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daydreamgoddess14 · 2 hours ago

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this was so sweet!! 💕

She Looks Nothing Like Me

Bucky Barnes x Curvy!Fem!Reader

Summary: You get insecure when you find out you’re the complete opposite of Bucky’s usual type.

Warnings: discussions of body image issues, insecure reader, Bucky’s ex being a much slimmer figure than reader, a little angst but with reassurance

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: title and inspiration from Sabrina Carpenter’s song Opposite. Banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

You weren’t snooping, at least not intentionally.

The picture practically fell into your lap while you were dusting the shelves of Bucky’s bookcase. An almost pristine photograph slotted between the pages of a book he hasn’t picked up in ages unlocks a vault to your deepest insecurities.

The woman staring back at you is effortlessly angelic, a type of beauty men would have gone to war for back when Bucky himself had been drafted.

There is an air of sophistication in the way she carries herself, even in the still image. As if she knows precisely how alluring she is and uses that to bend the world to her whim. High cheekbones, sparkling doe eyes, and cutting a slim figure as she clings onto your handsome, strapping Bucky makes them a picture perfect couple.

But more than how beautiful Bucky’s ex-girlfriend is, what really makes your stomach contort with self consciousness is how you look nothing like her.

You must not be Bucky’s usual type.

Before you can stop the anxious thoughts, your brain goes into overdrive, spiralling with a million different notions about how you could never match her beauty, and how Bucky would surely be disappointed that he no longer falls asleep beside someone whose body wouldn’t be out of place in a lingerie catalog.

Is this Bucky’s type? Does he look at you and see all the ways you aren’t her? Did he settle for you, knowing that because he is completely out of your league, you would never dream of leaving him? Are you the safe option?

Perhaps in the quiet moments, he thinks about what he lost, what he could have instead.

You knew Bucky dated other women before you, you’re not naive. And he’s a very attractive man so of course he would’ve had his pick of stunning women who had probably thrown themselves at the eligible bachelor.

But it’s a different prospect when you’re confronted with the hard evidence that they’re breathtakingly beautiful, thin as a toothpick and absolutely nothing like you in any way.

The realisation settles like an anvil in your stomach: he can do so much better than you.

Bucky notices that very afternoon something is bothering you. He’s nothing if not observant. Decades of war, survival and fighting to remember his own self sharpened him into someone with the ability to read between the lines and pick up on slight changes in demeanour.

It is also you, the love of his life, the person he has studied every countenance of, so it is very apparent in the way you avoid his gaze, how your smile doesn’t quite meet your exquisite eyes and how your touches aren’t as certain, that your mind is distracted.

Bucky just isn’t sure why exactly. Which makes his stomach buzz with anxiety.

What has he done wrong?

But he’s learnt from you that a relationship consists of trust and healthy communication, so he decides to simply ask.

There’s a mixture of guilt and uncertainty in your eyes as the question hangs in the air between you. He rushes to hold you in his arms, to say that he didn’t mean anything by it, but you hold your hand to his chest and keep him at arms length.

“You keep a picture of your ex in one of the hard cover books in your study.” It sounds more like a question than a statement. His chest constricts as he watches your eyes fill with doubt and thick tears.

You hand over a polaroid of Bucky and the ex girlfriend he dated before you. He can barely look at it, not because of any lingering feelings for the woman, but because he’s now putting the puzzle pieces together of why you’ve been so distant all day.

She’s in the past. He has his future standing right in front of him.

“Darling it’s not that I keep it, I just completely forgot it was there. I don’t make it a habit of holding onto pictures of someone who means absolutely nothing to me.” As a gesture to show he truly means the declaration, he rips the picture in two, and then two again, tossing the segments straight in the rubbish. “If you think I’m thinking about her, you’re wrong. I’m so fucking glad things didn’t work out with her, because if it had, I’d be stuck in a relationship with a person I didn’t truly love and I never would have met you, the love of my life.”

“She looks nothing like me, Buck. Are all your exes skinny and supermodel stunning? Am I even your type? Or just someone you settled with?” The crack in your voice breaks his heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste a second. He steps toward you, hands coming up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away the tears trickling over the apples of your cheeks.

His eyes are shiny with his own tears, jaw tight, heartbreak etched into the worried furrow in his brow, searching for something in your eyes as an indication you’re not about to disappear on him.

“Don’t say that.” His voice pleads, practically begs. “You’re exactly my type, in every way imaginable. There has never been a person I find more desirable than you, not only in how your beautiful body fits so perfectly with mine, but how your mind matches my wit, that you can make me laugh even at my lowest. How after one hundred and ten years I finally feel like I’m safe and found my home.”

Home. Once Bucky says the word, it lands so heavy in your lungs that for a moment you forget to breathe.

He places a soft kiss to your forehead as a sob lodges in the back of your throat. You try to speak but nothing coherent forms on the tip of your tongue.

“You’re my standard of beauty. You’re the most beautiful person in the world to me. You’re the one I dream about at night, the one I rush home to when I’ve been away on missions because I’ve been craving you, the one whose pictures I get off to when we’ve spent more than a night away from each other.” Every word is punctuated with such effort, each syllable stitched with sincerity that you can’t help but believe he is telling the truth.

You pull him down to you, a tight embrace in lieu of having the words to tell him what this reassurance truly means to you. Bucky doesn't resist, melting into your embrace, face finding the curve of your neck, holding you as if you’re his anchor in a storm.

When he speaks his voice is low, steady, like he needs you to hear this one final statement loud and clear. “I love your body, and I’m so sorry if I ever placed any doubt in your mind, if I ever made you feel like I wanted anyone else. I don’t. You are not a compromise, my love, you are the damn dream.”

You feel his soft, plump lips kiss your neck, then your jaw, finally the corner of your mouth.

His eyes study you for a second, ensuring his words have spread a soothing balm over every ache your soul was feeling.

“I love you.” You whisper, finally finding your voice again before placing a devoted kiss to the warm lips of the man who has made you feel truly seen in ways no one else has. The kiss deepens slowly, naturally, like your bodies already know how to speak for you.

“I love you too, so much my darling.” You stay wrapped up in each other for the rest of the night, Bucky intent to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt just how in love with your body he is.

To show you’re not someone he settled for.

Instead, you’re the one he was waiting his whole life to find.

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daydreamgoddess14 · 2 hours ago

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phewww this was brilliant! I've added the masterpost to my reading list!!

The Suit Problem™

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: someone commented, and i quote verbatim "I can't imagine Bucky in a suit without thinking of him flexing & accidentally ripping his sleeves. Just to share that imagery."

Warnings/ tags: MATURE THEMES, Original Characters galore, political tension with feelings, lots of tension, suit kink (very heavily implied), emotional restraint and physical damage, making out in federally inappropriate spaces (the bathroom), clothed intimacy

Word count: 3k

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

The First Time It Happens

It’s a standard afternoon hearing – oversight – dry, procedural, and criminally under-attended. Some poor GAO witness is walking the committee through a line-by-line breakdown of federal allocations for energy storage grants. You’re barely following. The numbers aren’t the problem, the problem (as is with many other things in life these days) is Bucky Barnes.

Specifically, Bucky in the third chair diagonally to your left, rolling back his shoulders and shrugging his jacket up higher on his frame like it isn’t already fighting for its dear life. Like the seam at his right shoulder isn’t straining with every millimetre he moves.

You’ve seen the shrug before. He does it when he’s bored. When he’s too warm. When he knows you’re watching.

It makes him look younger – unruly and a little too charming for your peace of mind.

Normally, you can take it.

But then –

riiip

A soft tear. Audible, but just barely. Right at the seam where his sleeve meets his right shoulder. Not the metal arm.

The flesh one.

You don’t mean to look. But you do, reflexively.

The fabric’s split open like a bad alibi, pulled too tight over muscle he has no business keeping in that good of a shape. The shirt underneath clings and you can see the edge of his bicep where the cotton’s pulled taut.

You freeze.

Then you blush.

And then you realize you’re blushing, and you nearly drop your pen.

He looks over. Of course he looks over.

He knows.

And his mouth quirks up like he’s won something, and perhaps he has.

You tear your eyes away and pretend to reread your notes, except that your entire mental slate has just been wiped clean by the sight of one extremely illegal shoulder doing irreversible things to navy wool blend.

Mills, three chairs behind you, texts the group slack in real time:

He BROKE THE JACKET. That’s the REAL oversight. my kinsey score will never recover

You press your lips together. You do not react. This is a federal setting.

But somewhere in the back of your head – right between this is wildly inappropriate and I did not know this was a thing for me – there’s a voice whispering: not even the metal arm. Jesus Christ.

In the Hallway Immediately After

You catch him just outside the hearing room. You're clutching your notes to your chest – mostly to hide the fact that your hands are shaking slightly. From frustration, obviously.

“Barnes,” you call out.

He turns, slow. Too slow. His suit jacket’s slung over one shoulder now, exposing the ripped seam like it’s a war medal.

You narrow your eyes. “Do you enjoy making my staff reconsider their sexuality during active committee meetings?”

He bites down on a smile. "It was an accident."

A pause.

Then – lower, silkier, “your staff, or you?”

You go still.

It’s not fair, the way he says it. Like he’s just asking a question and he isn’t the living embodiment of every problem you’ve ever sworn to ignore.

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t test me, Barnes.”

He smiles properly now – wolfish, pleased. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You take a step closer. That’s your first mistake because he smells like cedar and clean soap and faint Capitol dust, and he’s still doing that thing – head tilted slightly, mouth soft at the corners, like he knows exactly how close you are to either slapping him or kissing him.

“That’s a campaign funded jacket,” you say, voice low. “You keep destroying them like this and I’m going to have to file you under infrastructure damage.”

“I’ll expense it,” he says, deadpan. “Line item 22: legislative tension.”

You exhale sharply. “You know you’re not supposed to look like that in public. It's unbecoming of a Congressman.”

He leans in, just a little.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I’ll break the other seam too.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it and smiles.

“You’re impossible,” you say, weakly.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m not.”

He shrugs.

Again.

The sound that comes out of you isn’t quite verbal.

Somewhere behind you, a staffer coughs awkwardly.

You straighten up and smooth your blouse, all while pretending that your entire blood supply hasn’t migrated somewhere wildly inappropriate for federal property.

“I’m telling Mike to order you three new jackets,” you say, already turning to leave.

“Better make it four,” he calls after you. “Just in case I sit down too fast.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back, because you're smiling.

The Fitting

The tailor is a compact, fastidious man named Victor. He works out of a discreet Dupont Circle storefront and has measured no fewer than four Supreme Court justices and at least one war criminal. Nothing rattles him.

Enter Bucky Barnes.

You are only here because you know Victor personally. That, and because Mike flagged Bucky’s latest jacket incident with a single phrase in your shared calendar:

URGENT: Barnes needs congressional-grade tailoring before someone loses an eye.

Victor gestures for Bucky to step onto the platform. “Try lifting your arm.”

Bucky rolls his left shoulder back in a deceptively casual shrug. The fabric of his shirt pulls like it's being winched over a steel cable. You hear it before you see it – a subtle groan of resistance from the sleeve.

There’s a long, painful pause.

"Okay," you say slowly, eyes fixed on the fabric. "So that’s a no."

The tailor clears his throat. “We might need a reinforced seam or – pardon me – structural adjustments for… exceptional anatomy.”

You hum. “Exceptional anatomy. That’s generous.”

Bucky shoots you a look, half mortified, half amused. “You dragged me here.”

“Because you tore your third jacket in two months,” you say, very calmly. “You can’t keep walking into committee hearings looking like you lost a bar fight with your own sleeves.”

He mutters something about deadlifting and polyester. You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching his biceps test the limits of a very expensive shoulder seam.

“I could just wear the old black suit,” he offers.

You raise an eyebrow. “The one you ripped open lifting a box of printed memos?”

"...It was a heavy box."

You shake your head as you pace about the store. You’ve chosen to pace because you will not be hovering while Bucky shrugs in and out of suit jackets like a Calvin Klein fever dream.

Victor starts measuring. Professional, focused, barely blinking until he gets to Bucky’s shoulders.

Victor sighs. “Sir, I’m going to need you to relax your shoulders.”

Bucky grins. “They are relaxed.”

You do not look over.

You will not look over.

Behind you, Jenna – assigned to ‘observe and document’ this appointment – is standing by the sample books, typing into her phone like a woman possessed.

#suitwatch (active)

[Jenna]: she just said “exceptional anatomy” out loud. in public. to his face. [Micah]: this is a First Amendment violation and also the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard [Devon]: sleeves are a construct. arms are forever. [Mills]: he’s looking at her like he’d say yes to anything even the double-breasted one even charcoal pinstripes

Victor measures in silence, muttering every now and then things like “This cannot be standard”, and, as he loops the measuring tape around Bucky’s chest, “I’m going to need heavier thread for the buttons.”

Bucky glances at you through the mirror with a smirk. “Enjoying the show, Congresswoman?”

You cross your arms and lift your chin. “I’m imagining filing a workplace complaint.”

He grins wider. “About my arms?”

“No, about your attitude.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “though the arms are definitely a secondary violation.”

Victor drops his pen.

Victor retreats into the backrooms to retrieve a reinforced thread spool, muttering something in Italian that sounds less like measurements and more like final blessings, and you drop onto the edge of the leather bench to watch Bucky undo the last jacket with surgical precision and barely restrained biceps.

"Out of curiosity," you say, elbow on your knee, chin in hand, "how much can you bench?"

He glances over, mid-button, brows raised. "Why?"

You gesture vaguely at the battlefield of defeated suit samples around him. “Trying to figure out whether the problem is vanity sizing or the fact that your upper body mass violates OSHA standards.”

He pauses for a second to think. Then he shrugs one shoulder – very carefully, this time.

“Dunno. Probably a Hummer H1. Full bed. Loaded?”

You blink. “The military one?”

“Yeah.” He nods at you, expression infuriatingly mild. “Yeah. The old diesel kind. Not the electric one.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just press your lips together and mutter under your breath, “exceptional anatomy, my ass.”

Behind you, Jenna makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh or a quiet breakdown. You're not sure which.

Three weeks later…

The tailor’s delivery arrives at 10 am on the dot – three full suits, pressed and wrapped, with Victor’s signature scribbled on the invoice like he is issuing a personal challenge. Devon brings the garment bags to your office with a look that says I know everything and I’m telling the group chat the moment I leave this room.

You thank him, barely.

It’s sheer coincidence, of course, that the floor’s scheduled a major vote for the afternoon, the kind they put on banners and b-rolls. C-SPAN and Politico have already parked their crew outside the chamber. You yourself are already dressed for the day in a sharp navy suit, statement earrings, and subtle heels. You’ve been on camera twice this morning and will be again before the end of the day. You've barely had a chance to have your coffee.

And so it is just a function of practicality that Bucky Barnes shows up at your office just before noon with the sleeves of his day shirt rolled up and his tie stuffed in one pocket.

"Victor delivered?" he asks, already loosening the collar of his shirt as he toes the door shut behind him.

