grilledcheesewithjalapeno

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

this got me 😖✊🏻

Dbf!Bucky who is so rough and romantic

Pairing: Dbf!Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Your dad’s best friend,Bucky, who fucks and fingers you

Warning: Bucky as a whole, pussy spanks, spitting. Some degrading, hickeys, dacryphilia, rough-ish sex, overstimulation

Word count: 1k+

Dbf!Bucky who spits on your pussy and spanks it before sliding his cock in just to watch you squirm. He grunts a rough "you like that, huh? fuckin' messy girl" his metal thumb circling your clit with the kind of pressure that makes your hips lift off the bed. “How would your dad feel if he knew I fucked his little girl dumb?” He says with a sickening smile.

Dbf!Bucky who grabs your chin and tilts it up, slipping his fingers inside your mouth, holding it open like you’re his to command. His voice is low, teasing, almost cruel as he murmurs, “Tears already, sweetheart? I haven’t even warmed you up yet.” Then he plunges in, relentless and unforgiving, fucking you hard and deep, pushing past every limit until your eyes glaze over and roll back, lost in the rush he’s dragging you through.

Dbf!Bucky who presses just the tip against you, dragging it slow and cruel while your thighs are pinned wide in his grip, like he’s got all the time in the world to watch you come undone. “You need it that bad, baby? Then ask. Tell daddy how much you want it.” And he stays perfectly still until your voice breaks trying.

Dbf!Bucky who never stops muttering filth as he moves inside you—“tight little pussy, fuck,” “meant to be stuffed full of me,” every word rasped right against your ear, low and possessive—but his hands never stop roaming soft over your skin, anchoring you, calming you. He presses slow, reverent kisses between your shoulder blades, each one like a quiet apology for how deep he’s driving, how good it hurts. And even when his thrusts turn rough, relentless, there’s a sweetness to the way he holds you close, like he’s breaking you down just to put you back together again.

Dbf!Bucky who pins your wrists above your head with one hand, holding you there like you’re nothing but his to play with. The other slips between your thighs, and he doesn’t start slow—he presses the heel of his hand against your clit, grinding down fast and relentless, until your hips are jerking and your breath’s coming in broken gasps. You twitch under him, overstimulated and aching, but he just leans in with that smug little smirk and murmurs, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Too much already?” Like he hasn’t even started.

Dbf!Bucky who doesn’t let you hide when your body starts to unravel—no turning your head, no squeezing your eyes shut. The second you start shaking from the force of it, he grabs your face, fingers firm around your jaw, tilting your head until your eyes lock with his. His gaze is dark, hungry, like he’s drinking in every second of your ruin. “That’s it” he grunts, voice rough and low. “Fuckin’ look at me when you cum. I want it burned into you—want you to remember exactly who fucks you this good. Who you fall apart for.”

Dbf!Bucky who says “good girl” like it’s both a blessing and a warning—low, firm, and thick with pride. The kind of voice that wraps around your spine and makes your body obey before your mind can catch up. He watches you take him, inch by inch, like you were made for it, and leans in close, murmuring, “That’s my perfect girl. Taking every inch like you were built for me. Just for me” And the way he says it—like it’s the only truth—makes you squeeze tighter, soak him deeper, desperate to keep earning that praise no matter how much it unravels you.

Dbf!Bucky who keeps thrusting deep and steady while his fingers find your clit, pressing down just enough to make you jolt. He rubs in slow, torturously precise circles—no mercy, no break—dragging out every twitch, every gasp like it’s his favorite song. You’re squirming beneath him, hips trying to shift away from the overwhelming pressure, but he just tightens his grip, that lazy, smug grin never leaving his face. “C’mon, baby” he murmurs, voice like velvet laced with heat. “Don’t run now. I know your body better than you do. I know exactly what it needs—and how far it can go.” And he doesn’t stop. Not until you cum with a cry.

