragging his head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.

You’re still sensitive. Still pulsing.

“Is this what you want?” he growls, notching the tip right against you. “Want me to stretch you open and fuck the brains outta that filthy little head of yours?”

You nod, desperate.

His cock sits heavy in his hand, the flushed tip glistening as he slides it through your slick folds again. Over and over—up and down—until you’re squirming beneath him, hips chasing every motion like you can’t stand another second of not being filled.

But he doesn’t give in. Not yet.

He drags the thick head over your entrance, slow and deliberate, just barely nudging inside before pulling back again.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you whimper, body arching.

“You’re soaked again,” he growls, almost to himself. “You got this wet just thinking about my cock?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. Not for him. He taps your clit once—sharp and teasing—and your whole body jerks.

“Say it.”

Your breath catches. “I—I thought about it every night,” you gasp. “I wanted it so bad. I still want it. Please, Bucky—”

He groans, low and ragged. The tip of his cock presses at your entrance again. Just a little. Just enough to make you feel the burn of it—how thick he is, how your body tries to pull him in even as he holds himself back.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, circling your hole with maddening precision. “How much your pussy needs me?”

You moan, desperate. Hands clawing at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold onto.

He grins. “Needy little thing.”

Then he pushes. Just the tip—slow and thick, stretching you inch by inch.

Your mouth falls open. Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“Oh my—fuck,” you cry.

He pulls back.

You sob.

“Patience,” he mutters, teasing your entrance again. “Wanna feel you beg for it.”

“I’m begging,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please, I need it, I need you to fuck me—”

His mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cry as he thrusts in deep—all the way—filling you to the hilt in one thick, devastating stroke.

Your back arches. Your vision whites out.

“So fucking tight,” he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips, grinding in deeper. “Fuck—you were made for this, weren’t you?”

He stays there for a moment—buried inside you—his cock stretching you open so wide it burns in the best way, hips pressed flush to yours. You can barely breathe, your body trembling with the shock of just how full you feel.

Then he moves. A slow pull out—just a few inches—before slamming right back in.

You scream. Not from pain. From everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pinning you down like he owns you.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking dripping around me.”

Your nails dig into his back.

He starts thrusting—hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with brutal rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where to hit.

And all the while, he talks.

“Been thinking about this tight little cunt every night since I got here. Didn’t know it was mine to take.”

You moan—choked and desperate.

“You wanted it so bad, didn’t you? Wanted me to catch you with your legs spread and fuck you like the filthy little cock-drunk slut you are.”

“Y-Yes—please—” you’re a mess beneath him, eyes wet, mouth open.

He grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare look away while I fuck your pussy.”

You blink up at him, dazed. And fuck—he looks insane. Hair a mess, sweat dripping down his temples, that metal hand gripping your thigh so hard you might bruise.

And still—he doesn’t stop. He fucks you like it’s punishment. Relentless. Ruthless.

Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, your body jerking with the force of it. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard slamming against the wall, your moans echoing like you’re meant to be heard.

“You gonna come again, baby?” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You gonna soak my cock just like you soaked your fingers last night?”

“Bucky—Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing fast circles over your clit as he keeps fucking you open with brutal thrusts.

“You’re gonna come with me inside you, sweetheart. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little toy.”

And it snaps.

You cry out—loud and broken—as your orgasm slams into you hard enough to steal your breath, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, grinding deep into you as you come, riding you through it. “That’s it. So fucking tight—so good for me—”

He’s close now too. You can feel it—his thrusts stuttering, muscles tensing.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “You want that, baby? Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy?”

You’re still shaking, but you nod. Whimpering. Needy.

“Please—inside—want it so bad—”

He buries himself deep and groans loud—raw and wrecked—as he spills inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as you feel every hot pulse of it.

You’re ruined.

His weight sinks down on top of you, breath ragged in your ear, and for a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting.

The room’s heavy with heat and sweat, skin sticking where it meets, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of how hard he fucked you.

Then he lifts his head. Eyes drag down your flushed face. Your parted lips. Your chest rising and falling fast. Still dazed. Still ruined.

He shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, hands gripping your hips, keeping you spread open wide beneath him.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he pulls out—slow and thick, his cock dragging against your fluttering walls before slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper.

And fuck.

You feel it immediately. The warm spill of him leaking out of you—thick and hot and so much—trickling down your folds and onto the sheets in sticky, glistening streams.

Bucky groans under his breath, his eyes locked on your pussy like it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You took it all. So fucking good for me.”

You try to close your legs on instinct, flushed and wrecked and so overstimulated—but he stops you with a firm grip, holding you open with his metal hand.

“Uh-uh. Keep ’em open. I wanna see it.”

His thumb slides down, spreads you further, letting him watch as more of his cum drips from your aching hole.

“Look at that mess,” he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You’re leaking all over the place, baby.”

You shiver under him.

He swipes his thumb through the slick, then presses it back in—just a little—pushing some of it inside again while your body jerks from the sensitivity.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You were made to be filled like this.”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and uneven.

“You’re gonna clean me up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick with command. “Gonna taste every drop.”

Your pulse spikes. You barely have the strength to move, still reeling from the wreck he’s made of you—but you obey, because you need it, because he told you to.

He shifts forward, settling between your thighs again. His metal hand spreads you open, keeping you wide for him, raw and messy. His other hand trails down, steadying his cock where it rests—still hard, still slick with both of you.

He throbs against your skin, flushed and glistening.

You lean forward without hesitation, tongue flicking out to catch the first salty bead that clings to the head. He lets out a quiet groan above you.

His eyes burn as you take your time, licking slowly around the tip—teasing, deliberate—before your lips part wider and you sink down, wrapping him in heat.

Your cheeks hollow as you draw him in deeper, your mouth soft and eager.

“Fuck,” Bucky grits, his hand sliding into your hair, curling tight. “You’re good at this.”

You moan around him, letting the praise sink in as you begin to move—slow, controlled bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls, tasting the mix of him and yourself, and it only makes you hungrier.

You’re not just cleaning him up. You’re savoring him and he knows it.

He pulls you up by your hair, not rough—controlled. Intentional. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and claiming, like he’s branding you from the inside out. His metal hand clamps around your waist, anchoring you, holding you still as he devours you like he owns you.

And fuck, maybe he does.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his breath ghosts over your lips, low and ragged.

“That’s enough,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. “You did so well. That’s my good girl.”

Your stomach twists, body still trembling, as you melt into him — breathless and soaked, the taste of him still slick on your tongue.

He doesn’t move for a while, just lets his weight settle into you, chest rising and falling against yours, heart still pounding beneath sweat-damp skin. His breath is warm where it fans over your cheek, his metal hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.

Then, gently, he shifts. His fingers slide up, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. He kisses your forehead—soft, slow—like he’s claiming you all over again, but quieter this time.

“My good girl,” he murmurs, the words husky but reverent now. “You were perfect.”

Your eyes flutter closed at the sound, overwhelmed, wrecked in the best way. His flesh hand strokes your cheek, soothing the heat from it, while the metal one trails lazy circles over your spine.

“Did so good for me,” he whispers again, like a secret meant only for your bones.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nuzzle closer, tucking yourself into his chest.

Fuck, he did ruin you.

tags: @iamthatonefangirl

[carolinaclouds]

eighteen hours.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members

It started like any other assignment.

A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.

Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.

“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.

But neither of you moved.

Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.

He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.

He shut the door behind you.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”

You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.

“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”

His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”

He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.

When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”

You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.

“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”

You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.

But the nights were something else entirely.

By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.

It didn’t.

You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.

The angle was deliberate.

Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.

Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

—

His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.

The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.

Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.

You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.

Bucky cracked first.

The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.

You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.

“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.

This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?

He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.

You’re not playing fair.

My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.

You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.

Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.

Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

—

Then came Ava.

You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.

Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.

The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.

She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.

“Mmh… Bucky—please… inside me… deeper—oh god… please—”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.

You could’ve died.

“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.

—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.

Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.

He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.

Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.

Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.

Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.

The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.

“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”

He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.

“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”

Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.

“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”

Bucky finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”

“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”

A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.

Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.

Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”

—

Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.

He pulled up your last photo again.

Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:

I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.

He groaned into his palm.

Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.

Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.

“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.

—

It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.

The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.

Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.

Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

And the second he saw you, his face lit up.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”

That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.

You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.

He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.

He just held you.

One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.

You clung back like it might hold you together.

His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.

“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”

That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.

“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”

You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.

“Missed you more.”

He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”

Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.

You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.

You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.

And he was naked.

Completely.

You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.

His eyes drank you in.

Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.

“Baby…”

His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.

You reached for him.

One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.

He whimpered.

The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”

You smiled softly. Nodded.

He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.

The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.

His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”

Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.

His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.

He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”

You did more than touch.

Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”

You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”

He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.

The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.

He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.

“James, I—I’m coming!”

“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”

You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.

He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”

You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.

No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”

You whimpered.

He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.

But he didn’t rush.

Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”

He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”

He was gone. Let you take full control.

You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”

You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.

“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded. “Already close.”

He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.

“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”

And you did.

Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.

He didn’t last much longer.

You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.

That tipped him.

He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.

You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”

He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.

He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.

You didn’t answer.

You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”

You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.

“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.

“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”

You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.

And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”

Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.

“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”

He didn’t stop.

He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.

“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.

“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”

You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.

Bucky lost it.

“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”

He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”

“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”

—

You should’ve been done.

You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.

He needed more.

You both did.

The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.

“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.

“James—”

“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”

His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.

The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.

“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”

He devoured you.

Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.

“Not until you beg for it.”

You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.

“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”

That broke him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You exploded.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.

“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.

You came again.

Harder.

Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.

You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.

His lips brushed your shoulder.

“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.

You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.

“Always.”

You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.

He kissed your spine.

Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.

“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.

“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”

Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.

“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.

You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”

—

Your body was trembling again.

Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.

The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.

Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.

His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.

“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

Still hard.

Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”

“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.

“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”

His restraint cracked like glass.

With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.

“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.

But not done.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.

He moaned into your throat.

“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”

He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.

“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”

And so he did.

With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.

“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.

You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.

“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.

He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.

Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.

Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.

His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”

But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.

“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”

The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.

The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”

You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.

“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”

“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.

“Bucky—fuck—”

He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.

“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”

“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”

You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”

“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.

You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.

Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.

It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.

You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.

Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.

“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.

“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.

“Just not for that.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”

“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”

Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.

Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.

“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”

He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.

Your whole body clenched.

“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.

“You got one more in you for me, doll?”

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.

Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.

He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.

He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”

“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.

“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.

“Just say the word.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”

—

You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.

Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.

Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.

Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.

“You okay?”

You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.

“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.

“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.

Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.

Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.

—

The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.

It was pasta night.

Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.

“We heard everything,” Alexei boomed. “Whole floor shook.”

“I had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,” Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

“I placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.

“We could’ve made it nine.”

You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.

And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the table—warm, firm, possessive—you didn’t move it.

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

💜 @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

[carolinaclouds]

Vaulted

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When a mission turns sideways and you’re sealed in a lightless HYDRA vault with Bucky Barnes, buried trauma resurfaces fast. But vulnerability cracks open truth, and the quiet intimacy that follows reveals something deeper than either of you expected. What starts in darkness might just become something real.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), depictions of PTSD (reader and Bucky), mentions of past traumas involving captivity and torture (non-explicit), emotional vulnerability, consent-focused smut (not in established relationship), smut with emotional fluff, somewhat hurt/comfort, soft!Bucky

Word Count: 6,108

Author's Note: I can't find any gif with the exact outfit but I am having this image of him when writing this

The hum of the door seals with a final hiss, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You’re already mid-step toward the exit when you hear Bucky curse under his breath—low, sharp, controlled. You whip around. The vault door is shut. Fully. Seamless. Like it was never there.

No lights. No comms. No air circulation except for the faintest draft somewhere behind the walls.

“Shit,” you mutter, reaching for the control panel embedded beside the door. You’re already digging into your tactical belt for the pulse override chip, fingers shaking just slightly as you slot it in.

Nothing. Dead. As if the tech was rotting from the inside out.

You step back, breathing through your nose. Focus. Don’t let it crawl in.

Behind you, you can feel Bucky’s presence—steady, solid, watchful in the dark. His gear creaks slightly as he moves. You don’t have to look to know he’s wearing his mission fit: that fitted, dark combat jacket molded to his frame, straps crossing his chest, vibranium arm matte and silent at his side. You know how he moves by now—how he blends into the quiet, how he always stands between you and the threat.

Except there’s no enemy now. Just this silence. This dark.

This enclosure.

Your voice comes out tighter than expected. “If I had fifteen minutes and my portable terminal, I could brute-force a recursive decrypt.”

Bucky grunts. “Too bad your portable terminal’s in the jet.”

You don’t laugh. Neither does he.

You try the panel again, but the minute your fingers brush the cold edge of the steel frame, your throat tightens. Your mind flashes—not forward, but back.

To the old metal walls that boxed you in when you were barely more than a child. The bitter stench of mold and sweat. Cold porridge. Water so stale it tasted like metal filings. The clank of boots. The door opening—only ever to bring pain.

You swallow hard. Try again.

“You okay?” Bucky asks softly.

His voice breaks the air like a blade through cotton. Gentle, but sharp. You know he hears it—the shift in your breath, the sound your boots made when you stepped just a little too fast, too frantic.

“I’m fine,” you lie. But your voice catches, and he hears that too.

You press your palm to the steel wall, trying to ground yourself, but your body betrays you.

Sweat beads along your spine, cold despite the stifling warmth trapped in the airless vault. Your breath sticks in your throat. The darkness feels thicker now—dense, like it’s pushing in from every angle, like it’s alive and watching. Your fingers curl into your palms. You tell yourself this isn’t the same, this isn’t then—but your body doesn’t listen.

Behind you, Bucky shifts.

You don’t see him move, but you feel it—hear it. The creak of his tactical gear. The faint scratch of fabric against concrete. And then, the sharp stillness.

He smells it before anything else—your sweat. Not the heat-of-battle kind. This is cold, anxious. Your scent hits the air like an unspoken alarm, sharp and sudden beneath the usual steel and dust of the vault.

Then he hears it.

Your heartbeat.

Fast. Erratic. Like boots on tile, sprinting in panic.

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the dark—gentler now. Controlled. “What’s happening?”

You don’t answer at first. You can’t. You’re trembling before the words even reach your mouth. Your knees wobble beneath your weight, pulse roaring in your ears like a tide coming in.

“It’s—just the dark,” you manage, your voice too tight, too high. “And the quiet. The space. It’s not you. I just—”

You cut yourself off. Try to breathe. Try to swallow the clawing thing in your throat.

“I need to sit.”

You hear Bucky move. His boots scuff the concrete, just once. Hesitation.

You don’t look at him. You lower yourself to the cold ground, back to the wall, and stare into the dark. The walls feel closer now.

Your voice comes out in a whisper.

“Can I… sit next to you? I mean—I need to hold something. I just—” You stop. You don’t want to beg.

There’s silence. For a second, you think he’s going to say no. You wouldn’t blame him. He’s already carried enough broken things in his life.

But then you hear the quiet shuffle of movement, the whisper of leather and gear. He steps closer. Kneels. Doesn’t say a word.

And then—he offers it.

His flesh hand.

Glove off. Palm open.

You hesitate only for a second before you take it. Your fingers wrap around his—warm, solid, real—and your shoulders fall like something just slipped off them. Your other hand reaches for the warmth of his arm, and slowly, inch by inch, you lean into him. Not all at once—just enough for him to feel your weight and decide if he’ll take it.

He doesn’t move away.

Instead, he shifts slightly to brace himself—and lets you rest your head against his chest.

You breathe in.

He smells like leather, faint sweat, and that clean, woody scent you can never quite place—like trees in winter and something spiced beneath it. You imagine it’s what peace might smell like, if it ever existed.

It takes you a long moment before you speak again.

“I was taken when I was seven.”

Bucky stiffens under you. Just barely.

“They locked me in a cell. No windows. No lights. They taught me how to code between beatings. How to pick locks after they broke my fingers. Said if I was going to be their tool, I had to be the best damn one.”

Your breath stutters. You feel his thumb brush over the back of your hand.

You go on.

“They’d come in drunk sometimes. Just to hit something. I was that something. But I learned. Learned how to look useful. How to smile so they wouldn’t think I was planning anything.”

You swallow hard. “Guess I never unlearned that. The smiling.”

There’s a long, aching pause.

When Bucky speaks, his voice is rougher. Barely above a whisper.

“I always wondered… how you do it. How you’re so kind. So… whole. But I see it now.”

He exhales, and his hand tightens just slightly around yours.

“You glued yourself back together. Piece by piece. And maybe that glue still shows… but you never tried to hide it.”

You lift your eyes—only barely—and even in the dark, you feel the weight of his gaze.

“I used to think people like you were untouched by darkness,” he says, voice low. “But you’re not. You just walk through it with your chin up. Meanwhile I’m still trying to bury mine like it’s not part of me.”

You shake your head, resting your cheek against him again.

“You’re not the Winter Soldier,” you murmur. “You’re not that name they gave you.”

He swallows.

Bucky’s hand lingers at your cheek, his touch barely grazing the skin. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard.

And maybe you would’ve—once. But not now. Not here. Not with him.

“I like working with you,” you whisper again, softer this time. Your breath fans over the fabric of his jacket. He’s so close now, his body a wall of heat and breath and solidity. “Always felt safe around you.”

He huffs quietly—almost a laugh. Almost. “You’re the first person to ever say that to me.”

Your fingertips trace the lines of his bare hand—the one you’re still holding tight. Your thumb brushes over the rough pads of his knuckles, warm and calloused. Scarred in places, but steady. Human.

“I don’t see a killer when I look at you, Bucky.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can feel his heart pounding through the chest of his combat jacket, steady beneath the heavy materials. The dark fabric shifts slightly as his breathing deepens, and your cheek sinks into the padded texture over his ribs—high-quality, reinforced, warm from his body heat. The structure of his combat harness digs faintly into your shoulder as you curl into him.

“I don’t think I ever knew who I was,” he says finally. “Not really. It was always something someone else wanted me to be.”

You turn your face toward his voice. Your nose grazes the hard curve of his chest. Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. You just breathe him in.

He smells like cool leather, like burnt cedarwood and warm metal. A trace of sweat clings to the collar of his undershirt, the faintest salt cutting through that earthy, masculine warmth. It clings to the inside of his jacket—black tactical leather, armored across the chest and shoulders—and you can feel the subtle rise and fall of each breath beneath it.

He shifts again, adjusting. His vibranium arm stays at his side—still, unreadable—but his flesh hand squeezes yours gently.

You raise your head, finally meeting his eyes in the dim. The darkness in the vault has softened everything around him. His steel-blue gaze shines faintly beneath his brow, eyes scanning your face like he’s still memorizing it.

“You’re still Bucky,” you murmur, barely louder than the air between you.

He freezes.

“Still the man who puts everyone else before yourself, even when you’re barely holding it together.”

Your voice trembles now, because the words carry more truth than you expected.

“That kind of heart doesn’t just vanish… no matter what they tried to do to you.”

Bucky blinks hard. His breath catches in his throat. You feel it—how the moment lands. How the wound inside him recognizes the salve in your voice.

Something inside him shifts. Something melts.

His jaw clenches. You feel the way his chest tightens, like he’s holding something back. His free hand rises—slow, deliberate—and this time, it’s not just a touch to your cheek.

He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering at your jaw. His glove is off now—both hands bare. Raw. Unarmored.

You shift slightly, no longer curled at his side. Instead, you move to face him—pulling your knees beneath you, then over, settling gently into his lap.

Your thighs slide around his hips, bracketing his body with yours. Hands plant themselves on either side of his chest for balance as your breath mingles with his.

His hands remain steady—one at your jaw, the other cradling your fingers—but he’s looking at you now like he can’t believe you chose this closeness. This trust.

You lean into his touch instinctively, and when your lips part on a quiet exhale, his gaze flicks down to them. Lingers.

“Can I…?”

His voice is low. Uncertain. Vulnerable.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

His lips meet yours with ache. Like he’s wanted to do this for years but never thought he was allowed. There’s no rush—only reverence. His mouth is warm, soft, tentative at first.

You kiss him back slowly, cupping the side of his neck where the stubble meets the sharp angle of his jaw.

You feel it then—his body shifting beneath yours, his breath hitching when your hand slides down the structured collar of his combat jacket, fingers grazing the leather between the buckles of his harness.

He groans softly into your mouth when your palm presses against the center of his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles beneath the dense fabric.

His vibranium hand comes to life now—bold where his flesh hand was tender. He traces the back of your thigh, up to your hip, then the curve of your waist, gliding with reverent pressure.

You shiver at the contrast—metal smooth and cool, his flesh hand warm and grounded as it follows just behind.

You tilt into him, mouth parting wider as his tongue grazes yours—gentle, searching. He tastes like heat and tension and restraint. Still, he pauses.

“You sure?” he whispers, breath warm at your mouth. His voice is rough—strained with everything he’s holding back. “We don’t have to—”

“I want this,” you whisper back. “I want you.”

A moment passes. And then he exhales—like you just unlocked something inside him.

His hands slide lower—one metal, one flesh—finding your thighs again. Guiding. Holding. Worshiping.

You rock into him slowly, feeling the tension flood through his body, feeling how tightly coiled he is beneath the tactical armor.

His combat jacket creaks as you push it open—just enough to feel the radiant heat of him beneath it. The black leather parts at his chest, revealing his high-collar undershirt now dark with sweat and body heat.

Your fingers skate down over the thick ridges of his chest—tactile, solid, powerful. His body is a weapon, but right now it feels like it was built for worship.

He shudders beneath you. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just kisses you harder.

Your breath hitches as Bucky kisses you again—deeper this time, like he’s finally letting himself feel everything. His hands spread wide at your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles where your shirt lifts from the motion. The contrast between his vibranium fingers and the warmth of his skin makes your stomach tighten.

He pulls back just slightly, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“Tell me if anything feels too much,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “If you need to stop, if you need a break—just say it, doll.”

Your heart stutters at the tenderness in his voice. The man who could kill a dozen enemies without breaking a sweat is shaking for you—asking permission like you’re sacred.

You nod, but it’s not enough.

So you take his face in both your hands—cradling him, grounding him.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “Buck… shhh. You already have my full consent.”

His eyes close for a breath. You feel him swallow hard, like he’s absorbing every word.

“I want you,” you continue, soft but firm. “Do me, Bucky. Do me so well I forget the dark—forget what they did to me. I want to be lost in the pleasure of you… not my past.”

Something snaps loose in him then—not wild or greedy, but pure. Focused.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he exhales, like the words physically affect him.

Then he’s kissing you again—only now it’s like he’s claiming you. His tongue slides past your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he rocks your hips forward into the thick ridge beneath his tactical pants. You gasp when you feel him—already hard, already aching.

“Been holding back for so fucking long,” he mutters against your throat, kissing down to your collarbone. “Didn’t know if I’d ever get this… get you.”

“You have me,” you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “All of me.”

His mouth crashes back to yours, but his hands are patient—undoing your shirt slowly, pulling it over your head. He gazes at you like you’re something holy as you sit there in your bra, flushed and panting.

His metal hand glides up your side, cool against your skin. His thumb brushes the underside of your breast with aching care.

“Can I?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He peels your bra off with the reverence of someone unwrapping a gift, then lowers his mouth to your chest—trailing kisses, nipping softly until you arch for more.

“Oh my god, Bucky…”

He growls low at that—real and visceral—pulling your nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping them as he starts to grind up against you.

You can feel him now—hard beneath layers of mission gear—and you can tell it’s driving him mad.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, one hand fumbling with his belt. “Wanna feel you—skin to skin.”

“Let me,” you say, breathless, sliding back to help him. You undo the buckle of his belt, tugging at the fastenings of his combat pants. It’s hot watching him unravel like this—powerful, restrained, but desperate just for you.

When he’s finally freed, you settle back over him—your soaked panties the only barrier now.

He groans deep in his chest when he feels how wet you are for him.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I’m not scared,” you say. “Just… overwhelmed. In a good way.”

He nods slowly. “Me too.”

Then his hands slide beneath your waistband—pulling your panties aside. He cups you, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and his mouth drops open.

“Oh, baby… you’re so wet,” he murmurs. “So soft. So fucking ready for me.”

You whimper, grinding into his hand.

“Need you, Bucky. Please.”

“Not until you’re ready,” he says, even though he’s visibly trembling now. “Let me make sure you’re ready.”

He slips a finger inside you—slowly, gently. Then two. You gasp, rocking down, and he curls them just right, finding that spot that makes you cry out.

“There you go,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder, the hollow of your neck. “Just like that. You sound so good, baby. So goddamn good.”

You bite down on his name again and again, body shivering in his lap.

And when you’re practically dripping, panting, begging—he finally slides his fingers out and aligns himself at your entrance.

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Reverent.

“Tell me again, doll.”

You smile, even as your thighs tremble.

“I want you inside me, Bucky. All of you. Fill me up. Make me forget everything else but this.”

His eyes go wild.

And then he pushes in—slowly, thickly, stretching you until your head falls back and your nails dig into the harness at his shoulders.

You both groan at once—like something inside you finally clicks into place.

His thick length pushes into you inch by inch, and you both gasp—your nails digging into the fabric where his harness used to cling.

It’s like being filled and comforted and devoured all at once.

“God, you feel…” he groans, eyes shut tight. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

But even then, you feel it—the way he’s holding back. Like he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

“Too much?” he asks, voice wrecked, but gentle. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, sweetheart.”

You slide your hands to his face again, kissing him softly. “You’re not hurting me, Bucky. You’re making me feel whole.”

He lets out a shaky breath, burying his face in your neck. His chest is slick with heat, the cotton of his undershirt soaked beneath the open frame of his tactical jacket. You slip your hands between the panels of leather and slowly begin to push it off his shoulders, one inch at a time.

“Off,” you whisper, “let me see you.”

He lets you strip him down—harness unclipped, jacket peeled away with care. You don’t rush it. His shoulders are strong, gleaming with sweat, the thin black undershirt clinging to every hard ridge of muscle.

Once bare from the waist up, he lets you look.

And you do.

His flesh arm is trembling with restraint. His vibranium arm flexes as he braces it behind you for balance. Every scar, every contour of his torso feels like a story you want to read with your hands and mouth.

But Bucky’s still searching your eyes.

“Is this okay?” he asks again, whisper-quiet. “Do I feel good inside you?”

You can barely speak through the pleasure.

“Bucky… baby, yes. You feel incredible.” You cup his cheek, run your thumb over the stubble there. “Don’t hold back so much. I want this. I want you to feel good too.”

He nods slowly, but the doubt still flickers behind his eyes.

So you lean in, your lips brushing his ear.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Bucky. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be here with me.”

Something breaks in him then—a quiet surrender.

He kisses you with renewed purpose, one hand on your lower back guiding the motion of your hips, the other clutching your thigh like he’s trying to anchor himself to the moment. You ride him slowly, your wet heat grinding against the base of his cock, and he’s moaning freely now.

Still, you feel him pull back.

“I… can’t stop thinking about how good you taste,” he admits, voice shaking. “Can I…? I want my mouth on you.”

You blink, breath catching in your throat. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Bucky.”

He helps lift you off his lap slowly, reverently, hands firm and supportive. Once you’re laid back against the cool floor of the vault, your clothes already half-peeled away, he settles between your legs—kneeling, broad shoulders framed by the black of his tactical pants, sweat glistening along his chest.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, placing a kiss to your inner thigh.

“Start slow, Bucky… build me up. Use your fingers too, honey.”

He groans—low and deep, like you’ve just given him the most intimate gift.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, and lowers his head.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, deliberate. He tastes you like he’s learning you—mapping you with the flat of his tongue, pressing in and pulling back, watching every reaction.

You moan, head tipping back, hips already rising into him.

He hums softly, as if to say I’ve got you.

Then he slips one thick finger inside, curling it just right.

“Oh—there, Bucky… just like that, baby…”

“Yeah?” he whispers, glancing up, his chin already wet with you. “That's your spot, baby?”

You nod frantically, thighs trembling around his head.

He keeps going—tongue flicking, finger stroking, his vibranium hand pinning your hips down with perfect pressure. He’s moaning against you now, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, grounding yourself in the soft strands and the gentle scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs.

“Fuck, Bucky… you’re so good at this. So good for me, baby…”

He groans like praise is gasoline and you just poured it on his fire.

“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmurs against your slick folds, then sucks gently on your clit. “You’re everything.”

Your orgasm slams into you so fast it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You cry out his name—“Bucky, Bucky—Bucky!”—as your back arches, thighs shaking, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave.

He doesn’t stop until you’re too sensitive to take it, until your fingers tug gently at his hair. Then he presses a kiss to your thigh, then your stomach, then your lips—bringing you back piece by piece.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, holding you close. “I’ll always have you.”

You’re still panting against his chest, your cheek against the heat of his skin, his pants still halfway undone.

And you’re not done yet.

Your body is still humming, your thighs shaking from the aftershocks of his mouth, his hands, his worship.

And yet, something inside you still burns—not from need, but from ache. From how much you want him. Not just his hands, not just his tongue. You want the whole of him inside you again—bare, deep, as close as humanly possible.

You reach for him, voice breathless. “Bucky…”

He’s already halfway leaning over you, brushing your hair off your forehead, looking at you like you hung the damn stars.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I promise, I’m okay. But I need you now. I need you to feel me. To lose yourself in me.”

His jaw flexes. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, sweat dotting his brow. “You sure?”

You nod, more urgently this time. “I want you inside. All the way. Bare. Please, Bucky…”

He curses under his breath—something raw and aching. His hand slides down your stomach, thumb brushing your hip. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You lift your hips, brushing against him again—his cock hard and hot, leaking against the waistband of his still-partially fastened tactical pants.

“I want to feel everything,” you whisper, cupping the side of his face. “Please. Just for tonight… let it be everything.”

He hesitates. He leans down and kisses you again—slow, deep, tender. Like it’s a goodbye and a homecoming in one breath.

“I’ll give you everything,” he murmurs against your lips. “Except one thing.”

You blink up at him. He hovers just above, arms braced on either side of you. His vibranium forearm is tense, grounding. His flesh hand cups your cheek.

“I’ll fuck you slow. Deep. As long as you want. But I can’t finish inside you. Not yet.”

Your breath catches.

“Why?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He swallows hard. “Because that’s… not just sex for me. That’s something I only give someone who’s mine. And I don’t know what we are yet.”

You stare up at him, your heart clenching—but not from pain. From something deeper.

He wants you. He respects you. He wants to mean something to you, not just in the dark.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then give me everything but that.”

His eyes darken. “Gladly.”

—

He shifts his weight, letting his pants slide lower around his hips, just enough. Then he lines himself up, the tip of his cock brushing your folds—slick and ready.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, guiding the head against your entrance. “So soft. So warm.”

You moan as he slides in again—slow, controlled. Inch by inch until he bottoms out, and both of you are panting.

“Fuck, honey… you take me so well,” he growls, kissing your neck. “Like you were made for me.”

You wrap your legs around him, heels hooking into the waistband of his pants.

“More,” you beg, voice cracking. “Please, Bucky… move. I need to feel you.”

He starts slow—long strokes, deep and deliberate. The friction is intense, overwhelming. You feel every ridge of him, every flex of muscle as his hips roll into yours.

He watches your face with every thrust.

“You feel good, baby?” he whispers, his voice low and reverent. “Is this what you needed?”

“Yes,” you gasp, fingers clawing into his sweat-slicked back. “God, yes.”

His pace builds—still steady, still controlled—but deeper now, the rhythm perfect. Your moans echo against the vault’s steel walls, your hands scrambling for purchase on his arms, his shoulders, anything you can hold onto.