You gesture toward the rack. “Personally. Go with the charcoal pinstripes and try not to break it before the cameras roll.”

He unzips the garment bag and glances back at you. “Want me to change in here?”

“I don’t care where you change, Barnes,” you reply without looking up from your tablet, “as long as the jacket makes it through one vote without structural failure.”

He shrugs. “You staying?”

“I’ve got too much left to read," you say quietly, eyes still on the tablet, "and nowhere better to be.”

You keep your gaze fixed on the screen. You will not stare while he peels his shirt off like a man who has never once had to worry about being perceived.

You do not register the sound of buttons slipping free.

You do not notice the rustle of fabric, the stretch of muscle, the quiet exhale he lets out when the collar loosens.

The section header on your screen reads: Summary of proposed appropriations for FY26.

You’ve read the page four times. You would not be able to repeat its contents if your life depended on it.

He buttons the new shirt slowly, leisurely. You can hear it in the way he moves.

When he reaches for the jacket, you’re already standing.

You don’t say anything as you take the jacket down from its hanger, brush the shoulders once, and hold it out for him.

He pauses in front of you but doesn’t reach for it.

“I can do it,” he says softly.

You shake your head. “Let me.”

He turns without comment.

You slide the jacket up over his arms, settling the weight of it across his back. It fits like it’s supposed to – no pinching at the shoulders, no strain at the seams. You smooth it over his frame and let your hands linger just long enough to tell yourself you're just feeling for tension along the stitching.

You circle in front of him, new tie in hand. You adjust his lapels and button the top button of his shirt yourself, slow and firm.

Before you can speak, he asks – mildly, almost carelessly, but not really at all, “you gonna tie it for me?”

You respond by sliding the fabric around his neck, slow and deliberate, letting it settle against the collar of his new shirt. It fits – too well. Clean lines, pressed seams, nowhere to hide.

“You could do this yourself,” you murmur.

“Sure,” he replies. “But your approval ratings are better.”

You don’t rise to it, not out loud.

Instead, you start the knot.

Not fast. Not businesslike. You take your time, fingers grazing the hollow of his throat, the soft scrape of new cotton against your knuckles. He exhales – shallow, quiet, controlled.

You don’t finish it.

Just as the final loop would tighten, you let the tie fall slack in your hands and take a step back.

His brow lifts, amused. “Giving up?”

“Letting you contribute,” you say, tone dry. “God forbid you show up to a vote half-dressed again.”

He chuckles low in his chest, but finishes the knot with a flick of his wrist. His eyes don’t leave you. “You like the charcoal?”

You brush a speck of lint from his lapel. Let your palm settle there for a beat too long.

“Victor’s best work,” you murmur. “If you break this one, I’m filing that workplace hazard report.”

“I’d like to see that paperwork,” he says, leaning in. His voice drops. “Will it mention how close you’re standing?”

You tilt your head. “Only if you wrinkle the jacket.”

He smiles – sharp, wrecked, beautiful. You ignore it.

"You’re ready,” you murmur. It’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out feeling like a dare.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice lower than it needs to be.

You straighten the line of his collar and let your thumb graze the base of his throat like you have the right.

“Don’t ruin it until after,” you say, adjusting the knot at his throat like it’s the only thing you still have control over.

He leans in. “That a dress code policy or a personal plea?”

You say nothing and ignore the way your face heats up.

He lets the silence stretch, inordantely pleased.

Then, while adjusting his cuffs and grinning. "Either way, I'll try not to disappoint."

You step back. “You have five minutes to make it to chamber,” you say, tone even. “Go be legislative.”

He nods, heading for the door. But he does glance back once, shameless. "I'll do my best."

And then he's gone, leaving you standing in your office, adjusting the cuffs of your own jacket lilke it might keep your hands from shaking.

~*~

Recess is called five minutes into the session. Some kind of procedural delay – something wrong with the roll call, something about a faulty vote counter.

You’re not listening.

You’re watching him.

Bucky hasn’t looked away since you adjusted his jacket fifteen minutes ago. Since your fingers brushed the collar like you were daring him to keep it together. And apparently, he can't.

He waits until the chamber begins to thin before he moves – silent, clean, intentional – and you follow.

Neither of you speak.

You end up in one of the hallway bathrooms – technically gender-neutral, technically a staff washroom, technically not a place for professional misbehaviour.

But the moment the door clicks shut behind you, it stops being technical.

He turns and you’re already there.

Your hands immediately go to the lapels. Again. But not to fix them this time.

This time, you pull.

“You look like a problem,” he mutters.

“Then solve it.”

The kiss is not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s been months in the making. Every ripped seam, every stare across committee hearings, every time you told yourself you could handle the sight of him in a suit he doesn’t deserve to wear this well – it crashes down like a tsunami.

He grunts when your mouth meets his, and he crowds you into the counter. His hands are everywhere – hip, waist, jaw, anchored in your blazer like he has no intention of letting go.

You fist your hand in his tie – new tie, freshly pressed tie – and drag him closer until he groans into your mouth like it hurts.

“You said not until after,” he breathes against your neck.

“You waited,” you kiss him again, just to punish him for it. “Congratulations.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s wrecked. “You gonna yell at me for the wrinkles?”

You grip the lapels again and pull.

“Try me.”

He laughs – low, feral, ruined– and kisses you deeper, hungrier. The jacket groans in protest under your grip. One of you knocks something off the counter that falls to the floor with a crash. You don’t even bother to see what it is.

He palms the back of your thigh and mutters, “still going strong. You stress-testing for structural failure?”

You kiss the edge of his jaw. “No,” you whisper. “I’m trying to cause it.”

His hands go under your blouse. Yours slip beneath his waistband like a threat. He grips the counter behind you like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

He shrugs. That goddamn shrug.

Your knees nearly give out.

“You’re going to ruin me,” you whisper.

“You’re letting me,” he says, somewhere between reverent and fucked.

Your phone buzzes with your two minute timer.

You pull back first. Barely, just enough to breathe.

Your lipstick is gone. His tie is a disaster. Your blouse is askew. The shoulder of his jacket is unmistakably wrinkled.

He touches just beneath your lip. His thumb lingers. “You should touch that up.”

You glance down. At the tie. The crease in the jacket. The faint imprint of your grip still visible across his chest.

"You won't fix it?" you murmur.

“I want them to wonder,” he says slowly, entirely unrepentant.

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

You open the door and walk out first.

He waits exactly ninety seconds.

And follows.

A/N: I need to touch some grass!

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

240 notes · View notes

daydreamgoddess14 · 3 hours ago

Text

So good!! 💕

I will always rescue you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avengers female reader

Summary: While being in a fight, Bucky looses sight of his girl. When he finds her being hurt he won't hold back to save her.

Warnings: sfw. mentions of trauma. death (not Bucky or reader). killing. physical pain (reader). established relationship. kissing. anxiety. hurt/comfort.

Wordcount: 1,3k

___________________________

The gun felt heavy in his hand.

Bucky sweared that he would only use it to scare the enemy and won’t pull the trigger to kill someone. Just incapacitate them. He was done with taking lives but he was still a fighter for a good cause. Him and the Avengers were on a mission to rescue citizens from a terrorist attack in the city. And everything went just like planned.

Until he lost his girl in the crowd.

She weren’t supposed to be there. She was supposed to be with the Maximoff Siblings. But when Bucky turned to look for them, he could only see Wanda and Pietro helping to get the people off the road and to safety.

„Where is she?“, Bucky barked at them.

Pietro looked up in confusion. His brows jerked upward when he realizes who he meant. „I don’t know, man. She was right behind us. Over there on the market place.“ He pointed his finger at a destroyed pavilion.

Wanda slapped his hand down. „No she was already on her way to Barton. He helped a family out of a collapsed building.“

„And where is Barton now? Why haven’t they returned yet?“ He tried not to sound too anxious. Bucky knew you were capable of protecting yourself if things get rough, but he still needed to see for himself that you were safe.

His chest tightens when Wanda shrugs. „Don’t know. But we can help find her.“

He was annoyed by himself that he was mad at them for loosing his girl out of their sight. At the end it was their job to protect the innocent citizens and not babysitting her, but still … he was mad.

Bucky nodded and turned on his heel to jogg over to the market place, wich wasn’t more than ruins by now. Bullets lying around, stone walls broken into pieces and blood splattered on the ground. He wanted to throw up … what if … what if this blood came from her?

„Barnes!“ The voice came from Natasha through his earpiece. „I heard your looking for someone.“

He held his breath, pressing the button on the earpiece to talk back. „Tell me where she is. Is she safe?“

Cracking sounds made it through the connection. „Not really. I’d see her getting dragged into a basement near the fountain. Have lost sight of her just now but …“ Natasha paused.

„What is it? I swear to god if you won’t start talking …“

„There were three man. And they are heavily armed, Bucky. I think they want to use her as bait.“

„Send me the location. Now. And stay the hell back.“ Bucky put his gun into his belt, rotating his bionic shoulder. „This just got personal.“

They weren’t far from him. Just about two blocks on the north. Bucky made his way there, sneaking through the narrow side streets to avoid getting caught by the enemy. His training over the years made him hyper focused and perfectly prepared for any dangerous situation. Bucky can deal with any threat that came up.

But he wasn’t trained to deal with the storm of uncontrollable emotions, that washed over him like a tidal wave the moment he saw his girlfriend lying on the floor.

And she was crying.

Bucky was hiding in the shadows, scanning the room for the men and their weapons. Two of them pointing guns on her and smirking in sick pleasure. His blood began to boil. He wanted to rip them into pieces. The third guy crouched down beside her.

„You know these fun little gadgets, don’t you?“ He pointed at her temples and Bucky narrowed his eyes to see what he means.

Two little metallic plates.

"This will hurt like hell sweetheart. Even on an Avenger. After all we got one without superpowers. Just another meaningless Widow, hm?"

He gave a sign and the guy on his left operated a remote. The plates began buzzing and she screamed like a feral animal in terrible pain.

And Bucky snapped.

He throws two knifes with an outer worldly accuracy. The blades cutting through the armor of the soldiers and came to a sudden stop when they stuck deep in their throats. Leaving them drop to the ground while gurgling on their own blood.

Bucky stepped out of the shadowed corner and grabbed the third man by the neck. He yanked him away from her and slamming him head first against the ground. The plates on his bionic arm shifting, building an immense pressure on his grip. Bucky could hear the face of the soldier break as soon as it made contact with the concrete beneath his feet.

With a quick twist he broke the mans neck.

Bucky looked up to see his girl still cramping in pain. Her whole body shivering and twitching. He found the remote laying on the ground and crushing it with feet.

A cry of relief escaped her mouth. „Bucky!“

He tugged her into his arms. Holding her until the electric shivering stopped to torture her body. Bucky knew this kind of feeling. Electric impulses rushing through the veins, a painful heat building up inside the bones. Making it hard to breath. Years and years of torture but nothing felt as worse, as seeing her suffering this pain now. She felt so breakable in his arms that he got terrified all over again, even if the threat was gone.

„I-I’m so-so sorry!“, she cried. Her shaky hands wandering up his shoulders and wrap around his neck tightly. Searching for safety. Holding on to him just as he does to her. „I’m sorry, Bucky.“

He leaned his head back, but didn’t let go of her. „What are you talking about?“ He mumbled. His voice sounded strained and his vision blurred with tears.

Her face was contorted in pain. Bucky swear he could hear his heart break seeing her like this. But when she spoke his whole world fell apart.

„I wasn’t careful. I’m sorry!“ She sobbed with eyes haunted by fear. „I should’ve been more carful… I-I..“

„Stop.“

„But it’s my fault. I should’ve fight back.“ She tried to get away from him but Bucky kept on holding her close.

„Love, stop.“ He insisted. But she couldn’t hear him.

„It’s my fault you had to kill them!“ She was hyperventilating and her voice got strangled with her tears.

So Bucky did the only thing that came to his mind to shut her up. He pressed his lips on hers. Rough and a little impatient. Maybe Bucky needed this more than her. He wanted to show his own nervous system that she was here. She was alive and well. And she was talking absolute nonsense.

When he ended the kiss, she looked at him surprised. Skin pale as a ghost and lips parted in shock. „Aren’t you mad?“ She asked. „You can be mad… You should be m-…“

„God, doll. Please shut up“, he chuckled with a teary smile. „I’m not mad.“

„But why?“ She reached out to cup his face with her palms and Bucky leaned into her touch, closing his eyes to remember this feeling. „You said you never wanted to kill someone. And today you were forced to do it anyway.“

He wanted to laugh, but didn’t. Was she really that clueless? How could she be? Bucky would burn the world down to save this girl. Including killing some really bad guys. He would rather die than let anything ever happen to her again.

„I don’t want to be the Winter Soldier again. He killed innocent people. And he wasn’t in control.“ His jaw tightened as glimpses of memories crossed his mind. „I want to be Bucky Barnes. And I want to be in control to protect the ones I love.“

He kissed her again. Soft and reassuring. „Especially the girl I love most.“

A shy smile pulled on the corners of her lips. „I love you too, Buck. With all my heart.“

Cracking sounds. „I hate to interrupt your foreplay guys but we need to get out of here before the press arrives, or our faces will be on the news again.“ Natasha insisted through Buckys earpiece. „And tell her that I’m happy she is still alive, Barnes.“

Bucky grinned and looked down on his whole world. „We should get out of here.“

_______________________________

Thanks for reading! 💙 All interactions are appreciated (but please do not copy my work!)

Bucky Barnes Masterlist 🦾

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic

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daydreamgoddess14 · 3 hours ago

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Lily, god this was so beautiful 😭😭😭

swipe right 𐙚 b.b

pairing: grumpy!tfatws!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: just fluff 💌

summary: sam thinks bucky needs to get back out there. he suggests tinder—and really, who better to ask for advice than you? things change when he asks what you're looking for.

word count: 2.9k

author's note: hi loves, i really enjoyed writing this fic and i hope you'll enjoy it! based on this request | requests are open!

The sky was turning the colour of old peaches—that soft, late-summer blend of pink and orange that washed everything in warmth but didn’t hide how tired the day had become.

It was the kind of light that settled low on your skin, not burning, just clinging. The kind that said the hard part was over but didn’t promise peace.

The boat creaked as it shifted against the dock, rocked by the lazy rhythm of the tide below. Everything moved slow—the air, the water, even time itself.

Somewhere deeper in the trees, cicadas droned with that steady, hypnotic buzz that made talking feel like too much effort. But Sam had never been one to leave quiet alone when it started to feel too comfortable.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag that looked like it had already been through three summers too many. Tossed it over his shoulder, then glanced over at Bucky.

The man hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes. Sitting near the stern on a crate that creaked under his weight, arms resting on his knees, jaw tight. Staring at the water like it had something to answer for, the kind of stillness that wasn’t peaceful, just full of something waiting.

“You’ve got that look again,” Sam said, twisting off the cap of a beer with a soft hiss.

Bucky didn’t move. “What look?”

“Like something’s been bothering you for a while and you’re pretending it hasn’t.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re brooding.”

A pause. Bucky exhaled through his nose, low and flat. “You want me to smile or something?”