Dbf!Bucky who fucks you hard, relentless and fierce, driving into you with everything he’s got—but the moment tears spill down your cheeks, he’s gentle, brushing your hair away like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek, voice dropping to the gentlest whisper, “Pretty doll” even as his hips slam into you with the force that leaves you both gasping, like he’s trying to break you apart and build you back up all at once. That fierce, fierce love—wild and tender—is written all over him.

Dbf!Bucky who lifts you up effortlessly while still deep inside you, holding you close like you’re weightless in his arms. He carries you to the bathroom, his grip firm but gentle, until he settles you down in his lap, both of you sinking into the warm water of the tub. The heat wraps around you like a soft promise. His hands glide over your skin, slow and reverent, as he murmurs against your ear, “Relax, sweetheart. Let me clean you up. Took me so well.” His voice is low and soothing, but there’s steel beneath it—like he’s proud, like you’re exactly where you belong.

Dbf!Bucky who turns you toward the mirror while you’re still trembling, your legs unsteady, his release already slipping down your thigh. Your makeup’s a mess—mascara smudged, lips swollen, eyes rolled back into your skull—and he just stands behind you, palm splayed across your waist like he’s grounding you there. He leans in close, voice a gravelly whisper against your ear, “Look at that. Look at you. You should see how fuckin’ pretty you are like this—ruined, dripping full of my cum.” His eyes don’t leave your reflection as he lets his fingers trail down, slow and deliberate, like he wants to memorize every inch of the wreckage he caused.

Dbf!Bucky who leaves a deep, grinding bruise on your inner thigh with his mouth. doesn't bite-but sucks hard and slow enough to make you whimper, just so he can pull back and say "You’re all mine. No one is ever going to see you like this. You’re just for me."

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

soft and fluffy is what i'll describe Alpine and this fic 🫶🏻

Snowy Alps: Alpine.

Summary: Bucky brings home a stray cat. Alpine brings home a new routine.

Disclaimer: fluff, domestic bucky, stray cat adoption, alpine supremacy, soft cuddles, pet store chaos, bed-sharing (with cat), light teasing

The door slid open with a gentle swoosh, and Bucky stepped into your shared Watchtower unit, a takeout bag in one hand, your steaming cup of coffee in the other, and—most notably—white cat fur clinging to the black of his jacket like he’d wrestled a snowstorm on the way home.

“Baby?” he called out, voice lighter than usual.

You peeked from the couch where you’d been curled up with a blanket and a book. “Hey, welcome back.” Then your eyes narrowed, amused. “You’re covered in something… fuzzy.”

He blinked, then glanced down. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. About that.”

He set the food down and shrugged off his jacket, revealing even more fur speckled along the sleeves of his black long-sleeve shirt. He didn’t even bother brushing it off. Instead, he practically beamed as he sat beside you, still riding the high of his afternoon discovery.

“There’s this cat,” he began, already breathless with excitement. “At the café downstairs. All white. Like—not cream or off-white. White-white. Snow.”

You tilted your head, already smiling. “And she attacked you?”

“No,” he said, eyes softening as he looked at you. “She curled up on my lap while I was waiting for your pastries. Like she just decided I was furniture. Didn’t flinch when I pet her. She even rolled over so I could scratch her tummy.”

“She showed you her belly?” you laughed, heart fluttering at how gentle he sounded. “That’s trust. Instant soul bond.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” His knee bounced slightly. He was trying to contain himself, like he was unsure if this would sound silly—but you already knew the answer.

“So… I wanna bring her home,” he said, glancing at you, hopeful but cautious. “If you’re okay with that. I already checked—she’s a girl. I’d name her Alpine. Like the snowcaps in the Alps. Pure white. Peaceful. It just… felt right. I think she reminds me of that part of me I never got to have.”

That last part made your chest ache a little—softly, sweetly. You leaned forward, cupping his jaw and brushing your thumb over his stubbled cheek.

“I love it,” you said. “And I love her already. Let’s go get Alpine.”

—

Later that evening, you were both back at the café. The little white cat was still perched in her usual spot by the patio, paws tucked under her like a loaf of bread.

Bucky crouched down and softly called, “Hey, Alpine…”

Her ears twitched. She lifted her head, saw him—and without hesitation, padded straight over. She hopped onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, head bumping against his chest before she curled against him.