Every time he pulls out and pushes back in, it knocks a cry from your throat. And Bucky watches you—drinks you in—like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him sane.

“You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful when you fall apart.”

And you do—again.

You sob his name, body trembling, core clenching around him as a second orgasm rips through you. He holds you through it, whispering filth and comfort in equal measure.

“That’s it, baby… give it to me. You’re perfect. So goddamn perfect.”

He starts to stutter inside you. You can feel the tension in his body—how close he is.

But true to his word, he pulls out at the last second, groaning low and deep as he fists his cock and spills over your lower stomach. Hot, thick, his breath shuddering against your mouth as he curses softly into your skin.

You cradle his face, even as he’s coming undone.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, echoing his words. “Always.”

He collapses gently beside you, pulling you against his bare chest, both of you panting. The vault is still cold. Still dark.

But in the quiet afterward, there’s no fear. No past. Just the sound of your breath syncing with his.

Just you and Bucky. Raw. Uncovered. Real.

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles after something seismic.

Bucky lies beside you, the sweat cooling on his chest, his vibranium fingers slowly tracing the edge of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you in silence.

He hasn’t said much since. Just the occasional kiss to your shoulder. A sigh. A swallow. A glance that flickers away too quickly.

You shift toward him, your cheek against the firm warmth of his bare chest, the soft thud of his heartbeat loud beneath your ear.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He stiffens—just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. Too fast. Too practiced.

You lift your head just enough to see him.

His eyes are fixed somewhere far away. That distant look—the one you’ve seen in briefings, in bunkers, in quiet hotel rooms between missions. Like he’s back somewhere else entirely.

“Bucky.”

He blinks. Turns toward you.

And then, quietly: “I’m sorry.”

Your brows pull together.

“For what?”

“I…” He swallows. “I shouldn’t have let it happen like that. I should’ve had better control. You were vulnerable. Scared. I should’ve restrained myself more. Waited. Been better.”

He won’t meet your eyes now. His hand is still on your waist, but his fingers falter—like he’s bracing for you to pull away.

“You think you took advantage of me?” you ask, your voice calm. Steady.

His jaw clenches. His silence speaks for him.

You sit up just enough to cradle his face in both hands. He flinches at first—but doesn’t pull away.

“Bucky. Look at me.”

His eyes lift, slow and uncertain.

“I gave you everything tonight. Every touch, every breath, every piece of me was freely yours. Do you hear me?”

He exhales, the guilt still simmering in his throat. “You were shaking. You asked for help. And I…”

“You didn’t use me,” you say firmly. “You saw me. And I saw you. I’ve never felt safer letting someone touch me than I did with you.”

His shoulders sag like he’s been holding up an entire wall of shame. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“I’ve wanted this,” you whisper. “Not just the sex. You. The man under the armor, behind the walls. You didn’t take anything from me—I gave it. Happily.”

His breath stutters, and he nods—just once—but you feel the emotion welling in him, deep and quiet.

“This changes things, doesn’t it?” he says after a long pause.

“It does,” you reply softly. “Because now I know for sure.”

He searches your face. “Know what?”

You smile, small but sure.

“That I want more with you. Something real. Something personal.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles like you’re something sacred.

“I want that too,” he murmurs. “But I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

“Then we’ll take it slow,” you say, leaning into his touch. “And if you stumble… I’ll still be here.”

He pulls you into his chest and wraps both arms around you—one flesh, one vibranium—and buries his face in your hair.

You lie there like that, tangled in warmth, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. The vault walls are still around you, but they no longer feel like a prison. Just a place where something true began.

Minutes pass.

Then—

CLANK.

The door seal hisses. Metal shifts.

You both blink, adjusting to the sudden flood of white-blue light spilling in through the widening crack.

“Yo!” Sam’s voice echoes into the space, half relieved, half exasperated. “Took us a damn hour to override the outer security.”

“I told you it was a dual-layered code protocol,” Joaquin mutters behind him. “No one listens to the tech guy.”

You scramble to pull your shirt over your shoulders, tugging it down hastily as your bra remains somewhere behind you. Your hands are shaking, but not from shame. Just adrenaline. Bucky reaches for his gear without a word, dragging his sweat-damp undershirt straight and grabbing for his discarded combat jacket, slipping one arm through, then the other. His chest is still bare, the zipper only halfway up. His tactical pants are back in place, loosely refastened.

You catch the flicker of his eyes—darting to you, then away. Not panicked. Not guilty. Just private. Guarded in the way only someone who just handed over their soul could be.

You reach for his hand before he can tug the glove back on. Your fingers catch his—bare, steady—and hold. Warm. Sure.

As the door creaks open and footsteps echo inside, Bucky helps you to your feet—tactical gear still halfway undone, but shoulders squared. Like he’s ready to face the light, even if it blinds him a little.

Sam steps in, blinking at the scene. “You two good?”

Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah.”

You glance up at him, smiling.

“We’re good,” you say, reaching for his hand again. “Better than good.”

He gives your fingers a squeeze. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes smiles—not the forced kind. The real kind.

The kind that says something new has started.

—Epilogue:

The hum of the jet was soothing. After the chaos of the HYDRA vault and the long extraction, the warm, low-light interior felt almost indulgent.

You were curled into your seat, wrapped in a mission blanket, legs tucked under you. Across the aisle, Bucky sat in his usual brooding posture—but something was different now.

He wasn’t scowling.

He was… smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. But every time you looked up, his mouth quirked at the corner, like he couldn’t help himself.

You gave him a slow, knowing wink.

He tilted his head just slightly, one brow lifting. That little look he gave you now wasn’t Winter Soldier. It wasn’t even mission-serious Bucky.

It was something warmer. Something just for you.

You stifled a smile and looked back down at your hands, the ghost of his fingertips still lingering there.

From the cockpit, Sam’s voice carried:

“Okay. No offense, but what the hell happened in that vault?”

You and Bucky both froze.

Joaquin didn’t even look up from his tablet. “What makes you ask that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam called, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe because Bucky Barnes hasn’t stopped doing that smug little post-makeout lip twitch for the last thirty minutes.”

You shot Bucky a look. Bucky buried his face in his glove for a second, fighting the urge to visibly react.

Sam walked into the cabin a moment later, narrowed eyes flicking between you and Bucky like he was connecting red strings in his mind.

“You two didn’t die in there,” Sam said, “but someone sure as hell came back… reborn.”

You choked on your water. Bucky turned pink immediately.

“I’m just saying,” Sam added, settling into his seat, “next time you get stuck in a vault, give me a heads-up. I’ll bring candles. Maybe some background jazz.”

Joaquin muttered without looking up: “Let them have their trauma bonding, man.”

You and Bucky locked eyes again.

And this time, the smile broke through on both your faces—quiet, real, and a little reckless. Like two people who just learned they could still feel something soft in the middle of all the noise.

Soon after, your phone buzzes in your palm.

You okay, doll?

You looked up across the narrow aisle. Bucky was slouched in his seat—jacket halfway zipped, his glove still hanging from one hand. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but you could tell from the way his thumb hovered near his screen that he was waiting.

You smiled faintly and typed back.

better than okay. but also very distracted 😏🤭

You peek up from under your lashes.

He tilts his head just slightly, brow lifting—not cocky, just curious. That cautiously hopeful kind of curious.

Distracted how?

You glance around—Sam’s still up front, muttering about fuel efficiency. Joaquin has earbuds in, totally checked out.

Safe.

You lean into your seat, thumbs flying.

pretty sure i’ve been half-wet since you suited up in that whole lethal-sexy vibe 🫦🖤 trying so hard not to stare

You hit send. Bucky reads it instantly—and something in his body shifts. His posture straightens, then tenses. One hand lifts toward his face like he’s trying to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

You serious?

You watch the way he doesn’t quite look at you now. Like if he does, he’ll forget the jet has other people on board.

You’re grinning as you type your next reply.

dead serious. pretty sure i’ve been soaking on every mission with you lately 💦 you and that jacket?? literal war crime.

This time, he looks.

Just for a second—but it’s sharp, fast. His eyes cut to you and then he’s dragging his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to wipe off the heat rising up his neck. His jaw flexes hard.

He types back slowly.

You're killing me, doll

You bite your lip, sliding your phone just out of Sam’s line of sight.

Then you fire back the final blow.

too late, soldier 🤭 game’s already on 😌

Across the aisle, Bucky shifts again—this time slower, almost like he’s trying to physically will his body to behave. His jaw twitches. His fingers flex. And for the first time in what feels like years, you watch him lose the fight to suppress a smile.

[carolinaclouds]

Courting

Synopsis: Bucky is a man from a different time. It shows when you start ‘going steady’ and honestly, you love it. Alternatively; Bucky uses 40’s dating etiquette to woo you, and surprises you with a modern turn of phrase.

cw: it’s set in a vague timeline where it’s just before cabnw but also during fatws so no thunderbolts spoilers! Bucky is a FLIRT, reader is a little shy, anxiety representation, lots of casual getting to know you, going on a date flirting, Bucky’s serious about reader tho!

word count: 4.4k

Bucky Barnes prides himself on being able to court a woman. He really does. He knows all the rules, knows all the things to say, and it doesn’t hurt that he can flirt his way through any conversation.

You and Bucky met at the Smithsonian when Bucky was missing Steve a little too much and popped in just to get a glimpse of his best friend again.

You were by the Isaiah Bradley display, reading through before murmuring under your breath, “Those poor men.”

Bucky hadn’t meant to eavesdrop like that, but there was so much concern in your voice and he had to say something lest you think they all suffered — looking back, maybe he wasn’t the best person to break that news to you.

“We didn’t all suffer so bad.”

You had gasped when you noticed him, hand to your chest. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” you weigh your words before adding, “Steve’s best friend.”

That alone had won him over. You didn’t bring up the Winter Soldier, or that Bucky was as traumatised as super soldiers went. Just that he was Steve’s best friend.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “This your first time at the Smithsonian?”

You shake your head, a little heat flushing up your cheeks. “I come every couple of weeks, to see if they have any new stuff to add to your plaques. It’s kinda messed up what they did to all of you.”

Bucky smiles, shaking his head. It is messed up, he knows that. All the super soldiers besides John Walker know how messed up it was. “We came out alright, made it to the 21st century after all.”

You tilt your head to the side, “I guess that’s true.”

Bucky’s eyes light up. “Made it this far to meet pretty girls too.”

Your cheeks flame and Bucky chuckles, you chat a bit more before he gives you his number.

It takes you two days to text him. You’d been overthinking it, if you should or shouldn’t. In the end, if he ignored you at least you’d have tried.

It turns out Bucky didn’t give you his number just to be polite, because he answered your text immediately.

The first time he had used his courting experience was when he’d made it a point to establish the fact that he wanted to take you out every second Friday of the month.

He had it in his head that the effort had to be shown and then followed through the entire time and after two days, he was determined to show you that he was serious.

‘I’m free every other Friday, if that’s good with you doll.’

You had responded four minutes later after looking at your phone in shock and a little bit of bewilderment, when was the last time a man was so forward but not in a pushy way?

‘It’s perfect as long as work doesn’t bleed into my weekends’

From there Bucky had planned three of the dates meticulously, going over places and ideas in his head until he’d settled on the best three according to himself.

The first date was at a new diner near his apartment, one that Sam said did really good milkshakes and Bucky hadn’t been able to let the idea go.

“It’s nothing too fancy, but Sam said it’s a good spot.”

You’d worn a pretty skirt and blouse, and Bucky had worn a grey henley and jeans.

“You look gorgeous,” Bucky was full of compliments as you’d learn as the afternoon went on. He dished them out easily and most of the time you pretended not to hear him because he had a sort of pleased look on his face every time you stammered to keep the conversation going, and that in itself had in your stomach in knots.

He even brought you a bouquet of red tulips which had sat beside you on the sticky diner table all day.

“Oh they have milkshakes!” You say excitedly when you catch a server walking past.

Bucky’s heart sores. God bless the forties for making that a thing.

“Wanna try one?”

You look up at him, eyes brimming with hopefulness, “Will we do the cheesy sharing from the same cup?”

Bucky leans back in the booth seat, blue eyes boring into you. “And the same straw if you really want to, doll.”

He’s so fucking smooth, because you can’t do anything but nod now that his gaze is fixed on you.

Deciding what milkshake had taken nearly five minutes, back and forth between what was a classic flavor and why strawberry was definitely not good (Bucky was very offended) and then settling on a Shamrock Shake even though St. Patrick’s day had long passed.

Sharing the milkshake sitting across from each other was more intimate than you had expected it to be, (you hadn’t ended up using one straw but just the eye contact was enough to fluster you). Bucky walked you to your car after paying for dinner, very offended that you tried to pay half of the bill, and opened the door for you. When you had gotten in, he leant a little into your space, “Did you have a good time, doll?”

Your heart pounds. You had a great time, Bucky was easy to be around, even with your shyness.

“I did, thank you Bucky. Did you?”

He smiled, “Don’t see how I couldn’t with you as company.” In your sputtering for an answer Bucky’s heart beat a little faster, you were the cutest thing ever.

“Any opposition to a gala for our next date?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not the biggest fan of crowds but I don’t see why it couldn’t be fun. Is it for the new Captain America thing?”

Bucky smiles, “I’ll text you the details. Drive safe, doll.”

The gala was fun even if a little anxiety inducing when you note the number of people there.

Bucky’s good though, he doesn’t give you a moment alone to feel that anxiety or have anyone come up to you to ask you a million questions.

It’s a veteran gala and Bucky didn’t want to go through that alone because he was getting another medal post Thanos; not that he really wanted it.

That night, as you sat beside him at one of the tables, it was hard to ignore the feel of his hand grasping your ankle and stroking it.

His palm is warm against your skin but you can feel the twitch in his fingers.

“We can leave early if you really don’t want to get it, Bucky.”

He turns to you with a smile, his cheeks a little warm when you meet his eyes. “No, I can handle it, doll.”

You tut, shaking your head. “Yeah but you look like you’re gonna pass out waiting for them to call your name.”

He rolls his eyes, “I do not.” He can actually feel the acid churning in his stomach.

In the end, the ‘medal’ is Bucky partially funding a veteran support group in honor of his friend Sam Wilson, who’s the new Captain America, and Steve Rogers. He much prefers that sort of medal.

It was only after Bucky had gotten you home from the gala that you noticed the slip of paper in your clutch.

It had the name of the diner you and Bucky had gone to a week and a half ago, but on the backside of the paper was his semi messy scrawl.

You looked gorgeous tonight. Purple’s definitely your colour, doll. I know it’s only the second date, but you’re all I think about most days. I wanna see you again, but I know tonight was a lot with all those people. Sleep well, doll. Dream of me if you’d like.

Yours,

James.

That had made you smile so hard your cheeks ached. He signed it with his actual name, not the cute nickname he got so many years ago, his real, government name and that was not something that went unnoticed by you.

Immediately you changed his name in your phone to James with a little heart next to it.

You’re not really sure you’re sold on Bucky’s affections towards you, till the third date when Bucky pulls up to your apartment with another bouquet of flowers, peonies this time in pretty pinks and soft yellows.

“Bucky, these are gorgeous!” You had rushed back into your house to add them to the vase with the other flowers he had dropped off for you on your doorstep last week.

You can hear him chuckling in your doorway as you flit about.

“Was there any traffic?” you asked over the sound of your tap filling the vase.

“Not too much, but it is lunchtime on a Saturday.”

You had mentioned to Bucky a little bit ago that there was a perfect spot in the park near your house for a picnic now that New York had finally warmed up, and the next text you had received was Bucky asking if you had any nut allergies.

It wasn’t your usual date day, but Bucky had pleaded and begged just a little (although he really hadn’t had to), and had even sent you a photo of the most gorgeous picnic blanket and you were agreeing faster than anything.

“I’m ready to go now.” Seeing Bucky there leaning in the archway of your kitchen makes you feel so many things that you can’t help it when you lean up and kiss just under his jaw before walking towards your door after snagging your picnic basket from on the counter.

“Coming, Bucky?”

He only shakes his head, some of his hair falling into his eyes as he follows behind you. You swear you hear him mutter, “Not a shy thing at all,” but you don’t say anything because your nerve has worn off and you actually can’t believe you really kissed his cheek.

Bucky hadn’t spared an expense on your picnic. He had gotten peaches, plums, two different cheeses, apples, grapes (black ones; your favourite) and even a bottle of sparkling wine.

You had brought sandwiches and salt and vinegar potato chips (those became Bucky’s new favourites), a sketchbook and your camera.

“Were picnics something you did a lot?” you ask Bucky as he makes you a plate - crackers, cheese, some of the fruit and half the sandwich you packets.

Bucky squints at you as he slices a wedge of the plum free from the stone. “If it was, would you be jealous, doll?”

You shake your head, some of the peach juice dribbling down your wrist. Bucky’s quick but gentle as he thumbs it away and presses his thumb to his lips. You’re so grateful that his hands aren’t on you to feel how fast your pulse hammers.

“I’m just curious what the dating customs of the 40’s looked like.” It’s a miracle your voice remains even.

Bucky nods like he doesn’t really believe you. “I think I went on one, but there was never really a good time for more.”

You wince, you had forgotten that he’d gotten drafted.

Your reaction makes Bucky laugh, “I’m glad I get to find out if I really like them now though. There’s a lot more to enjoy about picnics now without all the smog.”

His teeth snap through the wedge of the plum before he continues, “I can see my date better, which feels like an incredible plus.”

Damn Bucky’s flirting.

You spend all evening at the park, and it’s so fun because Bucky poses for some of your pictures and then takes some of you and when you pose for a few together and Bucky stares at you there’s a sort of stillness that overcomes you.

His eyes bore into yours, the blue of them stopping you where your finger is poised over the button to snap the photo.

“Take the photo doll,” he whispers, his lips hovering near yours as he reaches up and presses your finger down just before leaning all the way in, pressing your lips together.

Bucky’s quick to take the camera from your hand after, setting it on the blanket and cupping your cheek to deepen the kiss.

It’s not too long, but it’s more than a peck and when he pulls away you can barely open your eyes.

“Was that okay?” Bucky whispers, the hand still cupping your face warm where it rests.

“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” his laugh rocks you as you press your forehead into his shoulder. “I don’t think you were really frozen in ice all that time, James Barnes.”

Bucky cups the back of your head as his laughs die down. “Whatever you want to believe, honey.”

Bucky gets to your house just after sunset, and you let him walk you to your front door. You don’t really want the date to end, but you’re tired and you have to imagine so is he.

“I had a really nice evening, Bucky.”

He smiles, a hand on your lower back as he stands in front of you. “So did I,” you turn to open the door but he stops you.

“I’ve gotta go out of town for a little bit, so we’re gonna have to rain check next Friday’s date.”

You hold onto the sleeve of his Henley before he can step back, “Is everything alright?”

Bucky nods, “Yeah just some stuff I have to deal with.”

“Winter soldier stuff?” You nearly whisper the words, not wanting to upset Bucky. He only nods with a soft smile. “Be careful okay?”

“You don’t want to be my nurse if I get hurt, doll? That’s harsh.”

You laugh, shaking your head at him. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Bucky’s chest aches at your care for him. It’s been a long while since he’s been given that kind of affection.

“I’ll be careful, doll.”

“Good.”

Bucky leans in and presses a kiss just at the corner of your mouth, “Goodnight doll, lock your doors.” He reminds you like you’re not a woman in New York City, but it still makes you smile and your chest goes a little gooey.

Bucky doesn’t move from your doorstep till he hears your locks click into place.

-

Bucky’s been gone for a week and a half already and you can’t help but miss him.

You’ve been chatting back and forth and you’ve even started sending him songs to listen to. He’s got a very limited list of favourites that you’ve made it your mission to resolve.

You find another note in your handbag when you decided against texting Bucky and cleaned your cupboards instead.

It was in your bag from the picnic date, and you smiled when you noticed his handwriting on another receipt from the grocery where he got the cheese.

I hope you find this when I’m gone and you’re missing me; I know you are, doll, it’s okay.

I miss you too and I haven’t left yet.

When I get back I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Maybe we’ll go somewhere quiet again? Or I saw they’re reopening one of those antique places with all those retro trinkets; I could show what I used to have at home. Show you what I prefer now.

Keep locking your doors, honey. I should send you new flowers, the old ones will be dead soon.

Yours,

James.

Bucky’s very good at these, these little notes that leave you smiling and giddy like a fool.

You pull out your phone, you have to text him now.

I got your note. What was your favourite ‘trinket’?

Bucky answers only three minutes later.

My sister used to have a silver jewellery box that I had the pleasure of filling every month.

You smile at that, he’s always been a provider it seems.

Another chime comes from your phone.

We also had a gramophone that played the clearest music I’ve ever heard.

You roll your eyes.

You’re such an old man.

I’m not offended, doll. A pretty girl I’m seeing told me recently I’m not old at all.

Even miles away he’s got you grinning like an idiot with a racing pulse.

You can’t say anything to that and your thoughts take you to what a perfect gentleman he’s been to you. Bucky opens your doors, drives you home and waits till you get into your house before driving off. You think you might be falling for him, and rapidly.

He’s still gone by Monday and you’re missing him hard, only for the girls you work with to giggle before coming to find you.

“These were dropped for you,” they hand you a huge bouquet of red and white tube roses and a card.

It’s not Bucky’s handwriting but it’s from him,

Sorry I’m still not back, doll. I should just be gone for another day. Don’t miss me too much, yeah? I need a few kisses when I get back to make up for all this time away. I listened to that song you recommended, it was good. How do I make a playlist?

Yours,

James.

The note had you blushing and extremely flustered. Your coworkers noticed it immediately.

“Are you two going steady?”

You regret telling them who you’d been going out with. When they leave, you’re stuck with the realisation of how different Bucky is to the men you’ve dated before.

It’s a small thing, but you hardly think any of them got you flowers as consistently as he does, and you don’t think you’ve ever received such thoughtful bouquets.

You called Bucky when you got home, happy to hear his voice.

“Thank you for the flowers, Bucky.”

“You’re welcome, doll.”

You have the bouquet from today on your bedside table and smile when you spot it after changing into your pajamas.

“You caused quite a scene when they got delivered.”

You can hear the amusement in his words. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, the girls I work with brought them to me. They were very impressed by the size of the bouquet, Barnes.”

“I’m just concerned about what you think of me.” Was his answer and after that you couldn’t get a full sentence out of you.

He’s so open with his feelings towards you it’s scary, it makes your heart race but you also know he’s not just saying it. He means it and that makes you fall just a little more for Bucky.

“You’re sweet.” Is all you can manage, your face heated with a blush.

“Sam and I are finishing this up tonight, so I should be able to see you when we get back.”

You don’t know if you’re reading into his words, but Bucky sounds relieved at the prospect of seeing you soon.

“Isn’t it going to be a day’s long flight?”

“And I can see you right after I land, honey. So long as it’s not midnight or while you’re gonna be sleeping.”

Bucky Barnes isn’t good for your heart with the way he just wholly shows you how much he wants to spend time with you.

“Do you still need help with your playlist?”

He huffs, “Sam showed me. He’s not a good teacher though, was snippy the whole time; you’d think he’d remember I was in ice.”

You laugh, “I’ll show you when you get back, babe.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything about the pet name, but for the rest of the phone call he doesn’t respond unless you use it.

It’s two days before he’s back and Bucky drives straight over to see you.

He’s at your door a few hours after you get home from work, and when you open the door to see him, he’s there with a single rose in his hand and a tired smile on his face.

“Is it possible you got prettier while I was gone?” He leans against your doorway.

“You look dead on your feet, Bucky. Come inside.” you lead him to your sofa, watching him move with heavy but careful steps all the way through your living room.

Bucky’s movements are measured, not a single action wasted as he takes off his boots and socks and detaches his metal arm.

“I really missed you,” he sighs as he lays on your sofa, eyes shut as he takes a long breath.

“I really missed you too,” you brush back some hair from his face. “You could’ve gone home to sleep first, you know?”

Bucky opens his eyes and it takes great effort to do so, the whites of his eyes shot through with streaks of intense red.

“I wanted to see you,” he yawns. “But you’ve trapped me into laying on your sofa.”

You laugh, your fingers still knotted in his hair. “You can take a nap Bucky, or you can sleep the night here. I’m not really excited by the idea of you driving back tired.”

“I won’t doll,” he shuts his eyes again, the feel of your fingers on his scalp lulling him into a peacefulness he’s missed. “Tell me what you got up to while I was gone. I know you weren’t just counting down the days till I got back.”

You roll your eyes as you recount the last two weeks of your life, Bucky’s not even awake to hear what you did on the second day of him being gone.

You cover him up with your throw blanket and dim the lights of your living room. You make the playlist for him while he sleeps, putting all the songs you’ve sent him on the memory stick so he can leave with it.

Bucky doesn’t spend the night, but as he’s leaving he holds your cheek, “I didn’t come with an ulterior motive, just to see you. If you want, we can go have dinner tomorrow. I have something I want to ask you, doll.”

“That’s ominous,” you’re a little nervous by that phrase. No one likes being told that someone has ‘something to ask them’ in a day. There’s anxiety crawling up your chest before Bucky kisses your lips.

“It’s a good question baby, don’t overthink it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You grab the memory stick off the table before you could forget, “Here, I put all the songs I’ve sent on here.” Bucky kisses you again.

“You’re an angel,” you steal a kiss before he pulls away. “Lock your doors.”

“Sir yes sir.”

You hear him laugh all the way to his car.

Despite Bucky’s well meaning, ‘Don’t overthink it.’ That’s all you did when you woke up and started sifting through dresses to wear.

You’re ready at six and that makes you even more anxious. There’s too much time to do nothing but sit and overthink it.

You’re working yourself up to outright calling Bucky when there’s a knock at your door.

A quick peek at the clock on your stove let’s you know you’ve been overthinking it for forty five minutes.

When you open the door, Bucky’s standing in front of you in a pretty blue shirt that makes his eyes pop, and black dress pants.

He’s not got flowers this time, but he is holding a box of what you think are chocolates.

“Oh my god,” he breathes as he takes you in. You’re in a pretty pale purple dress, white heels and your hair is down in loose curls. You hadn’t gone for heavy makeup but just enough where there’s purple glitter on your eyelids and your lips are a deep red.

“You look handsome.” You say as you fight the blush creeping up your chest at the way Bucky’ stares at you.

“You look,” he trails off like he really can’t find the right words. “Breathtaking.”

You feel as though the blush explodes in your chest and heats your entire face.

Bucky hands you the box of chocolates, “They’re all dark chocolate.” You smile as you take it; that’s another thing Bucky’s remembered you like.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

You ask as you slip the chocolates into your purse and shut your door.

Bucky smiles as he watches you lock your door before turning to him. Immediately he links his hand with yours.

“We’re going for dinner somewhere nice,” the entire ride to the car Bucky has you talking. About the last book you read, work, if you think about him every night before bed (the last one was just to make you laugh, but the truth is you do.)

“What about you Bucky? Do you think about me before bed?”

You ask as he parks and he turns to you.

“Oh yeah,” that’s all he says before coming out of the car to open your door. “Think about you more than I think about anything else, doll.”

You manage to hold back your question just before dessert, “Can you please ask me? I’m freaking out and I think my heart might explode from the anxiety.”

There’s a laugh that bubbles from you and Bucky tuts.

“Honey,” you press a hand to your chest. Your anxiety really is at an all time high. You have so many questions rattling around your head that Bucky could want to ask you and you may throw up the lovely pasta you just had if he doesn’t ask you soon.

He leans across the table and holds onto your wrist, feeling the erratic beat of your pulse.

“I’ve been torturing you, haven’t I doll?”

You nod as you try to calm your racing heart.

“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky’s thumb strokes short lines across your wrist. “I had it all set up to come with dessert but I’ll put you out of your misery.”

“Thanks,” you mutter and he smiles.

“I know we’re only going steady,” that gets a smile out of you. He really is an old man, “but I wanted to ask you if I could be yours? Saying boyfriend makes me feel older so I won’t say it.”

You laugh, letting your head fall on his hand where it holds yours.

“Not the other way around?” You ask and Bucky huffs.

“You’re not property, honey.”

You look up with a smile and Bucky’s smile gets a little brighter. “Yeah you can be mine.”

“C’mere,” he tilts your chin a little higher and kisses you; slow and just long enough for it not to be a full make out. “You really missed out on the whole cheesecake with chocolate drizzle writing.”

He says as he pulls away and you laugh.

“Oh, are they not bringing it anymore?”

Bucky shakes his head, mischief in his eyes. “After you just latched onto me in the middle of their establishment? I don’t know, doll.”

“You’re ridiculous.” They still bring the cheesecake and Bucky feeds you the first bite, and like the flirt and menace he is, he gets a little just to the corner of your mouth.

“Let me get it for you,” and steals another kiss, ‘cleaning it off.’

Bucky Barnes really knows how to court a woman.

[carolinaclouds]

Every Time We Almost

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x fem!Reader

Summary: Every time you almost had a moment—life got in the way. Night shifts, missions, exhaustion, missed calls and missed chances. But tonight, the universe finally gave you the time. And Bucky? He’s not wasting a second of it.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), established relationship, mutual yearning, emotional smut, edging, mutual masturbation, oral (f receiving), deep sex, squirting, use of pet names, no mentions of y/n, tender aftercare

Word Count: 10,443

Author's Note: This was actually meant to be saved as a draft but my groggy self just couldn't register what I actually chose. Uhh... as accidental as it is... enjoy!

You felt like a walking corpse—bones aching, mind foggy, soul stretched too thin. It had been four endless months of night shifts, and each day blurred into the next with brutal monotony. The company you worked for had sunk into a deep pit of understaffing, and you were the one paying the price in blood and sleep. Officially, your hours were supposed to be 10p.m. to 6a.m.—neat on paper, a lie in practice. Most mornings you found yourself still slouched under cold fluorescent lights by 10a.m., eyes raw from screen glare, hunched in your cramped little cubicle that smelled of burnt coffee and recycled despair.

Your life had become a cycle of numb survival: work → home → crash into sleep → shove some microwaveable meals for breakfast-lunch-dinner in a go → drag your ass back to work. Again. Again. Again.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you felt Bucky’s skin on yours.

He’d either be gone before you woke, pulled into another mission, or he’d come home to find you asleep, tangled in sheets soaked with sweat and stress, your face pressed into a pillow with his shirt on and your heart off somewhere else.

And it hurt. God, it hurt. Not just the ache between your thighs, though that was growing unbearable, but the ache behind your ribs. You missed him in every way it was possible to miss someone—physically, mentally, spiritually. Sex wasn’t just a release with Bucky. It was communion. It was coming home.

Only Bucky could touch you like that. Every thrust he gave, every graze of his calloused fingertips down your body, every whispered “you’re mine, sweetheart” like a promise etched into your bones. No man had ever fucked you like he worshipped you—until him. And you? You’d always felt like Bucky Barnes was made not for war, not for the world, but just for you. That metal arm of his was softest when it was wrapped around your throat, when his breath trembled against your ear and he told you how good you made him feel.

But none of that mattered if you never saw each other.

You blinked up at the digital wall clock across the open-plan graveyard of cubicles. 3:43a.m.. Still two hours to go, at least. You rolled your sore shoulders, and your phone buzzed.

Ding.

You glanced down and saw his name. The kind of relief that hit your chest like a shot of morphine. You opened the message.

Room feels so empty without you, doll.

Your lips twitched into a faint smile before it fell again. The image that followed sucker punched you. Bucky, shirtless, laid out across your side of the bed. His metal arm sprawled where your body should’ve been, head tilted slightly, eyes tired. His face wasn’t pouty or playful—it was raw with loneliness.

God, you wanted to climb through the screen and into his arms.