“God, no.” Sam took a sip, then nodded at him. “That’d be worse.”

It wasn’t mean. It was easy. Familiar. They’d gotten used to this—talking without saying much, sitting in silence like it was some kind of truce.

The water lapped gently against the side of the hull. A breeze rolled off the bayou, lifting the heat just enough to breathe again. The air smelled like salt and engine oil and the damp underside of the dock.

Everything slowed.

For a while, that was enough.

Then Sam spoke again, voice casual like he wasn’t aiming for anything. “You ever think about dating?”

Bucky glanced at him, not sharply—just slow and skeptical, like he was checking if he’d heard right. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I mean—do you?”

Bucky shrugged, more a shift of weight than anything. “Not lately.”

“Maybe you should.”

“You suggesting I go flirt with someone at the grocery store?”

“No,” Sam said, half-smirking. “I’m suggesting you try talking to someone who doesn’t know what kind of ammo you carry.”

Bucky turned his head fully this time, giving Sam a look so dry it could’ve sanded wood. “You’ve got a real romantic pitch.”

“I’m serious,” Sam said, setting the bottle down beside him. “You don’t even talk to people unless they’re on the team or from your past. That’s not living, man. That’s just waiting.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He looked back at the water, but his jaw tightened, a little pulse at the side of it, quick then gone. Whatever was under that silence, it was old. And heavy. And still too close to the surface.

Sam didn’t press, not right away. Just let the quiet breathe a little before nudging again. “There’s apps for this kind of thing, you know.”

“I know.”

“You ever try one?”

Bucky shook his head once. “That stuff’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Bucky said. “And I don’t really want to explain... all of this.”

The pause after that wasn’t awkward. It was honest.

Sam nodded once. “Yeah. I get that.”

He picked at the label on his beer for a second, thoughtful, before adding, “Still doesn’t mean you don’t get to try.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “I’m not built for that kind of thing.”

Sam leaned back, arms resting on his knees. “You don’t have to be built for it. You just have to show up.”

That was the thing with Bucky—he never said no right away.

He just let silence stretch out until it either hardened into a wall or softened into maybe.

This one softened.

Another beat passed. Then, low, almost under his breath—“I’ll ask her.”

Sam looked over, surprised but not shocked. “Who?”

Bucky didn’t turn. “You know who.”

Sam studied him for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth before he spoke. “She’d be honest with you.”

“That’s the point,” Bucky said.

He stood without another word, like the decision had been waiting in him for a while and now it just had a direction. Boots thudded quietly against the dock as he walked toward the edge of the light.

Sam watched him go as he took another sip from his bottle.

He shook his head to himself, almost a laugh.

“About damn time.”

The sun’s lower now, bleeding into the bayou in streaks of amber and rose. It stretches long shadows across the dock, paints the water in color that looks like it shouldn’t belong to this world, too soft, too still.

You’re sitting near the edge, back leaned against a weather-worn piling, drink balanced loosely in your hand. Your bare feet nudge the warm planks absently.

It’s the first stillness you’ve had all day, and you’re not ready to let it go yet.

You hear him before you see him, the solid rhythm of boots on wood, measured and familiar. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just Bucky, moving like he always does, deliberate, quiet and steady.

He sits beside you without a word.

Just drops down next to you, arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed straight out at the water like it might eventually give him an answer if he stares long enough.

You wait. You’ve known him long enough to know he only speaks when he means to.

Finally, he says, low,

“Sam thinks I should try dating apps.”

You glance over, one brow lifting. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitches. “I said the same thing” He huffs. “Apparently he thinks I’m too emotionally repressed to function without external help.”

You snort, tipping your head back to take in the sky, already turning violet at the edges. “Sounds like Sam.”

“He showed me one,” Bucky says. “Said I needed to ‘get back out there.’ Like I was ever out there to begin with.”

You hum, dragging your finger down the side of your bottle to catch a trail of condensation. “Did he show you Tinder?”

“I think so. There were… bios. And pictures. A lot of pictures.”

You take a slow sip. The drink’s warm now, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Then yeah. That’s Tinder.”

There’s a pause, one of those long, Southern summer silences that stretches without needing to be filled. The heat sits heavy on your skin. Everything is golden and slow.

Then—

“What’s it like?” he asks.

Not skeptical. Just curious, in that quiet way he sometimes gets. Like he’s asking about a world he doesn’t belong to.

You turn your head toward him slightly. “You actually want to know?”

He nods once, eyes still out on the water.

He doesn’t push. Just waits.

You lean back again, voice dry. “They’re like vending machines. If vending machines were full of unhinged men who think a selfie in a lifted truck is an acceptable substitute for a personality.”

Bucky lets out the barest huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough.

You keep going. “I’ve had guys open with ‘hey beautiful’ and follow it up with a dick pic. No hello, not even a name. Just bam, in your face."

That gets him. His head jerks a little like he wasn’t expecting it, eyes wide, blinking, then immediately looks away again. “Jesus.”

“Right?” you say, half-laughing despite yourself. “One guy put his venmo in his bio. Said I could ‘tip the talent.’”

Bucky shakes his head, a soft grimace pulling at his mouth. “That’s real?”

“Very.”

Another pause. He doesn’t speak, and you let the quiet fill in the spaces between sentences. It’s not awkward, just mutual disbelief settling across both of you like the heat.

You glance over.

“That’s the nice end of the spectrum. The ones who act normal? Worse.”

He raises an eyebrow, says nothing.

“There was one guy who said I ‘seemed cool’ and then launched into a rant about how feminism ruined dating. Claimed women used to appreciate a ‘real man’ who ordered for them at dinner.”

Bucky mutters under his breath, “That’s one way to die on a hill.”

You grin. “Exactly. I unmatched. But not before he sent me a voice note calling me ungrateful.”

That draws a small breath out of him, you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or just disbelief. Maybe both.

“So this is what people are doing now.”

“Apparently.” You nudge the bottle against your knee. “It’s bleak out there, Buck.

He looks down at his hands, his vibranium fingers flexing once—a small, absent motion like he’s thinking about something he can’t quite say.

“Sam made it sound like people meet that way all the time.”

“They do,” you admit. “But most of them walk away with trust issues and a weird story about someone who brought their mom to the first date.”

His head turns slowly. “You’re not serious.”

“Swear on it.” You pause. “You ever think about trying it?”

His expression tightens—not visibly, not in an obvious way. Just in the way his shoulders shift, his mouth presses slightly flatter.

“No.”

“Not even a little curious?”

“I don’t like the idea of strangers knowing anything about me,” he says, voice low. “And I don’t really have a profile worth putting out there.”

“That’s what Sam’s for,” you mumbled. “He’d probably write something dramatic. ‘Ex-assassin looking for redemption and someone to eat pancakes with.’”

That gets a breath out of him, small and sharp, like he wasn’t expecting it to hit as close to funny as it did.

You glance at him and catch it, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile, not really. Just something close.

You watch him a moment longer. “You’re not sold.”

Bucky shakes his head slightly. “I don’t think I was meant for that kind of thing,” he says simply. “Not after everything.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You study him for a beat. The way he still holds himself like he’s bracing, even when he’s sitting still.

“Maybe you weren’t,” you say softly. “Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

That makes him look over. Really look. His eyes catch yours, not sharp, not guarded. Just… tired. A little older, like the fight’s still in him, but so is the weight of carrying it.

“You really think there’s people out there who’d sign up for all this?”

He doesn’t need to explain what this means. The metal arm, the red in his ledger, the quiet rage, that name.

You tilt your head. “You’re asking the wrong people.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then,

“Who should I ask?”

You smile, small, steady. Like it’s already obvious.

“Ask someone who already knows you.”

He doesn’t move right away.

Then he shifts, not away, just forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose. His eyes stay fixed on the water, but his whole body reads different now.

Less guarded. Less armoured.

The air is thick with the smell of wood warmed by the sun, brine, and something else you can’t name. The heat hasn’t broken. There’s no wind, no relief—just the weight of what’s been left unsaid between the two of you.

Then, without looking at you, voice low,

“What about you?”

You glance over. “What about me?”

“What are you looking for?”

He says it like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it’s just conversation. But you hear the shift in his voice—the hesitation, the careful way he keeps his tone level.

You catch the way his fingers tap once against the dock before going still again. He wants to know. Not because he expects anything.

Because part of him is terrified to hope.

You breathe in. Let the silence stretch, but not too long. Then,

“I don’t know,” you say. “Someone who doesn’t need to be anyone else. Who’s not trying to sell a version of himself just to get picked.”

You’re not really looking at him when you say it. You’re looking past the water, past the trees. Somewhere further off. But you feel him — how still he’s gotten. How present.

You pause, let the words settle in your chest.

“Someone who’s real. Who doesn’t run when things get hard.”

There’s something brittle in your voice when you say that. Not cracked, just lived-in.

“Someone who carries things, but still shows up anyway.”

You glance at him now. And you mean it when you say,

“I think that narrows it down pretty fast.”

It’s soft and uncomplicated, but it hangs there like a match waiting to strike.

And maybe that’s the moment it lands.

Maybe not all at once—but enough.

Because now he’s turning his head, slow and unsure, like he’s still giving himself time to pretend it’s not what it sounds like.

“You talking about me?”

The question isn’t sarcastic. It isn’t cocky. It’s quiet. Raw. Like he’s afraid you’ll say no, but needs you to say yes.

You hold his gaze. “Yeah. I am.”

It’s simple. Not a performance. Not something meant to fix him. Just truth.

His eyes drop, lashes casting half-shadows. Then he looks back out over the water—not avoiding you, just... trying to breathe with it.

There’s a long stretch of quiet after that. You let it happen.

Because this is the part where people rush it. Where they try to fill the air. But not with him. Not now.

Eventually, voice low:

“I’m not... easy.”

“I know.”

He shifts again. Barely.

“I don’t have much to offer.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.”

“Maybe not to you.”

You go still at that.

His tone isn’t bitter. It’s not sad, either. It’s just matter-of-fact. Like it’s something he’s repeated to himself long enough to accept as reality.

“I’ve hurt people,” he says, not looking at you. “I’ve messed up a lot of things I can’t fix. I don’t sleep much. I get angry. I disappear when it gets too loud. Some days I don’t feel like a person. Some days I don’t want to.”

Your chest pulls, tight and quiet. But you don’t interrupt him.

“And I know I’m not easy to be around,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “But I don’t want to lie about that. I can’t.”

You’re already shaking your head before he finishes.

“You don’t need to.”

He finally looks at you—and this time, he doesn’t look away.

His eyes are still that same unrelenting shade of blue, something between steel and storm, edged in shadow from the way the light hits.

Cerulean, maybe, if you wanted to get poetic—but the kind of blue that feels lived-in, exhausted, quiet. Tired in a way that most people never notice, and steady in a way that somehow always holds.

You’ve seen them angry. You’ve seen them distant. You’ve seen them blank, shut down so completely they didn’t feel like eyes at all.

But now?

Now they stay. Now they’re looking at you like maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’s letting someone actually stay.

“I’d still pick you,” you say, voice even. “I know what I’m saying. I know who I’m saying it to.”

And something in him breaks open—not shattered, not messy. Just exposed. In a way he hasn’t let himself be in a long, long time.

He doesn’t say anything.

But the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing something he didn’t think he was allowed to want—it’s enough.

You can see it, how hard he’s trying to stay still. Like if he moves, even slightly, it’ll break whatever fragile thread just opened between you.

The water laps soft against the dock. Somewhere nearby, a screen door slams. A dog barks. The world doesn’t know that something quiet and impossible is unfolding in the silence between two people who didn’t think this would happen.

Finally, carefully,

“If I asked…”

He trails off.

It’s not hesitation. It’s vulnerability, stripped down to bone. Not even a full question, just the offer of one.

You let him say it the way he needs to. And you don’t make him say it twice.

You answer without hesitation. Without softness-for-show.

“Yes. I would.”

That lands, you see it in the way his shoulders shift. Just a little. Like he’s trying to let the weight down slowly, afraid it might hit too hard if he drops it all at once.

So you keep going. Gentle. Honest.

“I’d date you in a heartbeat, Bucky.”

You pause, “you’re not your past. You’re not the burden it left on you. You’re the man who lived through it and kept going. That matters more.”

He looks down for a second, like the words are too much to hold eye contact through. Then back up, slower this time.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ve been sure for a while.”

The breeze moves past, soft through the trees. Neither of you speak for a long minute.

But something’s changed. Something settled. You feel it in the quiet, the kind that doesn’t need fixing.

When he looks at you again, it’s not with hesitation or doubt.

There’s no shift in his posture, just a quiet steadiness, like he’s finally stopped running from it, like he’s letting himself want this, want you, without pulling it apart or looking for all the reasons he shouldn’t.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic

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daydreamgoddess14 · 3 hours ago

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Ahhh this whole series was EXCELLENT!!

Desperate to Devoted

a rivals to lovers post-TFATWS verse

While Steve was still part of the timeline, Bucky was his prodigal best friend recovering in Wakanda while you were steadily becoming a close, trusted friend to Captain America. Bucky blipped out, and you were there for Steve when half the world disappeared. Steve's departure leaves a wake of absence, and it takes a desperate situation to bring you and the White Wolf to face what's between the two of you. And then what?

Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] kidnapping, sex pollen ergo DUBIOUS CONSENT in one chapter, consensual sexual situations (referenced/hinted, and outright explicit physical intimacy), medical elements (needles, IVs, experience of medical distress)

VERSE: ↠ part one: Desperate [3k] ↠ part two: Uncertain and Sure [550] ↠ part three: Insatiable [1.8k] ↠ part four: Big Conversation [1.1k] ↠ part five: Too Hot [700]

#bucky barnes x reader #rivals to lovers #forest navigation #bucky barnes smut #sebastian stan #bucky barnes #desperate to devoted

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daydreamgoddess14 · 4 hours ago

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Whoooooooweeee that was AMAZING!!!!

Sweet surrender

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: this has been triggered by this gif set I made the day before and I swear this is the last filthy no plot thing I'm writing this week. I have so many ploty WIPs to finish, but instead I'm just playing around 🙈

Warnings: fluff, SMUT 18+, oral (m receiving), suby Bucky, soft dom reader, mention of restraints (but it's Bucky who's restrained and it doesn't really count as he could brake free anytime he wants, if he wants 😅) written in absolute heat and again not proofread, mistakes might or might not be corrected later along the way, but all are mine 😅

Word Count: 2,2K

Summary: Plot? Never heard of it, just pure smut. Bucky loves the way you wreck him, he's all yours.

Bucky’s eyes are heavy lidded, half closed, glassy and unfocused, his head tipped back, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You glance up at him through your lashes and smile, taking in with pride how utterly wrecked he looks. His cheeks are flushed deep crimson, sweat pearling at his brow, lips parted in a soft and desperate grunt, teeth grazing his bottom lip.

“Fuck baby…please…” he pants, voice barely holding together, cracking at the edges, and the words dissolve in another wrecked moan. He thinks he might cry, he really might, if you pull away again.

His torso is bare, flushed and glistening, the sharp lines of his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, but his jeans are still on, just the zipper tugged down, the waistband stretched low across his hips, his cock pulled free, thick and needy and straining toward your mouth.

He’s seated deep in the wide armchair, thighs spread shamelessly, muscles trembling, and you’re settled on the floor between his legs, warm breath teasing him more than your touch and every time you kiss him, soft, gentle, sweet little things along the thick shaft of his cock, like he’s something to be worshipped, he chokes back a sound that’s half moan, half plea.

You press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, then another just beneath it and let your tongue lick and circle it, as you watch the way his abs tense, shudder running through his body, and his perfect, flushed length twitch and pulse under your tongue with every uneven breath he takes.

“Please…,” he stutters and his hips jerk slightly as his self control slips away with every teasing slow lap of your tongue.

“You're doing so good for me,” you whisper, as you wrap your fingers around him again, stroking slowly, deliberately, just tight enough to make his breath hitch, just slow enough to keep him aching. Your lips follow your hand, soft kisses down the side of his shaft, tongue darting out to catch the bead of precum pooling at the tip, tasting him with a quiet hum, teasing his slit with quick, greedy licks, and Bucky groans, deep and broken, his hips twitching again before he grits his teeth and forces himself still.

He’s sweating, flushed down to his chest, mouth parted and gasping like he’s drowning in pleasure.

“Fuck, baby,” he chokes, eyes fluttering shut. “Please, I’m… I need to…”

Your tongue slides up the underside of his cock in a long, languid stroke, and he shudders hard, the chair creaking under his weight as he pushes himself tighter against the backrest.

But you pull back, again and Bucky lets out a helpless, high whine, hips twitching in the empty air. You smile, wicked and sweet, fingers trailing up his thigh, barely brushing where he’s aching for more.

“Not yet,” you murmur, voice low and calm against the chaos you’re causing in him. “I want you to feel so fucking good, baby, so good that you forget everything else, but you have to be patient. You have to wait just a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

He nods, way too quickly and too eagerly, even though his eyes are glassy and his thighs are shaking. He’s a mess already, but he’ll give you whatever you want, let you play with him, wreck him, tease him, let you keep him right there at the edge over and over again, because he loves it.

He’s gone, completely lost in the heat of your mouth, the teasing roll of your tongue, the perfect way you ruin him without letting him fall apart. He’s slowly dissolving in the feeling of your tongue tracing those slow, slick circles around the head, in your soft hum against him like you’re savoring a treat.

And then you take him in again, slowly, your lips wrapping around him and sucking gently, just enough pressure to make him cry out. His whole body tenses, thighs quivering under your hands, and a strangled groan spills from his throat as his head snaps forward with blown wide eyes and mouth slack with disbelief at how good you feel, as he watches your greedy mouth sliding along his shaft, coating it in your saliva.

You let him slide deeper, inch by inch, your tongue tracing the underside, your lips tight around him and he’s panting now, frantic and helpless, every cell in his body begging for a release as you bob your head up and down his length, with a wet lewd sound.

“God, baby…fuck…” he gasps, voice high and broken, like he’s fighting for his life, he’s shaking so hard it’s like he’s on the verge of shattering and you haven’t even let him all the way in.

Not yet, because this is yours, his pleasure, his desperation, his surrender, it’s all yours and he knows it and he loves it, he trusts you with it completely, and that trust? That’s the highest praise you could ever be given.

He trusts you enough to let go, enough to let you push him to the edge and hold him there, and he knows, deep down, that he’s just as much in control as you are – one word from him and you’d stop without a question, without hesitation.

You love him for that, for giving himself to you exactly as he is and letting you give him everything in return.

He’s trembling, sweat dripping down his temples, his body wound so tight he could snap.

“Fuck, please,” he rasps, voice raw, begging. “I’m so close, I can’t…”

You pull off with a wet pop, your hand stays on him, stroking him with maddening gentleness.

“I know you are,” you whisper, grinning as his head falls back with a groan so desperate it echoes off the walls. “That’s the point.”

You glance up through your lashes again, and his expression knocks the breath from your lungs. His eyes are blown wide, jaw slack, lips parted like he’s forgotten how to close them, he’s almost drooling, completely undone by the way you’re touching him.

You watch his shoulders tense and shift, muscles flexing as he fights the urge to break free from the handcuffs securing his wrists behind the chair.

The cuffs wouldn’t hold him if he really wanted out, not with his strength, he could snap them like thread, flip you over, and take what he’s aching for.

But he doesn’t, and you know he won’t.

Because this is the game, your game, and he’s playing it like it’s the only thing that matters. The armchair creaks beneath him as he shifts restlessly, thighs spreading wider in surrender, as his cock, flushed and leaking, twitches under the slow, deliberate stroke of your hand, and you know he’s right on the edge of breaking, just the way you want him.

His head stays tipped back, muscles in his arms flexing hard against the restraints, his breath shudders out of him as your tongue flicks across the head again, then circles it, lazy and wet, and his fingers curl behind the chair like claws.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “Let me touch you…please… fuck…just for a second…”

You look up at him, lips slick and swollen, and you smile.

“You could,” you murmur, letting his cock slide out from between your lips with an obscene sound. “You could break free any time, couldn’t you?”

His chest heaves, eyes blazing with need. “Don’t make me.”

You giggle, so light, teasing and sweet, as you drag your tongue slow and flat along the underside of his cock and he arches helplessly, hips twitching forward before he jerks them back, trying to be good, trying so hard to behave.

“Then stay still,” you purr. “Let me enjoy you.”

And he does, God, he does, even when your hand tightens just enough to make his thighs shake, even when your mouth wraps around him again, as you take him as deep as you can and then pull away again before he can tip over, and he makes a sound like he’s in pain.

The cuffs dig into the skin of his flesh arm, not enough to hurt him, but enough to remind him that he’s yours, and God, he wants to be yours.

“I’m gonna lose my fucking mind,” he breathes, voice breaking. “I need to come, baby, please, I’ll beg, just…”

You pull back again, smiling slowly and wickedly, as your fingers slide along his cock in soft, featherlight strokes that make him whimper.

“Not yet,” you whisper. “You haven’t earned it.”

Bucky groans, head thrown back, body straining against the cuffs, not because he wants to escape but because not escaping is the hardest, hottest thing he’s ever done.

His knuckles are white behind the chair, fists – flesh and metal one – clenched so tight they tremble, and every instinct in him screams to move, to take, to thrust, but he doesn’t, he stays exactly where you want him, muscles flexed, chest heaving, cock twitching in your gentle grip as you drag your fingers down the length of him in maddeningly light strokes.

“Please,” he rasps, his voice barely there. “I’ll do anything, just… just let me cum, baby, please…”

You hum thoughtfully, leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock again, your tongue circling slow, teasing spirals that make him sob. It’s almost cruel how beautiful he is like this, spread wide, bound by nothing but trust and the unbearable ache of needing you.

“You want it that badly?” you murmur, lips brushing the sensitive underside.

He nods fast, messy, too far gone for pride. “Yes…fuck, yes…I want it, I want you, I can’t … please.”

You suck him in again, deep this time, slow and steady until the tip hits the back of your throat and he shouts, the sound raw and wrecked as his body arches, legs trembling under the strain, arms jerking violently against the cuffs. Still, he holds, just barely, eyes shut close, and you feel the tension ripple through him, the desperate clench of every muscle as he hovers at the edge.

But you pull back again, and he almost sobs.

“You’re doing awesome, baby.”

His eyes flutter open at your words, and the look he gives you is pure ruin, pleading, glassy, so soft around the edges it nearly breaks you.

You smile, slow and sweet, and bring your mouth back to him, and this time you suck him in with purpose, slow but deep, your throat relaxing around him, your hands resting on his thighs to hold him steady as he trembles violently beneath you.

His moan is hoarse, wrecked, a sound torn straight from his soul. Your mouth is wrapped around him fully, your lips slick and hot, tongue cradling him as you slide him deep and this time, you don’t stop, you take him all the way in, hollowing your cheeks, sucking hard enough to make him cry out, loud, wrecked, helpless.

Your fingers tap against his thigh, three firm, deliberate rasps against his skin, the permission.

You hum around him, letting the vibration ripple through his length, and that’s all it takes, his back arches hard, thighs going rigid under your hands.

“Oh shit... fuck, fuck, fuck… baby!” The words spill out of him in a broken chant as he comes, hard and desperate, his cum spilling down your throat, cock throbbing on your tongue, every muscle in his body seizing under the weight of it.

You stay right there, taking everything he gives you, swallowing every drop, letting him ride it out with your hands steady on his thighs, grounding him through the storm of it. His moans turn into soft whimpers, shudders rippling through him like aftershocks.

When you finally pull back, lips swollen and wet, you look up at him with satisfaction – his head slumped forward, mouth parted, eyes barely able to stay open.

You reach up and cradle his face gently. “You did so good for me, baby.”

He breathes out a shattered laugh, then slumps deeper into the chair, a wrecked, blissed-out mess.

“Think I saw God and angels,” he mumbles right before the cuffs snap apart like they were made of dough and his arms are on you in an instant, strong and warm and shaking slightly as he gathers you close, guiding you into his lap.

You settle in, knees bracketing his hips, your body still humming from watching him come apart, knowing he gave that to you. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and his forehead rests against your chest as he tries to catch his breath, to find his way back into this world.

You run your fingers through his damp hair, soothingly, lovingly, and he leans into your touch.

“I love you,” he murmurs, just like that, without hesitation.

You kiss him, slow and sweet. “I love you too. So much, it almost hurts.”

He exhales hard, and keeps you pressed tightly against him. He needs time to gather his scattered thoughts, his whole body feels like melted wax, boneless and pliant, utterly undone. Even his metal arm feels soft somehow, relaxed in a way it rarely is, as if the tension has drained from every inch of him.

You just hold him, letting your fingers trail invisible paths along his bare back and then you suddenly feel it – his metal hand slides down your side, over your thigh, between your legs and the pads of his fingers start to trace the edge of your panties, pausing there, teasing, waiting for your breath to hitch before pushing them gently aside.

Bucky’s eyes darken as his metal fingers slip into your heat, and you gasp.

“Your turn,” he rasps, lips curling in that barely-there smile he saves just for you.

You giggle softly, forehead pressing to his.

“Please, be gentle,” you whisper with a wicked smile, grinding your soaked pussy down on his hand, seeking some friction.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic

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daydreamgoddess14 · 5 hours ago

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Ohhh this was so lovely!!

Saturdays.

Summary: You and Bucky are best friends who spend all of your Saturday’s together. Bucky came to your place with a goal in mind: making you admit your feelings for him.

Warnings: Alcohol/Drinking games/shots of Sake. You also might need to make an appointment with your dentist because the fluff in this could possibly give you cavities.

The light knock on your door let you know Bucky had finally arrived. It was your typical Saturday evening hangout. Bucky would show up with alcohol of some kind because you frankly knew nothing about liquor, and you would either make or order the two of you food. You would likely watch a shitty movie that you’d pretty much talk over the whole time, and Bucky would look at you completely enamored by your beauty and nod during the important parts.

“Hey, you” his entire face lit up as you opened the door to greet him. His eyes quickly scanned your comfy outfit, loose leggings, a thin sweater detailed with lace, and fuzzy socks he had gotten you for Christmas last year. A light chuckle escaped him as he took you in.

Bucky was holding a giant brown bag full of alcohol, but you still eyed him up and down. He was always in the same variation of outfit: boots, tight jeans, a T-shirt, and a jacket of some sort. Today, he opted for a brown leather jacket that he definitely bought from a local vintage shop.

“Hi chicken!” You greeted him enthusiastically as you stepped aside for him to walk into your place. The smell of your sweet smelling perfume practically sucker punched him in the heightened senses, not that he was complaining.

“That damn nickname” he pretended to hate it, but he didn’t hide it well, the corner of his eyes wrinkling and the slight smirk he wore gave him away every time.

“You refuse to let me call you Buck Buck goose! So I compromised!” You snorted, trying to stand taller to peek inside the bag at what he brought.

“Ah! No! Not yet” he playfully slapped your hand away, lifting the bag higher above you so you couldn’t sneak a peek.

“What’s for dinner little one? It smells good!”

You were shorter than him, and Bucky always made it a habit to point it out. He knew it made you flustered, picking up on the way your heart loudly thumped quicker in your chest, he never told you he could hear it but he felt like somehow you knew.

“I made tacos! I figured you’d want your favorite after your long week! I barely heard from you so I know it was hectic.” You didn’t say it to make him feel guilty but it did, Bucky felt like you physically punched him in the gut. His expression changed as he set the brown paper bag down on your kitchen table.

“Did you miss me or something?” He teased, only slightly hoping you’d admit it for once. Instead, you handed him a plate to serve himself, giving him a playful forced smile and showing all your teeth.

Once the two of you got your dinner plates ready, Bucky brought the brown bag over to the couch. He had a mischievous grin that you were already slightly nervous about as you clicked through streaming services for something to put on as background noise.

“I got some of your usual favorites because I’m not completely insane” he chuckled as you watched him pull familiar things out of the bag and put them on the coffee table in front of you.

“Debatable” you teased nudging him with your elbow as he playfully scowled at you.

“I mean, I am willingly eating your cooking so that’s a fair assessment.” He was quick-witted, something you really admired about him.

“James Buchanan Barnes! Take that back!” You fauxed offense, metaphorically clutching your pearls as he chuckled and took two bottles of sake out of the bag.

“Full government name? Really? You know damn well I’d lick those pans clean in there if you left the room for long enough” he pointed to the kitchen and it made you giggle, your eyes hardly leaving him before you turned your attention back to the sake bottles.

“I’ve heard sake is really good but also really strong” You picked up the bottle to read it but it was in Japanese, so you put it back down.

“Scared huh?” Bucky blushed, knowing just how to push your buttons as you clicked your tongue at him.

“I was thinking we could play a drinking game tonight.”

You narrowed your eyes at him as you took another bite of your taco, “I’m listening?”

Bucky would’ve usually hated seeing anyone talk with their mouth full but you were an exception. “Truth or drink,” he said overly confident which surprised you, You instantly wondered where Bucky had even heard about this game.

“Yelena and Bob taught me about it. Basically if you don’t want to answer you drink instead.” It was as if he read your mind and was answering the question you didn’t ask aloud.

“Oh! It’s probably how Yelena gets Bob to loosen up” You giggled, standing to get you and Bucky a shot glass from your kitchen cabinet.

“You think so?” He avoided your eye contact, hoping you weren’t catching on. “I say we take one to loosen up and then go from there” he said and you nodded before he opened the pink bottle of sake first pouring the two of you a shot.

Bucky took his shot without so much of a grimace but you felt the burn intensify in your throat immediately and coughed once it went down and got yourself a chaser from the fridge, bringing Bucky one too.

“No question is off limits.” He narrowed his eyes at you, it was clear he suggested this for a reason but you were happy to oblige.

“I’ll go first then- why do you want to play this game?” You giggled, maintaining eye contact with him as you leaned back on the couch, sitting with your legs crossed.