You snapped a quick photo of your cluttered desk, several empty paper cups, scribbled Post-it notes, and your own drained face in the background. Then you typed:

Missed you so much too, baby.

Too fucked with job, instead of being fucked hard by you 🥺

You knew exactly what that would do to him. Maybe it was cruel, maybe it was a little desperate, but at this point? You were crawling with need. Sex had always been more than just physical with Bucky—it was your way of escaping the weight of the world. Of being held, taken, undone. Of existing.

Your phone lit up again—not with a message this time, but a call.

You didn’t even get a chance to say hello before you heard his voice—low, husky, wrecked.

“Love, you can’t do that to me,” he growled, voice tight like he was fighting the urge to unzip and get started with just your voice in his ear.

You laughed under your breath, dragging a palm down your face. “Heyyyy. I’m dying too, just so you know.”

“Leaving late today?” he asked, barely veiled hope in his tone.

“I’ll be home by seven. Maybe sooner if my team doesn’t collapse without me.”

“Good. I’ll fuck you well,” he said, dead serious—not as a tease, but like a man starved. Like a man who had imagined every second of it, over and over in your absence.

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

“We’ll see about that,” you managed to reply, voice a little breathless despite yourself.

You ended the call with exaggerated kissy sounds—the kind he always called ridiculous but secretly adored. You could almost hear the way he smiled on the other end.

Cheesy. Cringe. But who the hell cared? He was yours. You were his. You just needed the universe to give you a damn break so you could finally prove it again.

—

The commute back home was electric. Despite being crammed into the Metro with the usual morning rush—bleary-eyed office workers, students scrolling through their phones, and half-awake baristas clutching coffee cups—none of it touched you. Not the noise, not the crowd, not even the stale air that always seemed to hang heavy in the train car. None of it mattered.

Not when you were finally on your way back to him.

Your body ached with exhaustion. You’d been up all night again, running on fumes and vending machine coffee. But your skin buzzed beneath your clothes, alive with anticipation. Every jostle and bump only made your thighs press together tighter. You could already feel him—could almost smell that warm mix of cedar and spice he always wore when he was home, the one that clung to the pillows on his side of the bed. You didn’t care how tired you were. You needed him more than rest.

Bucky.

You could see him in your mind—that thick, unruly dark hair, steel-blue eyes locked on you like a man starved. That body was built like a Greek statue, all raw strength wrapped in soft intimacy. The way his arms—one unrelenting and cold, the other warm and callused—always knew how to hold you just right. Not too careful. Never too rough. Always like you were his favorite thing to come home to.

You spotted him before you even reached the corner. There he was—leaning against a streetlamp a few blocks from your apartment, dressed in that faded henley that fit him like a second skin. The soft gold of the rising sun spilled down over the rooftops, casting everything in a glow that turned his metal arm to molten chrome. His eyes caught yours across the street, and his whole body seemed to relax.

Your legs moved without thinking.

You nearly launched into his arms. Bucky caught you effortlessly, spinning you just slightly before anchoring you to his chest. His breath hitched against your hair, face burying into the spot just behind your ear as he inhaled like he was trying to breathe you in completely.

“You smell like coffee and nuts,” he murmured, voice low and thick with affection.

You laughed into his neck. “You smell like sin and bed. Not fair.”

“You’re not getting sleep first,” he said, arms tightening around you. “No way in hell.”

Even the short walk back to your apartment felt too long. The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were on him—grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, dragging his mouth to yours. The kiss hit fast and messy, all teeth and need, mouths crashing together with the desperation of two people on the edge.

Bucky kissed like he hadn’t had oxygen in weeks. His tongue slid against yours, exploring with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how you liked it. His hands—one callused and warm, the other cool and smooth—cradled your face with reverence. You groaned when his palm slid down to your waist, tugging you forward so you could grind against the thick bulge already straining against his jeans.

You yanked his shirt up and over his head, revealing the chest you’d dreamed about every damn night you’d worked overtime. Your hands skimmed down over those perfect pecs, brushing over the faint trail of hair that led below his waistband. Every inch of him radiated heat. And God, did you want to melt into it.

You tore your own shirt off without hesitation. The soft cotton fluttered to the floor, quickly followed by your bra—which Bucky unhooked with practiced ease. He took a step back to look at you, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, chest rising and falling with something just short of restraint.

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he muttered.

You wiggled out of your slacks, kicking them aside until you stood there in just a thin pair of lace panties that left almost nothing to the imagination.

Bucky’s eyes raked over you with the kind of hunger that made your thighs clench. “Come here,” he murmured, voice rough with need as he reached for your hand.

You let him take it, and with one gentle tug, he was guiding you through the soft-lit hallway toward the bedroom—backs brushing walls, lips reconnecting in hot, frantic bursts. The hardwood creaked beneath your steps, sunlight already spilling in through half-open blinds, striping the walls with golden warmth.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your skin was humming. The warm morning light bathed everything in a soft, honeyed glow—the kind that made everything feel slower, thicker, heavier with tension.

You stepped into the sunbeam that fell across the floor, feeling it heat your bare skin as Bucky stopped to admire the view. His gaze devoured you, hungry and reverent all at once. He looked like he might fall to his knees.

Instead, you placed your palms gently on his chest and gave him a soft push. He let himself fall backward onto the bed with a slight bounce, propped up on his elbows, gaze locked on your body like he hadn’t touched you in years—like he’d been dreaming of this exact moment every night since your bodies last met.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him slowly, the heat of your soaked panties pressing down onto the thick outline of his cock. Bucky groaned low in his throat, hands gripping your hips as you began to move—grinding against him in slow, deliberate circles.

“Shit, baby—” he hissed, voice already thick with lust. “You tryna kill me?”

You leaned down, brushing your lips over his jaw, your breath hot against his skin. “You promised to fuck me well.”

“And I will,” he growled, voice dark and husky, “but you’re the one torturing me right now.”

You pulled back just enough to reach for his jeans. He didn’t even hesitate—unzipping them with one hand and shoving them down just far enough to free himself. His cock sprung out, flushed and heavy, thick with need.

Your mouth went dry.

The fabric of your panties dragged over his length as you rocked down harder. Bucky’s head dropped back with a deep, raw moan that made your toes curl. You grabbed at his chest, needing to anchor yourself as you ground down on him again, letting your clit ride the pressure.

“You feel that?” he rasped, hands clutching your thighs. “That’s what you do to me, sweetheart. Just seeing you walk toward me this morning? I was fucking gone.”

You bent close, lips brushing against his ear. “You gonna let me ride you, Sergeant?”

His eyes met yours—burning, stormy, aching.

“I’m yours, doll,” he whispered. “Take what you need.”

But just as you rocked your hips to sink down on him, his hands gripped your thighs—firm, yet gentle—and stopped your movement.

“Not like this,” he murmured, voice low and breathless. “Not when you’re this tired.”

Before you could argue, Bucky flipped you onto your back with one smooth, effortless motion. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, the golden morning light striping across your chest as your body stretched out beneath him. His metal hand slid up your torso with reverence, cool fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, over your ribs, until he cupped one breast in his palm.

You gasped when his lips found your breast, warm and soft as they closed around the sensitive peak. He lavished attention on it first with a languid swirl of his tongue, teasing the stiffening bud in slow, luxurious circles that made your stomach tighten. His stubble scraped faintly against your skin, a delicious contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. Then came the suction—gentle at first, then firmer, drawing more of you into his mouth until you were writhing beneath him, desperate for more. Your back arched into him involuntarily, offering more of yourself, and your fingers clutched at the thick muscle of his shoulders. You could feel the tension there, the restraint he was holding onto by a thread. When his teeth grazed your nipple just enough to sting and soothe all at once, a helpless moan tore from your throat—needy, wrecked, aching for everything he hadn’t been able to give you until now.

And still, he wasn’t done.

While his mouth continued its slow worship, his hand—warm, steady, reverent—slid down the curve of your waist, over your hip, until his fingers found the soaked lace between your thighs. He groaned into your skin at the feeling of how ready you were for him, his metal arm holding you anchored while the other slipped beneath the fabric, finding your slick folds with aching precision.

“Jesus, baby…” he breathed against your breast, voice rough with need and something deeper—a kind of awe. “You’re soaked.”

Two fingers parted you gently, stroking through the heat, slow and exploratory, like he wanted to reacquaint himself with every inch of you. His thumb teased lazy circles over your clit, light and maddening, while his fingers dipped lower, collecting your wetness. Every stroke sent sparks rippling through your core, making your thighs tremble and your hands grip tighter around his shoulders, his hair, anything you could reach. Your hips lifted off the bed in small, greedy motions, chasing friction, aching for release.

But Bucky didn’t speed up.

He watched you with storm-dark eyes, lips slick and parted, like the sight of your body trembling under his touch was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this moment—and would wait a thousand more just to feel you again.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and ragged with need. “You’re dripping… all for me?”

You whimpered, your breath shallow and uneven, too breathless to form words. Your legs instinctively spread wider, opening yourself to his touch, craving more of that perfect, relentless pressure that only he knew how to give. His fingers moved with deliberate, teasing strokes—each glide and curl sending shivers spiraling through your core, unraveling your thoughts and making your eyes flutter closed as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

Your body writhed beneath him, hips rolling subtly in time with his touch, your senses drowning in the heady mix of heat and longing.

But then…

The moans that had spilled so freely started to soften, growing more ragged and distant, like a fading song. Your fingers loosened their grip on the muscles of his shoulders, no longer clutching, just resting. Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your breath hitched—not from ecstasy, but from the insistent pull of exhaustion wrapping around you like a weighted blanket.

Bucky’s fingers stilled. He lifted his head just enough to look down at you, his gaze darkening with a mixture of concern and something softer, more vulnerable.

Your eyes fluttered open, searching—but already growing heavy again. Lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed with warmth, but your body was giving in, surrendering not to the fiery release he was coaxing, but to the crushing weight of weariness.

“Hey…” he whispered, voice thick with both amusement and tenderness. “Hey, doll…”

You murmured something incoherent—a lazy protest caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh—but you didn’t resist. You couldn’t.

“Shit,” Bucky exhaled, pressing a lingering kiss just below your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re really running on empty, huh?”

He didn’t pull away or stop touching you immediately. Instead, his fingers slowed to gentle strokes, softening their pressure like a lullaby played just for you. His metal hand caressed your inner thigh in light, teasing brushes, while the other cradled your breast with the same care and reverence as a sacred treasure—as if making up for every missed moment, every night apart.

Slowly, your breathing deepened, evened out. The tension that had clenched your muscles melted away. Your eyelids fell shut fully, your lips relaxed into a soft pout.

You were asleep.

Right there beneath him. Skin still flushed and glistening with sweat, your hair splayed messily on the pillow, lips still swollen from his kisses, your heart fluttering in a quiet rhythm against his chest.

Bucky’s own chest tightened with an ache—a mix of protectiveness, longing, and pure love.

He pressed one last tender kiss over your heart, then shifted carefully to lie beside you. Pulling the covers up over your cooling skin, his metal arm curved protectively around your waist, the other reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face.

You stirred slightly, nestling instinctively into the warmth of his embrace.

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” he whispered against your temple, voice thick with emotion. “We’ll finish this… when you’re ready.”

—

Bucky had always been understanding—deeply, achingly patient—when it came to how demanding your job was. As much as he fought wars and hunted ghosts across continents, he’d be the first to admit he could never survive what you did day in and day out. Stuck in a windowless cubicle for hours on end, chipping away at endless spreadsheets under flickering fluorescent lights, eating rushed meals that barely counted as nourishment. That kind of mental strain? That quiet, relentless burnout? It was a different kind of battlefield—and he had mad respect for you because of it.

Still, no amount of respect could stop the way his heart sank when your body gave out during intimacy. The moment you’d fallen asleep beneath him, all heat and softness and unspoken need, Bucky just… paused. His cock was swollen and aching, twitching between his thighs from the intensity of being so close to you, from the scent of your skin and the little moans you let out before exhaustion stole them away. But instead of frustration, he let the moment melt into tenderness. He let himself soften, gently curled around your body, spooning you like you were something sacred. His arm—warm and solid—wrapped protectively around your waist. Even half-hard, even denied, you were always his priority.

Because you being happy, rested, safe… that was what made him happy.

Besides, there would always be next time.

At least, there should have been.

But the universe seemed hellbent on keeping your bodies—and your souls—apart.

The “next time” never came.

Not when Bucky was yanked out of bed by a middle-of-the-night mission alert and flown straight to Tokyo for an intel recovery op. Not when, after three weeks apart and Bucky finally stepping through the door desperate to get his hands on you, your phone rang with an “urgent” call from your manager, begging you to cover a shift for someone who’d decided to disappear into thin air. You worked through the night, again. Alone. Again.

And just when you thought you’d catch a break—a day both of you had planned to be yours, blocked on calendars, circled in red, a goddamn sacred day of nothing but you and him—Bucky got pulled again. Crisis in D.C. this time. Another world-ending mess. Another emergency caused by what he bitterly referred to as the big three—“Gandalf, E.T., and a couple of robots with superiority complexes,” he’d muttered bitterly into your voicemail, his voice already laced with regret.

It was like the universe had a personal vendetta against letting you and Bucky fuck.

As if it couldn’t bear to witness the kind of heat and love the two of you shared—like it was jealous. Like it was afraid.

And Bucky?

He was hanging on by a thread.

His patience—which had once seemed unshakable—was eroding like cliffs in a storm. He was running on fumes. Every time someone so much as said your name, he twitched. He could get hard from a photo of you. From your shampoo left in the shower. From the echo of your voice in a goddamn voice memo. It wasn’t just lust—it was hunger. The kind that felt bone-deep and unquenchable.

He didn’t just want you.

He needed you.

So that night, just a few hours before your shift, when you were dragging your feet around the kitchen, rubbing at your temples with tired eyes and a half-drunk cup of coffee—Bucky stopped you.

“Call in sick,” he said, voice low but steady.

You blinked at him over your mug. “You know I can’t do that,” you replied, already imagining the fallout—your manager interrogating you with that patronizing tone you hated. “He won’t approve it. He won’t even approve a vacation request if I submit it six months early.”

“He always says the same shit, doesn’t he?” Bucky murmured, stepping closer. “‘You’re the pillar. The team can’t run without you.’ Right?”

You nodded, sighing.

Bucky took your hands in his, gently but firmly. His thumbs brushed across your knuckles, the softest of touches, but they sent heat crawling up your arms. His voice dropped lower, tinged with quiet desperation.

“But doll… I’ve been patient. So fucking patient.”

You glanced at him—and there it was. That pout. That gorgeous, sulking pout that made your thighs clench on instinct. The one he rarely showed unless he was feeling particularly denied. You usually had to bribe that pout out of him—with your mouth, your fingers, your whole damn soul.

“Everyone else on your team calls in sick whenever they want. Why the hell can’t you?”

He wasn’t wrong.

You had been pulling double shifts left and right, covering for coworkers who never got questioned or guilt-tripped. And what did you get in return? A pounding headache and an untouched man standing in front of you looking like he might break if he didn’t get to touch you properly.

“Okay, okay,” you finally sighed, your lips twitching into a small smile. “You win, baby.”

The relief that washed over Bucky’s face was instant. His shoulders dropped. A rare grin split his face—wide, boyish, radiant.

You walked off to the living room, phone in hand, and delivered your best fake cough—even added a raspy throat and a groggy “I think I caught something last night.” After a few minutes of coaxing and the longest sigh you’d ever heard from your manager, the leave was reluctantly granted.

You didn’t wait.

You turned off your phone completely and tossed it onto the coffee table.

No interruptions. Not tonight.

Not when you turned around and saw Bucky standing there shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey boxer briefs—the tent in the fabric thick and unmistakable, straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.

“Oh, doll,” he smirked, taking slow, heavy steps toward you. “You don’t even know how fucked you are.”

Your breath caught. Heart skipping. Pulse pulsing low and deep in your belly.

A shiver rolled through you. “Well,” you whispered, licking your lips as your eyes flicked down to his cock, “I do know I’m gonna be fucked. By you.”

And the way Bucky’s jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched like he was seconds from tearing your clothes off, told you—

You weren’t going to work tonight.

You were going to be wrecked.

—

Bucky lunged toward you with a hunger that crackled in the air, every movement of his body sharp with intention. You stumbled back in breathless anticipation until your spine met the wall, a gasp slipping from your lips—only to be swallowed whole by his kiss. His mouth claimed yours with a feverish urgency, plush lips moving over yours like he hadn’t tasted you in years. His flesh hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as if memorizing your shape, while his metal arm slid down your back—each notch of vibranium ridges cool and smooth against your heated skin.

You felt the playful tug at your shoulder as his fingers hooked under the delicate strap of your nightgown, dragging it down slowly, deliberately. The whisper of fabric slipping along your arm sent a fresh wave of goosebumps rising in its wake. You’d gone to sleep without a bra—as usual—so the thin material had already clung to your curves, teasing him with the outline of your breasts. But now, with the straps halfway down your arms and your nipples pebbled tight against the fabric, there was no teasing left. Just need.

Your moans filled the space between you like music, breathy cries of “Bucky—Bucky!” that made his cock twitch in his boxers. His lips left yours and began a trail downward—featherlight kisses pressed to your jaw, then the column of your throat, then your collarbone—until he reached the swell of your breasts. He paused there, kneeling slightly, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin as his eyes darkened with awe.

“So fucking big,” he groaned, voice thick and rough with arousal as he finally tugged the nightgown down over your chest. The cool air kissed your bare skin, nipples straining as they were fully revealed to him. His hands—one warm and rough, the other impossibly smooth and chilled—cupped your breasts with reverence. Even then, his palms could barely contain them. He squeezed gently, watching your body arch under his touch, and then leaned in, burying his face between them with a groan of pure worship.

You whimpered, your fingers threading through his hair as his hot breath ghosted over your skin. The stubble on his jaw scratched deliciously against your softness, the contrast enough to make your knees tremble. He alternated between trailing his tongue across the sensitive skin and planting hot, wet kisses between the curves, each one leaving a spark that ignited down your spine.

And when his mouth latched around one of your nipples, swirling his tongue in slow, agonizing circles before gently grazing it with his teeth—you cried out, hips bucking instinctively. Your cunt pulsed, already slick and throbbing from nothing but his mouth and the weight of his attention. He groaned around your breast, the vibrations shooting straight to your core.

His metal hand slid lower, cool fingers grazing the outer swell of your thigh, before moving inward—inch by torturous inch. The contrast of temperature sent a full-body shiver through you, your thighs parting on instinct to welcome him in. His touch neared the heat of your center, hovering just above your soaked folds. You felt him smirk against your skin as he realized just how wet you were for him.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” Bucky murmured, voice thick and muffled against your skin as his mouth lingered between the swells of your breasts. His tongue dragged lower, slow and deliberate, each kiss following a path down the center of your stomach like a man savoring every inch of his favorite meal. “You’re dripping already?” he growled, his voice rough with arousal and amusement.

You barely had a chance to answer before his metal hand slipped between your thighs, fingers grazing your inner seam. You jolted with a gasp at the contact—cool vibranium sliding against your flushed, overheated skin—and he chuckled softly, wicked and knowing.

“Oh, fuck—yeah, look at that,” he muttered as he teased the damp fabric clinging to your center. He let his fingers run along your soaked slit through the thin nightgown, slow enough to feel everything but not nearly enough to satisfy. “You hear that, baby?” He emphasized the motion with a long drag up your folds, and the wet, obscene sound of it filled the air. Squelch. Loud. Shameless.

You whimpered, your legs twitching as your hips bucked into his hand. He didn’t give you what you wanted—of course he didn’t. Bucky was always like this when he was this needy. Needy for you, but maddeningly patient. Teasing until you cried.

“Dripping all for me, doll?” he purred, dark lashes flicking up to meet your eyes as he pressed the flat of his vibranium fingers against your cunt. “God, you’re soaked. So fucking wet—just from my mouth on your tits? That’s all it takes?”

Your cheeks flamed, and your thighs tried to close around his wrist, but he was too strong, too solid, holding you open like a plaything. His lips pressed kisses across your lower belly now, right above where you throbbed most, but he still didn’t move the damn nightgown. Still didn’t touch you bare.

“You need it that bad, huh?” he smirked, voice low and sinful. His fingers rubbed a slow, taunting circle over your clothed clit. “Need my cock? Or my tongue first? Or you want both—want me to ruin this little pussy so good you forget your name?”

“Bucky,” you moaned, high and breathless, clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you standing. Your body trembled with tension, every nerve ending poised right at the edge.

“Shhh,” he cooed, nuzzling against your mound through the fabric. “You’ll get it, love. I’m gonna make a mess of you. Gonna take my time. Taste you, fuck you, love you so good your coworkers won’t know how to look you in the eye tomorrow.”

You whimpered again, the teasing pressure making your thighs quake.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this. Missed how you melt for me. Missed this needy little cunt.” He finally dragged the nightgown upward, slow and torturous, baring the slick, swollen heat of your pussy to the cool air. His eyes darkened as he stared. “Jesus, sweetheart… you’re glistening. It’s like your pussy’s begging.”

Then, slowly—so goddamn slowly—he leaned forward, breath ghosting across your soaked folds as his tongue barely touched your clit. A flick. A taste.

You nearly collapsed.

“Mm,” he groaned, lips wet and glistening. “Yeah. That’s mine.”

And he devoured you after that.

His mouth latched onto you with slow, maddening precision, tongue working soft circles that made your knees buckle. The wall behind you caught your weight, your fingers tangled in his thick hair as Bucky ate like a man chasing salvation. The wet sounds between your legs were obscene, each lick and suck echoing through the room like music only the two of you could understand.

Your thighs trembled around his head, and he held them open with his metal hand, keeping you wide for him—pinned in place with no escape. The coolness of vibranium against the feverish heat of your skin was dizzying. You could feel the pads of his fingers denting into your thighs, grounding you as your pleasure built fast and overwhelming.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” he mumbled against your soaked folds, the rasp of his voice vibrating against your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through your spine. “So fucking wet.”

He paused, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, tasting you again. His breath hitched like he was addicted.

“All this mess for me?” His mouth curled into a wicked grin, wet lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Fucking missed my cock that bad, didn’t you?”

You whimpered, head falling back against the wall, hips twitching toward his mouth. But he wasn’t in a rush. No—Bucky Barnes had patience when it came to teasing you, even when his own cock was straining against his boxers like it might tear through the fabric.

“Your cunt’s been left alone too long, huh?” Bucky growled, his breath hot as it rolled against your inner thigh. His nose nudged along your skin, slow, deliberate, savoring the way your muscles jumped under the heat of him. “Dripping like a fucking faucet. Look at this mess, baby.”

The teasing edge in his voice was dark, smug—but it was laced with something else too. Frustration. Hunger. Months of pent-up need straining behind every word.

“I’ve been patient,” he rasped, mouth brushing dangerously close to your soaked folds. “Too fucking patient.”

You whimpered, legs trembling around his shoulders. His metal hand splayed wide across your thigh to keep you still, and his eyes flicked up—dark steel-blue, wild with restraint. “You come home, barely standing… and I watch you crawl into bed like you’re gonna disappear,” he muttered. “Sleeping next to me, but out cold before I can even touch you.”

His voice dropped lower. Rougher. “You think I haven’t noticed how you twitch in your sleep? How your thighs rub together like you’re dreaming about me?”

You gasped, head falling back against the wall, body flushed with heat from shame, want, and the sheer intimacy of his words.

“You think I don’t see how soaked the sheets get?” His tongue finally swiped up your folds, slow and fucking thorough. He groaned deep in his chest. “This sweet pussy’s been crying for it, hasn’t it?”

“Y-Yes—God, yes,” you stammered, your hands fisting in his hair, desperate.

“Say it,” he growled, dragging his tongue back down with maddening slowness. “Tell me how long it’s been. How bad you need it.”

“Too long,” you breathed. “Been so empty, Bucky. I—I miss you. Miss this. I can’t—please—”

“That’s it,” he hummed, mouth curling into a wicked smirk as he kissed the inside of your thigh. “You’re fucking starving for it.”

And then he devoured you.

Tongue hot and relentless, lips sealing around your clit like he’d been dreaming of this. The way he licked—deep, then light, alternating between flicks and long sucks—felt like a rhythm your body remembered better than your own name. Your thighs squeezed around his head and he let them, groaning against your cunt like he wanted to drown in it.

The cold of his vibranium hand contrasted so cruelly with the fire of his mouth, gripping your hip firm while his other hand slid up to press low over your belly—anchoring you, reminding you he owned every inch of your pleasure.

You were spiraling fast, hips twitching, mouth slack as the moans tumbled out.

And then—

He stopped.

“Fuck!” you sobbed, your head hitting the wall as your legs trembled. Your cunt pulsed, empty, begging. “Please—Bucky. Don’t stop—please—”

He rose slowly, lips wet with you, eyes burning.

“Not yet, doll,” he said low, breathless with control. “You’ve been working yourself half to death, haven’t had a second to feel good… I’m not letting you come easy.”

And before you could catch your breath, he grabbed your thighs, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you to the bed.

You were panting in his arms, shaking, soaked and swollen with denied pleasure.

He laid you down carefully, reverently, but the heat in his gaze never cooled. He hovered over you, eyes dark with all the times he’d had to turn away, all the moments he’d been tempted to wake you but didn’t.

“You think this is torture now, sweetheart?” he whispered, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “You haven’t seen what I’ll do to make up for lost time.”

—

Your hands gripped his broad, powerful shoulders, steady and commanding as you flipped him over, sending him to lie beneath you on the bed. Bucky’s blue eyes widened with surprise, but the spark of pleasure lighting in them made you grin.

“Oh, Bucky, honey,” you whispered low and slow, your lips brushing against his ear, the soft bite on his earlobe sending a shiver through him. “You underestimated my thirst.”

Your hand moved deliberately, curling over the heavy bulge straining against his boxer briefs. You squeezed—once, twice—with expert precision, alternating between a feather-light touch and a crushing grip. The subtle hiss that escaped his throat was music to your ears. You were pulling him closer to the edge, but never letting him fall over. Not yet.

His hips twitched, desperate for friction, wanting to grind against you, to bury himself inside your wet heat. But you held him back, your fingers moving slowly, torturously slow along his cock. The gentle pressure of your hand, the soft glide of your palm, the maddening friction of fabric rubbing against skin—it was teasing him mercilessly. The slow rhythm was nothing like the frantic hunger you both felt inside, but the sight of you hovering over him—breathless, flushed, breasts heaving—was everything.

“Fuck, doll,” Bucky whimpered, hips lifting, begging for contact. You tightened your grip in response, slowing your strokes even more, like you were painting every inch of his cock with your touch. The frustration was thick in the room, almost tangible.

“Want me?” you purred, sliding your hips down just enough that the wet heat of your cunt nearly grazed his aching length. The slick, needy wetness left a slick trail on his boxers. His breath hitched, low and ragged.

“Yes, doll,” he groaned, eyes dark and shimmering with raw lust. “Fucking want it.”

You pulled away every time he tried to bridge the gap, leaving him wanting, craving. His blue eyes traced your curves, glowing with desire and something deeper—need, frustration, love. You saw how his hands squeezed your breasts possessively, the way he wanted to claim every inch of you. But you weren’t done playing.

Your lips left a path of fire as you trailed kisses from his cheeks down his jawline, imprinting faint hickeys that bloomed like whispered promises. You flicked your tongue along his stubbled skin, delighting in his low growls of pleasure. His chest rose and fell under your touch—broad, sculpted, a perfect canvas for your nails that left delicate, demanding scratches. Marks that said you were his. Forever.

Your hand slipped to the waistband of his boxers, fingers curling as you slowly slid the fabric down just enough to free the thick, swollen length inside. The sudden rush of cold air made him shudder, his cock twitching with desperate anticipation.

You kissed a slow, teasing path down his toned stomach, deliberately avoiding his erection, dragging the tension tighter. You breathed warm air across his inner thighs, the heat contrasting deliciously with the cool skin, making him shiver. His cock twitched again at the sensation.

Then, with deliberate slowness, you flicked your tongue up along the smooth curve of his heavy balls, tasting the salty sweetness, the faint musk that was uniquely his. His hips jerked involuntarily, a groan vibrating deep in his chest as you circled the swollen head of his cock with your tongue.

“Goddamn, baby,” Bucky gasped, fingers tangling in your hair as he tried to pull you closer.

You smiled against him, voice sultry, teasing. “Gotta be patient, Daddy,” you murmured, your tongue flicking over the sensitive tip again. “Want my mouth? My pussy?” You paused, the edge of a playful smirk curling your lips. “Gotta use your words, Daddy.”

His gaze locked on yours—dark, desperate, burning with need. The tension between you was thick, a slow-burning fire. Every nerve ending was alive, every breath a ragged whisper of want. And yet, with that maddening patience, you held him back—teasing, tempting, making him beg.

His hands tightened in your hair, pulling you closer as his hips shifted, aching for more. You felt the full weight of his need beneath you—the heat radiating off his skin, the pulse of his cock so close to your lips. The taste of him already lingered sweet and sharp on your tongue, a promise of what was to come.

You lowered your mouth, trailing slow, lingering kisses down the length of his shaft, your breath hot and heavy as your lips brushed against the sensitive skin. The rough texture of his stubble grazed your cheek as you nestled your face deeper, your tongue flicking lightly over the swollen tip. A low groan escaped from deep in his chest, vibrating through you like a current of fire.

Your hands slid to his hips, fingers tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath warm skin, steadying yourself as you took him further. The thickness of him filled your mouth, the slick wetness a delicious contrast against the roughness of his skin and the softness of your lips. You swirled your tongue around him, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch.

Bucky’s breath hitched, ragged and uneven, his fingers tangling in your hair with urgent, desperate need. You could feel the tension building in his body, every muscle coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. But you stayed steady, controlling the pace, pushing him closer to the edge and then pulling back just enough to keep him teetering on the brink—denying him that sweet release.

Your eyes met his, dark with hunger and worship, and you smiled softly around him. The wet sounds of your mouth—slick, sucking, humming with pleasure—filled the room, mingling with his low, guttural groans.

“You taste so good, baby,” you whispered against him, your tongue flicking over the sensitive underside of his cock. “So fucking perfect.”

His hips jerked involuntarily, pressing harder into your mouth as if to drown out the torture of restraint. You tightened your lips just enough to drive him wild, letting the friction build slowly, deliciously. The taste of him—salted and sweet—flooded your senses, igniting a fierce, aching hunger deep inside you.

Your hands roamed his body, tracing the hard planes of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. The rise and fall of his breath was a rhythm you could lose yourself in, the raw need in his eyes a tether pulling you closer, deeper.

But just as he teetered on the edge—the sharp inhale, the tightening muscles—you pulled back, lips glistening, eyes full of promise and power.

“Not yet, Bucky,” you whispered, voice thick with control and desire. “Not until I say.”

He groaned, a mix of frustration and desperate need, but obediently let himself be denied, burning with want for what was still to come.

You stood, sliding your hands along his trembling body, the delicious tension crackling between you like a live wire.

The night was far from over.

Bucky’s eyes followed your every move—hooded, reverent, dark with unspent need. He looked wrecked already, sweat-slicked and breathless, his cock flushed and leaking against his abdomen, twitching with each pulse of frustration you left him in. The sight alone made your thighs clench.

You climbed over him again, slow and deliberate, every shift of your body a promise. His breath hitched when your bare thighs straddled his hips and your cunt brushed against the underside of his cock, spreading your slick across his skin like a seal of possession.

“Fuck,” he hissed, every muscle in his stomach tightening under you. His hands flew to your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. “Don’t play with me, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Oh, no,” you breathed against his lips, grinding your hips just enough to feel his cock slide through your wetness again. “I’m just bringing you back to life.”

Your mouths met in a kiss that was more heat than oxygen—deep, consuming, desperate. You moaned into his mouth as his tongue found yours, tasting the wreckage of your teasing, the hunger barely reined in. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp, while your hips rolled forward in slow, heavy circles. You rocked against him, his cock trapped between your folds, drenched in your slick and dragging right against your clit with every grind.

Bucky groaned, the sound broken and hoarse. “Jesus fucking Christ, sweetheart—”

“I missed you,” you whispered into the kiss. “So much.”

He groaned again, forehead falling against yours, jaw tight as he fought for control. But he didn’t stop you. He let you ride the length of him like that, grinding your wet heat against his cock, using him. His metal hand cupped the back of your head, the other splayed across your lower back, pressing you closer like he needed you fused to him.

Then he pulled back, just slightly, enough to look down and watch the way your slick coated his cock. “Look at this mess,” he rasped. “You’re so fucking wet—so fucking hungry for me.”

“And you?” you asked breathlessly, slowing your grind until his cock twitched in frustration. “Still holding on?”

Bucky smirked through the flush in his cheeks. “Barely.”

You reached between you both, your hand curling around his length. He shuddered under your touch. “Then let me help.”

His hands dropped to your thighs as you lifted your hips and scooted back slightly, resting between his legs. You began stroking him with slow, deliberate movements, your thumb swiping over the slick head, gathering the precum to lube your strokes. His groan shook the mattress.

But you didn’t stop there.

You slid your free hand between your own thighs, fingertips finding your aching clit. You moaned softly as your hips rocked into your hand, matching the rhythm of your strokes on him.

Bucky watched, completely transfixed, jaw slack, eyes wide with raw, primal awe.

“Jesus,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re touching yourself… while you’re touching me…”

You leaned forward, brushing your nose along his jaw, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Wanna come like this?” you purred. “Watching each other fall apart?”

“Fuck—fuck yes.”

Your hand tightened around him slightly as you picked up the pace, and Bucky’s hips stuttered up into your palm. His hand joined yours on your clit, guiding your fingers, pressing you harder where he knew you liked it best.

“Right there, baby,” he breathed. “You feel that? Let me see you come. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart.”

The fire built fast—too fast. The teasing, the denial, the weeks of longing—it all surged together like a tidal wave. Your breath came in shallow pants as your body curled forward, thighs shaking, your hand faltering on his cock as your climax started to take over.

But Bucky—

Bucky stopped you.

His hands gripped your waist and held you steady as he slid out from under you in a flash of strength and sheer willpower. You gasped, dazed and twitching, your orgasm teetering right at the edge, ripped away with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

“No,” he rasped, kissing the inside of your thigh. “You don’t get to come yet.”

“Bucky—!”

“I told you,” he said, voice low, hot with warning. “You’ve waited months. You can wait a little longer.”

Then he kissed you, deep and possessive, as if he could pour every aching second of his need straight into your mouth.

And when he finally laid you back against the sheets again, your body still trembling with unsatisfied need, you knew—he was going to make you earn every last second of release.

—

You didn’t realize you were trembling until Bucky cupped your face again, grounding you with the rough warmth of his palm—one flesh, one metal, both equally tender.

“You okay?” he whispered, even now—especially now—checking in. His voice was hoarse, almost ragged with restraint, but his eyes… his eyes were steady. Blue like deep ocean storms, filled with everything he hadn’t yet said and everything you already knew.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, breath catching, your forehead resting against his. “More than okay. I just…”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a soft kiss to the edge of your lips like sealing a promise. His other hand curled beneath your thigh, lifting it gently, reverently, and then the other followed until both legs rested over his strong shoulders.

The shift was slow, intimate. His broad frame hovered above you, bracing his weight on his forearms as he stared down like he was seeing you for the first time. Like you were something sacred.

“Been thinking about this for months,” Bucky breathed, his nose brushing along your cheek, lips at your jaw. “Not just the sex, doll. You. The way you sound when I’m inside you. The way you feel. The way your body fucking welcomes me home.”

Your breath hitched—sharp, broken—because God, it felt like that. Like being filled by him was the only way to feel whole again.

Your body was already trembling, aching open for him, so soaked and sensitive that just the heavy weight of his cock dragging along your folds had you gasping. He groaned low, eyes fluttering shut as he felt the wet glide, his tip nudging against your clit just enough to make your hips jerk.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth. “Still so fucking wet, baby. Look at this—this mess for me. You were fucking made for me, weren’t you?”

Your thighs tensed over his shoulders, muscles flexing as your whole body answered for you. “I missed you,” you choked out, voice shaking, hands clinging to his arms like lifelines. “I missed you so much, Bucky. It hurt.”

His hand slid between you, steady and sure, guiding himself to your entrance with aching precision. And then—slowly, achingly—he began to push in.

You both gasped.

The stretch was everything. Too much. Just right. Every thick inch of him split you open like the first time, your body arching off the mattress, legs quivering, head tilting back as a raw moan escaped your lips.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he growled, the sound pure gravel in his throat. “You feel like fucking heaven. Warm. Tight. Mine.”

He didn’t rush. He moved like he was learning you again—every ridge, every pulse, every wet clench of your walls trying to keep him in. It was more than pleasure. It was possession. Worship.

When he finally bottomed out, hips flush against yours, you both stilled—just breathing each other in, hearts pounding in sync, the air thick with everything that had built up between you.

He lowered his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut, and whispered, “I thought about this every day. Every goddamn day I wasn’t home. You weren't home.”

“I felt it,” you murmured, tears slipping sideways from the corners of your eyes as your hands tangled in his hair. “I felt you missing me. I felt it in my bones.”

He kissed you again—deeper now, wetter, full of tongue and breath and everything he couldn’t say. And then he rolled his hips.

Slow.

Deep.

A grind more than a thrust, his cock dragging along every soaked inch of you, hitting a spot inside that made your breath hitch and your back arch helplessly.

You gasped his name—Bucky—like a prayer, like a plea. He swallowed it with a groan and moved again, the next thrust just as slow, just as deliberate.

Your legs trembled over his shoulders. Your cunt pulsed around him, soaked and desperate, like your body was trying to memorize this stretch, this pressure, this perfect fit. He kissed the inside of your calf, still holding your thighs wide.

No late calls, no missions, no fucking excuses,” he whispered, his lips brushing your calf. “Just you and me tonight, doll. Been waiting too long for this.”

You cupped his jaw with both hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, grounding yourself in the look on his face—raw, reverent, vulnerable.

“I love you,” you breathed, eyes locking with his.

He froze for half a second—just a blink—but the emotion that slammed into his expression made your chest ache.

His mouth found yours again, and the kiss that followed was slow, messy, consuming.

“I love you too,” he whispered against your lips. “So fuckin’ much. You feel that?” He rolled his hips again, deeper, harder, and the pleasure cracked like lightning through your spine. “That’s how much.”

Now he began to move with more purpose. Still not fast—but steady. Deep. Thorough. Like he wasn’t just fucking you. He was pouring himself into you, filling every void he’d left behind, every ache, every inch of loneliness you’d both felt while apart.

You moaned with every drag of him, your body fluttering around his length, more wet sounds echoing from the rhythm of your hips meeting his. Your walls clung to him, sucked him in, like you were afraid he’d vanish again.

He pressed harder. “I’m here, baby,” he groaned. “Right here. I’m not leaving. You’ve got me.”

And for the first time in months, your body truly believed it.

—

He began to move again—still slow, still deep—but with more purpose now. More reverence. His strokes hit just right, the drag and pressure delicious, every thrust pressing pleasure and comfort into your deepest ache.

You weren’t just being fucked.

You were being loved.

And every sound he pulled from you—the gasps, the sobbed whimpers of his name—only fed the fire building behind his eyes. His hands never stopped roaming—one anchoring beneath your thigh, the other stroking up your waist, brushing under your breast before fanning out over your ribs like he needed to feel your heart pounding.

“God, baby…” he whispered like it hurt, the words catching in his throat as he bottomed out again, lingering in the heat of you. “You’re everything. Fuck, I didn’t know how much I needed this. Needed you.”

His voice cracked and your eyes flew open to find him already staring at you—blue irises shining, brows drawn tight, like he was afraid he’d fall apart if you looked away.

“You got me through it,” he murmured, his hips still rolling slow and deep, drawing every inch from your trembling body. “All the long nights, the silence, the damn empty bed. You were the only thing I held onto.”

You cupped his face with both hands, barely able to breathe past the emotion sitting heavy in your chest. “I never stopped waiting,” you whispered, your voice breaking with it. “Didn’t matter how tired I was—how much I missed you—I just kept telling myself we’d find our way back.”

Bucky groaned, forehead dropping to yours as he thrust deeper, as if to make that promise physical. “We’re here,” he said, lips brushing yours, voice wrecked. “I’m here, doll. I’ve got you now.”

Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him into a kiss so deep it felt like you were breathing him in. His rhythm stuttered—just for a second—like the emotion finally overwhelmed him too. You felt his body shake, his chest trembling against yours with the weight of it all.

“I can feel you,” you choked out, tears slipping free. “Everywhere. Inside me… all around me. It’s too much.”

“It’s not enough,” he countered, burying himself to the hilt with a desperate groan. “I want all of it. All of you. You understand me, sweetheart? I need you like I need air.”

Your walls fluttered around him, so sensitive, so close. The pressure had been building all night, every kiss, every tease, every whispered need between bodies that had gone too long without each other. And now it swelled between you like a tide, rising with every thrust.

Your moans turned to cries, breath hitching as your nails clawed at his back, as your thighs flexed around his shoulders. Your whole body was pulling him deeper, tighter—yours in every way.

Bucky was unraveling. You could see it in his clenched jaw, the sweat glistening on his neck, the way his hands trembled as they held you steady. But still, he held on. For you. With you.

Your climax crept up like a firestorm, slow then all at once. Your whole body went taut beneath him, your cries raw and desperate. “Bucky—I’m—!”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he panted, locking his gaze with yours. “Let go for me.”

And you did. Your body shattered around him, muscles tightening, cunt fluttering in tight, greedy pulses as you came with a sob of his name. Bucky groaned deep in his chest, his own hips stuttering as he followed—spilling inside you with a shudder, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard, breathing ragged against your mouth.

But it didn’t stop there.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t leave you empty.

He just held you.

Still inside. Still hard.

Still wanting more.

Your body trembled, oversensitive and spent, but when he pulled back to look at you—sweat-slicked hair clinging to his brow, chest heaving, eyes still dark and wild—you knew it wasn’t over. Not yet.

“Again,” he growled, and before you could catch your breath, he flipped you gently, dragging your hips up until your back arched and your ass pressed into his thighs. You moaned when you felt his cock still thick, still hard, nudging your entrance again—still leaking inside you, but ready.

“Bucky—fuck, I can’t—” you whimpered, breathless, but your body was already grinding back against him, eager, slick, greedy for more.

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, his hand sliding beneath your belly, pressing you back onto him as he slid in again. “You’re taking me so good, baby. Can feel you clenching around me—fuck, you’re still so wet.”

This time, the pace changed—deeper, harder, more desperate. You rocked together, bodies soaked with sweat, your whimpers turning into cries. Bucky grabbed your hair, kissed your spine, and whispered broken praises into your skin.

And when he angled just right—grinding into that spot that made your vision white out—you screamed. Your second climax ripped through you like a tidal wave, and this time, you squirted. Your body convulsed, gushing around him, soaking both of you in a hot, messy flood of release.

Bucky groaned like a man possessed. “Jesus, doll—fucking squirting for me—look at you—fuck!”

He pulled out only to flip you onto your back again, panting like a beast. His cock was glistening, flushed and twitching, and he grabbed it with one hand, stroking it slow and steady as he hovered over you, looking drunk on the sight of you—shaking, spent, soaked, eyes glassy with pleasure.

“One more,” he rasped. “Just one more, baby. I wanna see you fall apart again.”

You nodded, lips trembling, unable to form words. And Bucky pushed into you again, groaning as he filled you once more.

The third round was slower—no less intense, but reverent. Like a final hymn. Your body responded instantly, gripping him like a vice, cunt fluttering uncontrollably from the overstimulation.

Tears slid from your eyes, overwhelmed, trembling, unraveling with each deep thrust. Bucky kissed them away, whispering again, his voice raw, cracking.

“I missed you so fucking much, doll. Been dreaming of this… You feel like fucking home.”

When you came that third time, your body jerked violently, cunt pulsing and squirting again with a broken cry. You clenched so tight around him that Bucky came right after—moaning your name like a prayer, emptying inside you with a ragged breath and a soft curse.

Then, finally… stillness.

His body collapsed against yours, not crushing—just full of heat and strength and satisfaction. You both breathed like you’d just come back from war.

He didn’t pull out. Not yet.

You laid like that for a while—intertwined, sweaty, wrecked and safe.

Eventually, Bucky shifted, gently withdrawing with a soft kiss to your temple. You whimpered at the emptiness.

“I know, baby,” he murmured. “I know.”

He stood briefly, grabbing a warm towel, and cleaned you up with gentle, reverent touches. Every kiss was soft now. Every word’s a balm.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, settling beside you again, pulling you into his arms.

You nodded, eyes heavy, still trembling.

“Yeah. Just… full. In every way.”

Bucky smiled against your hair, holding you tighter.

“Good,” Bucky murmured, voice warm and rough against your temple. “’Cause I’m not letting you go again. Not after that.”

You gave a soft little laugh, lazy and warm, curling into his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, strong and grounding, each beat a lullaby in your ear.

“I wouldn’t let you,” you whispered, voice thick with sleep, fingers brushing faintly along the curve of his ribs. “Not even if I tried.”

The room was quiet, save for the slowing pace of your joined breaths and the distant hum of city noise through the cracked window. But within these four walls, it was just the two of you. No night shifts. No missions. No missed moments.

Just him. Just you. Finally.

Bucky exhaled slowly, still brushing his fingers gently through your hair, and shifted just enough to draw the blankets over both of you. His other arm remained snug around your waist, metal fingertips trailing light circles against your spine—soothing, grounding, loving.

“You were amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the crown of your head, the edge of your forehead, the corner of your temple. “Fucking blew my mind. But more than that… I missed you. So damn much.”

Your lips curled in a smile against his chest, but you didn’t answer. Your breathing had slowed, long and even now, body soft and pliant in his arms. You’d slipped under, wrapped in the warmth of his voice and the safety of his embrace.

Bucky smiled against your hair, holding you even closer.

He knew how hard you’d been working. How you’d dragged yourself through those long night shifts, stretched your days past the point of exhaustion, trying to be everything to everyone. He knew how many intimate moments you’d both had to forfeit in the name of duty and responsibility.

But tonight? Tonight, he got you back.

He’d felt every tear, every tremble, every shiver of release as something sacred. He’d read the fatigue in your eyes, and the love burning through it. He knew it wasn’t just your body that needed him—it was your soul. And you had his, utterly.

“You’re calling out tomorrow,” he mumbled sleepily against your hair, tightening his arms around you as if that would seal the decision. “Tell them you’ve been taken hostage by your overprotective boyfriend.”

You made a tiny, sleepy noise against his chest, halfway between a laugh and a hum, already halfway into dreams. Your leg hooked over his hip, one hand pressed to his sternum as if to keep him there, even in sleep.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Bucky added, lips brushing your temple. “Then we’re staying in bed. All day. You need rest. And I need… you.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

He felt the way your body melted into his—safe, sated, loved. Your breathing deepened again, warm and soft against his skin.

Bucky stayed awake a while longer, just watching you sleep.

And as your chest rose and fell against him, as your fingers twitched with dreams and your face relaxed into the most peaceful expression he’d seen in weeks, he whispered, more to himself than anything:

“Not letting a single day go by like that again, doll. Not when I get to love you like this.”

Then, finally, he let his eyes close too—his arms never leaving you.

Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in love.

And this time, nothing was missing.

[carolinaclouds]

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

🖤smut |🤍fluff |💫over 1k notes |✨️over 2k notes |🌙over 3k notes |🌟over 4k notes

works listed newest to oldest in each category

one-shots

forever is a feeling 🖤🤍 - white wolf!bucky x reader. coming soon

cherry blossoms 🤍 - bucky gets flowers for the first time. coming soon

my love, mine all mine 🖤🤍✨️ - it's your first mother's day, and bucky wants to make sure you know how loved you are.

let it happen 🤍💫 - undercover marriage trope

all's well that ends well to end up with you 🖤🤍💫 - bucky isn't going to let an extended mission, a severe thunderstorm, and a delayed flight ruin your first valentine's day together.

starry eyed 🤍🌟 - reader gets a special gift from her secret santa.

sweetener 🤍💫 - you're initially bummed when you're vacation gets postponed, but getting sent on a mission with bucky quickly cheers you up.

devil's in the backseat 🖤🤍✨️ - a night at coney island with friends on halloween turns out much differently than expected.

higher than heaven 🤍💫 - bucky's first time smoking since the 40s.

delirium 🖤🌟 - stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness after being exposed to an unknown substance, you're reluctant to accept help from the only person who has a shot at saving you.

love language 🖤🤍🌙 - snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

it's nice to have a friend 🖤🤍💫 - you're having the worst period you've had in a long time. bucky is determined to help you feel better.

moth to a flame 🖤🌙 - "I know you. even when I know nothing else, even when I don't know myself, I know you."

down bad 🖤🌙 - couldn't stop thinking about bucky's hand being used as a vibrator and then this was born

acquainted 🖤💫- undercover stripper reader x bodyguard bucky

oil & water 🖤✨️ - "if you wanted to take your pants off for me so badly, you could have just said so."

drabbles

lacy 🤍✨️- bucky doesn't remember undergarments having so much fucking lace in the 40s. but he thinks he can get used to it.

cesium 🖤💫 - the softest metal

[carolinaclouds]

moth to a flame

bucky barnes x reader / winter soldier x reader

"I know you. even when I know nothing else, even when I don't know myself, I know you."

word count: 4.9k

summary: bucky is triggered into the winter soldier during a mission and then goes MIA, until he seeks you out in the middle of the night.

warnings/tags: SMUT, canon divergence (bucky hasn't been successfully deprogrammed in this), kind of dub-con, language, some violence, reader is afab, no use of y/n, friends with benefits situation, angst with a happy ending, 18+ only

“You've reached Bucky. I can't answer the phone right now but leave me a mess–”

You hang up before the voicemail recording finishes. You already knew he wasn't going to answer, just as he hasn't answered any of the other thirty-something times you've dialed his number over the course of the last few days. Or read any of the two dozen text messages.

The messages had stopped delivering and the calls had started going straight to voicemail almost two days ago at this point. And yet you still got your hopes up every time you checked your phone, only to be met with gut-wrenching, nauseating disappointment.

It had now been three days of this - not to mention picking your cuticles until they bleed, flipping back and forth between every news station on your TV in hopes (and fear) of seeing his name, a few collective hours of sleep each night, and too much Red Bull.

Just when you were thinking about trying to kick your caffeine addiction, too.

Three days of feeling completely and utterly helpless.

You place the phone back down on your coffee table, staring down at the thick, white cast encasing your left leg from your foot to just under your knee.

Useless.

You knew you were doing what you physically could - the spread of laptops and tablets on the table in front of you continuously supplying data from facial recognition programs across the United States.

Realistically, you knew he could be on the other side of the world by now, but that didn't stop you from checking. It was the only thing that you felt you had any control over right now.

But it wasn't enough. Not when Steve, Sam, Natasha, Sharon, and every other currently able-bodied team member are out scouring every safehouse and known former HYDRA base in the tri-state area while you're holed up in your apartment with a fractured fibula and a brain that won't let you stop reliving the moments before he went missing.

“This is as straightforward as it gets,” Steve re-assures you both for what felt like the dozenth time that day. “You'll be in and out in no time.”

“So straight-forward that you're going to hang back here while we do all the dirty work?” You joke as you make the final adjustments to your parachute.

“We've been monitoring this base for months,” he reminds you. “This place is as abandoned as they come. Get in, get the intel from the database, and get back to the jet.”

“And then blow the place to smithereens,” Bucky adds with a devious grin.

“And then blow the place to smithereens,” Steve agrees.

If only things had been as simple as he had expected.

You had a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach from the moment that you and Bucky landed on the ground outside of the HYDRA base. You told yourself that you were being irrational - but you couldn't shake the looming feeling that something was going to go wrong.

“See?” Bucky says after removing the USB drive from the computer. He sticks the device in the breast pocket of his tactical vest before edging you towards the desk. “Easy-peasy. You've been worried for nothing.”

“I have not been worried,” you deny, leaning against the edge of the desk. “This place is just old, and smelly, and creepy.”

Bucky takes a step closer to you so that there's no space left between you. He places his hands on the desk on either side of you, enclosing you.

“You think that I can't tell when you're nervous?” He says quietly, studying your face. You can smell a lingering hint of cool mint from his mouthwash. “That I haven't spent enough time learning your body to read you like an open book?”

Your thighs clench together and your nipples pebble at his words. You're almost embarrassed at how easily his voice, his scent, his closeness elicits a physical response from your body. Almost.

“What I think,” you murmur against his mouth. His hands come to grip your hips as he nudges your thighs open, standing between your legs. “Is you're crazy if you're thinking about trying to fuck me in an abandoned HYDRA warehouse.”

He exhales a dramatic sigh. “You can't blame me for trying.”

“I am relieved to know that you'd even want to do that here,” you say, hopping down from where you're perched on the desk. “I really think that shows you've processed your trauma–”

You're cut off by the room going completely dark. Every light, every computer, turns to black.

Bucky's flesh hand instinctively reaches to grab your wrist in the dark, tugging you to him.

“What the fuck,” he groans under his breath.

“We need to get out of–” you start to state the obvious but close your mouth when the computer that you and Bucky had retrieved the data from turns back on.

And then a computer to the right - and then across the room - and another to the right - and one to left - until every computer is on and showing the exact same screen. Bucky's hand grips yours so tightly that it borders on being painful.

Displayed on dozens of screens throughout the room is the face of a man. A man who you've never met, but recognize immediately.

“Zola,” Bucky whispers almost inaudibly.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Zola addresses him with a perverted smile. “Welcome home,” his voice pours from every computer speaker throughout the room and echoes off the walls.

“Steve?” You whisper urgently, clicking on the communication device hidden in your ear. “Steve, we've got a prob–”

“There's no use in that,” Zola interrupts you. “It's too late. They're almost here.”

The following sixty seconds were a jumbled blur that you were still trying to piece together in your mind.

You remember hearing the stream of words spoken in Russian.

Longing. Rusted. Seventeen.

You remember Bucky screaming at you to run, the sound of Steve's voice in your ear telling you that back-up was on the way and asking a dozen questions that you were too overwhelmed to respond to.

Daybreak. Furnace. Nine.

You remember begging Steve to hurry. You remember pleading with Bucky to come with you to try to get away; pleading with him to just look at you, just stay with you, help is coming -

Benign. Homecoming. One.

You remember the moment that Bucky went completely still as the room was infiltrated by HYDRA agents.

Freight car.

You knew that Bucky wasn't there anymore. You could sense it in his stance, in the way he wouldn't meet your eyes, in his silence.

Before you could say anything else to him, close to a dozen HYDRA agents came barreling towards you both. He charged through them, taking down one after the next with ease, until there were just a few left standing.

It was a side of Bucky you'd never seen. You thought that you had witnessed his strength, his agility, his determination, his ruthlessness working beside him in this field - but you then saw just how much he had been holding back.

He fled past the remaining few, out the door and down the hallway of the warehouse. The agents turned to follow him, forgetting about you - until you threw a knife directly into one's neck from behind.

Another agent shot at you, the blow hitting your bulletproof vest and sending you flying backwards onto hard cement.

Before you could catch your breath, there was a sharp cracking noise and a blinding pain radiating from your lower leg - but it was short lived.

The last thing you recall is the man's boot swinging towards your face.

You woke up some number of hours later, in a hospital bed with your temple throbbing and leg elevated in a cast.

“Hey,” a soft voice calls from your right. Natasha stands up from the singular chair in the room, both concern and relief evident across her features. “You're okay,” she begins to assure you. “You have a concussion and a fractured–”

“Where's Bucky?” You interrupt her, your voice scratchy. You clear your throat. “Is he okay? Did Steve find him? Did HYDRA get–”

“HYDRA didn't get him. Steve took care of the last of the agents after him,” she stops you from rambling. There's an immediate sense of relief wash over you.

“But we haven't found him yet,” she adds carefully. “Everyone is out searching for him now. You know we won't stop until–”

A gentle knock on your apartment door snaps you back to reality.

You freeze, your heart jumping to your throat. You stand as quickly as you can manage, grabbing your crutches propped up next to you on the couch.

“It's just me,” a feminine voice calls from the other side of the door. Your heart goes from your throat to your stomach. Not him.

“I'm sorry, I should have text you first,” Natasha continues. “But I brought you food. Street tacos from–”

You turn the deadbolt and unhook the chain lock before swinging the door open.

“You look–”

“Like hammered shit?” You finish for her, nodding your head towards the inside of the apartment as indication for her to come in.

“I was going to say exhausted,” she says, walking past you with a large paper sack of take-out food. Your stomach growls at the aroma - when was the last time you ate something more than a bowl of cereal or granola bar?

“Your favorite,” she tells you, placing the bag on the kitchen counter. “Extra salsa verde and lime wedges. Have you gotten any sleep recently?” Her eyes skim across the empty energy drink cans littered around the kitchen.

You maneuver yourself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen's small island, leaning your crutches on the edge of the counter.

“Yes,” you mumble. “For forty-five minutes from 2:30 to 3:15 today.”

She lets out a long groan, rolling her eyes at you.

“You're supposed to be healing from a concussion,” she reminds you, taking a seat for herself. “Which generally doesn't include sleep deprivation and excessive use of computer screens.” She stares in the direction of the array of laptops that overcrowd the limited space of your coffee table.

“Did you find anything in Connecticut? What about Sam, is he back from New Jersey?” You ask, ignoring her concerns as you unbox your food.

“Connecticut was a dead-end,” she sighs. “We're still waiting to hear back from Sam. There's a safehouse up in Vermont that Steve wants to head to tomorrow–”

“You don't think there's a chance of him letting me tag along for that, do you?” You tap the edge of your cast against the base of the island with your foot.

Her eyes soften as she looks at you. You already knew the answer.

“I know this is really hard for you,” she says delicately. “I may not know exactly what has been going on between you and Barnes these last few months, but it's obvious you care a lot for him. We all do. We are going to find him and bring him home,” she assures you.

You nod at her in agreement, not quite trusting your voice enough to speak.

Your eyes sting as you attempt to blink away the tears that threaten to spill over. You had yet to allow yourself to spend any time crying these last few days and you didn't wish to start now.

Her words remind you that no one knows exactly why you are taking Bucky's disappearance so harshly. You assume that your friends have their suspicions about your and Bucky's arrangement but the two of you had agreed to keep it between yourselves.

They didn't know it had started off being a weekly occurrence - late Sunday evenings, your apartment. Or how it had quickly escalated from once a week to twice, and then from two times a week to three - and instead of just your apartment, it would happen anywhere the two of you had a private (and sometimes public) moment - up against the wall of the communal showers at the compound's gym, in the back of the Quinjet after missions while everyone else would be sleeping on the flight back home, even during team meetings with his hand creeping between your thighs while you try to stay quiet enough to not draw any attention to yourselves.

They didn't know you were supposed to be friends with benefits but that at some point during the days and nights spent underneath one another, the line between friends and something more became blurry for you.

You had just been too chickenshit to tell him.

Natasha sits across from you as you inhale the Mexican food that she brought you. She doesn't say anything else, just keeps you company in a comfortable silence as you eat your first legitimate meal in days.

“Thank you,” you tell her as you're finishing your food. “I appreciate you. I've been going a little crazy here by myself,” you add meekly.

“Of course.” She stands back up. “I would stay longer, but I've got to prepare for Vermont. We're leaving early in the morning.”

“Be safe. All of you,” you remind her. “Let me know if you guys find anything. Just tell me if there's anything at all I can do. And please let me know when you hear from Sam–”

“You'll be the first to know when there's anything to know,” she assures you gently.

“Thanks, Nat.”

“You just try to get some rest, okay?” She requests as she walks toward the door. “Maybe drink some water, possibly consider taking a nice, long shower…”

“Goodbye, Natasha.”

She's chuckling as she closes the door behind her.

You lower your nose to your armpit as soon as the door clicks shut, inhaling.

Maybe she makes a valid point about showering.

Half an hour later, there's a heavy rain beating against the windows of your apartment when you finish bathing. You secure a towel around your chest before yanking off the garbage bag that you had wrapped around your cast well enough for you to rinse off.

Belly full and body clean, you felt somewhat better; at least physically.

You listen to the rain pound down as you sit on the edge of the bathtub, massaging lotion into your skin, and wonder where Bucky is right now - if he's safe, if it's raining wherever he's at, if he's somewhere dry -

You come to a sudden halt in the middle of brushing your teeth. It's hard to tell over the deafening roar of the rain and your bathroom fan, but you could have sworn you heard the creaking of a door or window from your living room.

I double checked the door locks after Nat left, you rationalize to yourself. This apartment is on the fourth floor, no one is going to climb the fire escapes to–

There's an unmistakable shadow visible through the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. It's gone as quickly as it appears.

Shit. You start to panic as you realize you left your cell phone in the kitchen. As quietly as you can, you look around the small room for something to defend yourself with. A hair dryer, dental floss, a few week’s worth of dirty laundry..

You hear the creaking of floorboards as footsteps seem to creep closer and closer to the bathroom door.

Crutches. You have two crutches. You can clobber them with your crutches.

“I can hear you,” you call to whoever is just beyond the door. “I know you’re out there.”

Silence. No hint of any further movement.

You place one crutch under your left armpit for support, keeping the other one ready to wield as a weapon. “You have ten seconds to get out of my apartment,” you say a bit louder, willing your voice not to waver. “I have a weapon.”

Yeah, a weapon. If you can call it that.

Ten seconds come and go, followed by another ten seconds.

You weren’t going to let someone play this game with you in your own home.

Taking one last deep breath and tightening your grip on the defense crutch, you sling the bathroom door open quickly.

“Oh my god,” you exclaim, immediately relaxing your weight against the crutches, releasing the death grip that you had on your uninjured side.

It’s dark in your bedroom save for a few pale orange string lights hung around your bed frame and the light that spills in from the bathroom, but you would recognize his broad frame anywhere.

“Thank fuck you’re okay,” you exhale, swinging yourself over to where he stands at the foot of your bed. When you’re a little over a foot away from him, you realize he’s sopping wet - his hair dripping water droplets and his skin dewy. His clothing, the same clothing that you last saw him in three days ago, clings to his body like a second skin.

He remains still as a statue, and as silent as one.

“Are you okay?” You ask him apprehensively. You give him a once over, from head to toe. You don't see any noticeable injuries, but he is trembling.

“Bucky?” You ask in a small voice.

His lips are set in a hard line. He doesn't answer, just stares at you. Stares at you like he’s trying to figure out why he’s here.

Stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he knows you or not.

The immense relief that you had felt at knowing he's alive is washed away by a sinking feeling.

His eyes trail from your face and slowly down your towel-clad body. He pauses when he gets to your foot, glancing back and forth from your cast to the crutches on either side. His brows furrow together - almost like he's in pain.

“I'm okay,” you assure him in a shaky voice. “It's just a fracture,” you explain. “I'll be healed in no time.”

You notice that his features relax a bit at your words - just enough to give you hope that Bucky, your Bucky, is in there and he's listening to you.

Do whatever you have to do to keep him here. Don't let him out of your sight. Help him remember who he is, your inner monologue screams at you. Just don't let him run away again.