A nervous laugh escaped him, as he sat back on the couch Bucky was usually pretty calm and collected around you but the way you were looking through him right now made him forget how to breathe.

“Drink up then Barney boy” You handed him a shot knowing he wouldn’t answer, as he quickly threw it back.

“Why don’t you ever admit that you miss me?” He wasn’t originally going to ask such an upfront question right away but he had a strong feeling you weren’t going to play fair.

You thought about answering for a brief moment before you drank, coughing again after you swallowed.

“So that’s how this is going to go?” He scooted closer to you, watching your eyes get watery.

“This sake is so strong and kind of nasty” you coughed wiping your mouth with your sweater sleeve.

“I guess we should start being honest then” he smiled and you rolled your eyes playfully gearing up for your next question.

“Okay when we first met, what was your first impression of me?”

Bucky looked up at the ceiling, chuckling to himself as he placed the shot glass down. “Honestly? I thought you were really soft and nice and I didn’t expect us to hit it off as well as we did.”

“Why?” You were curious as to why he mentioned the last part, you knew he didn’t think much of himself which hurt you deep down.

“Soft and nice is not how anyone would describe me” he laughed, a genuine laugh that made your couch tremble slightly.

“Maybe? But that’s because they don’t really know you” you nervously bit your cheek wondering if that was a tad too flirty.

Bucky had been your best friend for about a year now and you were terrified of losing him.

“Okay, how would you describe me? Especially to someone who has never met me.” He picked up the sake bottle ready to pour, and only assuming you’d avoid the question.

“No put that down, I’ll answer this one” You stood up from the couch, to face him as he stayed sitting, his blue eyes piercing through you.

“Close your eyes, or just don’t look at me!”

“Close my eyes?” He laughed in disbelief at your dramatics.

“Yeah, they’re just very beautiful and super distracting” you teased and Bucky knew you were a lightweight when it came to drinking but he started to feel guilty for suggesting the game wondering if you were only complimenting him because of the liquor.

“Wait, you think my eyes are beautiful?” He mumbled and you hadn’t heard him over the nerves you felt gripping every bone in your body.

“I’d ideally describe you as close to perfect but I know you’d absolutely hate that.”

You were right, he’d hate that.

“I’d say Bucky is the kind of person who makes every day seem a little less heavy and dull. He’s the guy everyone can always depend on and despite being through the worst hell anyone could ever fucking imagine he is still kind, giving, loving and the greatest person I’ve ever met.” Your lips started to tremble and your eyes were tightly closed as you stood in front of your coffee table swaying back and forth nervously.

“You’d say that about me? To a stranger?” He felt like his heart had grown three sizes in the last minute. He never knew you felt that way about him.

“Of course, I talk about you all the time actually” You didn’t know why you said it but it felt right although your cheeks grew warm with embarrassment.

“Y/N, Why haven’t we dated?” The words crawled out of his mouth like an ache he couldn’t stop.

Your eyes shot open and he was staring at you directly, You noticed his fingers twitching as they sat in his lap.

“It’s my turn to ask a question” you swallowed dryly, your throat felt sandy and hoarse suddenly. Bucky only nodded in response, wondering what you’d ask next.

“So, why haven’t we dated?” You repeated the question back at him, making the room feel more at ease.

“You’re the only person who makes me feel human and I was afraid that if I misread the signs that I’d make things weird between us and I didn’t want to lose you” he stood up, walking over to where you stood.

“You didn’t misread anything, there’s a reason I spend all my Saturdays with you. You’re the best part of my week, my day, my life actually.” You wrapped your arms around his torso, looking up at him with loving, pleading eyes.

“Is this really happening? How drunk are you?” He teased as he held you, but there was a faint seriousness to his tone now that you had opened the floodgates of emotions.

“I’m not drunk! I don’t even think I’m tipsy, I just took the opportunity while I had it.” You admitted which made him chuckle before he easily picked you up and wrapped your legs around him.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you now?”

“You can kiss me forever” you leaned in, wrapping your arms around his neck, rubbing your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck.

#Bucky X reader #bucky barnes fan fic #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes fluff

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daydreamgoddess14 · 7 hours ago

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I LOVE how she had to nope right out of the room 😂😂

So real!

The Celibacy Challenge

Pairing: New Avenger!Bucky x New Avenger!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3k

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

Synopsis: You decide you want to try a celibacy challenge with your boyfriend, Bucky. Who caves first? The New Avengers place their bets.

A/N: Is this based off a challenge that I failed with my husband? Hehe. Also, shoutout to my girls for betting against me - @soelstress @buckybarnes82 @buckybarnesfic / yes, it was ME, you were right.

“Why though? I just don’t get it, honey,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head.

“It’s supposed to be a challenge, baby! It’ll be fun.” You’d just gotten through a poor explanation of a sex experiment you wanted to try with Bucky, and he was less than enthused.

You show him the article you have pulled up on your laptop - 30 Day Abstinence Challenge: A Battle of Wills - and smile. “It’s meant to be hard… no pun intended. And at the end when we can finally have at it, it’s apparently explosive.”

Bucky furrows his brow, clearly unimpressed with the idea, and lowers his voice, his expression growing more serious. “Is it not explosive enough for you?” He blushes, looking around the empty common room before he continues more quietly, “Because It is for me.”

“Oh stop, it’s amazing, baby. You’re amazing. That’s not what I’m saying. Just try it with me? It’ll be good for us! And there’s this optional part that people add where they do yoga together at night. It’s supposed to help you relax and loosen your muscles.” You look up at him with a hopeful gaze, nearly begging.

He rolls his eyes. “I know how to help you relax and loosen you up already. We don’t need a sun salutation for that.”

You cock your eyebrow at him. “Didn’t know you were a yoga man, Buck.”

“I’ve dabbled… it was a long time ago - anyway, if you really want to try this, then I’ll do it with you.”

“Yay!” You squeal. “Let’s start fresh tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So are you saying… ?” Bucky winks at you.

“Yes, Sarge. Take me to bed.”

DAY ONE

Bucky walks into the kitchen the next morning to you and Yelena at the breakfast bar nursing two coffees.

“So, yeah, it’s supposed to help you feel centered and then at the end, it’s apparently incredible.”

Bucky stops short and looks at you, “Really? You’re telling everyone about it?”

You shrug and smile, “I mean, yeah? Why not? It’s not like they don’t know we have sex, Buck. We’ve been dating for a while now.”

“Yeah, and we hear you sometimes. It will be nice to have silence for a month,” Yelena quips, sipping her coffee and eyeing Bucky.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair and preparing his own cup. “Fine.”

By the end of the day, everyone in the Watchtower knows about you and Bucky’s little challenge. John gave Bucky a nod and flexed his bicep as Bucky walked into the gym that afternoon - a silent show of support. Bucky sighed and popped his headphones in. As he’s doing squats, a large body appears behind him and waves in the mirror. Bucky grunts and hangs up the bar, taking out an earphone.

“What do you want?” He asks gruffly.

“Winter Soldier… I hear it’s going to be dry month for you! No snow in forecast,” Alexei jokes, his face turning red from holding back laughter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky groans, returning to his workout.

“You can do it. You are strong - resilient. You survive Hydra. You can survive no lovemaking for month, eh?” Alexei elbows Bucky in the ribs.

Bucky glares daggers at Alexei and he finally takes a hint, walking off.

Meanwhile, you are working out on the opposite end of the gym, chatting through your jog.

“You’ll do great,” Ava says, running on the treadmill next to you. “It’ll go by fast. Plus, if we get called to a mission, it’s not like you’ll have time anyway.”

“You’re right. Honestly, though, I just love the thought of making him squirm,” you tease.

“You would,” she laughs. “You guys are cute together.”

DAY TWO

After dinner you walk into the living room to find everyone crouched down around the coffee table. Bucky had gone out to get more snacks for your movie night. As soon as you walk into the room everyone stiffens and Bob swallows as his eyes dart back and forth between the coffee table and you.

“What’s going on, you guys?” You ask suspiciously, walking quickly to the table to find any evidence. John puts a small notebook with writing you can’t make out in his back pocket and Yelena scrapes some coins into her hand. “Oh, hi girl,” she says, an attempt at nonchalance. “What movie should we watch tonight?”

You narrow your eyes at them all - your teammates, your friends - and cross your arms. “Bob, what’s going on?”

“Uh,” he stammers, looking around at everyone. “We were, uh, just… uh, making a list of movies we haven’t seen yet.”

“Really?” You ask, putting your hand out and looking at John. “Give me the notebook.” John stands up quickly and backs away.

“No,” he scoffs, backing into a wall. “It’s just a list of movies. I swear.”

You see Alexei’s body shaking with laughter out of the corner of your eye and turn toward him. “What’s so funny?”

“I cannot say,” he chuckles, running a hand through his beard.

“Alexei Shostakov, tell me now,” you demand, walking over to him. Bucky walks in at that moment, two grocery bags of snacks in hand and assesses the room.

“Is everything ok?” He asks, putting the bags down on the kitchen island.

“No!” You whine. “They are up to something!” You gesture to the team.

“You mean the bets?” Bucky asks casually as he starts to unpack the bags.

Your skin heats and you crane your neck to look at him. “What bets?”

“The bets on our challenge,” he explains, and Yelena and Ava groan. John throws the tiny notebook on the coffee table. “What the hell, Bucky? She wasn’t supposed to know!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s gonna lose.”

Your heart skips a furious beat and you march over to him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You demand.

“Our challenge. You’re going to cave first,” he explains calmly, handing you an Oreo.

“We place bets,” Alexei says, walking over to grab a bag of Twizzlers. “We all agree that you cave first. You lose.”

“Are you kidding me?!” You shout, looking at everyone. “Glad to know you all think so highly of me. I’m going to win just to spite you all.” The team laughs, knowing you aren’t truly upset.

You turn toward Bucky and stand on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Prepare for the worst 30 days of your life.” Bucky chuckles, but you notice the hair on his forearm stand on end.

“I look forward to winning,” he quips back, his lips brushing your ear.

DAY THREE

Tonight you and Bucky head to the gym to do your new nightly yoga routine. You changed into shorts and a sports bra - your red set that he loves - and set your mats up. He saunters in, gym shorts slung dangerously low on his hips and no shirt.

“Ready to get all stretched out?” He asks, dimming the lights.

You scoff at his suggestive comment and settle onto your mat. “Yep,” you answer quickly, still annoyed about the bets.

“Good, I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he mutters, sitting on the mat across from you. “Take it away, sweetheart.”

You lead, talking about each position and how to breathe through them. You glance over at Bucky during downward facing dog and see him checking out your ass in your yoga shorts.

“Next up is called the happy baby pose,” you say, lying on your back. “You bring your legs up and grab your feet with your hands, like this.” You demonstrate, spreading your legs and grabbing your feet. Bucky’s throat bobs as he watches you model the pose and then he clears his throat.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re not slick,” he groans. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”

“You’re right. It’s not like you haven’t seen me in this position before. Many times,” you say with a wink. Bucky grabs his feet and follows your lead, stretching into the pose. His eyes find their way to you again.

“Enjoying the view?” You ask, looking over at him.

“Fuck yeah I am,” he growls before shutting his eyes. “But I’m winning this damn thing.”

You groan and sit up. “Fine.”

Bucky chuckles and you finish your last few poses before rolling up your mats. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering his back and you lick your lips. Fuck - look away.

DAY FOUR

Bed sharing was not without its difficulties. Cuddling was second nature at this point in your relationship, and many times the spooning and soft snuggles led to more. But not this month. You were not going to break first. Bucky pulled you into his chest, still half asleep, and nuzzled into your neck as morning light filtered into your shared bedroom. His breath on your skin sent an immediate jolt of pleasure between your legs and you knew you were in the Danger Zone.

“Time to get up!” You announce more loudly than normal, squirming out of his arms. You turn to look at him, and damn if he wasn’t a God among men. “Fuck,” you whisper, knowing this was going to be a lot harder than you thought. But it would all be worth it. Right?

You walk down to breakfast and see Yelena and John sitting at the table, while Bob is in the kitchen cutting up some fruit.

“Morning,” they all three say in unison, and John stealthily removes his tiny notebook from his pocket. You see the movement from the corner of your eye and glare at him. “Really, John?”

“Well?” Yelena asks, waiting for details.

“Jesus, guys. Nothing happened,” you say, reaching into the pantry for a box of Cheerios. “Sorry to disappoint. We’re still holding strong.”

DAY FIVE

“You’re doing a hell of a job rearranging furniture,” Bucky quips from the office off of the living room.

“I’m trying a new arrangement - the feng shui is off in here,” you mutter, pushing the couch a few inches to the left. “Everyone else will like it, too. Don’t worry,” you say.

“Oh, I’m not worried, doll - I’m just watching,” he leans back in his desk chair and winks. “Maybe it’s not the feng shui that’s off. Maybe you’re just missing something.”

Just a wink - just that little smirk sends heat flooding to your core. Fucking Bucky. Well, you wish you were. But here you are, arranging furniture just to feel something.

“Try moving the coffee table a little to the right,” he quips, fully watching you now, his legs spread in his chair, his arousal obvious. You want to pounce on him.

“Stop teasing me, you prick,” you whine, turning your back to him.

“Stop teasing me in those fucking leggings, then,” he says gruffly, walking out to you, eyes dark.

He looks feral. Like a wild animal - a hungry wild animal. A hungry, horny wild animal. Jesus. Your thighs clench together as he stands behind you, barely touching you. “You need some help with this?”

“Yes,” you admit. “Thank you. And stop breathing so close to me.”

He smiles and walks to the other side of the coffee table, helping you lift it with ease. “Where to?”

You groan under the weight of the table and nod your head to the right, “Just this way.” You let out a sigh as you both set down the table and Bucky’s lips twitch into a smirk. “I’ve been missing that sound.”

“What sound?” You ask, confused. Bucky walks to you and gets in your personal space without laying a hand on you.

“All your little sighs, your groans and moans, your fucking whimpers, you saying my name… Hell, you not being able to say anything because your mouth is full. I need to hear it.” He tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His dark blue eyes are stormy and full of want.

“Are you breaking first, then?” You tease, leaning up to softly kiss his lips.

“Never,” he whispers into your mouth before breaking away. He chuckles and adjusts himself before walking back to the office, leaving you there aching and full of need. Asshole.

DAY SIX

You walk to the garage to find Bucky working on his bike - tight black t-shirt, rag slung over his shoulder, and the smell of sweat and grease in the air. Nope. Nope nope nope. You turn back around, knowing you won’t be able to take this view without jumping on him.

“Where you off to, baby?” He asks before you get back to the door, wiping his hands on the rag.

“I was just looking for… a paintbrush. It’s not here,” you say, hand on the doorknob, eager to escape this honey trap.

“Could you bring me some water please? It’s getting hot out here,” he asks sweetly, and you now notice the sweat dripping down his temples and neck, pooling into the hollow of his throat.