“Are you cold?” You ask him. You're not necessarily expecting him to answer, you're just trying to put him at ease. “How about we get you some dry clothes?” You add, nodding towards his drenched henley.

You retreat into the bathroom, grabbing a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that he'd left over the last time he had stayed the night - the night before he went missing. They were at the top of the laundry basket - maybe not the cleanest, but better that the wet, dirty clothing he's in currently.

You limp your way back over to where he stands at your bed, leaning against the mattress for support. You set your crutches down and hand him the shirt and pants, which he hesitantly accepts. He makes no move to remove the wet clothes from his body, instead gently places the dry clothes onto the mattress beside him.

“Would you like some help?” you offer cautiously, terrified of doing anything that could cause him to run. You slowly reach towards the clothing that he had just placed on the bed, but he stops you before you can pick the t-shirt back up - grasping your wrist in his vibranium hand.

You can’t stop the small gasp that escapes past your lips. His hold on you is firm, but not painful. You could rip your hand from him if you wanted to - but you don’t.

Instead, you let him hold your hand as he begins to rub his metal thumb in a circular motion next to yours. You’re frozen; watching him carefully as he examines the movements his metal digit makes on your skin.

The goosebumps that appear in the wake of his touch don’t go unnoticed by him. His eyes trail from where his hand holds yours and up the expanse of your arm, until they land on your exposed neck. The towel covering your midsection has started to come loose, hanging low enough to reveal the top of your breasts.

He drops your hand, taking a step closer to you. You have to remind yourself to breathe - your Bucky is in there. Your Bucky, who is gentle, and soft, and would never do anything to cause you harm.

You have to trust that.

He brings his vibranium fingers up to the edge of the towel, trailing them across the mounds of your breasts. Your nipples harden right away, visible through the thin material of the towel.

You would let this play out however he wants it to. However he needs it to.

When his index finger stops where the towel is tucked into itself at your side, you forget how to breathe. He pauses for a split-second before unhooking the cloth and letting it fall to your feet.

He drinks in the sight of you bare before him, his jaw clenched and pupils dilated.

Dozens of times he has seen you like this, and never have you felt so completely vulnerable under his gaze.

And still there's a slickness gathering at the apex of your thighs.

He brings his flesh hand to your waist, putting the faintest bit of pressure against your skin. You close your eyes at the sensation - he's barely fucking touching you and you could melt into him.

Your name falls off of his lips - it's barely even a whisper, nearly inaudible but unmistakable. Your name. He remembers your name.

“Bucky,” your voice cracks when you whisper his own name back to him. His eyes snap up to yours, a mix of realization and hesitation brewing in them.

You bring both of your hands to the tail of his wet shirt, giving him time to pull away before you start to tug the shirt upwards. He doesn't stop you - in fact, he raises his own arms to help you tug the soaked fabric off of him. You toss the shirt in the general direction of your bathroom.

You didn't think there would ever come a time that the sight of him getting naked for you wouldn't make you want to drool.

You unsnap the button of his tactical pants, keeping your eyes on his face the whole time, hyper-analyzing his expression for any sign of reluctance.

You dip your fingers past the waistband of his boxers, his eyes fluttering closed as your hand travels lower.

He's already fully hard as you hold him, stroking him as best you can from inside the confines of his underwear and pants. You pump him in your hand and his head rolls back so that he's looking up at your ceiling.

Fuck, it takes all the restraint you possess to resist leaning forward and sucking on his neck.

Another time, you tell yourself, anxious about overwhelming him.

He curses under his breath - something in Russian that you don't recognize but the expression on his face indicates it to be a praise. There's a shift in his initially reserved, unsure demeanor when you begin to pump him faster.

His head snaps back down, his eyes raking up and down your body once more before he brings his hands to your lower back, maneuvering you against the bed.

You scoot until your back comes in contact with the cool satin of your pillows, relaxing into the bedding. At last Bucky begins to shed the layers of wet clothing covering his lower half, not taking his eyes off of your body as he removes his boots, followed by his pants and boxers.

He kneels on the mattress, crawling above where you lay. You want nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and pull his mouth to yours, but you are going to let him call the shots.

He nudges your thighs apart with his knee, nestling himself between your legs. He grasps your breast in his vibranium hand, giving it a firm squeeze before rolling your nipple between his icy fingers.

He lowers himself so that he's belly down on your mattress, his face inches away from your pussy. He removes his hand from your breast and you let out a small whimper of disappointment at the abrupt lack of sensation. He uses that same hand to hike your uninjured leg over his shoulder, securing his head between the soft interior of your thighs.

He kisses you, starting at your belly button and working his way to your center. His lips feel like fire against your skin. You keep your hips planted firmly on the bed, fighting the urge to thrust your pussy up to his face.

“Please,” you whine. “Bucky, please.” You swear you can see the faintest trace of a smirk that looks so undeniably Bucky.

You clench your thighs around his face and he lets out a low, guttural groan as his mouth makes contact with you.

Normally, Bucky closes his eyes while he's going down on you - gets completely lost in it. Right now, his eyes are wide open - making sure he doesn't miss the way your mouth gapes when he rolls his tongue around your clit and the way your chest heaves when he nudges his tongue inside you.

You don't know which you find hotter.

You can already feel the tightening of a coil in your lower belly, making it impossible to resist rolling your hips to meet the torturous pace he's set with his tongue. You grind against his face, the thin layer of stubble that's grown across his jaw since you last saw him scratching against the sensitive flesh around your cunt.

You're approaching your climax when he pulls away, making you mewl at the loss of contact. His face glistens with your slick.

He flips you onto your side, placing you on your left side so that your injured leg rests against the mattress. You prop your head up with your hand as he slides in behind you.

His chest presses against your back, the heat of his body warming you all over. His flesh hand juts between your thighs, raising your right leg high enough for him to slap his cock against your pussy.

He strokes himself in his hand while he teases your folds - lubricating himself with your juices.

You turn your head to look at him right as he sheaths himself inside you, filling you entirely in one swift motion.

Fuck, you have to taste yourself on him. You can't handle not having his mouth on yours for another second.

You tilt your head back enough to connect your mouth to his - every worry you once had about coming on too strong and overwhelming him melts away as he opens his mouth for you, moving his lips against yours in an effortless rhythm.

He starts slow, quickly working up to a rapid pace as he repeatedly slams into your cervix from the sweetest angle. The sounds that you're making for him are pornographic - moaning into his mouth as his flesh hand comes around your front, landing on your engorged clitoris. He rubs languid circles while he continues to pound into you from behind.

You pull your lips away from his when you feel your orgasm building. “You always make me feel so good, you know that?” You ask him breathily, your mouth now right next to his ear.

“Every time you fuck me, I'm more sure that no one could ever compare to you. You've ruined me for everyone else. There’s only you for me.”

“Fuck,” he curses and groans your name again - it's the closest he's sounded to his normal self, which only spurs you on.

“I’ve become so fucking addicted to you in such a short amount of time,” you say in between moans as the head of his cock hits your sweet spot just right. “Think about you anytime you're not near me, drives me fucking crazy.”

He flips you - doesn't pull out - so that you're now underneath him. He goes right back to the same brutal pace, bringing his flesh hand to cradle your face as he stares down at you.

Clarity - you recognize it plain as day on his features.

He gives you a few more fast, hard thrusts before you're milking his cock through your orgasm. You crash your lips to his and he's coming - filling you up with his warm seed as he kisses you senseless.

He gradually stills inside you, his body going limp on top of yours as he rests his face in the crook of your neck. You wrap your arms around him, peppering kisses across his scarred shoulder, where flesh meets metal.

“I'm so sorry if I scared you,” he murmurs against the sweat-slicked skin of your throat after a moment. “I wasn't myself. Not even entirely sure how I ended up here - it's like I was pulled in this direction - to you,” he sighs.

You're overcome with such an immense relief at hearing him speak that you could cry. You tighten your hold around him, rubbing your hands up and down his back.

“You could never scare me, Bucky,” you assure him. He pulls out of you, rolling off of you onto the bed beside you and tugging you to his chest. Your cheek rests just over his heart.

"I know you. Even when I know nothing else, even when I don't know myself, I know you."

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist

thanks for reading! as always comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated!

[carolinaclouds]

He Still Smelled Like Home

Pairing: exhusband!Avengers!Bucky x civilian!afab!reader

Summary: A missed anniversary. A quiet goodbye. And then a metal arm shielding you from death. You were always his. Even when you weren’t.

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), heavy angst, emotional abandonment references, hinted depression, marriage separation, unresolved tension, emotional breakdown, longing, heartbreak, near-death-experience (implied), emotionally intense smut, marking/claiming kink, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, timeline is loosely based on somewhere in between TFATWS and Thunderbolts*

Word count: 4,110 *finalized. No one's reading 29k words

You stared at the emptiness of your home.

The house that was supposed to echo with laughter, with midnight kisses in the hallway, with the low, raspy way Bucky used to call you baby when he walked in after a long day.

Instead, it echoed with silence.

Furniture untouched. Coffee gone cold on the counter. Your shared blanket on the couch still crumpled the way you left it, not him. It had been days. Maybe weeks. Time had begun to blur together in his absence.

This house — your home — used to carry his presence like a scent. Leather and spice, coffee and cedarwood. His cologne used to linger in the doorways. His boots used to thud softly on hardwood, his hums used to carry from the shower. But lately, the only things left were your own tired footsteps and the buzz of the refrigerator.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, stared at the closet that still held his clothes. Neatly arranged, untouched. They used to smell like him, like nights curled into his chest, like mornings when he wouldn’t let you leave without kissing your shoulder first.

Now they just smelled like dust.

Bucky had been swallowed whole by his work.

Some days, he was a reluctant public figure — shaking hands, attending briefings, forced into suits and speeches about reform and redemption. Most days, he was a weapon again. Deployed into fights with little notice, returning with bloodied knuckles and bruises beneath his eyes. When you touched him, he’d flinch just slightly — not from fear, but like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You understood. God, you tried.

You knew who he was. You loved who he was.

You promised yourself — again and again — that you could handle it.

The nights alone. The uncertainty. The ache of missing him.

Because you loved him too deeply to walk away.

Because you thought being Mrs. Barnes meant being strong enough for both of you.

But love had started to feel like an echo — something you screamed into the void and never got back.

What you felt now was loneliness.

A hollow ache, wide as winter, clawing at your insides every time another message came from Val instead of him. Another mission. Another country. Another time zone you didn’t belong to.

He’d always kiss you goodbye. Sometimes on the forehead. Sometimes just your hand. And sometimes… not at all. Just a silent glance before the door shut behind him, as if his guilt outweighed his ability to say goodbye.

And when he did come back, it was like he left part of himself behind.

His blue eyes — once bright, full of mischief and love and that impossible, boyish affection only you got to see — now looked dimmer. They didn’t rest on you with the same softness. They scanned you, checked you, but didn’t linger. As if he didn’t trust himself to look too long, in case it broke him.

When he held you at night, he trembled in his sleep.

When you kissed him in the morning, he didn’t kiss back right away.

He whispered I love you like it was a habit, not a promise.

So you reached for the wedding photo album. The one you kept high on the shelf, tucked behind cookbooks and board games you never played anymore.

You slid down to the floor with it. Cross-legged, as if you were still that giddy woman in love, waiting for him to walk in and steal a kiss.

The photos were intimate. Small wedding, barely two dozen people. Just the closest ones — Sam, Joaquin, and your parents’ photo in your bouquet. The two of you had danced barefoot in the grass beneath string lights, his vest long discarded, your shoes kicked off somewhere near the firepit.

In the pictures, you looked radiant.

So did he.

That little smile — crooked, cocky, only for you. His nose slightly sunburned, his metal hand resting over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You chuckled, but it came out hollow. A dry sound that hurt more than it comforted.

Your fingers traced the edges of one photo — the one where he kissed your temple, and you closed your eyes with a smile so wide your cheeks dimpled.

And suddenly, you remembered how you met.

───

Flashback:

The entire building blacked out, trapping you in a dim elevator lit only by the red emergency light. This happened often enough that you knew the bell button was useless; you’d have to wait for maintenance.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you’d just finished a late-night grocery run. You were stuck with a stranger — a man tall and broad, standing opposite you. His faded henley clung to his muscles even in the eerie red glow. His hair was short and neat, his stubble freshly trimmed. His sharp gaze pierced you but felt strangely warm.

“Want some grapes?” you offered, holding out a bag. He looked confused.

“I swear they taste like cotton candy,” you added, nudging the bag closer. Slowly, his guarded stare softened and he reached out with his gloved metal fingers.

“Oh,” he rumbled, voice low and rough. “They do taste like cotton candy.”

His guard dropped completely then. You talked about everything — your dog Percy who had just crossed the rainbow bridge, your chaotic job, your ex who’d burned through your savings on booze. You didn’t hold back; you were a talker, a sharer. And he listened, amused and content. For once, he wasn’t a hero or a soldier. Just Bucky.

Two hours later, when the elevator finally hummed to life, you walked toward your doors together. Nervous, you asked, “What should I call you?”

“Bucky,” he sneered softly. “I’m Bucky.”

───

You practically moved into his life. Your clothes filled his wardrobe. Your toothbrush hung beside his. You wore his oversized shirts, loved the way they draped over your curves. You cooked for him, greeted him after missions. You met Sam Wilson, who teased Bucky for smiling so much on FaceTime with you. Sam thanked you for lighting Bucky up again.

Your sex life with Bucky was electric — both with high drives, perfectly matched. When he asked you to marry him, you screamed “Yes” with joy.

───

You glanced at your phone. 3:50 a.m.

Ten minutes to four.

The dinner you made lay cold on the table. Roasted turkey with plum glaze. Mashed potatoes. His favorite black cherry pie.

You’d even worn the silk robe he once said drove him insane — the burgundy one that hugged your curves like a second skin. You had curled your hair, lit the candles, set the table for two.

It was your seventh wedding anniversary.

He had promised. Swore on your vows, on his mother’s grave. “No missions, no excuses, I’ll be home.”

But he wasn’t.

Not at 4 a.m.

Not at 7.

Not at noon.

It wasn’t until eighteen hours later that the front door finally creaked open. You were curled on the couch, still in the same robe, your makeup smudged and mascara dried into the pillow. The candles had melted down to nubs. The food had crusted over with cold.

You heard the boots first — heavy, limping, dragging.

And then you saw him.

James Buchanan Barnes, your husband. Bloodied. Bruised. One eye already purpling, a cut on his lip, blood trickling down from his temple. His vibranium arm was scorched in places. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and then some.

But he still smiled — weakly, brokenly, with his entire heart bleeding behind it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like the words couldn’t land. You sat upright and moved toward him on instinct — your heart betraying your numbness. He was hurt. And that muscle memory in your bones still knew how to care for him.

You didn’t speak as you led him to the kitchen. Just fetched the medical kit. The antiseptic. The gauze.

He sat on the stool, watching you with tired eyes, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something worse than shrapnel.

You cleaned his wounds in silence.

Your hands moved gently, methodically. But your eyes stayed distant. Detached. As if you were treating a stranger. As if you’d already started grieving the version of him that used to come home smiling, on time, with flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

When your fingers brushed his jaw to dab ointment onto the cut beneath his cheekbone, he leaned into your touch — starved for it. Your hand hesitated, barely a second, before you pulled it away.

“Love…” he whispered.

But you shook your head. Stepped back. Your robe had come undone slightly, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You just looked at him — really looked — and realized you were tired. So deeply tired.

He tried. God, he tried.

He came back the next day with a cake you didn’t touch. Flowers that wilted in the kitchen sink. A note scribbled on hotel stationery that said I’m sorry a dozen times.

But you were already drifting. Already far from him. Not out of hatred — no, it was worse than that. It was hollowness. That gray space where love used to live, now dusted in disappointment and absence.

That night, he crawled into bed beside you.

He didn’t take your nightgown off. Didn’t try to seduce or ignite anything. He just pulled you close from behind — spooned you like he used to when nightmares came — and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your nape, your arm.

They weren’t seductive. They were desperate.

Whispers without words. Promises buried in breath.

His arms locked around you like he was trying to fuse you back to him — as if, if he held you hard enough, long enough, you might forget all the times he didn’t come back at all.

His lips paused at the inside of your elbow. Pressed one final kiss there.

Then, without a sound, he exhaled — and let sleep take him.

You stayed awake.

Wrapped in his arms.

Drowning in silence.

───

Morning came with the scent of mushroom soup and toasted garlic baguette. You stirred awake to the distant clatter of dishes, the quiet hum of the stove, and the absence of his warmth beside you.

You’d fallen asleep curled in his arms — your face tucked beneath his jaw, legs tangled under the sheets. But now, the space was cold.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in soft joggers and a black t-shirt, hair damp. He was plating the soup with clinical precision, like it gave him something to focus on. Something other than the ache written plainly in his eyes when he saw you.

“Morning, doll,” he said softly, like the word itself might crack under the weight between you.

You nodded. Sat down at the small table.

And then the silence began.

You both moved through breakfast like strangers — chewing in syncopated rhythm, passing the butter with hesitant fingers, eyes never quite meeting. He stirred his soup without tasting it. You sipped your coffee like it was the only thing anchoring you.

The air was thick with unsaid things. Words sat like iron behind your ribs — but neither of you moved to break the dam.

Until the very end.

You were wiping your mouth, standing to rinse your plate, when Bucky finally found his voice.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked on the pet name. He paused — swallowing hard, like he needed to force the rest out. “I think… we need some time. Some space. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

You froze with the plate in your hand.

He reached across the table for your fingers — hesitant, trembling — but you pulled away before he could touch you.

A hollow laugh escaped you, bitter and breathless.

“If you say so, Bucky,” you said, voice flat and cold. “Maybe I wasn’t really made for you.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the pain flickering behind those steel-blue eyes — the kind that didn’t bleed, just quietly bruised.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t follow.

You packed your things with mechanical efficiency — toothbrush, spare clothes, the book you left on his nightstand. You left his hoodie folded on the bed and the ring in the drawer, tucked between receipts and mission notes. You took most of your pieces with you, but something in you stayed behind — still curled in that bed, still holding onto the man you loved.

And when you shut the door behind you, he stayed on the other side.

Silent.

Shattered.

Still too much Bucky to stop you, and not enough to ask you to stay.

───

Eight months later —

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a whisper through mutual friends. Not even from Sam.

You tried to move on.

You went out with friends. Swiped left and right. Let a stranger kiss you once at a bar — his lips were too wet and his hands too eager. You let another walk you home and never answered when he called again.

But none of them touched you like he did.

None of them held you like you were fragile and fire at once.

No one smelled like warm amber, cedar, and that faint, addictive trace of danger.

Your bed was too big. Too cold.

You cried yourself to sleep more nights than you could count, face buried in a pillow that still carried a ghost of his scent. Even the apartment felt wrong — full of your things but missing your home.

So you walked.

Miles and miles through the city, trying to chase your own shadow.

That morning was no different. Clouds hung low. Wind sharp.

You had your hands in your coat pockets, earbuds in, but no music playing. You just needed to be anywhere but inside your head.

Until—

The chaos hit.

Sirens.

Screams.

The city cracked open with noise — the grinding roar of steel collapsing, the screech of tires, the whoosh of fire somewhere not far from you. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone had dunked your head under water.

Your legs froze.

People screamed around you, bolting in every direction. Something exploded behind you. And before you could even process the danger—

You looked up.

A van — crushed and burning — was flipping in your direction.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You just stood there.

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you welcomed it.

The pain. The impact. The silence that would follow.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe it would finally stop hurting.

But instead—

The world cracked open with a clang so loud it split the sky.

Metal slammed against metal, the sound so sharp it vibrated down your spine.

You opened your eyes.

And there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your ex-husband.

Your ghost.

Your gravity.

Your everything that once was and never stopped being.

He stood between you and the van, his vibranium arm braced against the smoking wreckage, stopping it mid-roll. His boots skidded across the concrete, muscles taut beneath his tactical gear. The plates of his arm groaned under the weight, but he held steady — held for you.

His chest heaved. Jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, stubble thick along his jaw, blood streaked on his temple, and still — still — the second your eyes met, you forgot how to breathe.

His scent hit you next.

Smoke. Leather. Salt.

And underneath it, that impossible, familiar sweetness — like vanilla left too close to a bonfire.

Then he was on you.

Hands gripping your arms, scanning every inch of your face, your body, like he didn’t trust you were real. Like you’d vanish if he blinked. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was urgent — trembling, firm, searching.

His voice came out strangled. “Don’t you fucking dare die before me.”

Your knees buckled, but he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you against him — like he could absorb you into his skin. Like the world had come undone and only your heartbeat could put it back together.

You clung to him. You didn’t think, didn’t speak — just held.

His vibranium fingers slid into your hair. His human hand pressed to your lower back, clutching like he could keep you from fading. His forehead touched yours, both of you panting, trembling, suspended between collapse and salvation.

He whispered your name like it was a prayer.

Then — just like that — he pulled back. Gave you a look.

“Wait here,” he rasped.

His tone was low but commanding, that voice you used to hear in bed when he’d make you come with nothing but words. And like always, even now, even after everything, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

You nodded. “‘Kay.”

He turned and ran back into the fray.

You barely noticed the minutes passing — only that he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he couldn’t risk not checking. Like he needed to see you to breathe.

The fight ended quickly.

Some coordinated terrorist hit gone wrong. Bucky and the team had moved like a soldier possessed, taking down the last of them with clinical precision. When Valentina clapped him on the back, rattling off some smug line about his team's New Avengers status, he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

Locked.

He broke from the team without a word.

Crossed the rubble. Climbed over twisted steel and ash.

Until his hand reached for yours.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Fingers threaded. Palms locked.

He led you — fast but careful — through the remnants of the battleground. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just kept walking until he found what he needed: a shattered doorway tucked beneath a battered brick building. The inside was dusty, quiet. Safe.

He pressed you inside. His chest nearly heaving.

The second the door creaked shut behind you—

The dam burst.

He lunged.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave.

All teeth and tongue and need.

Your back hit the wall. His hands pinned you there, lips devouring like he was starving. Like every second of those eight months had built to this very moment.

Your hands tore at his jacket. Fisted into his shirt. Your mouth opened for him — let him take what he needed, because it was yours too. The ache, the hunger, the ache, the ache—

He groaned into your kiss. The sound wrecked you.

His vibranium hand slid to your throat — not choking, just holding — like he needed to feel your pulse. Needed to prove you were alive. His other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re fucking real.”

Your tears answered before your voice could.

He leaned his forehead into yours again. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. Every inch of him radiating tension, heartbreak, and sheer unfiltered love.

Then came the words. Quiet. Ragged.

“Come home.”

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just held tighter.

And followed.

───

The apartment door slammed shut behind you both, and the moment it did, something primal broke loose.

Bucky didn’t speak — he lunged. Hands everywhere, mouths crashing, teeth clashing like it hurt to be apart this long. His fingers tugged at your shirt so hard it ripped at the seams. You yanked his jacket down his arms, let it crumple to the floor, then pushed his dark shirt up and over his head — revealing the body that haunted your dreams for months.

“God, baby,” he breathed against your mouth, voice thick and broken. “Eight months. I was going insane.”

“Then show me,” you growled. “Fucking prove it.”

And he did.

───

He pressed you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. The first thrust was sharp and deep — a punch of heat that knocked the air from your lungs. He didn’t start slow. There was no space for slow. Not now.

You gasped as he slammed into you, his metal hand gripping under your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Your back arched against the plaster as he took you hard and fast, his mouth on your neck, biting down like he needed to mark you again. He whispered, “Mine,” over and over, like a vow.

You came quickly, clenching around him as he growled into your skin — hips stuttering, muscles tight as he spilled deep inside you, still panting your name.

But neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to yours.

“I missed you,” you gasped, breath trembling. “So fucking much, Bucky.”

His hand caressed your face. “I never stopped being yours.”

───

Moments later, he was dragging you to the bedroom.

He flipped you onto your stomach, kissing down your spine, tongue tracing the dip of your back. His voice was low, dangerous. “Gonna remind you how you sound when you scream for me.”

You felt the cool slide of his metal hand between your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was inside you again — slower this time, but deeper. He drove into you with devastating control, groaning every time you clenched around him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “No one else gets you like this. No one else can.”

You could only moan his name, clutching the sheets as he wrecked you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward, breath caught on every hard snap of his hips.

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train — you shattered beneath him with a broken sob, and he followed, grunting your name as he came again, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

───

You barely had time to recover before he turned you onto your back and kissed you breathless.

“Still not done,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse. “I haven’t had you in eight goddamn months, sweetheart. I’m taking my time now.”

He used his shirt to tie your wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate. His vibranium hand gripped your thigh and spread you wide, while the flesh one traced the curve of your belly and up to your chest. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “All mine.”

This time he entered you with a slow, torturous roll of his hips. He built you up until you were sobbing for him, body arching under his rhythm. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, whispering things he never got to say:

“I dreamt of you every night…”

“Couldn’t even sleep on my side of the bed…”

He kissed away your tears as he brought you over the edge, holding you through the tremble. He didn’t stop until he was coming again, voice raw and quiet. “No one touches you like I do. No one ever will.”

───

You made it to the bathroom — barely — stripping along the way. Bucky turned on the water, but before you could even step in, he spun you around and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t fury. It was need.

You were both soaked by the spray when he lifted your leg, pressing your back to the cold tile, and slid into you once more. Slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours. You held his face, ran your fingers through his soaked hair, watched his expression as he moved inside you like he never wanted to leave your body again.

It was messy and quiet. Wet skin slapping. Fingers clutching. Moans swallowed into kisses.

When he came this time, it wasn’t explosive — it was devastatingly intimate. He buried his face in your neck and whimpered your name, his whole body shaking.

You both stood under the water for minutes, breathing each other in.

───

He finally scooped you into his arms and gently lowered you into the already-drawn bathtub — the lavender oil you’d left behind still sitting by the edge.

You curled into his lap, the warm water surrounding you both like a cocoon. His arms wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. He massaged your thighs under the water, fingers tracing every mark he’d left.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered softly. “I didn’t mean to be that rough…”

“I needed it,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “Needed you.”

You leaned back into his chest, both of you quiet for a while, the sound of the water lapping gently around you.

“You're not leaving again,” he finally said. “Whatever it takes. You’re it for me.”

You nodded slowly, hand finding his under the surface.

“I know,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together this time.”

And he kissed your temple, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

The kind that said: Home. Ours. Always.

[carolinaclouds]

Save the Best for Last

//Pairing// Evan “Buck” Buckley x Fem!Reader

//Summary// After so many terrible dates, you always seem to find yourself coming back to Buck’s loft.

//Word Count// 5.58k

//Request// smut prompts #2 & #4

//Warnings// smutty smut smut :)), Evan Buckley being a certified munch, lazy handjobs, p in v sex, and possessive talk

//Dividers// sister-lucifer

"Oh, goddamn it."

Here you are, standing outside Buck's loft door at 10:00 at night with a six-pack of beer in hand as you contemplate your life choices.

Your latest date had been a complete and total disaster.

The man was loud, obnoxious, and a bit too handsy for your taste. So, you left the date early feeling frustrated and angry. All you want to do is relax and complain to your best friend.

Reaching into your pocket, you pull out your key to Buck's place. Letting yourself in, you sigh quietly as you slip your jacket off. The loft is empty and quiet.

"Buck?" You call out, setting the beer in the fridge.

Maybe he’s in the shower? Or asleep? You don’t get a response, so you head into the living room, flopping down onto Buck’s new couch with a huff.

You lean your head back against the couch, your eyes fluttering shut as you sigh heavily. As you sit there mentally cursing out your dumb date, the sound of footsteps causes you to open your exhausted (e/c) eyes, looking over at the source of the noise; it’s Buck, walking out of his steaming bathroom.

Completely naked.

You immediately turned red, quickly looking away and sitting up. "Jesus Christ," you blurt out, feeling your heart pound in your chest. "Buck, for god's sake, a towel please." You keep your eyes trained on the wall in front of you, refusing to look at your equally embarrassed friend.

"Oh—oh god, I didn’t know you came in!” Buck mumbles, grabbing a discarded towel from the bathroom floor and wrapping it around his waist.

Well, now you understand how he got the nickname Firehose.

"How long have you been here?"

"Not long." You mutter, still refusing to look at him. The image of his bare chest is burned into your brain. What you wouldn’t give to rake your fingers over his toned muscles—

Nope. Stop. No, nope. Bad thoughts.

“I’m just uh, gonna go grab some clothes.” Buck practically scurries away, disappearing up the stairs to his bedroom. You exhale, letting out a deep breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

Finally looking away from the wall, you bury your face in your hands.

This is bad. You and Buck are just friends. Nothing more, nothing less. You need to get these feelings under control, but it’s so, so hard.

Buck emerges a moment later, thankfully with underwear and sweatpants on, although his chest is still bare. You try not to stare at his toned upper body as he shuffles back over to the couch, plopping himself down next to you; leaving little to no space. You desperately try not to think about it.

"S-so, how was your date?" He asks, his voice is casual but a tinge of tension in his words.

You try not to grimace as you remember the disaster that had been your evening. “Ugh, it was terrible. He was so loud and obnoxious, it was awful.” You sigh heavily, shaking your head. “I don’t know why I keep going on these stupid dates, honestly.”

Buck shifts next to you, his shoulder brushing against your arm, sending a shiver down your spine. He’s so close, that you can practically feel the warmth radiating off of his body. It’s driving you crazy.

You suddenly jerk forward, rubbing your sweaty palms on your dress as you stand, “I uh, I got us beer—to drink. Do you want one?”

Smooth, real smooth (y/n).

Buck nods, his eyes following you as you walk away, his gaze trailing down your body hungrily. He can’t help it, the sight of your curves in that tight (f/c) dress is so damn distracting. He swallows hard, tearing his eyes away from you as you disappear into the kitchen.

You open the fridge door, the cool air hitting your flushed face. You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. You need to stop reacting this way to him, you and Buck are just friends. No matter what your stupid heart may think.

You grab a couple of beers, opening one for Buck and one for yourself. Heading back into the living room, you desperately try to get your thoughts under control.

Buck’s in the same spot as before when you come back, his arm stretched out along the back of the couch. You hand him the beer and sit back down on the couch, putting a little distance between you this time.

As you get comfortable, you take a long swig of your drink. Buck does the same, his eyes flicking over to you as he does.

The tension in the room feels thick as if you could slice through it with a knife. You take another sip of beer, glancing over at Buck. He’s still looking at you, his eyes roaming over your face. It’s making you nervous.

“What?” You ask, lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Hm?" Buck seems to snap out of his thoughts, blinking at you. "Oh, uh, nothing—Just thinking." He replies, looking away quickly and taking another drink of beer.

You along nod awkwardly, taking another sip of your beer as you try to ignore the way Buck’s eyes still glance at you,“Don’t strain yourself too hard.”

Buck snorts, rolling his eyes at your sarcastic comment. The corner of his lips twitch upwards, a small smirk growing on his face. But the smirk fades quickly, a flicker of something you can’t quite place flashing across his eyes.

"You’re just hilarious, y'know that?” He teases, but there’s an undertone to it that you can’t quite put your finger on.

You roll your eyes at him, though your heart skips a beat at his smirk. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you two have gotten again, the heat from his body practically seeping through his clothes onto your own skin.

“Damn right, I am.” You snark back at him, taking another drink of beer as you try to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest.

Buck lets out a soft laugh, his eyes locking on yours again. The smirk on his face fades as he takes a deep breath, seeming to come to some kind of decision. He shifts closer, his body leaning slightly into yours.

"Can I ask you something?"

You involuntarily tense up, your heart slamming in your chest. His sudden shift in demeanor can’t help but make you nervous, you take a deep breath to steady yourself.