“Uh huh,” you squeak out, rushing back into the compound to get you both some water. Your throat felt so dry all of a sudden - so thirsty. You steel yourself before walking back into the garage, and when you open the door you find your precious, evil man standing over his motorcycle, wiping his sweaty face clean with his t-shirt. His abs and biceps glisten in the sun shining through the open garage door.

“Thank you,” he says gruffly, reaching for the water bottle. He takes the cap off slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and takes a long drink, humming quietly as the cool water goes down his throat.

“You’re welcome baby,” you say, sitting down on an overturned bucket, feeling your knees getting weaker with each passing second.

“Would you hand me that wrench?” He asks, gesturing to the workbench covered in tools. You move your hand to what you think he’s asking for and he shakes his head. “The one to the left. There ya go. Good girl.” You pick up the wrench and promptly drop it on the floor at his praise.

“You okay?” He asks with a smirk. This motherfucker.

“Honestly?” You ask, about to combust.

“Honestly,” he encourages you with a wink.

“I need you to bend me over and make me forget my name,” you admit confidently.

He laughs and bites his lip. “You caving?”

“I’m caving,” you say with a shrug. “I need you.”

“Get your ass upstairs, then. I’ll be up in a second,” he growls.

“But I can’t lose! Everyone was betting that I’d cave first!” You whine, standing up and kicking the bucket like a child.

“Then we’ll tell them I caved first,” he says quietly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’d do that?” You ask in amazement, ready to let him have you however he wanted.

“I just want to hear you sigh my name into my neck, baby. I could give a shit about some bets… Now, get upstairs. Take off that pretty dress. Lay on the bed. I’ll be there in five.”

You fly back inside and run upstairs to your bedroom, the ache building between your legs. You strip off your dress and get under the covers to wait for Bucky.

Bucky walks inside the compound calmly and washes the grease and grime from his hands. His dick is already hard, and frankly, he’s a bit pissed at the days that went to waste when he could have been buried inside you. He makes his way to your room and passes John.

“You look like a man on a mission,” John jokes, taking in Bucky’s focused saunter and dark eyes.

“I am,” he mutters, walking past John to your bedroom.

He walks through the door and closes it abruptly behind him.

“I’m sorry. This challenge was a dumb idea,” you admit, pulling the covers up to your chin. “I need you. I miss you.”

“It was a strange idea, love. I’ll agree, but the yoga has been nice. I love seeing you in all those positions,” he whispers, getting on the bed with you and pinning your wrists above your head.

“You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?” You ask, biting your lip and trembling.

“Not even a little bit,” he growls.

–

After you both thoroughly and completely fail the challenge (twice to be exact), you head downstairs for dinner with the team. John already has his notebook on the dining table propped open with a pen. You try your best not to make eye contact with anyone.

“You guys do anything fun this afternoon?” Yelena asks, raising a brow.

“Just watched a TV show together,” you answer almost too quickly.

“What show?” Bob asks genuinely.

“Golden Girls,” Bucky says at the exact moment you say “The West Wing”. You clear your throat and correct yourself, “Golden Girls”, just as Bucky says “The West Wing”.

“We watched both,” you say with a nervous laugh, putting some green beans on your plate.

Yelena walks over to get a plate and looks at Bucky. “James, your shirt is on inside out.”

John snorts from the dining table and you look at him warily, then to Bucky.

“Oh, yeah, it is,” Bucky looks down and shrugs, filling his plate and walking to the table. “What’s so funny, Walker?”

“You guys obviously caved. We just need to know who,” Ava says quietly, rolling her eyes.

Bucky scoffs. “It was me. She’s just too cute. Couldn’t help myself,” he says as he plants a kiss on your head. “Everyone happy?”

Bob’s eyes light up from the end of the table and he shouts excitedly, “I was right!”

Your eyes flit up to meet him. “You believed in me, Bob? That’s so nice actually.”

“Of course I did. Barnes never shuts the hell up about you. I knew he’d cave first. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to-”

“That’s enough,” Bucky interjects. “I caved first. Let’s move on and enjoy dinner.” He looks at you slyly and winks before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I’ll always take the blame for you, sweetheart. But you’re going to pay me back later with your mouth.”

Your thighs constrict and you gasp quietly. Poor Bob. Awful at placing bets, but he’d never have to know.

#thunderbolts*#bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #thunderbolts #new avengers #sebastian stan #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky smut #bucky barnes #girlfriend!reader

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daydreamgoddess14 · 12 hours ago

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I'm watching this at the weekend and it's about to become a problem 🫠🫠🫠

Nick Fowler ♡ Sebastian Stan

The 355 ♡ (2022)

#nick fowler #sebastian stan

2K notes · View notes

daydreamgoddess14 · 20 hours ago

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I'm almost certainly behind on reblogs and skipping ahead here but...

OHMYGODDDDDDS!!!!!

He was so going to kiss her! Damn you Kels, you sweet sweet darling!

Declassified [12] - Pressure

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Having a high pressure job has its consequences.

Warnings: Explicit language, panic attacks.

Word Count: 4.9k

Series Masterlist

The news of the breakup spread like wildfire.

To be honest, you hadn’t expected anything different. This had to be one of the rare times that Caleb hated being in PR because even you could tell that he was working way too hard.

And of course, your name had been brought up multiple times, but so far there wasn’t anything actually threatening thanks to Bucky and Hazel having attended the gala together right before they broke up.

“Mom, how did you know dad was the one?”

Your mother looked up from the bowl she was mixing the cake mixture in, then let out a laugh.

“What brought this on?”

“Just curious.” You dangled your legs from the high stool and sipped your coffee before putting the mug on the kitchen island. “Also, I would like to ask again, why are we in the kitchen? You don’t cook.”

“I’m baking.”

“You don’t bake either.”

“Well, one of the girls in my spiritual retreat said it would be a good bonding practice between mothers and daughters.”

You pulled your brows together.

“I guess today is good as any to start,” you murmured. “Fine, okay. We’re bonding, see? Tell me how you knew, other than the fact that he dazzled you with money.”

“Oh I didn’t care about the money.”

You tilted your head. “Uh, are you sure? I mean no offense obviously, but I always assumed money played a part. Safety and all that.”

“I did feel safe with him but that had nothing to do with the money.”

“So you were actually in love with him.”

“I was and I am.”

You made a face. “Oh come on, that I don’t buy. You can be honest, there’s no way you’re still in love with him.”

“Why not?”

You let out a laugh. “Because he’s evil?”

She rolled her eyes and started pouring the mixture into the cupcake tray. “He’s not evil, honey.”

“Well…” You cleared your throat. “I mean he has been bribing and extorting politicians for decades so that things work the way he wants them to work. That’s like, textbook bad. Disney movie bad.”

“Funny, I heard a lot of people say Bucky Barnes is a bad man, but you seem very eager to defend him.”

“That has nothing to do with—okay, let’s never ever put Bucky in the same category with dad ever again,” you said with a laugh. “It’s kind of like lumping The Night King and Jon Snow together.”

“I didn’t watch that show.”

“They’re like complete opposites.” You took another sip of your coffee. “Let me put it this way; Bucky would sacrifice his own life to save someone, dad would sacrifice the whole world to save himself.”

“And you, and me.”

You made a noise of disagreement.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you said. “You yes. Me, doubtful.”

“He does love you, you know.”

“No he doesn’t.” You shrugged your shoulders. “And I don’t mind, really.”

“He does,” your mother insisted. “It’s just that, you’re both very stubborn and don’t know how to communicate.”

“That and our political stances and our principles and our goals are very different.”

“So what?” she asked as if it was just trivial, and you scoffed a laugh.

“You seriously don’t mind what he does?” you asked. “All those people he hurt? All the corruption?”

“I’m not interested in what he does at work. I’m interested in what kind of a man he is with us, his family.”

You grimaced. “That’s not how it works, mom.”

“It’s how it works with me.”

You rubbed at your eyes, heaving a sigh. “I guess this just proves it.”

“Proves what?”

“I’ve always thought that…” you trailed off. “I’ve always thought you and him were just meant to be together, but I wasn’t supposed to be in the picture.”

“Never say that!” She gasped. “We love you!”

“That’s not it,” you said with a weak smile. “No, you guys make sense together, in some very weird and unhealthy way. But I don’t, you know what I mean?”

“That’s so not true,” she said, putting pieces of chocolate into the batter in the pan. “And as I’ve said, your father loves you and me. What he does at work doesn’t matter.”

“It actually does,” you said. “You might be able to pick and choose, but I wouldn’t be able to do that.”

“Is that why you broke up with Max?”

“That dickhead voted for the opposition.”

She turned to you. “Please tell me you didn’t break up with him over that.”

“See? It doesn’t matter to you,” you said. “But it matters to me. And hey, it’s a good thing I dumped him, apparently he was cheating on me anyway.”

Her jaw dropped and she reached out to squeeze your hand. “Aw I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I don’t care,” you said. “I mastered the art of detachment thanks to the revolving door of nannies you guys kept changing when I was little, so it’s okay.”

“Well, we just didn’t know who was the best for you.”

You bit at your lip to hold back your retort.

“How’s everything at work?” she asked. “Are those rumors still going on?”

“Well, to some extent but no picture or anything,” you said. “Just whispers.”

“And you like him?”

“Professionally, yes.”

Bullshit.

It was a good thing that your mother hardly ever spent time with you, she didn’t know how to read you.

The truth was that every day your feelings for Bucky were getting deeper. You knew that Hazel was right, you knew the risks but somehow, when you thought about him kissing you…

Your brain just refused to be logical.

Granted that didn’t mean you were going to throw all the caution to the wind, but you were wondering if something was wrong with you if that didn’t intimidate you as much as it was supposed to.

“A lot of my friends think he’s too handsome to be in politics.” Her voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “And they have a lot of questions.”

“About him?”

She hummed and walked to the oven to take a look at it. “Which button do I turn?”

You jumped from the stool to turn the button. “This one.”

“Aw thank you,” she said as she put the tray in, then closed it and turned to you. “So what’s he like?”

You took your seat again. “In politics?”

“In his daily life. Why did he and that girl break up?”

You cleared your throat. “Um, difference in opinions.”

“On what?”

“No idea, that’s what I’ve been told.”

She hummed, sitting down as well. “And you guys are close?”

“Professionally.”

“But you consider him a friend as well?” she asked. “I don’t know many people who are friends with their boss.”

“You don’t know many people with a boss.”

“Fair,” she admitted. “But that’s irrelevant. Tell me more about him, we’re all curious. Is he nice?”

“Oh absolutely.”

“To you? Even with all these rumors?”

You couldn’t help but smile, then nodded your head.

“He um…” you trailed off, biting your lip. “He’s amazing, mom. I know a lot of people think there are still traces of the Winter Soldier in him, but it’s not like that at all. He’s the sweetest, I’d trust him with my life. He even—”

You stopped yourself and your mother leaned in, curiosity shining in her eyes. “What?”

“He got Blinky back for me.”

She blinked a couple of times in confusion. “Who’s Blinky?”

Of course.

You hesitated for a second before you forced yourself to smile and shook your head.

“It’s not important,” you mumbled. “Anyways, enough about me, how was your retreat?”

The next day, you didn’t even have the time to go to lunch. You had to work on the draft Bucky had asked you to, and of course you had volunteered to go over the revisions Lucas had sent you just so that you could impress Congresswoman Gray, and your phone kept buzzing with emails every two minutes.

And for some reason, everything was louder today.

You took a deep breath, willing your heartbeat to calm down as you clenched and unclenched your hands, staring at the screen before you deleted the last line, and added a new one.

“Please don’t tell me we’re back to skipping lunch for work.”

Your fingers froze over the keyboard before you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky watching you, leaning against the doorframe.

“I had a protein bar and like two cups of red eye, I’m fine.”

His worried gaze raked over you, making your heartbeat even faster.

“I thought we had a deal.”

“I’ll eat when I’m done with this.” You nodded at the screen and he came to lean against your desk, making you bite back a smile.

“Birdie.”

You heaved a dramatic sigh at his teasing tone and looked up at him. “Hm?”

“Let’s have lunch.”

“You literally came back from lunch.”

“I can eat again.” He started tilting the screen of your laptop down but you batted his hand away, then fixed the screen again. “It’s a metabolism thing.”

“Super soldier metabolism?”

“Mm hm.”

“Good for you, I’m too busy,” you said. “I already spent enough time doing nothing with my mom yesterday when I was supposed to go over this, so…”

“You were with your mom?” he asked. “How did that go?”

“Dad wasn’t home so it was fine. Ish.”

“Fine-ish?”

“My mom doesn’t really know much about me but the parts she knows, she loves to dismiss,” you said. “They make a terrific couple with my dad, terrible parents though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “Without them, my old therapist wouldn’t have been able to buy her second Ferrari, so I guess it wasn’t a total disaster.”

“And you can tell me all about it while we’re having lunch.”

You turned to your laptop. “Take a powder, Barnes.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the clear confusion on his face but it turned into an amused smile, a chuckle escaping his lips.

“How did you…?”

“Hey, I could have an extensive vocabulary.” You grinned at him. “You don’t know my lexicon.”

“Right. Why do I feel like you googled 40s slang?”

“I once saw you google if lavender is edible, so how about we stop pointing fingers?” you asked and he shook his head vigorously.

“In my defense, Kelsey got me a lavender latte and insisted I had to try it.”

“And what did you think? Your assistant was trying to poison you?”

He shot you a look as if you were asking him a question with a very obvious answer. “It’s Kelsey.”

You thought for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders.

“Fair enough,” you said. “But come on, she—”

You stopped talking when your phone started buzzing, making both you and Bucky turn your glances to the screen, and you both frowned at the same time.

“He’s still calling you?” Bucky asked and held out his hand for you to give him the phone, but you shook your head.

“I’ll handle him,” you said and answered the phone. “Max, go fu—”

“Wait wait, don’t hang up,” he cut you off. “I swear, this will be very civil and you’re gonna want to listen to what I have to say.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back on your chair while Bucky kept his eyes on you.

“What?” you asked crossly and he took a deep breath.

“I saw that piece about you and Barnes.”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“A journalist contacted me,” he said in a rush. “He wanted to know whether there was anything going on between you and him while we were still dating.”

Your stomach dropped, your eyes snapping up to Bucky before you gritted your teeth.

“And let me guess,” you said. “You told him you’d think about it and now you’re calling me to ask for something.”

“No actually,” he said. “I told him we broke up because I cheated on you, because you put your career over our relationship, the very same career you wouldn’t risk for anyone much less your boss.”

You pulled back slightly. “…What?”

“I gathered ambitious bitch sounded better than greedy slut. Not that you’re either of those but you know, the guy was an asshole.”

You let out a surprised laugh.

“You’re telling me you had the perfect opportunity to fuck with me and you didn’t take it?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not asking for anything in return?”

“No, I just wanted to let you know,” he said. “If they called me, it means they’re working on a piece.”

You frowned, drumming your fingernails on the desk.

“And why would you do this without asking for anything in return?”

He fell quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Tessa said she’d leave me if I didn’t go to therapy,” he said. “And my therapist made me realize it wasn’t cool, what I did. What with keeping Blinky and stuff.”

“By ‘stuff’ you mean cheating on me, or the ultimatum or going behind my back at voting?” you asked and he took a deep breath.

“Yeah. Sorry about all that.”

As much as you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, you figured this was at least just a little progress.

Very little, but either way.

“Well, what do you know?” you muttered. “I mean you’re still an asshole, that goes without saying but I appreciate the heads up.”

“My therapist says I have um… he says I am scared of emotional intimacy. That’s why I cheated on you, he says.”

“Yeah Max, because he can’t say you’re an asshole. You’re paying him.”

“I guess.” He snorted a laugh. “How’s DC?”

“Full of people who’d love to step on your back for their own gain. I haven’t slept in two days.”

Bucky shot you a disapproving look but you waved a hand in the air.

“So you’re having the time of your life?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s good—” He started but you heard another voice coming from the other line, probably his assistant. “I uh, sorry, I gotta go. Work thing.”

“I gathered,” you replied. “It’s almost five minutes.”

“…Yeah, that wasn’t cool either,” he said. “Also sorry about that.”

“Listen, how about I send you a list of things you should be sorry for and we can get all of them out the way?”

He let out a chuckle. “That’d make therapy so much easier. Can I call or email you to apologize then?”

“Call me and I’ll see if I’m in the forgiving mood,” you said and hung up, then looked up at Bucky.

“So, great news,” you said. “A journalist asked Max if you and I had an affair while I was with him, but he said no.”

“And he didn’t ask for anything in return?”

“He’s doing therapy, as it turns out,” you said. “My belief in psychology has been renewed because honestly, if they can make Max apologize…”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a smile and you bounced your leg, biting inside your cheek.

“We need to find who this journalist is.”

“I will.” His voice was completely calm. “And I’ll take care of it.”

“You can’t threaten him.”

“If he didn’t want me to threaten him, he shouldn’t have dragged you into whatever nonsense he’s working on,” he said, making your heart skip a beat. “That’s just not how it works.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “I thought I was the one protecting you.”

He winked at you. “It’s a two-way street.”

You rolled your eyes at him playfully as he turned his head to look at the approaching footsteps before Caleb appeared at the door and let out a groan.

“I’m like two seconds away from assigning a chaperone to you like we’re in Georgian era,” he said. “Bucky, you might be familiar with that.”

“Wrong century, Caleb.”

“Well, how about we don’t start another fire when I’ve just extinguished the other one?”

You held up your hands and turned your attention to the screen, your cheeks burning and Bucky heaved a sigh, then pushed himself off the desk.

“Make her eat something.”

“I will but did you have the chance to think about what I said?”

You looked between them. “What did you say?”

“Caleb thinks we all should have a barbeque at my new place,” Bucky said. “Something something PR.”

“It would show you’re still relatable and that you’re doing fine after the breakup.”

“That’s not a terrible idea,” you mused. “I haven’t been to your new place yet, and I missed Alpine.”

“And the team would love it,” Caleb added and Bucky’s gaze stopped on you as if he was torn between ideas, then cleared his throat.

“Yeah, whatever,” he told Caleb who pumped his fist in the air in victory. “Just let me know when.”

“Will do!”

“And I’m not locking Alpine in the room,” he said as he walked into his office. “She gives me an attitude for days when I do that.”

Caleb approached you to plop down on the chair next to your desk.

“Thanks for convincing him.”

“I barely said anything.”

“Well, I’ve been begging him for a week and one word from you…” he trailed off and you shook your head, then turned to him.

“Caleb.”

“Hm?”

“There’s something you need to know as Bucky’s communications director.”

His grin wiped off his face in a second. “What?”

“There’s a journalist,” you said. “And apparently he’s been asking questions about me and Bucky.”

Caleb ran a hand over his face, cussing under his breath.

“Of course,” he said and pulled out his phone. “It was getting a bit too peaceful today, so why not? Be right back.”

You watched him walk out of the office and pressed your hands on your eyes before you dropped them, straightening your back.

“It’s fine,” you murmured to yourself as you turned your attention back to the screen. “It’s totally fine.”

As your anxiety would show you; it was not, in fact, fine.

You had spent the whole day working, and now almost everyone had left but Kelsey and Bucky, both of whom were in a meeting with Congressman Murray.

And you. Working overtime.

It was already dark out, and the only thing illuminating the office was your laptop screen. You could feel the migraine slowly making its way to your temples. For the whole day, your chest hadn’t stopped feeling tight, like you couldn’t get enough air into your lungs especially after Max had told you about the journalist. In addition to all that, the work you had to cover was getting bigger and bigger, you still had one hundred pages to go over, and to make the necessary edits.

In other news, you might have bitten more than you could chew.

You typed away at the keyboard, forcing yourself to hum a melody in hopes of calming yourself down before you got up from your chair to make your way to Bucky’s office. You grabbed the file from his desk and went back to your desk, but before you could sit down, your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up.

From: Dad

We need to talk about the journalist.

And just like that, your line of sight grew narrow, darkness swallowing everything else other than the phone.

To your terror, you could feel the familiar tingling spreading over your face as your throat tightened, the breath you were taking getting stuck there. A fire burned through your chest, twisting your heart harder and harder while it tried to escape from your ribcage. You could feel your whole body beginning to shake, the floor getting wobbly underneath your feet like quicksand as you took a step back, grasping at your throat with one hand.

You’re not dying.

It’s a panic attack, you’re not dying.

Except that you were sinking.

You held onto the desk with one hand and managed to crouch down to sit on the floor as the room started spinning, your heart pounding in your ears. Nausea crashed down on you while you tried to get enough air in your lungs, your other hand balling up into fist tight enough to cramp.

You’re not dying.

You couldn’t even tell if it was tears or cold sweat running down your face; it was probably both. Your hand on your throat slipped down to your chest to press on it in hopes of soothing the pain there while you forced yourself to take another breath.

You’re not dying.

You see a laptop, you see a chair, you see a—

You hadn’t even heard Bucky stepping into the office before he rushed to you, his hands grasping your upper arms, almost frantically checking you for injuries like he wanted to see if you were bleeding.

“Birdie?”

“Not dying,” you managed to gasp out. “Panic attack.”

That made him stop only for a moment, a look of absolute relief crossing his face and he let out a breath.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re breathing very fast right now, can you breathe with me?”

You nodded your head, taking a shaky breath at the same time as him, then exhaled. For almost a minute, you followed his lead and once you weren’t breathing as fast, he gave you a small smile.

“There you go,” he said. “Five things you can see?”

That made your eyes snap to his as you took another breath. “How do you—?”

“Five things,” he said and you exhaled.

“Laptop,” you rasped out. “Chair. Papers. Desk. My fox figure on my desk.”

“Four things you can hear.”

You tried to focus, pulling your brows together.

“Your voice,” you said. “Footsteps from the hallway. AC. Um…”

“One more.”

“The laptop running,” you said, pressing your palm on the floor. “And three things I can feel are…the marble floor, and sweat dripping down the back of my neck, which is fucking disgusting—”

“Birdie, focus.”

“And um, the wind. From the AC.”

“And two things you can—”

“Smell. Your cologne and paper. I just printed a bunch of stuff.”

“And one thing you can taste?”

“Blood. I bit my tongue too hard.”

His eyes searched your face and you let out another shaky breath, exhaustion creeping up on you as you leaned your head back to the wall. Bucky hesitated for a second before he sat beside you, leaning back against the wall.

“How do you know grounding techniques?” you asked after a pause and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Mandatory therapy.”

“Ah,” you said, fixing your eyes on the ceiling. “Interesting.”

“And I’m guessing this is not your first panic attack?” he asked, making you scoff a laugh.

“Nope,” you said. “Been having them since I was like twelve.”

Bucky’s brows pulled into a frown. “Twelve?”

“Yup,” you said. “As it turns out, if you put too much pressure on a kid and yell at them whenever they didn’t meet the expectations, their brain gets messed up. Who would’ve known?”

“I’m going to kill your father.”

“You can’t,” you said. “If he’s dead, who’s gonna go around crossroads to make deals for people’s souls?”

“Birdie.”

“I’m fine,” you said even if your arms felt way too heavy when you raised your hand to wipe the sweat off your forehead. “This happens, no big deal.”

“How often?”

“Not regular,” you said. “Sometimes. But let me tell you, I would not last a day back in the 1940s. I saw those documentaries, my husband would send me off to an asylum and they’d try to lobotomize—”

“I’m giving you time off.”

“Tough shit, I’m not taking it.”

He gave you a look. “I’ll change the locks to the office.”

“I’ll work in the hallway.”

He ran a hand over his face as if he was straining his mind to come up with a solution and you wiggled your brows despite exhaustion.

“Sorry. I guess you shouldn’t have hired me, huh?”

“If I hadn’t hired you, neither of us would be here,” he said and thought for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t be, at least. You would have probably made someone else win so you’d be here.”

“I wouldn’t have worked for someone else,” you murmured and he licked his lips.

“Please take some time off.”

“Nope.”

“You either take some time off, or I’m hiring someone to help you out with the workload.”

Your eyes widened. “Bucky, no.”

“Bucky yes.”

“I don’t trust anyone else with what I do,” you said. “They’re gonna miss something, some detail and then I’ll have to go over what they did anyway.”

“Either vacation, or this,” he said, his voice signaling this was not open to discussion. “You’re not leaving me with many options here.”

“There is an option!” you exclaimed. “The system we have works.”

“It obviously doesn’t if you haven’t slept in two days and the workload is triggering a panic attack.”

“It didn’t though!” you insisted. “It’s a coincidence, not a chain of events.”

“I’m not risking it.”

You huffed out, slipping a little on the floor and crossing your arms while Bucky’s lips twitched into a fond smile.

“You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting, I’m contemplating,” you corrected him and gritted your teeth, then rolled your eyes. “Fine. I’ll give the okay though, whoever you hire. I need to make sure they can handle this whole thing.”

“Didn’t think otherwise.”

You let out a noise of displeasure, exhaustion still heavy on your whole body and you leaned your head on his shoulder with a tired sigh. He dipped his head to nuzzle into your hair, making your stomach do a happy flip and you played with the bracelet around your wrist.

“Bucky?”

He hummed into your hair.

“How did it go with Murray?”

He raised his lips from your hair so that you could hear him; “We’re not talking about work right now.”

“But—”

“Nope.”

“Fine,” you said with a pout. “How are you handling the breakup?”

That made him fall quiet for a moment before he cleared his throat.

“I’m fine.”

You lifted your head and sat up straighter to look up at him better.

“Are you?” you insisted. “For real? Because I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. I mean no offense but Hazel is kind of perfect.”

“She is,” Bucky said immediately. “She really is, but I don’t think—uh, I don’t think I was the right person for her.

Your heart sped up again but this time instead of dread, all you could feel was excitement rushing through your veins.

“…Oh,” you managed to say. “Why not?”

That made him fall quiet for a moment, his gaze slipping down to your lips before it snapped up to your eyes again. You couldn’t help but notice his throat bobbed nervously, and he took a deep breath as if he was trying to gather up courage.

Which was insane.

You had seen him throw himself in danger over and over again without so much as a second of hesitation.

“Because,” he started, his voice soft, “Birdie, I—”

“Hello?” Kelsey’s voice carried out from the doorway, snapping both of you out of your daze. “Guys?”

You loved Kelsey but you could swear that the urge to scream at her was way too strong.

Bucky closed his eyes for a moment as if he shared the sentiment, then opened them again, his jaw tightening. You sat up straighter and raised your hand from beside the desk.

“Over here, Kels.”

“What the fuck are you two doing on the floor?” Kelsey asked as she made her way to you and you exchanged glances, then turned to her.

“I…we—uh—”

“I think better when I’m sitting on the floor,” Bucky cut you off and Kelsey tilted her head.

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s a habit from the 1940s.”

Kelsey looked from him to you while Bucky stood up, then offered his hand for you to take it, a warmth spreading from your hand to your arm. You were still exhausted, but you looked up at him and mouthed ‘thank you’. Bucky squeezed your hand in an assuring manner, and you turned to Kelsey.

“Are we going home?”

“Sure, let’s.”

“Call me when you get home?” Bucky murmured and you nodded your head, giving him a small smile, then grabbed your purse off the desk and followed Kelsey out of the office.

“Please don’t tell me you two were having sex on the office floor.”

You let out a laugh, then shook your head.

“We were talking about his ex,” you said and cracked your neck, making a face. “And oh, before I forget, Caleb says we’ll have a barbeque at Bucky’s place this Saturday.”

“At Bucky’s place?” she asked. “All of us?”

“Mm hm, the whole team and I think Sam and Sarah will come too.”

Kelsey grinned at you.

“Just let me know if you happen to find yourself in his bedroom and need me to distract others,” she joked. “During the house tour, that is.”

You pushed at her arm gently.

“There’s gonna be people there,” you reminded her. “Lots of people. Hypothetically, even if Bucky liked me like that—”

“Did they raise you in a convent?”

“That would still be impossible,” you said as if she didn’t interrupt you. “Which by the way, he doesn’t.”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t even think he finds me hot, to be honest with you,” you said. “It’s like Hazel said. He entertains my crush, that’s it.”

Kelsey threw her head back.

“You are so oblivious,” she groaned. “This barbecue—”

“Will be just a barbecue,” you said. “Some PR thing, that’s it. I assure you.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#congressman bucky barnes #congressman!bucky #congressman!bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic

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daydreamgoddess14 · 21 hours ago

Text

ohh Elle! This was gorgeous! I loved the miscommunication!

sergeant's magic mouth

🫦 based on this ask but I definitely diverted from the main plot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, oral sex (f receiving), pussy eating, misunderstanding trope, soft dom!Bucky, desperate!reader, overstimulation, slow burn tension, emotional release

Word Count: 3.5k

The compound was quieter than usual, the aftermath of a long mission settling in like a low, collective exhale. Somewhere in the common kitchen, someone clinked a glass. Distant laughter floated through the hall—probably Sam or Clint. But in the softly lit entertainment room, it was just you and Bucky. Again.

You’d flopped onto the couch hours ago after sparring, half-watching a movie you’d already forgotten the name of. Bucky had joined a little later, tucking himself into the corner of the cushions, red henley hugging the bulk of his arms, the silver glint of his metal arm catching the TV’s light like a low hum in your peripheral.

You hadn’t meant to end up in his lap. Again.

But like always, his palm was already on your waist when you slid over—grounding, warm despite the chill of the metal. His thighs were spread wide beneath you, relaxed and solid, and your legs naturally draped on either side like they belonged there. You leaned into him. He didn’t stop you. He never did.

It had been like this for weeks now. Maybe months.

Long after the dust from the whole Civil War mess had started to settle, you and Bucky had slipped into something wordless. Something sacred. You didn’t know what to call it—it didn’t feel right calling it just friends. Not when you could still feel the way he’d kissed you that first night after the team’s barbecue. The way he’d held you still while your hips rocked against his, slow and aching. Not when your heart stuttered every time he looked at you with that tired, hungry softness that made your skin burn.