“Sure, yeah.” You say, trying to keep your voice even. You turn towards him, meeting his gaze with your own. “What’s up?”

Buck hesitates for a moment, his tongue darting out as he wets his lips. He’s so close to you now, his face only a few inches away from yours. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before, barely above a whisper.

"Why do you keep going on these dates?"

His question catches you off guard, making your stomach twist into knots. You certainly hadn’t been expecting him to ask that. You take a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. You can feel your heart racing, the sound of it drumming in your ears.

"I, uh, I don’t know. Does-Does it really matter?" You reply, trying to keep your voice casual. But you can feel yourself start to fidget with your fingers nervously.

Buck watches you for a moment, his eyes scanning over your face. His hand moves, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. The touch is gentle, his fingers tracing lightly along your cheek.

"Yeah, it matters." He says, his voice soft. "It matters because all these dates are doing is making you miserable. I hate seeing you like this."

Your breath catches in your chest as his fingers lightly trail along your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel your self-control slipping, your heart and mind warring with each other. You want to lean into his touch, but at the same time, you know you need to keep your distance.

"It’s fine, Buck. I promise." You manage to say, but the shakiness in your voice betrays your words.

Buck’s hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing over your skin. His eyes are still fixed on yours, his gaze intense and unwavering.

"No, it's not." He says firmly. "You're not fine. You’re miserable. I mean, you're going on these dates like some kind of punishment, like you think you need to suffer through it for some reason."

He moves even closer to you, so close that you can just barely feel his breath fan against your skin.

His words strike a nerve in you, because you know he’s right. You’ve been using these dates to try and punish yourself, to try and ignore your feelings for Buck. Now he’s calling you out on it, and it’s making it hard for you to think straight.

You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You’re so weak for him, it’s pathetic.

Buck’s hand moves from your cheek to your chin, tilting your head up slightly, making you look at him. Your eyes lock with his, your heart racing at his proximity. His gaze is intense like he’s searching for something in your eyes.

"I don’t understand why you keep doing this to yourself." He murmurs, his thumb brushing over your jawline. "You deserve better than these idiots you keep going on dates with. You deserve someone who actually cares about you."

Your breath catches in your chest as he speaks, your heart clenching at his words. You know he's right, but you can’t bring yourself to admit it. You try to deflect, trying to keep the conversation light.

"Yeah? And who do you have in mind for me then?" You half-joke, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Buck’s thumb stops moving, his gaze steady and unwavering. His other hand moves to your hip, his fingers gripping you gently through the fabric of your dress

"Me." He says, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

Your eyes widen in shock at his words, your mind reeling. You’re speechless, unable to believe what he’s saying. Is he being serious?

You take a shaky breath, trying to form a response but struggle to find the words. Buck’s hand on your hip tightens slightly, pulling you closer to him.

“You…you do?” You ask, your voice a little breathless.

Buck nods, and his grip on your hip tightens even more, pulling you flush against his body. You can feel his heart beating fast, mirroring your own. He’s so close to you that you can see the tiniest flecks of green in his blue eyes; you can’t help but feel compelled to touch his birthmark.

"Yeah.” He says firmly, his voice rough and low. “I do. I want you so bad it’s been driving me insane.”

Your mind is swirling, your body reacting to his every touch and word. You should be pushing him away, shoving him back, and telling him to snap out of it. This is a terrible idea, bound to end in disaster. You could lose your friendship, and your job if things go bad. But you can’t bring yourself to care.

"God Buck, me too.” You murmur, your hand moving to clutch at his waist, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

Buck lets out a low groan at your words. Your confession is like a spark, igniting a fire within him. He leans even closer until there’s barely an inch of space left between your bodies.

"You have no idea how bad I want you.” He says, his voice practically growling. “I want to kiss every inch of you, make you forget your own name.”

“Then do it.” You whisper, your voice is a little shaky but so filled with desire it’s undeniable. You want this, you want him.

You. Need. Buck.

Buck doesn’t hesitate, his lips crashing down against yours in a heated kiss. His hand in your hair tightens, angling your head back to give him better access to your mouth. His other hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you into him.

The kiss is intense, desperate, like he’s trying to devour you whole.

You let out a muffled moan, your hand moving to grasp his neck; clinging to him like a lifeline. Your body feels like it’s been set on fire, every inch of you burning with need and desire for him. You can’t get enough, you don’t think you’ll ever get enough.

You open your mouth to him, letting his tongue slide into your mouth, your own tongue meeting his in a frenzied dance. You can feel yourself falling apart, losing yourself in the intensity of his touch, of his kiss.

Buck’s hands move to your thighs, gripping them tightly as he lifts you up, easily settling you on his lap so youre straddling him. You move your hips, grinding yourself down onto him, his body reacting involuntarily to the pressure. You can feel his hardness press against your core, it sends a throb of need throughout your entire body.

Gasping, Buck breaks the kiss before moving his lips to your neck; his mouth hot and demanding against your skin.

“You…drive me…crazy.” He mutters between kisses, his lips trailing down your neck and across your collarbone. Hishands slide under the lacy hem of your dress, his fingers burning hot against your skin as they trace patterns along your sides. You arch into his touch.

“You’re all I can think about. Every day.” He continues, his voice gravelly with lust. “God, even when we’re at work.”

You let out a gasp as his tongue swirls over your skin, your fingers tangling in his curly, blonde hair. His words make your heart pound even faster.

You press yourself against Buck, your hips rolling involuntarily against his, seeking more of that delicious friction. You can feel him growing harder underneath you, only making you ache for more.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve had to go to the bathroom to get myself under control,” Buck admits, his voice rumbles against your skin. He moves his hands lower, cupping your ass and grinding you down onto him. His mouth moves lower, his teeth grazing over a particularly sensitive spot on your collarbone, his thumb moving over your hip bone, tracing the outline of your underwear.

You let out a soft moan, your head falling back as he works his mouth down your neck and across your chest. His touch is like gasoline on an already out-of-control fire, and you can feel yourself losing more and more control.

“Buck…” You breathe out, his name a plea and a prayer all in one.

Buck moans at the sound, his hands moving to your hips again, holding you still against him. His mouth moves back up to your neck, his teeth and lips roaming over your skin.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted you so long.” He mutters, his voice rough and strained. “You keep coming to me after those stupid dates, all dressed up in these pretty dresses. Do you have any idea what it does to me?”

The mental image of him watching you from across the station, seeing you all dolled up for these dates and not being able to do anything about it, watching as you leave with another man, it makes your stomach clench. You wonder how many times he's sat there, fighting the urge to pull you into his lap, to kiss you senselessly and show everyone that you’re his.

You let out a pathetic whine, the thought making you throb with need.

Buck leans back slightly, his eyes raking over your disheveled form. You’re panting heavily, your (e/c) eyes dark with desire, lips swollen from his kisses. You’re a mess, and it makes him feel a sense of satisfaction that he’s the one who’s made you this way.

“God, look at you.” He murmurs, his hands pushing up your dress, his fingers tracing over your bare thighs. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

You shiver as his hands move higher, brushing over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You can feel your own arousal pooling between your legs, your underwear getting more and more damp at his touch. You want him, you need him so badly that it’s starting to become painful.

“Buck please,” You pant out, your voice pleading. “I need you…I need you so bad.”

Buck’s breath hitches at your words, his grip on your thighs faltering momentarily. He can see the desperation in your eyes, the need written all over your face.

“You’ve got me.” He says, his voice a low rumble. “You’ve always had me…just didn’t know it.”

Your heart clenches at his words, your mind warring with your body. Everything about this is a bad idea, you’re playing with fire here. But at this moment, with his hands on you, his body under yours, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Prove it. Show me I’m yours, Buck.”

Buck’s eyes flash at your challenge, a wolfish smile spreading across his face. He moves without warning, standing up and easily lifting you with him. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist, and your arms cling to his shoulders. Spinning around, he starts the ascent to his loft bedroom.

You cling to him as he moves through the apartment, his hands holding you tightly, supporting your weight without any effort. You bury your face in his neck, leaving teasing kisses along his skin, your tongue and teeth nipping at his pulse point. You can feel every muscle in his body as he moves, your hands roaming across his back and shoulders, your fingernails scraping gently over his skin.

As you reach the top of the stairs, he walks you over to the edge of the bed and sets you down on the soft comforter.

“(y/n)…” He mutters, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every inch of you. Your hair is tangled and messy, your chest heaving as you breathe heavily, your dress pooled up around your thighs, exposing your (s/c) skin. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

You smirk up at him, a feeling of power rushing through you at the way he’s looking at you. You lay back slowly, arching your back and letting the skirt of your dress ride up higher. You run your tongue over your bottom lip, knowing exactly what you’re doing to him.

“Pretty good way to go though, huh?” You tease lightly.

You don’t know how, but Buck’s eyes darken even more, the sight of you on his bed—practically inviting him to take you—pushes him over the edge.

“You’re such a tease.” He mutters, moving closer to you as his hands go to the waistband of his sweats.

You let out a small gasp as he starts to lower his sweatpants, the sight of him in nothing but low-hanging boxer briefs makes your mouth water. You can see the desire and hunger in his eyes, the fact that he wants you so badly sending a thrill of pleasure through you.

“Only for you, Buckley.”

Buck moves onto the bed, caging you in with his body, his hands on either side of your head.

“Better be.” He grins, leaning down to trail kisses along your jaw to your ear. His teeth nip at your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine.

He moves lower, his lips finding your neck again, sucking lightly on the sensitive skin there, leaving a mark you know you’ll struggle to hide the next day.

You can feel your hands starting to shake as the ache between your legs grows and your mind gets fuzzy. You arch up into him, your body seeking more of his touch, more of his attention.

“Buck—need you to touch me.” You pant, your voice needy and desperate

Buck groans at your words, his hands sliding lower down your body, gliding over your stomach and then lower until they’re at the edge of your dress.

“Lift your hips.” He instructs, his voice commanding, leaving no room for argument. You instantly comply, lifting your hips off the bed, allowing him to slide your dress higher up your body.

With a quick tug, Buck pulls the dress up over your body and tosses it to the side. He takes a moment to admire you, trailing his eyes over every inch of you.

You’re laying there in just your (f/c) bra and panties, your legs slightly parted, your chest rising and falling quickly as you breathe through the need coursing through your body.

He leans back down over you, his hands and mouth immediately going to work. His mouth trails wet kisses down your torso and across your stomach, his fingers tracing lightly over your skin. You can’t help but whimper as he moves, your body responding to every touch, every graze of his lips against your skin.

His moves lower, just barely brushing the edge of your panties. You let out a gasp, your hands gripping the sheets tightly as your body arches into his touch.

You feel Buck’s smile against your skin, his hands gripping your hips tightly to keep you still. He loves seeing you like this, lost in pleasure and need, your body responding to his every move. He moves his mouth lower, his tongue tracing over the thin, damp fabric of your panties.

“B-Buck!” Your voice cracks

“You’re so damn sensitive,” Buck mutters, his fingers slowly tugging at the edge of your panties before pulling them down your legs and tossing them off to the side.

You clasp a hand over your mouth as you hold back a whine as you feel his hot breath fan against your soaked center.

Buck gently nips at the inside of your thigh, leaving small marks on your sensitive skin. He moves one of his hands to rest on your knee, keeping you spread open.

“It’s okay, (y/n).” Buck says, his voice full of desire. “Let me hear you, let me hear what I do to you.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is pressed against your soaking folds.

You let out a high-pitched moan, your hands automatically digging into his scalp, your fingers gripping his curly blonde locks. His tongue is skilled, his movements sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

“F-fuckin’ dick!” You manage to gasp out, your words quickly turning into broken moans and gasps as he continues his assault

Buck doesn’t stop, his tongue working you over, his lips and teeth nipping and sucking at you in all the right places. He loves the way you taste, and the sound of your moans. But he’s greedy, and he wants more.

He slides his hand from your knee to your core, one of his calloused fingers gently teasing at your entrance.

Your body is buzzing with pleasure and your mind is fogged with need. The feeling of his finger at your entrance, teasing and tantalizing is almost too much.

“O-Oh god, Buck…please…don’t stop!” You desperately gasp out, feeling the coil inside you building.

Buck groans against you, sending vibrations straight to your core, “You’re so damn wet.”

“All for you—Fuck!”

Buck practically groans with need at your words. He gently pushes one of his fingers into you, the slide easy due to your arousal. You throw your head back from the pleasure.

“You’re like heaven, baby.” Buck mumbles, his voice filled with awe as his finger continues to move, gently stretching you in preparation for more. “Like an angel…My pretty, perfect angel.”

You can’t respond, your words are caught in your throat, replaced by gasps and moans as Buck continues to work you. He adds another finger, scissoring them gently, the sensation making your eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me.” Buck commands, “Open your eyes, (y/n). Let me see you.”

With a great amount of effort, you force your eyes open, to meet his gaze. The sight before you is one that’ll be engraved into your memory forever.

Buck’s hair is a mess from your fingers running through it, his cheeks flushed, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal, eyes dark with lust and possessiveness that makes your skin flush with goosebumps. He looks wild, untamed, and yet he’s completely focused on you, on giving you pleasure.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He whispers, his fingers curving slightly, the way that makes you see stars. “I’m gonna make you cum so hard that you forget your own name, how about that?”

“Yes, please!” You gasp, your words coming out needy and desperate. “Please, Buck, please. I need you-need you so bad.”

Reluctantly, Buck pulls his fingers from you, your walls fluttering around nothing. He doesn’t leave you waiting for long, shifting to kneel on the bed, his hands go to the edge of his underwear.

You watch, breathless and eager, as he slowly pushes down his boxer briefs, freeing his aching cock. The tip is red and dripping; you swear that you feel your mouth water.

“You see what you do to me? See what you caused?” Buck’s voice is rough, his breath coming out in heavy pants.

You run your eyes up and down his body, taking in the sight in front of you, the way his body is practically trembling, desperate for you. You lick your lips, your thoughts swarming with things that would make a sailor blush with shame.

“Please, Buck.”

He looks down at you, his eyes raking over your body, as he takes in the sight. You sound so needy, so desperate. He leans over you, his hands on either side of your head.

“Please, what, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice a low, teasing whisper.

You wrap your legs around his waist, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Fuck. Me.”

Buck lets a curse slip from his lips as he captures yours in a hungry, rough kiss. One hand grasps your hip, while the other hand drifts to your thigh, gripping it firmly as he lines himself up at your entrance. Breaking the kiss, he lets his forehead rest against yours.

His eyes lock with yours, a silent question in his gaze. You nod, your hands running down his arms.

“Do it, Buck.” You say, your voice is desperate and whiny. “Please.”

Buck lets out a low moan at your voice, his body trembling from the effort of holding himself back. He can’t take it anymore, he needs you, needs to feel you around him, needs to taste you.

He slowly pushes into you, going as slowly as he can manage, relishing in the way your walls flutter against his member.

You let out a gasp, your hands tightening around his wrists, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel him fill you, stretch you in the best way possible. There’s a slight burn, but you welcome it as you shakily exhale.

“A-Ah...” Buck moans, his voice strained as his hands grip you tighter, burying himself fully inside you. His head drops to rest in the crease of your neck. “You feel… you feel so good—god, so warm.”

You let out a moan as he bottoms out, your mind lost in the pleasure of him filling you so perfectly. You want to tell him how good it feels, but words are lost amongst the fog in your mind.

Buck presses a kiss to your shoulder, his lips feeling like fire against your skin. His hand leaves your hip and moves to grip yours, his fingers carefully intertwining with yours. Using his other hand he gently cups your face, forcing you to look at him

“Look at me, baby.” He mutters against your skin, “I wanna see your face. I wanna see how good I make you feel. Can you do that for me?”

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. The way he’s looking at you makes your heart swell; his eyes are filled with such adoration, such love.

Buck lets out a pleased noise, “That’s it, so good for me. Look so pretty when you’re like this…all flushed and trembling, just from my touch.”

He gives a shallow, experimental thrust, eliciting a sharp gasp from you as an electric feeling shoots through your body.

He moans against your skin, the sound making the hairs on your neck stand up. He moves again, this time pulling out slightly before slowly pushing back into you. You gasp again, your hands grab at his shoulder; your nails breaking the skin.

He sets up a steady pace, pulling out and then pushing back in with slow, steady movements.

Each moan and gasp, each twitch of your brow or hitch in your breath, he takes it in, and stores it away. He shifts his hips slightly, changing the angle, and a guttural, desperate moan tumbles from your lips.

Buck lets out a taunting chuckle, “Did I find a sensitive spot, baby?” He asks, his voice teasing and gruff against your ear.

You can’t find it in you to respond, completely blissed out from the pleasure Buck is giving you. Your words catch in your throat, replaced by a series of ‘uh-uh-uhs’ as he continuously slams into you.

His pace quickens as his breath comes out in short pants, his hand gripping yours just a little bit tighter.

“F-Fuck…Who do you want?”

“You. Only you, Buck.”

Buck’s eyes close for a moment, a shudder raking through his body at your words. He lets out another moan, his head falling forward to rest his forehead against your shoulder as he untangles his hand from yours. Hastily he brings it down, harshly rubbing it against your sensitive bud.

The sudden change in stimuli makes your eyes roll back, the pleasure and heat reaching a breaking point.

“B-Buck, I’m not gonna—”

“I know, baby, I know.” He whines, his own voice wavering. “I want to feel you cum around me. C’mon, cum for me.”

That’s all it takes, the feeling of him inside you, the sound of his voice, the sensation of his hands on you against you—your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. Your entire body tenses, a broken moan falling from your lips as your back arches against Buck’s sweaty figure.

Buck groans as he feels you cum, your walls clenching around him tightly. His hips stutter, losing their steady rhythm as he pulls out and starts pumping himself over your stomach.

“Ngh—shit!” Buck gasps suddenly as he feels your fingers wrap around his weeping cock, taking over for him.

“(y-y/n), you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” You look up at him with a small, exhausted smile on your lips as you continue to leisurely pump him at your own pace.

Buck lets out a high-pitched whine, his hands gripping onto you tighter, “M-mm’ so close.”

“Then come for me, Evan.”

Buck lets out a desperate noise, the sound of his real name falling from your lips being his final breaking point.

“(y-y/n)—”

You keep stroking him through his orgasm, watching as his body shivers from the overstimulation. Slowly, Buck’s flushed face lifts from your shoulder, his breaths leaving his lips in heavy pants, the corners of his mouth turned up into a small smile. His blue eyes meet your gaze, they’re hazy and unfocused.

“God, I love you.” He mutters, his voice a little hoarse, but still filled with an amount of tenderness that makes your heart skip a beat.

You bring your clean hand up to his face, running it through his messy, tangled hair, your fingernails gently massaging his scalp “I love you too.”

Buck lets out a content hum, pressing a few soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose—Anywhere he can reach without having to pull his body away from you.

You laugh softly at his affection, your chest filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling, a smile resting on your lips. You feel…at ease.

Happy.

Safe.

Buck slowly pulls away, just enough to move off your body and lay next to you. He instantly pulls you against his chest, one arm around your shoulders, cradling you against him. He sighs contentedly, burying his face in your hair, inhaling your scent.

You rest your head against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear grounding and soothing. Your eyes slowly close, your exhaustion finally catching up to you. You snuggle closer to Buck, a soft yawn escaping your lips.

Buck chuckles as he hears you yawn. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You give a tiny hum, the sound of his voice and the feeling of his hand on your back making your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Sleep starts to overtake you, but not before you mutter out one final sentence.

“I love you, Buck.”

Buck’s heart warms at your words. He pulls you even closer to him, relishing the feeling of having you this close. He presses a kiss to the top of your head again, his voice soft and gentle as he speaks.

“I love you too, (y/n). More than anything.”

[carolinaclouds]

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

hi, if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.

[carolinaclouds]

Claim

Summary: Bucky's not the boss of you. But what is he?

Word count: 2.2 K

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader

A/N: I saw Thunderbolts*! Definitely on my Bucky bullshit for a minute. Just block me now. Or, read, respond, and reblog! Love you heauxes! This is connected to Charm, but can be read alone!

This should have no spoilers of consequence.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Teacher Reader, Congressman Bucky, Protective Bucky, feral Bucky, dom Bucky, Bucky with the dirty mouth, reader tries to be a brat, but well, Bucky, kitchen sex, wall sex, allusion to nipple play, f receiving oral, and anal, raw p in v, praise kink, SIZE KINK, after care, the "what are we" discussion, tiny bit of the Sargeant kink, nicknames Charm and Baby, also Boss, kinda. Basically pwp.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------------

Bucky flew in because you weren’t taking care of yourself. 

There were too many late nights grading papers, too many skipped lunches to tutor your students, and too many weekends you couldn’t make it up DC because you were giving time to everyone but yourself. You were overtired, cranky, and out of groceries.

When Bucky called, you told him you were going to bed early and would shop after the pancake fundraiser in the morning. Then, because you couldn’t help it, you reminded him he wasn’t your boss.

Hell, he wasn’t even your boyfriend.

That was the problem.

You and Bucky met, fell in lust, flirted on the phone, and hooked up once (several times) during a whirlwind weekend in DC. You hesitated just as hard as he did to put a label on things, but tonight, your feelings were in the way. You hung up on Bucky with a lump in your throat, curled up on the couch, and passed out at 5:16 PM.

At 9:06 PM, you woke to the sound of your front door opening.

And there he was, Bucky Barnes in a Brooklyn hoodie, grey sweats and a scowl on his too-handsome face. His hair flopped into those gorgeous eyes chaotically and your heart beat double time when you saw him.

He had bags of food, a backpack, wine, and righteous indignation.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“Sam gave me a lift,” he muttered as he pushed past you to the kitchen.

You stood by your open door, frozen, blinking as reality caught up.  

Winter Soldier. Congressman Barnes. Besties with Captain America.

Oh, right. That guy.

You closed the door and shook your head as you followed him inside the apartment that he’d never been in before, but was now taking over.

He complained about you running yourself down as he unboxed the food and watched you eat like a hawk, then ran you a bath.

“Yes, Boss,” you replied to his back as he retreated into your bathroom. 

How did he know the layout of your place? You shook your head again, laughing, because of course he did. When you stood to clear your plate, Bucky took the dishes from your hands.

The standoff began. You glared. He glared harder.

You, because he wasn’t the boss of you, him, because you’d sassed him for caring. The problem was that his glare was sexy as hell and now you were wet.

Bucky read you and chuckled, then his eyes dropped to your body in your zip up hoodie, tank top, and short shots, then back to glaring at the saucy look on your face. 

“Oh, I’ll boss you, Charm. Don’t even get me started.” 

You felt the heat rise to your face but…you couldn’t help it. You wanted to push him, because you knew why he was so grumpy. He was concerned about you.

And very, very horny. 

It had been a month since you’d seen him in DC. 

On anyone else this possessiveness would be annoying, on Bucky, it was so damn cute. But why? 

What claim did he have on you?

The bulge inside his sweats was so enormous it looked like someone stuffed a giant sausage down there. Yikes. You’d almost forgotten how massive he was. You wanted to tease him because there was something empowering and fun about having him entirely at your mercy. 

“How, Congressman? How exactly will you boss me?” 

Bucky cocked his head, challenging you with his devil-blue eyes. 

“You want to know how?” 

His jaw was clenched and he looked almost dangerous, staring at you in a way that probably intimidated most people. It just got you wet. You were not scared of James Buchanan Barnes. 

He was your Bucky.

So you just shrugged and cocked your eyebrow at him as he set the dishes down and leaned against the counter, his t-shirt clinging to his sculpted chest; his grey sweats tented.

You crossed your arms against your hard, aching nipples and cocked your hip as you silently continued to sass him.

“Well, I’ll start with that smart mouth. Gonna kiss it until you’re hotter and wetter than you already are, Charm. Then I’ll peel off your clothes and suck those gorgeous nipples of yours until you’re squirming and maybe, possibly, I'll give you my thigh to grind on and get all wet with your slick if you’re a good girl.”

You shifted and Bucky smirked, but continued, his eyes on each body part as he reeled off filthy promises.

“I’m gonna hold you down, take my time playing with those sweet tits until you’re almost cuming, but not quite.”

Bucke remembered how responsive you were when he sucked your nipples, and in fact jacked off every day to a tit pic you sent him. He was making a mess in his pants because he knew you were making a mess in yours.

He was relentless in the mission of your ruin.

“Then, gonna take my time licking my way down that hot body to your sweet pussy and eat you out until you cum on my tongue. And my fingers.”

Then his eyes flicked to yours, those ethereal blue eyes making you gasp.

“M fucking starving, Charm.”

Poor baby, you thought, and then remembered you were trying to be a brat. Bucky smiled at you and then focused on your shorts again.

“And with every cute little tug that your pussy does to try and take my fingers deeper…Did you know your pussy does that, Charm? Pulls on my fingers and my cock so sweet, fuck, I need it.”

Bucky's voice broke. He cleared his throat and continued. 

“For every spasm of that cute little cunt, I’ll play your clit to make the pleasure last longer, so you’ll come that much harder. And longer. Until you beg me to stop.”

You were trembling, knees weak, trying not to moan. He watched your thighs press together and grunted, but he kept going.

“I’ll get you nice and wet and ready for me to fuck you with this big cock that is aching for you.”

Bucky reached down and lewdly grabbed himself, your eyes riveted. 

“Gonna fuck you in every position, until there’s no part of you I haven’t tasted and possessed as much as I fucking want. You’re gonna feel it in your soul, Charm."

God he was so damn smug.

"And then, Baby, you’ll sleep. All. Damn. Day. Fuck the fundraiser. I’ll buy the pancakes.”

Bucky met your shock with a self-satisfied grin. 

“I’ll work on my policy briefs and packets while you rest, tomorrow, and Sunday, we’ll go grocery shopping and stock the place before I get on the train back to DC.”

You opened and closed your mouth like a fish, thinking of a plausible argument against what he just said. Everything but the sex part.

You held your finger up for him to stop.

“Give me a minute.”

You tried to regain your composure. You were wet. Very wet. Your panties and your shorts were clinging to you and your heart was beating fast.

Bucky’s eyes lit up when he saw how flustered you were, and he leaned closer, murmuring into your ear as he crowded you back against the island, caging you in with his strong forearms.

“You like my dirty mouth, don’t you, Charm?” 

He nipped your earlobe as you whined in response. 

“I see you. You love how hard I am for you. You want to grab my cock and feel it, I can see that. I know you’re already wet for me. I bet if I slid my fingers inside your panties right now, you’d be all soft and wet and juicy like the sweetest plum in the world, isn’t that right? You’re just aching for me to eat you real good and make you cum, aren’t you?” 

God.

Yes. 

You thought it, but didn’t say it. You just couldn’t articulate words at the moment.

“And I’m going do all of what I said, Charm, but I think that right now I need to fuck you on this counter top.”

Bucky stepped back and pulled down his sweats and you saw the dark allure of him, a good nine inches, thick and dripping pre-cum in time with it’s own heartbeat making it throb. Bucky’s hand took himself in his grasp, and the pulsing almost purple monster looked beautiful encased in the rare vibranium. 

You appreciated this small dark tower and the dusting of dark hair at it’s base and you don’t know why, but when Bucky pulled his shirt up and pinned it with his chin as he stared at you and stroked, but you got so much wetter.

That’s a lie. You knew exactly why. 

“Take off your shorts and panties. Now.”

You scrambled to comply as Bucky advanced on you and lifted you on the island with one hand while simultaneously lining up with the other. His eyes rolled when he actually felt how wet you were for him.

“Good Lord, Charm. Fuck, it’s been too long.”

He said it as he looked down and tortured you with the head of his cock teasing your clit and the slick on your pussy lips. He looked back up at you, those blue eyes almost feverish.

“I- I didn’t stretch you out with my fingers. But I need it, right now, Charm. Do you want it too?”

You pulled off your top and threw it somewhere behind you. You started pulling your nipples and speaking your filthy mind.

“Don’t need your fingers’ Sarge. Fuck me with that…. whooooooohhhh my goddddddd!”

Bucky slid inside you as you spoke and the stretch had your pussy pulsing when he wasn’t even halfway in. The feeling was indescribable and you couldn't believe that you were cuming almost instantly.

You both looked down at your cream almost immediately leaking out and frothing around his big, red, pulsing cock as he pistoned slowly inside you. You both moaned and closed your eyes.

Bucky grabbed your neck to bring your head back up from lolling back on your shoulders as your pussy pulled him in with your orgasm. He batted your hand away from your breast and started pinching and rolling it, elongating your pleasure.

“I think we’ve lost the plot here, Charm.”

He said it through gritted teeth as he slapped into you and sped up incrementally.

“I told you that I was yours. And I assumed that you were mine.”

You croaked, “You know what they say about assuming…”

You still had a little brat in you. But Bucky took it as a challenge. His hands moved to pick you up, separating your asscheeks as he fucked you against the wall now. Your eyes were rolling from the feeling of vibranium in your asshole.

“I get the ass.”

“Take it, Bucky!” you were gasping for breath.

“Thanks for the invitation, baby, but it’s already mine. Isn’t it?”

You were cuming again, or you’d never stopped as Bucky pounded you hard against your kitchen wall. Pots were rattling in the cabinet, and you were afraid glasses were going to break until Bucky hit that spot.

And then you didn’t care anymore. 

“Yes, Bucky! It’s yours. I’m all yours.” 

You were cuming all over him at this point.

“Fuck, yes! Mine.”

Bucky’s eyes were black now as he fucked you through it.

“Your sweet cunt is milking me… fuckkkkk.”

Bucky came, adding to the moisture levels between your legs, and he buried his head in the juncture of your neck and your clavicle as his climax hit with a guttural moan. You managed to grab his head and make him meet your eyes, both of you dazed.

“Let me see you Bucky.”

Bucky looked at you, pupils blown, lips parted in awe.

“You’re my guy,” you whispered. “Am I your girl?”

Bucky smiled at you, and then grimaced, another pulse of semen spurting out of him.

“You’re my Best Girl, Charm.”

He kissed you as both of you trembled with aftershocks. After he caught his breath, he walked you out of the kitchen into the en suite, where your bath was waiting. Your combined fluids were running down your legs. 

Once there, he let you down slowly and held you until you were steady on your feet, then, he helped you step into the bath.

You looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“You coming in?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, tempted, but he had a mission.

“No, relax, enjoy your bath. I’ll shower and then clean up the kitchen.”

Bucky leaned down and kissed your forehead as he placed your robe and a bottle of water where you could reach it. Then, he grabbed a towel and stepped into the shower. You enjoyed the view of him taking a shower as you got clean, then dozed in the warm water. You felt yourself be lifted and placed in your bed, warm and wrapped in your robe. 

And Bucky Barnes. 

Around 3 am you stirred, and turned in his arms to see Bucky watching over you, never tired.

“Time to make good on your promises, Boss.”

Bucky’s eyes crinkled, but then he pouted a bit.

He was so freaking adorable.

“That’s not my name.”

You smiled at him.

“Bucky. Baby. Boyfriend.”

“That’s better,” Bucky grinned as he parted your robe, his gaze hot down your body. Then he looked back up at you. 

“So much better. And you’re the boss. Because it’s my job to take care of my girl.”

[carolinaclouds]

you realize you’re in love with bucky barnes… and everyone else already knew.

It hit you on a random Tuesday afternoon.

Not during a battle, not during one of those late-night talks when Bucky let his walls down — no.

It happened in the kitchen.

You walked in half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing one of Sam’s old hoodies (because it was huge and cozy and he always pretended to be annoyed when you stole it). And there was Bucky, standing by the stove, humming something under his breath while flipping pancakes.

Pancakes.

The Winter Soldier was making pancakes.