The first kiss had been a dare. A stupid, tipsy game where someone dared Bucky to kiss you and no one—no one—had expected him to actually do it.

But he did.

He cupped your face with his warm hand, looked you in the eye, and kissed you like he’d been holding that breath in since 1943. And from then on… something shifted.

Now, he’d let you straddle him during quiet movie nights. His jaw would clench when your hips moved just right. You’d feel him through his jeans, thick and hard under you, and he’d groan—deep and strangled like he was holding something back. He’d mouth at your neck, hands gripping your waist, but it never went further than that. Never inside. Never under the clothes.

And you told yourself it was fine. You told yourself maybe this was just how it was going to be—this undefined, lusty thing. You told yourself it was better than nothing. Because it was Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. The man women used to whisper about back in the 40s—the charmer with the bedroom eyes and silver tongue. You’d heard the rumors. Everyone had.

And you? You were just… you.

He could have anyone. And maybe you were just the convenient body he used to push those urges away—a warm lap to grind into, a mouth to kiss when the nights got too long. You didn’t know how to ask for more. You were terrified that if you tried, he’d pull away.

Meanwhile, Bucky? Bucky thought you were his. Fully.

He thought you’d been his since the second time you kissed him—the night you’d curled into his lap after patrol and whispered “I missed you” like it meant more than just the day. And it had killed him not to touch you deeper, not to give you everything he had. But he remembered what you said at that same team barbecue, right after everyone settled down with their beers and ribs. Someone had joked about hook-ups and you, ever soft-spoken, had laughed shyly and said:

“I’m a little old school. I don’t really go all the way unless it’s someone serious… like, serious-serious.”

And Bucky? Bucky was from the actual old school. Back in the 40s, that meant one thing—you waited until you were married. And if you were the kind of woman who saved yourself for that, then goddammit, he wasn’t going to be the reason you’d break that promise.

So he held back. Every time your body writhed against his. Every time he could smell your arousal through your leggings. Every time he had to clench his jaw and bury his face in your neck just to keep from coming in his pants.

He never touched himself after. Not once.

Didn’t jerk off to the thought of you, even though he ached to.

Because he wanted all of it—all of you—the right way.

He thought the wait would be worth it.

He just didn’t know you were waiting for him to want you at all.

—

The late afternoon sun cast warm streaks of gold across the compound, tinting the walls and windows with lazy amber light. You’d just wrapped up training and were headed toward the balcony, drawn by the familiar sound of laughter—two deep voices rolling over each other in low, nostalgic waves.

Steve and Bucky.

You slowed your steps as you approached, the soft creak of your boots masked by the breeze curling in through the open doors. They hadn’t noticed you yet, and you paused just beyond the archway, hidden by the sliding glass panel, your eyes flicking over to them instinctively.

They were seated side by side on the wide balcony bench, drinks in hand—Bucky with his legs spread in that casual, careless way, grey shirt pulled tight across his chest, silver arm draped over the backrest. Steve had a glass of something dark balanced in his grip, laughing into it.

“Alright, Buck. Be honest with me,” Steve said, nudging Bucky’s boot with his own. “How’s everything with you and her?”

Bucky shifted a little, his jaw tensing as he looked down at the drink in his hand.

You froze, breath catching. Her? You?

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft, but sure.

“We’re doing just fine.”

Steve scoffed. “Just fine? Buck, come on. That’s not enough.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, but there was a flicker of tension in the movement—like he was trying to ease discomfort off his shoulders. He rubbed his thumb along the curve of his glass and glanced sideways at Steve.

“I don’t think I should be talking about her when she’s not here,” he muttered. “That wouldn’t feel right.”

You blinked. Your chest tightened. He was talking about you like—

Steve laughed again, all good-natured and clueless. “God, you haven’t changed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky asked, arching an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“You remember the 40s?” Steve leaned back, the bench creaking under his weight. “Every girl at the bar was looking past me, and straight at you. I couldn’t get a date to save my damn life. You? You walked in and the whole room turned to jelly.”

Bucky snorted, tipping his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, well. That was before the serum. Before your fan club started.”

Steve smirked. “Oh, how the tables have turned, huh?”

Bucky gave him a look—part fond, part annoyed—but didn’t deny it.

Then Steve added, with a smirk far too knowing:

“You know, I still remember the rumors. I wasn’t supposed to hear most of ‘em—but you know how dames talk when they’ve had one too many.” He grinned into his glass. “Word was, anyone who got lucky enough to sleep with Sergeant Barnes left with their legs shaking.”

Bucky groaned immediately. “Jesus, Stevie—”

“No, no, wait—my favorite was the one who said you had a magic mouth,” Steve continued, delighting in the way Bucky tried to sink into himself. “Swore you knew exactly what to do down there. Said it was like being—what was it—worshipped?”

Your heart skipped. What?

You stepped out, your voice too curious for your brain to catch up.

“Wait… Bucky was that good with girls?”

Both men looked up fast. Bucky flinched like he’d just been smacked with a brick.

“Shit,” he muttered, straightening up immediately, his metal fingers tightening around his glass. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” you said, fighting a grin as you stepped toward them, trying to sound innocent even though your pulse was sprinting. “I didn’t know you had a magic mouth, Bucky.”

Steve glanced between you and Bucky, the corner of his mouth twitching with the kind of subtle amusement only a best friend could pull off.

“Well,” he said, rising from the bench with smooth ease, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

He set his glass down on the ledge, adjusted the sleeves of his shirt with practiced calm, and gave Bucky a pointed look that only made the other man shrink deeper into his seat.

Then, with a polite nod to you, he added,

“Try not to give him too hard a time, huh?”

And with that, Steve turned and walked back inside—composed, quiet, and absolutely smirking.

The silence he left behind was scorching.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his skin already turning crimson beneath the ends of his hair. His silver fingers tapped against the railing like he couldn’t decide whether to escape over it or just melt into a puddle where he stood.

“That, uh… that wasn’t exactly how I wanted that to come up,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

You leaned next to him, arms crossed, brow arched just slightly. “You never told me you had a reputation.”

He groaned. “God. It was blown way out of proportion, I swear.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, pretending to think. “So you didn’t make girls’ legs shake?”

Bucky winced. Practically folded into himself.

“I mean—maybe a few,” he muttered. “But not like that. It wasn’t… Jesus, they made it sound like I slept with the whole borough. I didn’t. I wasn’t like that.”

You tried not to smile. “The whole borough, huh?”

His head jerked toward you, eyes wide. “Wait—are you… are you mad?”

“What? No,” you said quickly, brows lifting.

“You sure?” he asked again, more desperate now. “Because I never—look, I wasn’t just screwing around back then, okay? I didn’t sleep with that many people. And I haven’t been with anyone since and I’m not—I mean, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Your breath caught for a second. But you didn’t say anything.

Because your brain was not registering any of that.

Not the panic in his voice. Not the low, sincere way he said to you like it meant something.

All you could think about was what Steve said.

Legs shaking. Worship. Magic mouth.

You were still stuck on that phrase like a scratch on a record.

You let a beat pass. Just long enough to watch the flush creeping up his neck, the nervous dart of his eyes, the way he seemed to be running through every decision he’d ever made since 1943.

“I just didn’t know you were into that,” you said lightly, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve like you hadn’t just learned something that would haunt you tonight in your sheets.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, clearly spiraling. “I—I didn’t mean for that to sound like I was bragging or anything. I don’t know where Steve heard that stuff. I mean, yeah, I used to, but not—It wasn’t like I slept around. I didn’t. I swear I never—”

“Bucky,” you cut in gently, offering a little smile. “It’s really okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded once, calm and even. “No hard feelings.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, apologize again, dig his way out of a guilt hole he didn’t even need to be in. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You stepped back toward the door, glancing at him over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you at dinner.”

And then you slipped inside, perfectly composed.

—

Your expression didn’t crack until you turned the corner, heat blooming across your face like a slow, wicked fire.

He used to love it.

He might still be good at it.

He thinks you’re mad about his past… and you’re just thinking about his mouth between your legs.

You pressed your hand against the wall, heart thundering.

Now all you needed was the right moment.

The right excuse.

Something casual. Natural.

Just a little something to get James Buchanan Barnes on his knees.

—

You kept your distance for six days.

Six entire, aching days.

Dinner that night? You smiled. Ate. Laughed with Sam. Passed the mashed potatoes like nothing had changed. Bucky sat across from you, silent and painfully upright, like he was ready for a cross-examination that never came.

The next day? You greeted him with a nod in the hallway. Kept your tone even, your posture casual. Bucky watched you like a man waiting for the world to fall out from under him.

And the day after that? You brushed past him near the weapons locker, arm grazing his on accident—only to duck into the training room before he could open his mouth.

He kept trying. Eyes lingering, mouth parting every time he got you alone for even a second. But you never gave him the space.

Because what were you supposed to say?

Hey, Bucky. You want to eat my cunt sometime? Because I’ve been thinking about it for many nights and I’m dangerously close to humping the corner of my pillow just to cope?

Yeah, no.

So you waited. And stewed. And tried not to fantasize.

But your body had other plans.

By day six, your hormones had you spiraling. You caught yourself grinding your thighs together during debriefing. Sweating during sparring. Biting your lip when Bucky scratched his jaw and muttered something under his breath, not even directed at you.

Day seven, you cracked.

Over lunch, with the team distracted, you leaned close to him—so casual—and said,

“Come to my unit after dinner.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes steady. “Just for a bit.”

And that was all it took.

—

He showed up at your door just past nine. Dressed down in a fitted black tee and dark sweats. Hair tucked behind his ears. Smiling.

Not smirking. Not flirty. Just… happy.

You didn’t know it yet, but he thought this was a date. A real one. The first of many.

You let him in and made small talk. Let him sit on the couch like always. Let him pull you into his lap the way he always did when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Then you kissed him.

Slow. Familiar. But deeper.

His hands came to your thighs, dragging up under the hem of your oversized shirt as your knees bracketed his hips. He groaned softly into your mouth when you rolled against him—pressing down, grinding slow and needy right into the heat of his lap.

Then he froze.

You could feel it. The shift. The exact moment he realized there was nothing between you and his pants. No shorts. No panties. Just your bare, wet cunt dragging over the thick line of his cock through cotton.

Bucky broke the kiss, his hands halting on your thighs.

His voice came out hoarse.

“Doll… are you—are you not wearing anything?”

You blushed, chest rising slowly. “No.”

His eyes widened, hand clenching against your skin. “Since when?”

“Since before you got here.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, like it physically hurt him.

You pressed your forehead against his. Voice trembling now, but not from nerves.

“I’ve been thinking about it. Ever since Steve said that thing on the balcony.”

His brows lifted. “About… my mouth?”

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You shifted your hips again. Let him feel the wet drag of your folds against his cock. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands locking tighter on your waist.

“Baby,” he rasped, “are you sure this is what you want? Not just—y’know, ‘cause you’re upset or… jealous or—”

That was the moment it snapped. The misunderstanding, the buried truth, the weeks and months of aching.

Your brow furrowed.

“Jealous? Bucky, I don’t have any right to be jealous. We’re not… together.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re just…” You swallowed. “I thought we were just fooling around. Friends with benefits or something.”

His face went still.

“Wait,” he said. “You thought that’s what we were?”

You nodded slowly.

“I thought we were dating,” he said quietly. “I thought we were just taking it slow. You said at the barbecue that you’re traditional. I figured that meant you were saving sex until… marriage or something.”

You stared at him, lips parting. “I—no. I just didn’t want to sleep with someone who didn’t take me seriously.”

Bucky’s mouth hung open for a second. Then he let out a short, breathless laugh—somewhere between disbelief and relief.

“We’re idiots,” you said, and started laughing too.

He buried his face in your neck and laughed along with you, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

“You’ve been my boyfriend this whole time without me even knowing?” you teased.

He pulled back, brushing his nose against yours. “Guess that makes it official now.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because now you’ve got even more reason to go down on me.”

His lips parted. You kissed him before he could speak.

—

What followed wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t wild.

It was reverent.

Bucky laid you back on the couch like you were made of silk and starlight, one hand supporting your back while the other guided your thighs open. He settled between them like it was where he was always meant to be—kneeling, breath shaky, eyes dark.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, thumbing along the inside of your knee. His voice was low. Full of awe.

You reached for him—but he kissed your thigh instead. Then again. And again. Slow, warm, deliberate. His stubble scraped lightly along your skin, the contrast enough to make you squirm, already sensitive from the slow grind you’d shared minutes before.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Just wanna take my time with you. You deserve that.”

Then he ducked lower.

And when he pressed his tongue to your cunt—broad and unhurried—it felt like the world melted into heat and wet and sound. You gasped, hips twitching, fingers curling into the couch cushions.

Bucky moaned into you. Actually moaned.

“God, you taste like fucking honey,” he rasped, licking another slow, deliberate stripe between your folds. “So sweet, baby. Dripping for me.”

He dragged his tongue through your slick again, groaning like the taste alone could undo him. And then he slurped—an unashamed, filthy sound that made your eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, voice thick and desperate. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”

His tongue circled your clit—steady, patient, focused. Then he sucked. A low, wet pull that sent shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, thighs shaking already, but Bucky didn’t stop. He wrapped his lips around that swollen bud and sucked again, swirling his tongue in small, practiced motions like he’d studied every curve, every pattern of how your body trembled for him.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” he breathed. “So fucking soft. So warm. Look at this pussy, baby. Look how wet she is for me.”

You whined, head thrown back, chest heaving—and he didn’t let up.

He licked you like it was his only purpose. Like he’d spent years thinking about this. Dreaming of this. His tongue flicked quick, then slow, then down—dipping into your entrance, fucking in and out with soft, rhythmic strokes that made your back arch off the couch.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Let me hear those pretty sounds. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, baby. Feels like I’m high off this fucking pussy.”

You could hear how wet it was. The obscene, slick sounds of his tongue lapping, his lips sucking, the gentle stubble burn brushing your inner thighs with every move. He kept you wide, kept you steady, like he didn’t want to miss a second—like this was something sacred to him.

And when your thighs started to tremble, when your hips bucked once—twice—he held you still with a firm grip of his metal hand on your stomach.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered, licking up your slit with one slow, heavenly stroke. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you did.

You shattered.

Came hard. Loud. Thighs clenching around his head while he groaned and kept sucking, kept licking through it, pushing you higher until your whole body was shaking.

He didn’t stop. Not until he pulled a second orgasm from you with nothing but his mouth and your name falling from his lips like praise.

When he finally eased up—mouth slick, lips swollen, beard shining with your release—he kissed your thighs again. Tender. Adoring. Like he still wasn’t done worshipping you.

Then he climbed up your body, settling over you slowly, his hands gentle where they cradled your hips.

His forehead pressed to yours. He was smiling—dazed and soft and breathless.

You blinked at him, heart still pounding.

“So that’s what all the rumors were about.”

Bucky chuckled, voice low and hoarse.

“They didn’t even know half of it.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes smut #જ⁀➴ by elle #requested fic by elle #bucky barnes x fem reader #bucky x fem reader

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