His hair was pulled back loosely, little strands falling into his face, and he looked… soft. At peace. Like he belonged in this tiny kitchen with sunlight streaming through the window and your favorite song playing faintly from his phone.

And it just hit you.

Like a truck.

Like every cheesy love song and dumb rom-com moment you’d ever made fun of.

You were in love with him.

Hopelessly, stupidly, heart-achingly in love with Bucky Barnes.

“Uh oh,” came Natasha’s voice from behind you.

You jumped, nearly knocking over a chair. “Jesus, Nat—”

She gave you a slow, knowing smirk, crossing her arms. “Took you long enough.”

Your face burned. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sweetheart, I’m a spy. I notice things.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “The heart eyes? The way you smile every time he enters a room? Classic case.”

You groaned, covering your face. “It’s that obvious?”

Nat just patted your back. “To everyone except Bucky. But hey — Captain Oblivious makes pancakes. That’s something.”

You risked another glance.

Bucky was now trying (and failing) to stack the pancakes neatly. He muttered a curse under his breath when one slid off the plate, and something warm bloomed in your chest.

Sam sauntered in next, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. He took one look at your red face and snorted. “Well, well, well. Look who finally joined the party.”

“Not you too,” you groaned.

Sam clapped a hand on your shoulder, grinning. “Oh, c’mon. Steve and I made a bet about when you’d figure it out.”

Your eyes widened. “Steve—?”

“Yeah,” came the deep voice from the hallway. Steve Rogers appeared with a cup of coffee, looking far too smug for someone so wholesome. “I said it’d take you until summer. Sam said spring.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “Pay up, Rogers. It’s spring.”

As Steve dug out a crumpled twenty from his wallet, you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

Meanwhile, Bucky finally noticed the gathering. He turned around, blinking in confusion. “What’s going on?”

Everyone immediately schooled their faces.

“Nothing,” they all chorused too quickly.

You cleared your throat, trying to act normal even though your heart was pounding like a drum. “Uh—pancakes smell great, Buck.”

His lips quirked into that rare, soft smile — the one that always made your chest tighten. “Made ‘em for you,” he mumbled, eyes flickering away shyly. “Figured you might be hungry.”

And just like that, the world tilted again.

Nat smirked behind her mug. Sam waggled his eyebrows. Steve just sighed like a tired dad watching his kids be idiots.

You were in so much trouble.

And you were so, so in love with him.

By the time you escaped to your room, you were convinced your friends were conspiring against you.

Natasha’s smirks. Sam’s dramatic eyebrow raises. Steve’s disappointed dad sighs.

All because you’d realized — far too late — that you were in love with Bucky Barnes.

You flopped face-first onto your bed with a groan. “I’m doomed.”

“You are,” came Nat’s voice. You lifted your head just enough to see her leaning casually in your doorway, arms crossed and looking far too smug for your liking.

“You need to tell him,” she said simply.

You scoffed. “Tell him? Are you out of your mind? This is Bucky we’re talking about. The guy who shuts down when someone even mentions feelings. I can’t—”

“You can. And you will,” Nat said, pushing off the doorframe. “Because if I have to watch you make heart eyes at him over pancakes again, I might actually puke.”

You threw a pillow at her. She caught it with ease.

“Nat—he doesn’t feel the same. He’s… closed off. And broken and—”

Her expression softened, all teasing gone. “And so are you. But you found each other, didn’t you?” She stepped closer, voice quieter now. “You steady him. He smiles more when you’re around. He’s softer. You’re not imagining it.”

Your heart squeezed. “You really think…?”

Natasha rolled her eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I know it. And honestly? You both deserve something good. So go get it.”

Your mouth was dry, heart pounding, but before you could overthink it, you found yourself walking out of the room, down the hallway, and right to the balcony where Bucky usually disappeared when things got too loud.

And there he was.

Leaning on the railing, hair loose, metal fingers tapping a rhythm against the iron. The sunset cast gold across his face, making him look even more unfairly beautiful.

“Bucky?” you croaked.

He turned, and the second his blue eyes met yours, your knees nearly gave out.

“Hey, doll,” he said softly. That pet name, the one that always made your heart stutter. “Everything okay?”

No. Yes. Absolutely not.

“I—I need to tell you something,” you blurted out, hands shaking. “And if I don’t do it now, I might chicken out and never say it.”

His brow furrowed, concern flickering in his eyes. “What is it?”

You took a deep breath, Nat’s voice echoing in your head.

Go get it.

“I’m in love with you.”

There. Out in the open. No take-backs.

Bucky’s eyes widened, mouth opening and closing like he was trying to process it.

“I know you’re closed off and scared,” you rushed on, heart racing. “And I get it, Bucky. But I had to say it. Because I’m tired of pretending like I’m not completely gone for you.”

Silence.

Your heart sank. Maybe you’d misread everything. Maybe—

But then—

Bucky crossed the space between you in two strides, cupping your face in both hands — one warm, one cool — and kissed you like he’d been waiting forever.

It wasn’t soft at first. It was desperate, a little clumsy, like he was pouring every wall he’d ever built into that kiss just so he could finally let it all go. And then it softened, his lips moving slower, gentler, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, Bucky pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I just didn’t think I deserved to say it out loud.”

Your breath hitched. “You—”

He kissed you again, cutting off your words.

Somewhere inside, you knew Natasha was probably watching from the window with the most smug look imaginable. Sam would owe her twenty bucks. Steve would finally stop sighing.

But right now, none of that mattered.

Right now, it was just you and Bucky, tangled up in golden light and stolen kisses, two broken people who finally realized they could be whole together.

[carolinaclouds]

Busy Woman | J. Bucky Barnes

summary: You’ve always had a soft spot for Bucky Barnes. Shamelessly flirted just to see that annoyed look that made him look so good. He never gave you more than those quiet stares, jaw tight like he was holding something back. Fine by you. You had better things to do than wait around for a man stuck in the 40s. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

pairing: tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

cw: angst (i love writing that lol), post endgame, mentally unstable reader, grumpy bucky, flirting, reader has no filter, sexual jokes, implied canon deaths, implied canon violence, several times

3k words

inspo: busy woman by sabrina carpenter

It started of with occasional flirting. You’ve been told that James—Bucky as people called him—Barnes was an ex assassin, a super soldier with a body count larger than you would’ve suspected, a guy that had the power to literally crush you if you annoyed him too much. But you didn’t care.

You’ve always been too bold and shameless for your own being. Life is too short to worry about details as insignificant as his body count (his death toll—you didn’t care about his past experience with women, or men ?—the more the better…).

This being said, you did not ignore who he was. You obviously acknowledge what he had done before. But hey, you could still appreciate beauty for what it was. Because James Buchanan Barnes was truly a sight for sore eyes. You didn’t know where all this playful flirting started getting more real.

"You look good in black." You mentioned one day gesturing to his gear. You both were paired in a small check up mission, much to your delight and Bucky’s annoyance.

"I always wear black clothes." He huffed.

"Yeah, my point." You smiled.

Men look hot in black, that’s a universal law, so you didn’t think much when you gave that comment. You’ve always been like that, subtly flirting with anyone, giving genuine compliments, sometimes out of the blue. It came naturally, especially with Bucky. What you truly did not expect was seeing his face flushing. It was subtle, but your eyes noticed. And that’s how your one sided flirting with him truly began.

"Something’s off." Bucky muttered, looking at the tracking device in his hands.

"Probably my clothes." It took him a moment to grasp it. But when he did his eyes just widened, and he sighed, used to it already. "You have no sense of humour whatsoever it is alarming." You continued after observing his reaction.

"No because that is straight off the worst pick up line you could come up with. Is this what you call flirting ?"

"You’re so confident that Im flirting with you. That is also alarming."

You were in fact flirting with him, though subtly. But you still kept the upper hand, folding your arms across your chest in a way that was almost childish.

He matched your gesture, folding his arms against his chest, a playful smirk on his face. "Well I hope you’re not because rejecting you now would probably mess with our assignment discharge." It was subtle too. But it was his way of rejecting you, kind of. You didn’t flinch. You wouldn’t take it seriously until he said the words straight to your face.

"Oh…" you pouted, mock-hurt. "I didn’t want your old cranky ass anyway." The lie rolled off your tongue effortlessly. It wasn’t awkward—your smile stayed sharp, teasing, and his matched it. He probably thought you were joking. Maybe you were. "But hey although i’m busy, clothes are always optional if you ever need a favor."

He groaned. Yep, you absolutely loved teasing him.

Something resonated through him one day. It was right after Thanos erased half of the world population. To him the blip felt like just a second but to you, you aged five years. You were apart of the Time Heist mission. You saw your sister sacrifice herself, to save you and the world. And you felt awfully guilty.

Things had drastically changed, when people reappeared. Bucky found himself in a world that was once again moving on while he was freezing with time. But still he got pardoned for his former actions, he started seeing a therapist and right when he thought he would be able to get his life together, Steve left. But you, you were the same old person. Talking to him as if nothing changed, as if you didn’t age five years older while he still looked the same.

You were in his apartment on a random evening—the very same night he returned from a "date" with the girl from the sushi place. Not that he knew you’d stalked him. When Bucky noticed his door was unlocked, a sinking feeling settled in his chest. He was sure he’d locked it. The key turned too easily. Then he saw you. A sigh left his lips, probably exasperation or relief. Maybe a bit of both. Still he didn’t have the energy to make you leave at that moment. Great mistake.

"I mean a win is a win, it shrunk our age gap with five years." You shrugged to him when the subject of the blip came into the conversation. It was more you talking and him huffing and listening. Barely listening. "You know I missed you. It was kind of boring without you."

"I bet it was." He huffed. "Look why don’t you just–" he gestured to your figure laying on his couch a bag of crisps, that you stole from his pantry, in your hands. "Stop putting crumbs all around the apartment and just get out now."

"Woah, I see you’re still rude." You mumbled. "I just missed you during those five years you know ? And since all of my friends are either gone or dead I just feel… super, super lonely." You sighed, dramatically. Although it sounded like a joke, you meant everything you said.

Your life truly fell apart when half of the population disappeared, it was already crumbling before but now, it was much more worse. Things were different. If it wasn’t for Nat being with you before, you would’ve probably not made it past your twenties. But now that she died, sacrificing herself, you just felt like you were dying all over again.

"Don’t you feel lonely ?" You asked cutting the silence. He turned to you, a bit surprised by what you asked him. You were staring straight ahead without blinking and that’s when he noticed the flask in your hand.

"You’ve got to be kidding me…" He muttered under his breath, taking the flask away from you. "Have you seriously brought alcohol here ?"

"I told you I felt lonely." You tried to defend yourself, as if it was enough to justify your need to drink alcohol. "But you did not answer me."

He sighed slumping in the couch next to you. He stared at the bottle that he stole from you just seconds ago, and he brought it to his mouth before wincing.

"This thing is disgusting."

"Its just some cheap vodka. I don’t have money." You answered sadly, your eyes not leaving the point you were fixing on the ceiling. You were absolutely wasted, after just one sip. To be fair it was your first time drinking, your system was definitely not used to it, even with all the serum injected in your veins.

"Once you’re sober, you’re getting out of here."

"Why do you badly want me to go mmh ?" You asked turning your head towards him, a frown on your face. You were not about to cry. Yes definitely not in front of him. "I would’ve rather gone to Sam." You say bluntly, the alcohol loosening your thoughts. "But he’s visiting his family and I thought you would maybe appreciate some company."

"Well I clearly don’t so you have your answer now." He said more firmly. "I don’t want your company."

"You don’t want me ?" You pouted, although your face showed a hint of amusement. Your fingers lightly grazed his flesh arm, and Bucky flinched at the contact—until he noticed your gaze shift toward the flask in his left hand. With a reluctant sigh, he offered it to you. But you did not take it. Instead you reached for his metal wrist,guiding him until the rim of the flask touched your lips, forcing him to pour de drink in your mouth. He was too stunned to resist, his eyes widening as he let you. "What ?" You hiccuped, probably from the drinking. "It’s technically you making me drunk now so it gives me a reason to stay longer." You giggled. You genuinely though at that moment that it was the smartest thing you’ve ever done. And that’s something to say because you were an ex spy.

"Fine." He said standing up and pouring the rest of the alcohol in the sink. You quickly got up, trying to follow him. Your walk was wobbly.

"Do you even know how much this cost me ?" You rolled your eyes, trying your hardest to not completely crumble on the ground.

"Have you seen yourself right now ?"

"Do you care for me ?"

"Not even close."

"Okay fine if you don’t want me…" You feigned walking towards the door but before you reached the handle you turned toward him. "I’ll just deem you gay." You giggled so hard you lost your balance.

The sexual undertones were not unnoticed by Bucky and he simply decided to blame the alcohol for your behaviour– although you always acted this way, sober or not. He was empathetic enough to help you off the ground and lead you back to the couch. You arms were around his shoulders as he grabbed you from your waist. When he tried to pull away, you were still gripping him hard.

"I am so lonely James." you murmured, your voice barely audible against his chest. You felt the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your cheek. He must have great stamina, you thought unaware it was racing for an entirely different reason.

"I know me too." He admitted too. Knowing that you wouldn’t remember it the next day.

He left you sleeping on his couch, you were definitely not going back to your house in this state and he should do with it.

Bucky woke up the next morning to an unexpected sound: silence. No burning kitchen, no flooded bathroom. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. For a moment, he wondered if he’d imagined you being there at all—some kind of strange dream brought on by exhaustion and memory.

But then he saw the neatly folded plaid blanket on the couch. You’d been there. You just left before he woke up. No note, no text—just gone. And it was barely 7 a.m.

It’s fine, he told himself. Nothing happened. I asked her to leave.

Still, a faint, unwelcome flicker of disappointment crept in. You could’ve at least thanked him, right?

He did not have time to dwell on it anyway. He had a more important business to attend to.

…

Sam was glaring at Bucky from across the jet. The hum of the engines was the only sound between them, heavy silence stretching thin like thread ready to snap. After deciding to confront Sam about the shield this morning, Bucky found him heading to Munich for an operation and he decided to tag along. That is pretty much how they found themselves in this situation.

"So…who are we fighting ?" Your voice cut through the quinjet, and you appeared from the steering cabin. You wore a headset and a black gear, the one you usually wore when you went on missions.

Bucky’s head snapped toward you, his expression tightening the second his eyes landed on your face. He grumbled something under his breath—he was definitely cursing you. The corner of your mouth tugged upward despite yourself. You always did have that effect on him.

"Did you plan this ?" His question was raised towards Sam.

"Why would I plan this ? You were the one who forced yourself into this plane" Sam retorted, he then turned to you a bit surprised. "What are you doing here ?"

"I happen to be training to become a pilot here and well it also happens to be the exact plane you guys are in so…" you lingered a bit. "I guess we’re working together." You flashed a wide smile.

"We’re absolutely not." Bucky said.

"I did not ask." You shrugged going to sit right next to Sam, which gave you a great sight of Bucky in front of you. This man looks so good when he’s annoyed. "I think Sam would rather work with me than with your little bitch ass anyway."

"Couldn’t have said it better." Sam muttered, and you extended your hand high-fiving him.

"Do you have something with my ass ? ‘Cause you’ve been talking a lot about it lately ."

"Wouldn’t you want to know." You winked at him. You hunched forward, elbows on your knees and hands supporting your face. Without breaking the eye contact. You stayed like this for a full minute.

Bucky felt… off. Unsettled. You were talking to him like nothing had happened—as if just the night before, you hadn’t shown up at his apartment, drunk and messy and vulnerable. As if you hadn’t buried your face in his chest and confessed that you were lonely. As if you hadn’t fallen asleep right there against him.

And now? You were smirking, teasing him like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing.

Maybe you didn’t remember. Maybe it had been one of those hazy, half-lost nights for you. Or maybe—maybe that kind of moment was just something you could toss aside without blinking.

But for Bucky, it lingered. It was etched into the quiet corners of his mind.

And now you were laughing at him. Flirting like the night hadn’t happened.

He clenched his jaw and broke the eye contact, not trusting himself to speak. Because the truth—the one he hadn’t said out loud—was that it hadn’t been nothing for him.

"Haha you lost !" You cheered, turning to Sam. "See that, I just fixed his staring problem."

Sam caught the brief exchange and couldn’t help the amused grin that spread across his face. This mission wouldn’t be that bad now with you joining them.

"I don’t think you fixed anything. You just made freeky magoo over there very flustered."

Bucky rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Before he could answer anything, Torres appeared from the cockpit.

"One minute till drop off, Sam."

"Y’all did not answer me." You huffed standing up and grabbing an earpiece of you own.

"Flag smashers." Sam briefly answered. "You probably heard of them."

"Thirty seconds !" You heard Torres yell.

"Enjoy your ride Buck." Sam

"Oh no you can’t call me that."

"Why not ? That’s what Steve called you."

"Steve knew me longer and Steve had a plan."

"I have a plan." Sam turned to you. "You coming ?"

"Yep." You got up and Sam extended his hand for you to take. The plane was extremely low so you couldn’t use a chute.

"Fifteen seconds."

Sam gripped your waist.

"Oh yeah, what’s your plan ? Her ?" Bucky called, but Sam ignored him and jumped out of the plane with you in his arms.

"How’s he coming down ?" You asked Sam once you both were in the air flying towards the the outbuilding where your targets were located.

"He’ll manage."

"I had all of that on camera you know that." Sam said from beside you. You were watching Bucky from Redwing’s camera. He was lying on the ground where he fell a few seconds earlier from the plane.

"The whining looks good on you Barnes."

"Get out of my face or you’ll experience what real whining sounds like."

"Kinky." You muttered

"That’s a fucking threat."

The mission had gone sideways—again.

Smoke still lingered in the air, the convoy you were meant to intercept now far gone in the horizon. The intel had been wrong. Again. Too many hostiles, too many surprises, and no backup. Well except for Captain American wannabe and his acolyte.

And somewhere in the brutal fight, Bucky had done what he thought was best.

He had tossed you out of the moving truck.

Literally.

You were still brushing gravel off your jacket as you stormed down the dirt path beside him, your hair wild, your boots stomping with each step. You were limping, pretty sure you had twisted your ankle.

"You threw me off of a fucking truck, Barnes!"

"I saved your life." Bucky snapped, not even looking at you.

Sam trailed just a few steps behind, looking like he was trying not to laugh. Or interfere. Or get involved in the very obvious mess brewing between you two.

You turned on Bucky, not even acknowledging your hobbling stride, walking backward just to glare at him properly. "You couldn’t have just said ‘jump’? But no? You had to manhandle me and yeet me into a ditch like a rag doll?"

"You weren’t listening!" Bucky growled. "You were about to get blown up, and I didn’t have time to argue!"

"So your solution was throwing me out of a moving vehicle?!"

"You’re fine, aren’t you?" he snapped back, finally meeting your glare. "Little bruised ego, that’s all."

Sam finally sighed, raising his hands. "Alright, alright. Can we not kill each other while we’re in the middle of nowhere? I don’t feel like dying because you two decided now was the time to have a full-blown breakup fight—without even dating."

You both turned to glare at him in perfect unison.

Sam just shrugged. "I’m just saying what we’re all thinking."

"She shouldn’t have come." He deadpanned, he wasn’t even addressing to you and this made your blood boil.

Your eyes narrowed dangerously. "You don’t get to decide what I can handle. I’m not some helpless bitch."

"Oh really ?" He let out a dry laugh. "Could’ve fooled me." he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

When Bucky stared at your eyes, there was no longer that usual warmth that you always had when you talked to him. Gone was the usual glint of mischief, that effortless warmth you always carried when you tossed a smirk his way or teased him like he didn’t terrify most people. Your gaze now was colder—steeled, unreadable. You weren’t joking anymore.

"Nothing," Bucky gritted out, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "I’m just done cleaning up after someone who treats everything like a joke and never thinks about anyone but herself."

The words hung in the air like a slap. You froze mid-step.

He wasn’t just talking about the mission anymore. You knew it.

You stared at him, stunned for a second, before your voice dropped, sharp and cold. “Say what you really want to say, Barnes. Stop dancing around it.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at you.

That silence? It cut deeper than his words.

You shook your head with a bitter smile. “Right. That’s what I thought.” You turned and kept walking.

And maybe for the first time, he realized you were genuinely hurt.

part 2 (coming soon…)

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for sooo long. There will be a part 2 I just need to edit it, although i’m highly contemplating turning this into a fanfic

[carolinaclouds]

𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐩. 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 [pt. 2]

TW: P0RN LINKS!! [PART ONE]

you just love worshipping his balls

bucky loves pumping his cum onto your pussy

[gif] teasing mob!bucky

bucky loves playing with you in your sleep

[gif] mob!bucky loves his knives [ 2 ]

bucky loves playing with his baby mama

mob!bucky shutting you up when you’ve been a brat

bucky doesn’t have time to take your leggings off

what bucky had to resort to before you started dating

you need his babies

rockstar!bucky letting you fuck yourself on his cock while he smokes

what bucky sends you when you’re not home

bucky has a HUGE cock

torturing subby!bucky when he misbehaves

Tags: @chrisevansleftnipple , @homiesexual-or-homosexual , @httpsells , @avengemepercy , @raikan624 , @multiversefanfics , @majulians-groupie ' @maryevm , @grilledcheesewithjalapeno , @yaboyguzma69 , @hopeofwinter , @buckybarnesslutshop , @iamthatonefangirl , @themidnightblog01

[carolinaclouds]

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

Masterlist | Eddie Munson Masterlist | Corroded Coffin Masterlist

FanBoy!Eddie Munson x Popstar!Fem Reader

(Both Eddie and Reader are 18+)

This fic is for: birthday boy pop-up event by @corrodedcoffinfest ; the prompt is “gift”

Prompt: Gift | Word Count: 8,897 | Rating: E | POV: Eddie | Relationships: Eddie Munson x Popstar!Fem Reader | Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Mentions of Weed and Underage Drinking | Tags: Eddie Munson, Fanboy Eddie, Popstar Reader, Concert, Gift, Meet and Greet, Celebrity Crush

Warnings: 18+ mdni, Eddie is lowkey a Pervert with so many thoughts about you, Dirty Talking, Kinda a Fanboy kink if you can call it that? (Mutual between Eddie and Reader), Smut: Oral (Fem and Male Receiving), Fingering, Cum Eating, Protected PinV, afab reader

Synopsis: Eddie was your biggest fan; it started after Gareth decided to drag him to your concert. Now, Eddie just doesn't shut up about you. So, the guys decide to come together and pitch in on an amazing Birthday gift for Eddie. This is based off of this blurb I had written and I had people ask for more of these two (including them actually meeting); so woo! Also this slowly turned into the longest fic I have ever written so, I hope you enjoy!!

Word Count: 8.8k

Two months.

It had been two months since your newest album had been released to the public—copies of the vinyls sat in record stores far and wide while your top song played on every radio station on the top of every hour. 

It had been two whole months of Eddie Munson playing your album every day and night, no matter what he was doing within the four walls of his cluttered bedroom. 

Your pop sound and lyrics were a stark contrast to the usual heavy metal music that would ring through his room as he laid back on his bed, packing a bowl of the latest recommendation from his dealer. He’d play your music in the background while he messed around with his guitar, adding some heavy riffs to the poppy sounds that played from the record player. He’d sit on his bed, hand in his pants with his cock in his fist tightly; he’d stroke himself while your voice filled his ears, edging him closer and closer to release. The sound of your sweet and soft voice played late into the night, always seeming to help him drift off to sleep faster; and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that to anyone that would listen. 

Anyone. 

No, really, the Hellfire boys were so fucking sick of listening to Eddie bring you up in every conversation–during lunch at the cafeteria, between battles at Hellfire campaigns, during a late night smoke session in his van by the lake–it didn’t matter the occasion, your name was always rolling off of his lips like a prayer. It was like he was dating you; he spoke about you so highly and intimately, there was never anything negative spoken about you by that boy.

He was just such a love sick little puppy that thought about you every single minute of his morning, afternoon and evening. And the Hellfire boys always just shared looks and groaned while rolling their eyes when Eddie started talking about you. And Eddie noticed their looks, he noticed their annoyance with him but that didn’t stop him from speaking about you… it had actually gotten to the point where he would join the conversations of the cheerleaders just so he could talk about you and your music. 

You released a new song? He ran to the girls to ask if they had heard it yet before gushing over how good it was because, you never seem to have any songs that suck.

You announced a tour or a show near them? He was telling all the girls that he was going to do anything in his power to make sure he would be at that show, seeing you perform live yet again.

And, let’s be real, all these cheerleaders thought that was funny as hell, but they always allowed Eddie to join their conversations; in fact, some of the cheerleaders went out of their way and started the conversations with him. He was just like them—he was a fanboy at heart and he couldn’t help that you were his current unconventional musical hyper fixation at the moment. 

It had been two whole months of your posters and pictures being placed on his walls, hung up so carefully to ensure that they wouldn’t rip or tear. And, every time the guys came over he was constantly getting attacked and questioned by those pieces of paper. The posters were everywhere, there was one above his bed, there was one above his record player, hell, this motherfucker had one on the ceiling above his bed. You were the last thing he saw before he fell asleep and the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning, cheesy, right? And, fuck, did the Hellfire boys tease him about that. I mean, it’s not everyday that the stoner Metalhead had pictures of a pop princess on his wall. 

But, could you blame him? You just happened to look oh so good in those posters. 

And his favorite to this day was still the one of you in that short fucking black dress; he made sure that poster was above his record player so he could look at you while sitting on his bed. He just couldn’t help it—that picture didn’t leave anything to the imagination. The way your curves were so full and perfect, god, he wanted to run his hands all over your body, feeling every single curve and divet of your plush skin. The way your cleavage looked like it could pop out of that dress at any moment, god, he wanted to reach out and squeeze your breasts gently, hearing the small moans and whines escape your mouth while he massages them between his hands, thumbs running over your hardened nipples slowly. Eddie just loved that dress on you so much but he desperately wanted to see it on his bedroom floor–preferably in a pile with his own clothes while you were pressed up against him, moaning and groaning his name with each and every thrust he made. 

He had countless thoughts about you since he had first listened to that album and somehow each one seemed worse than the last. 

He knows, he knows–he’s a pervert. You don’t have to tell him twice.

Seriously, though, each thought was worse than the last. He’s imagined you on your knees in front of him, hand wrapping around the base of his cock while taking it in your pretty little mouth. He’s imagined you on your knees on his bed while he's thrusting into you from behind, so deep and fast that you are screaming his name. He’s imagined hovering over you, kissing the soft skin of your neck as he thrusts into you slow and deep, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. He’s imagined you on top of him, riding on his cock with your tits bouncing in his face. He’s imagined quickies with you after your shows in the dressing room, directly backstage, in the bathroom. You name it he’s probably thought of it with you. 

Eddie was just so whipped and craved you. Craved to know how you felt, how you smelled, how you tasted, how you sounded… he craved to know every little thing about you; all your little imperfections, quirks, any skeletons you had hidden in your closet. He just craved to know you on such an intimate and personal level. But, sadly, you were just a celebrity crush who didn’t even know he existed. 

At least, until tonight.

Tonight you were back in Hawkins, Indiana for a concert. Tonight, on Eddie Munson’s 19th birthday, you were in Hawkins, Indiana. You were in his hometown for his birthday. God, it was like the stars were aligning to give him the best birthday he’s had in a while, if not ever.

Eddie had purchased his ticket for your show months ago, literally the day they went on sale; he had called Gareth and bought a ticket for both of them (and, Gareth wasn’t entirely thrilled about that, but he knew he had to support his best friend… especially on his birthday). 

He had his ticket, he had his best friend by his side, he knew your new songs front to back; he was beyond ready for your concert.

But, the Hellfire boys had a surprise gift for him. They all knew he had a concert ticket, hell, the entire school knew he had a ticket to your show tonight. But, what he didn’t have was a meet and greet VIP ticket… at least, until Jeff pulled some strings with his dad who worked at the venue you were going to be performing at. 

And, my god, you should have seen the look on Eddie’s face when he opened that gift. At first, he looked at the Hellfire boys with a questionable look, he already had tickets, he didn’t need them. But when he read the words “VIP Meet and Greet Ticket” with your name next to it? Yeah, he screamed. A literal scream left his mouth as he thought about meeting you, talking to you, hugging you. And Gareth shook his head because he knew he’d have to stand next to Eddie the entire time during this Meet and Greet. (But, come on, Gareth was also secretly excited to meet you and see you face to face as well; he was just… not excited to deal with Eddie the whole time…) 

So, now, Eddie stood next to Gareth waiting in the meet and greet line amongst a ton of younger girls and teenage girls that were all gushing to meet you. And Eddie was shaking from head to toe. He was both excited and terrified at the same time. What if you were mean? What if you hated him? What if you were a bitch? What if you aren’t like anything he has pictured you to be? What if everything he has thought about you was actually just something he made up and you weren’t that perfect little angel he has you made out to be?

He’s never met a celebrity before… are you really just a normal person like him? Do you enjoy going to the movies just like he did? Do you enjoy listening to music and getting high just like he did? Do you enjoy pancakes over waffles just like he did? Do you enjoy spending your free time with friends and family just like he did?

“Eddie,” Gareth said, looking at his friend. Eddie snapped out of his thoughts and looked at Gareth, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hm?” He replied, looking at Gareth.

“We’re next,” Gareth said, motioning to the nonexistent line in front of them. Eddie gulped, looking up in front of him. He caught a glimpse of you and your smile and panicked. 

“I can’t do this,” Eddie said, shaking his head. Gareth rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Yes, you can. Please, you don’t shut up about her. At least talk to her.” Gareth replied, looking at his friend. “She’s not going to bite you or anything.”

“She might.”

“Next!” The security guard called, looking up Eddie and Gareth. He raised his eyebrow slightly when he saw the two boys but shrugged, allowing them through. The pair walked towards the stage where you were standing in front of a pale pink and purple backdrop with hearts all over it. 

God, why was Eddie’s head spinning? He felt hot. He felt dizzy. He felt like the room was slowly melting away from around him as he stood there, looking at you. It felt like the heavens were opening up and shining down on you as you stood in front of them, glowing like an angel, a goddess, a beautiful princess that he wanted to sweep off your feet with his wit, charm and good looks.

You looked up at Gareth and Eddie and smiled, waving them towards you. “Hi!” You cheered. “Thank you for coming, oh my gosh!” 

God, when you spoke it sounded like a chorus of angels signing around you. Eddie had never been to church, but he felt like he wanted to fall to knees to worship you and sing your praises.

Gareth stepped towards you but Eddie didn’t, he just stood there frozen. He looked you up and down, taking in your appearance. Your hair and makeup were already clearly done for the concert—hair curled perfectly, not even moving as you moved your head side to side, beautiful soft pink eyeshadow with glitter overtop, making you sparkle each time you moved. You were wearing some baggy light blue jeans and a pink crop top that showed off your midriff perfectly. 

God, you were perfect. You were real, you were perfectly real, and you were standing right in front of Eddie, beckoning him towards you with those beautiful and subtle hand motions.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” Gareth said softly, stepping closer to you. You smiled at him, opening your arms for a hug. Gareth didn’t decline, he wrapped his arms around you gently before pulling away, looking at Eddie. 

Eddie watched Gareth hug you before he stepped closer, a nervous smile on his face. “Hi,” he spoke softly. 

You opened your arms and Eddie quickly stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your body as he pulled you close to him. Your arms wrapped around him, smiling as you stood there embracing each other. His arms moved down to your waist gently as he held you against his soft and warm body. It felt like it was just you two in the room as you hugged, sparks flying around you like fireworks. He was so happy to be embracing you, to be holding you, and you allowed him to. You allowed him to hug you and hold you as long as he pleased; you didn’t pull away, you didn’t back away, you just hugged him tighter and smiled as he held you close to his body. 

After what felt like ages, Eddie finally pulled away from the hug, looking at you with a goofy and giddy grin on his face. Gareth glanced at Eddie and raised an eyebrow slightly before looking back at you. 

You smiled at them both, “thanks for coming to meet me and hang out!” You giggled, looking at them. “You probably know my name, but I don’t know yours…” You pouted, looking at the two boys in front of you that looked like they were at the wrong concert. Heavy metal band tees on, ripped jeans, boots on their feet; why on earth were they here to listen to you?

“I’m Gareth,” Gareth said softly, nodding with a smile. 

“I’m Eddie, it’s uh, it’s really cool to meet you. I’ve been listening to your music for quite some time and when I saw you were coming today I just had to come see you. Makes for a really cool birthday.” Eddie smiled, watching you. 

“Birthday? Oh my gosh, is today your birthday?” You asked, Eddie nodded slightly.

“Yeah, nineteen. Scary number,” he joked. 

“Our friend got him a meet and greet ticket for his birthday,” Gareth piped in, looking at Eddie. “He’s like, your number one fan.” 

“Oh my gosh, I was your birthday gift? That’s so cool!” You gushed, “thank you for listening to my music and supporting me, really, it means the world to me. I wouldn’t be able to do what I love doing without people like you.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie stuttered out, nodding at you. “Anytime,” he added. 

You smiled, looking at the boys. “Well, can I interest you in a picture together? A signed poster? I have to make sure my number one fan has the best birthday ever.” 

Eddie blushed. You just acknowledged him and called him your number one fan. Fuck. 

“Yeah, that'd be cool,” Eddie smiled, Gareth nodded as well. 

“Perfect, come here and smile for the camera.” You said, motioning towards the boys. They walked to you, standing on either side of you. Gareth stood on your left and Eddie stood on your right. You wrapped your arms around their backs gently and looked at the camera and smiled with the boys. Once the photo was taken you looked at Eddie with a smile. “Want a picture of just the two of us?” You asked. He looked at you nervously. 

“You, uh, you’d do that for me? Can we? Really?” He asked. You nodded. 

“Of course! Consider it a birthday gift from me to you.” 

Gareth took this as a sign to step away, leaving you and Eddie together for your own picture. You wrapped your arms around Eddie’s waist and smiled, leaning closer to him for the picture. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer to him as a goofy grin appeared on his face.

After the photo was taken you hugged Eddie again, smiling at him. “Happy birthday, Eddie. It was nice to meet you and Gareth,” you said, glancing at Gareth. “I hope you both enjoy the show. I’ll see you around, yeah?” 

“Thanks, princess,” Eddie smiled. Gareth smiled as well, waving at you. The two grabbed their posters and were on their way while you turned towards your next fan here for meet and greet—a little girl and her mom. You were crouching towards the ground to get to the level of the little girl as she ran towards you for a hug. You hugged her tightly and smiled, rocking her back and forth gently. 

Eddie looked back and watched from afar as he left. 

Fuck, did he love you.  

“I’ll be back,” Eddie yelled to Gareth over the noise of the bar. Your concert was over and Eddie was bummed to leave, so Gareth suggested heading to the Hideout for a few drinks to celebrate his birthday. Eddie reluctantly agreed, even though he’d rather be at home right now thinking about you with his pants around his ankles and his hand on his cock, stroking himself in time to your music.

Gareth nodded at Eddie, before going back to his conversation with Jeff. They were having a heated argument about something, but Eddie didn’t really listen to the details because he didn’t really care. That sounded rude, oh well, it was true. All he cared about right now was you. 

“Jack and Coke, please,” Eddie said as he walked up to the bar, away from Gareth and the other boys in the crowd. He grunted as he took a seat in one of the uncomfortable bar stools. The bartender looked up at him and smiled slightly, nodding to get him his drink. “Thanks, Mark,” Eddie added, watching the usual bartender go off to fix his drink. Once the drink was in his hand he raised it slightly, giving a nod to Mark as he began sipping on his drink. He looked around the bar, eyeing his surroundings as he usually did. 

Your concert was over, you had left the stage long ago and were probably a long ways away from Hawkins by now. Why would you stay here longer than you had to? Eddie sighed to himself, finishing the drink in his hand a little too quickly.

He had finally gotten to meet you, to hug you, to smell you. That was weird, yeah, he’s weird, but, did you know you smell like a mixture of roses and strawberries? Like, he was walking through a strawberry field with a bouquet of roses in his hands, on the way to give you said bouquet before falling to his knees to confess his undying love for you. Begging you for a chance to let him love you and hold you for as long as you would let him.

“Mind if I sit here?” A feminine voice rang through his ear on his left side. Eddie didn’t look up, he just nodded, mumbling what sounded like a yes as he stared down at the ice in the glass his hand was wrapped around tightly. “Thanks. Hi, I’ll have a Rum and Coke, please.”

That voice. Eddie knew that voice, he had listened to it everyday for the last two months. Not to mention, he basically drooled over it a few hours prior at the concert.

He stopped, looking up to his left. His eyes widened as he saw you sitting on the barstool next to him. Live and in the flesh.

God, you looked perfect.

Your hair was still holding its curl perfectly while resting against your shoulders, your sparkly stage makeup had been removed from your face leaving a more natural look but, damn, you still looked drop dead gorgeous. Instead of the pale pink sparkly mini skirt and matching top you wore during the concert, you now had the same baggy jeans from the meet and greet and a sweatshirt with your name on it. Wearing your own merchandise, huh? Damn, that’s hot.

You smiled as Mark slid the drink your way, leaving you with a flirty wink. “This one’s on the house, princess,” Mark said and Eddie shot him a glare. 

“Oh, why, thank you.” You replied, grabbing the glass in your hand. You brought it to your lips and smiled, sipping on the drink slowly. You glanced at Eddie, nodding at him with that adorable smile of yours. Fuck. “Hi, uh… Eddie, right?” You asked, remembering him all too well from your Meet and Greet earlier in the night. And, I mean, how could you forget him? Not many others showed up to your show with a Metallica shirt, ripped jeans and chains.

Not many people showed up like that but, damn, did you love it.

“Yeah, uh, hi. Uh, yeah, that’s me… Eddie,” he replied, nodding as he set his empty glass down on the bar, releasing his grip from it. “You, uh, remembered my name?” He asked, turning his body towards you slightly in the bar stool.

You smiled, nodding your head before sipping on your drink. “It's a little hard not to remember the name of my biggest fan.” You murmured, setting your drink down on the bar. “How was the show?”

“It was amazing, really good, actually. You always seem to kill it on stage…” Eddie said softly, taking in your appearance yet again. He just couldn't believe you were here in the Hideout and sitting right next to him. He was so scared that he was going to embarrass himself in front of you and ruin any chance he may have with you. Because, he totally believes he has a chance with you, yeah. “What, uh, what are you doing here? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m really glad you’re here and sitting next to me but… I kind of figured you’d be on a tour bus driving as far away from Hawkins as possible right now. You know, getting ready for the next concert of your tour.” He rambled on, stopping at the end to take a breath.

You giggled softly, turning your body towards him. Your left elbow rested on the bar, your chin resting on your palm as a smile appeared on your face. “Why, thank you. I already said it once but, thank you for coming to my show tonight, it means alot. And, I don’t know; I don’t have another show for a couple days so I decided to stay in town for a bit… is that not a good idea? Is it not too fun here in Hawkins?” Your right hand reached for your drink, taking a couple sips as Eddie shrugged.

“Hawkins really isn’t that fun,” he admitted, smiling at the way you gave your full attention to him. Fuck. “But, I don’t know, with a gorgeous girl like you floating around… it might get better.” He smiled, leaning a little closer to you. You blushed softly, smiling at him. You finished your drink and set the glass on the bar. 

“Yeah? Is that so?” You asked, looking at Eddie again. You were able to actually take your time looking at him now, unlike earlier. Pretty brown doe eyes, beautiful yet nervous smile, long and shaggy curls that fell into his face a bit until he repositioned his head. 

“Absolutely. You might make it worth staying here,” he nodded. You smiled again, looking up at Mark as he came over towards you two, asking about drinks. 

“Yeah, I’ll take another Rum and Coke. And a drink here for my friend, Eddie, as well please.” Mark nodded at your words before walking off to make you and Eddie both another drink.  

“Woah, you don’t need to buy me a drink, princess. I’ll survive.”

“Actually, I do. Consider it a birthday gift,” you smiled, looking at Eddie with that stupid perfect grin on your face. “Speaking of, how was your birthday?” You asked, “I’ll have to admit, I’m still feeling slightly honored that you decided to spend your birthday with me.” 

“You already gave me a birthday gift today,” he argued, referring to the solo picture of the two of you from earlier. “But, my birthday was perfect. Actually, I didn’t think it could get better but, somehow, with you next to me… it’s definitely going to go down in history as the best birthday I’ve ever had.” Eddie replied, smiling widely at you. “Not everyday you get to spend your day with your favorite popstar, you know?”

“Oh, I’m your favorite popstar, huh?” You giggled, leaning closer to him. Fuck, that giggle. 

“Well, you’re definitely up there on my list.” Eddie smiled, a chuckle escaping his lips. Mark walked back over and set the drinks down on the bar before he walked away again. You both reached for your glasses, taking them in your hands. 

“Well,” you said, raising your glass. “Happy birthday, Eddie. And, cheers to many more for you.” You and Eddie clinked your glasses together before taking a sip out of them. 

“Thank you,” he replied, nodding. “Make it a note to come to Hawkins on my birthday every year?” He teased. 

“I'll see what I can do,” you responded with a flirty wink.

“You better,” Eddie replied with a goofy smile. You sipped on your drink more, smiling as you looked around the small bar.

“This place is cool,” you commented, looking back at Eddie. “And, you hate Hawkins?” He smiled.

“Not that I hate Hawkins,” he said softly. “More so that it’s a little… boring. Not much really happens here.” He added, shrugging. He watched you with a smile on his face as you continued to look around the bar, your eyes catching the stage in the corner.

“Is that a stage?” You asked, motioning towards the corner as you sipped on your drink. Eddie’s gaze followed your and he nodded, smiling as he took another sip of his drink.

“Oh, yeah! Tons of local bands play there every week, including mine. We play here every Tuesday night.”

“Woah, you're in a band?” You asked, suddenly a bit more interested in the boy sitting next to you. 

“Yeah,” he smiled, blushing slightly as you took more interest in him. “It’s, uh, it’s called Corroded Coffin; we play some more heavy metal sounds. I’m a guitarist and lead singer in it…” Eddied replied, nodding at you.

“Corroded Coffin, huh? Sounds cool,” you giggled, finishing your drink. You set the empty glass on the bar and looked at him, “heavy metal, huh? What makes me stand out so much that you listen to my silly little pop music then?” 

Eddie chuckled nervously, finishing his drink as well. “Well, you’re very pretty, you have an amazing voice and I do have a soft spot in my heart for pop music.” He replied, setting his empty glass down next to yours. “Guilty pleasure music, I guess you can say…”

“Well, I’m honored to be part of your guilty pleasure music.” You smiled, looking at him. “Oh, and I’d absolutely love to see and hear some Corroded Coffin songs, if you’ll show me, that is. I actually do enjoy listening to a heavier metal sound from time to time.” Eddie blushed, looking at you shocked.

“You listen to heavy metal?”

“Yeah,” you giggled. “It’s funny, I make pop music but I tend to not listen to that in my free time, actually.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly as he learned more about you. “Huh. It appears there is a lot that I don’t know about you, pop princess.”

“Yeah, I get that alot,” you nodded. “So, you play guitar, huh? That’s a skill I wish I had, I’ve been pushing myself to learn but, I just have very little motivation.” You admitted softly.

“I could teach you,” Eddie suggested, looking at you with a goofy smile. “If you want me to, at least…” 

“I think I would love that, Eddie,” you giggled, looking at him. 

He smiled at your giggle, looking at you. “You’re really pretty,” he said softly, looking at you. You blushed, smiling softly.

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know that Mr. Metalhead?” You replied, causing Eddie’s cheek to turn a slight shade of pink.

And with that you were both leaning closer to each other, eyes glancing at each other’s lips as you moved closer and closer together. Time stopped. Eddie’s ears were ringing and he felt like he was vibrating. You were so close to him, so close. He could see the small freckles on your cheeks, wanting to connect them all like little constellations. He could see the tiny baby hairs that didn’t want to stay down no matter how much hairspray you used, wanting to push them back and play with them gently. He could see the small scar that sat on your forehead from when you face planted on stage one night. He could see everything, and you were so beautiful. 

You smiled your little smile, tilting your head to the side as your lips pressed against his softly. Eddie sighed, the feeling of your lips against his enough to make him weak in the knees. He moved his lips against yours, kissing you back softly as his hand moved to the side of your face. He held your cheek, caressing it even, as his thumb ran along the smooth skin. Your hand moved towards his face as well, pulling him closer during the kiss.

He suddenly forgot where he was. All the noises of the bar around; the clinking of glasses, the yelling of partiers, the sounds of men hitting on women… it was all gone. There was no one else in the room. 

It was just you and him. The way it was meant to be—the way he wanted it. The way he dreamed it would be for the rest of his life; you and him against the world. 

Eddie felt like he was dreaming. Or, he died and went to heaven. He wasn’t entirely sure which was true but he was counting his blessings, and mentally thanking Jeff for those meet and greet tickets because; fuck. That gift just keeps on giving. Literally. 

He wasn’t sure how, he wasn’t sure why, but, he didn’t fucking care about the logistics of all of this.

All Eddie cared about was the feeling of your lips on his neck as he struggled with his keys to the front door of the trailer. That, and the fact that his uncle wasn’t home, otherwise this would be awkward.

He finally got his key in the lock and turned it, pushing the door open. He stumbled inside the trailer, pulling you with him. He kicked the front door shut behind you both and led you to his bedroom, pinning you up against the back of the door. 

“God, you’re so hot,” he mumbled, lips crashing into yours desperately. Your arms moved to wrap around his neck, pulling him in closer as you kissed him back, your lips moving against his with the same desperate want and need. 

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” you replied, fingers moving through his curls gently. He groaned, his hands finding your hips. He pushed his hips against yours, grinding against you slightly. A slight moan left your lips as your eyes closed and your head fell back against the door. “Fuck, Eddie,” you sighed.

He moaned a little too loudly when he heard you say his name like that, a literal pitiful moan left his mouth as he kissed down your jawline to your neck. He attacked your neck with kisses and nips, his hips still moving against yours with a slow rhythm. “God, princess, you sound so good saying my name like that,” he mumbled, biting down on your neck a little rougher. ”You don’t know how bad I want you.”

You whined at the bite, eyes opening to look down at Eddie. Your fingers ran through his curls, tugging them gently before you looked around his room. Your eyes caught sight of the posters of you on his wall and an accidental laugh left your lips. Eddie pulled away from your neck and looked at you, raising an eyebrow.

“What?” He asked, looking at you. “Did I do something wrong?” He continued, hoping you didn’t think this was a huge mistake. 

You giggled a little, shaking your head. “No, sorry, just, you have posters of me on your wall?” You asked, glancing back at the posters that sat above his bed and above his record player. 

Eddie’s cheeks turned a bright red as he turned his head, glancing at the two posters you were talking about. “Look, I just, they came with your vinyl!” He replied, trying to prove a point. “What else am I supposed to do? Let them sit in my closet and collect dust, I mean, look at you!” He added, frantically hoping this wasn’t a weird deal breaker for you. 

Your right hand moved to his face, caressing his cheek gently before you turned his head back to face you. “You’re cute, you know that?” You asked, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his lips. “A perfect little fanboy,” you added, kissing his lips again. ”My fanboy.”

“Fuck, yeah,” he nodded, looking at you. “Definitely your fanboy,” he replied, kissing you again. “I wanna make you feel good, please, can I?” He asked, pulling you towards his bed. You nodded, following after him. 

He tugged your sweatshirt up, pulling it up and over your body before discarding it on the floor. He laid you back on his bed gently and crawled on top of you, kissing your lips softly. Slowly, he kissed down your neck and over your chest. Eddie left soft and sweet kisses between your breasts and down your stomach, stopping right above the button of your jeans. He looked up at you, brown eyes glowing and waiting for you to give him the okay to continue.

When you nodded your head, he undid your baggy jeans. You lifted your hips gently, allowing him easier access. He pulled your jeans off gently, tossing them on the floor with your sweatshirt. He sat up on his knees, looking down at you. 

His eyes roamed over your body, committing everything to memory as you laid in front of him in your bra and panties. 

“You’re so beautiful, princess. Fuck,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. “Can I taste you? Please? Been dying to know what you taste like,” he begged, looking at you. 

“Fucking hell, yes. Please,” you replied, watching him pull your panties down. He left soft and sweet kisses on your inner thighs, slowly pushing your legs apart. He looked up at you as he licked a small stripe up your folds, moaning to himself as he tasted you. 

Fuck. You tasted better than he had imagined. So sweet, so… perfect. 

He licked up your folds again, his hands moving under your thighs as he pulled you closer to him, thighs now resting on his shoulders. You moaned softly, fingers tangling into his hair as you watched him. He left soft kisses on your clit, looking up at you as he did so. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you mumbled, tugging on his curls gently. “You’re good with your mouth, ah,” you added. He groaned at your words, tongue flicking over your clit gently before he sucked on it. His right hand moved closer to your core, his pointer finger and middle fingers teasing your entrance before slowly pushing into you. You gasped at the feeling, back arching up slightly as he slowly began pumping his fingers in and out of you while simultaneously sucking on your clit. “Jesus, Eds,” you whined, pulling on his hair tighter. He groaned against you, speeding up his movements with his fingers. 

“God,” he sighed, looking up at you. “God, you’re so… hot. You’re just so fucking hot. So fucking beautiful, you sound so pretty when you’re saying my name like that. You look so pretty like that. You’re just so… perfect.” Eddie said, leaving more kisses on your inner thighs before he bit down gently, leaving a small mark on your inner thigh. 

You moaned, grinding against his fingers. “Fuck, you gonna mark me up as yours?” You asked softly, watching him leave more bite marks across your thighs. He moaned against your thigh, his hips thrusting against the bed gently at the thought. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, nodding up at you. “Gonna make you all mine.” He bit down on the plush skin of your thigh again, his fingers curling inside of you as he pumped them. He kissed back up your body, face now inches from yours as he slowed the movements of his fingers. He pumped them slowly, curling them with each pump as he kissed your lips gently.

You kissed him back, moaning as you tasted yourself on his lips. Your fingernails ran down his back gently, scratching at the fabric of his shirt. “Eddie–ah,” you whined, moving your hips up again, grinding against his fingers as he curled them perfectly, hitting your sweet spot. “Gonna, ah, shit, gonna cum,” you moaned, kissing his lips a bit rougher than before. 

“Fuck, princess, cum for me,” Eddie groaned against your lips, speeding up his movements again. You whined his name, head falling back on his pillows as you clenched around his fingers, releasing your juices onto them with a loud moan. He pumped his fingers a bit more, helping you ride out your high as you fell back on his bed. You caught your breath, looking up at him with a sigh. He pulled his fingers out of you slowly, bringing them to his mouth. He sucked his fingers clean of your juices and moaned, looking at you. “Good god, baby, you taste amazing.” 

You blushed and looked up at him, “yeah?” You asked, smiling slightly. You sat up carefully and kissed his lips. “I bet you taste even better,” you mumbled, reaching for his shirt. You pulled it up and over his head, throwing it to the floor. You pushed him back onto his bed and straddled his lap, kissing his lips desperately. Eddie kissed you with the same desperation as his hands moved behind your back, undoing your bra gently. You slid your bra down your body, throwing it to the ground. 

You left soft and sweet kisses down his neck, chest and stomach. When you reached his jeans you left soft kisses on his erection through the denim, looking up at him as you did. You left a flirty wink before you ran your nails along his lower stomach, running over the soft hair that sat directly above his waistband.

Eddie’s breath hitched as he watched you, groaning at the sight in front of him. He had dreamed of this moment more times than he could count but never in a million years did he think it would actually happen. Like, really? Were you real right now? Or was he passed out at the bar in the Hideout?

“Can I take these off?” You asked, looking up at him as you played with the hem of his jeans. He nodded, pushing your hair out of your face gently before running his fingers through it.

“Please, princess,” he said, looking down at you. You undid his jeans quickly, pulling them down. He moved his hips up, making it easier for you to free him from his denim pants. You tossed them behind you and they landed on the floor with a thud. Your nails ran up his thighs and over the fabric of his boxers before you slid your fingers under the waistband, tugging them down gently. 

As you tugged his boxers down, his rock hard erection sprung free, hitting his stomach. You looked up at him, sinking down between his thighs.

“Well, you’re so pretty,” you mumbled, hand wrapping around the base of his cock gently. “So pretty and so big,” you commented, pumping him in your hand slowly. “Not sure if I can take all of this in my mouth but, I really want to try,” you mumbled, looking up at him as you kissed the tip of his cock. “That okay?” You asked, your tongue flicking over the slit on his tip.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie moaned, watching you. “More than okay, fuck. Please, do anything you want to me, I’m yours.” You smiled, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock gently. You sucked on it slowly, moaning around him. Eddie whined, his hand running through your hair again as he gathered it gently at the back of your head. 

You moved your head down slowly, taking more of him in your mouth. He watched you, pulling your hair gently as you moved to take more and more of him in your mouth. You made it down about three quarters of the way before you gagged slightly, pulling back from him. You pumped him in your hand and looked up at him. “You’re so big, I’m not sure I can do it,” you said softly, moving back to suck on the tip of his cock gently.

“Fuck, princess, that’s okay,” he groaned, tugging on your locks again. You bobbed your head slightly, taking more of him in your mouth. 

Eddie couldn’t believe what he was seeing; this was definitely everything he imagined and more. Sure, he’d pictured you sucking his cock, but he never thought it would be too big for you to take fully in your mouth. God, you were somehow boosting his ego without even trying. Your sweet eyes looked up at him as you struggled to take him all in his mouth. Every so often you’d gag around him and pull back before going back to what you were doing. 

He moaned every time, watching you proceed to go deeper and deeper for him. He pulled your hair tighter and closed his eyes, groaning as you got him all in your mouth. You moaned around him, looking up at him. He bucked his hips up, causing you to gag loudly but stay where you were, trying to fight through the pain and uncomfort.

“Fuck, baby girl, keep doing that and I’m gonna cum.” Eddie groaned as you went back to bobbing your head slightly. He moaned your name as you took all of him in your mouth again, and he thrusted his hips up against your mouth. He tugged your hair so tightly as he panted, releasing ropes of cum into your mouth. You groaned around him, swallowing it all before you pulled away, leaving a soft kiss on the tip of his cock again. “Holy shit,” Eddie mumbled, shaking his head. “That was better than I had ever imagined.”

“You’ve… imagined that?” You asked, tilting your head slightly as you sat back on your knees on his bed. Eddie sat up, his face turning a bright red color yet again. Damn, he was really out here exposing himself to you, wasn’t he?

“I, uh,” he stuttered, looking around the room. “…no?” He said, sounding more like a question than a statement. “No, because that would be weird and not right.” He mumbled, a giggle escaped your lips as you moved closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“You sure?” You asked, tilting your head as you looked at him. “Because, I think you’re lying.” You mumbled, fingers trailing small circles on his chest. 

“And if I am?” He asked softly, hands moving to hold your hips. 

“I think that’s really hot…” you replied, leaning in to kiss his lips softly. He groaned against your lips and kissed you back, pulling you closer to him. He laid you back on the bed softly and hovered over you, looking down at you. 

“You are just so incredibly beautiful,” he mumbled, leaving soft kisses on your neck. “I still cannot believe this is happening,” he added, his right hand roaming over your body. He moved up to your chest, squeezing your left breast gently as he continued to kiss down your neck and upper chest. He kissed over right breast, tongue flicking over your hardened nipple. You moaned softly, hands tangling into his hair gently. 

“You’re so sweet,” you purred, tugging on Eddie’s locks. He moaned at the feeling and wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking on it softly. You gasped at the feeling, head falling back on the pillows. “Fucking shit, Eddie, I think I’m going to need you to fuck me.” You mumbled, Eddie’s head shot up, looking down at you.

“Yeah?” He asked, sitting up gently. “You want me to fuck you, princess?” He asked, moving towards his bedside table for a condom.

“Want you to fuck me,” you mumbled, running your fingers over his bicep gently as he fished for a condom. “Need you to fuck me,” you added, nails scratching up and down his muscular biceps more.

“Fuck,” he groaned, opening the condom. He stood up, pumping his cock a few times before he slid the condom on slowly. He stood at the edge of his bed and grabbed your thighs gently, pulling you towards him. You squealed softly, looking up at him as he lifted your thighs, moving closer towards you. He teased your folds with the tip of his cock before he pushed in slowly, moaning as he felt you around him. 

You gasped at the feeling, looking up at him. “Eddie,” you whined softly, eyes closing slightly.

“Fuck, princess,” he groaned, filling you up completely. He stayed still for a second before he started to thrust in and out of you slowly. He pulled you closer and your legs wrapped around his body, holding him against you. “Shit,” he mumbled, hands moving down to your breasts. He squeezed your breasts, massaging them as he continued to thrust in and out of you. “So pretty like this, fuck. You look so pretty taking my cock,” he groaned out, leaning down to kiss your lips.

You groaned and kissed him back, hands wrapping around his wrists as he continued to thrust. He picked up the pace a bit, thrusting faster and deeper as he squeezed your breasts harder. 

“Ah, fuck, Eddie, shit,” you moaned, moving your hips against him as he thrusted. “Shit, fuck, you’re so big. You fill me up, god, fuck, made just for me, my perfect fanboy,” you whined, lips moving against his with desperate kisses. He moaned louder, thrusting deeper.

“Fuck, yeah. I’m your fanboy,” he groaned, biting your bottom lip gently before he tugged on it. “You’re my popstar, favorite one ever. Taking my cock so good and sounding so pretty, fuck, your moans sound prettier than your music.”

Eddie released your breasts from his hands and moved his left hand down to where your bodies were connected, rubbing slow and tight circles on your clit. A loud moan escaped your lips as your back arched off the bed, looking up at him. “Eddie, shit,” you moaned, nails scratching down his biceps again. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Yeah?” He asked, thrusting faster. “Gonna cum for me, pretty girl? Gonna cum on my cock? Gonna cum on your favorite fanboy’s cock?”

You moaned, nodding your head repeatedly. “Yeah, fuck, gonna cum on my favorite fanboy’s cock,” you said blissed out as you felt your high come closer. Eddie made one more deep thrust and felt you clench around him. Your head fell back on the bed as you released around his cock, whining at the feeling. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you muttered.

“God, fuck, you’re so pretty baby,” Eddie groaned, “I’m gonna cum, fuck.”

“Yeah? Fuck, cum for me pretty boy,” you sighed, feeling completely blissed out. “My perfect little fanboy.” Your legs tightened around his waist, holding him close to you and inside of you. Eddie moaned at your words, his cock twitching inside of you as he released into the condom. He made a couple more thrusts before he groaned. Your legs fell back down and Eddie pulled out of you, helping you steady yourself so you didn’t fall off the bed.

He placed his hands out for you to grab and helped you sit up on the bed gently. You smiled slightly and sat on the edge of his bed, looking at him. “You’re so perfect,” he sighed, leaning in to give you a soft kiss on the lips. He reached for your panties and his Metallica shirt, handing them to you before he slid the condom off, tying it up before throwing it in the trash. You accepted the shirt and panties, sliding them both on before falling back on his bed. He chuckled slightly, looking at you. “You okay, princess?” He asked, you looked at him and nodded.

“Yeah, you just took a lot out of me, fuck, you’re amazing,” you said, smiling at him. “And, you’re coming to bed with me… right?” You asked, he shuffled towards you and smiled.

“As if that’s even a question.” He grabbed his boxers from the floor and slid them on before laying down in the bed, wrapping his arm around your waist gently.

You moved towards him, a smile on your face as you rested your head on his chest. He left a soft kiss on the top of your head and hummed, closing his eyes.

You giggled softly and he opened his eyes, looking down at you. “What?” He asked, pushing your hair out of your face gently with his finger tips. 

“A poster on the ceiling? Really?” You giggled more, pointing to the poster of you on the ceiling. He blushed softly, groaning as he covered his face with his hand. 

“Please don’t start with me,” he mumbled. 

“My perfect little fan boy, huh?” You teased and he turned bright red. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” He sighed, leaving another soft kiss on your forehead. 

“Oh, I will.” You said, snuggling into his side more as you closed your eyes again. 

Eddie held you close to his body and smiled a little. Tonight was different for him, he didn’t need to listen to your music to help him sleep. Instead, he was able to hold you in bed, listening to your breathing and soft snores.

Yeah, this was way better. 

Eddie woke up the next morning to some knocks on the front door of the trailer. He grunted, rolling out of bed gently. He found a dirty shirt from the floor and slid it on over his body. He stretched, groaning as the knocking continued. He looked at your sleeping form and smiled, remembering everything that happened the night before. He leaned down, leaving a soft kiss on your head before he shifted towards the front door of the trailer.

He glanced around and shrugged when he didn’t see his uncle, huh, must be working a double. 

Eddie opened the front door, Gareth and Jeff standing on the other side. “What?” Eddie groaned, rubbing his face as he leaned against the door.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Gareth teased, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We’re just checking in on you,” Jeff added, shooting Gareth a glare.

“I’m fine, why?” Eddie yawned, looking at his friends with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, how were we supposed to know? You left us at the Hideout and just disappeared.” Gareth shot back with a snark tone.

“Damn, chill,” Jeff said, looking at Gareth. “It was his birthday, he probably got wasted and came home to sleep it off.”

Eddie went to open his mouth and reply but he was cut off by you. You called his name and walked towards him in your panties and his Metallica shirt from the night before.

“Eddie,” you whined, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You left me alone in bed,” you added, leaving a soft kiss on his neck.

“Sorry, princess,” Eddie said with a small smirk, arm wrapping around your shoulder gently. 

“It’s okay,” you shrugged, looking up at his friends. You remembered Gareth but didn’t know his other friend. “Oh!” You smiled, nodding at his friends. “Gareth, right? And, I’m so sorry, but I don't believe we have met yet,” you added, looking at Jeff.

“Gareth, yeah,” Gareth replied, staring at you.

“Jeff,” Jeff said, sticking his hand out for you to shake. You smiled and shook it gently.

“Nice to meet you, Jeff. Good to see you again, Gareth.” You smiled at the boys before turning your attention back to Eddie. “Come back to bed when you can, yeah?” You asked, placing a soft kiss on his lips before you turned back towards his room. 

Gareth and Jeff both stared at you as you walked away, retreating back to Eddie’s room with a slight shake of your hips. 

“There’s no fucking way.” Gareth said, looking back at Eddie. “Seriously?! You took her home?!” He questioned, the sound of jealousy evident in his voice. 

“Yeah, I did; so what?” Eddie smirked, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the door. 

“Fuck,” Jeff muttered, still looking in the direction you went.

“Oh,” Eddie mumbled, remembering something. “Thanks for those VIP meet and greet tickets, Jeffy boy.” Eddie smirked. “Now, I must be going, have a good day.” 

Gareth and Jeff just shared a look as Eddie closed the door in their faces, making his way back to his room to be with you again.

eddie tag list: wanna be added? comment + let me know! @keeryhours ; @the-witty-pen-name ; @swiftieintheupsidedown ; @hawkinsmafia ; @earthlyangelbby ; @jasminelafleur

[carolinaclouds]

Now that cyle IS our product engineering team, I can finally put my feet up, and relax.