“Yup,” you murmured, watching him hold her like she was the most delicate thing in the world. “You’re hers now.”

He scooped her up carefully, and she made no fuss—just settled in with a quiet purr, trusting and content.

—

The evening ended with a smooth vet visit—Alpine was healthy, just a little underweight—and a very enthusiastic trip to the nearby pet store that felt, quite honestly, more like preparing for a royal homecoming than a casual adoption.

The moment you stepped inside, Bucky froze like a soldier facing an unexpected new mission.

“This is… a lot,” he muttered, surveying the rows of colorful packaging and towers of cat furniture like they were tactical assets on a battlefield. You watched his eyes dart from brand names to ingredient lists with the same intense focus he used when analyzing mission files.

He lingered in the litter box aisle for an embarrassingly long time, crouched in front of three nearly identical models with his brow furrowed. One had a carbon filter, another promised “maximum odor control,” and the third came in sleek matte black.

“This one looks like it belongs in Stark’s bathroom,” he grumbled.

“Then she’ll probably hate it,” you replied, laughing as you nudged him. “Just pick one that doesn’t look like a spaceship.”

“She deserves something classy,” he insisted, eventually settling on a simple beige model with a privacy hood and golden trim. “She’s got dignity.”

The indecision didn’t stop there. In the food aisle, he hovered like a man trying to choose the perfect wine for a Michelin-starred dinner. He held up one bag of premium organic kibble like it held the answer to the universe.

“This says wild-caught salmon,” he mumbled, reading the back. “But this one has freeze-dried duck. Which one’s better? Which one screams ‘I love you and I respect your primal instincts’?”

“She’s a five-pound cat, Buck.”

“She’s my five-pound cat,” he said stubbornly. “I can’t give her anything boring. What if she hates me?”

Then, with sudden intensity, he looked at you and said, completely serious: “Should I just buy raw steak? Like… once a week? A little Friday night ritual? We could call it Alpine’s Ribeye Hour.”

You burst out laughing. “No, babe. No ribeye hour. She doesn’t need red meat marbled to perfection.”

A staff member nearby chuckled and gently stepped in. “If she’s not on a raw diet, that much red meat might upset her stomach. Fancy kibble and wet food will do fine. Maybe throw in a few freeze-dried treats.”

Bucky nodded slowly, as if receiving sacred instructions.

“I just want her to feel safe,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “Like she’s somewhere soft and permanent.”

“She already does,” you reminded him softly.

Eventually, you both left the store with a small cart piled high: a tall cat tree (“She deserves the high ground,” Bucky declared), a pastel pink ceramic bowl set (“Matches her tiny murder princess energy”), a soft faux-fur bed, several mouse-shaped toys, a bag of treats shaped like little fish, and a feather wand Bucky couldn’t stop playing with while waiting in line.

“She’s gonna think we’re insane,” you said.

“She’s gonna think she won the lottery,” he replied.

—

By the time you were both back at the Watchtower—inside your cozy, shared space that passed for a home more than a mission base—Alpine was already out of her carrier and trotting forward like she’d been here before in another life.

Tail held high, she made her rounds with purpose. First the kitchen, where she sniffed the legs of the island and examined the corner near the fridge. Then the couch, where she clawed lightly at the throw blanket you’d folded earlier that morning, as if testing the texture for naps. She darted into the hallway, disappeared into the bathroom, and reappeared with what looked like a stray cotton swab in her mouth.

“She’s inspecting her kingdom,” you whispered.

“No—she’s checking for weak spots in our defenses,” Bucky replied seriously, crouching to retrieve the cotton swab from her mouth. “Classic flanking maneuver.”

Eventually, she made her way into the bedroom, pausing only once to look over her shoulder and chirp—a soft, curious sound that neither of you had expected to melt your hearts the way it did.

You followed her inside, and watched as she leapt effortlessly onto the bed. But not just anywhere. No. She walked with clear intent to Bucky’s side—his pillow still creased from that morning—and plopped down like she owned it.

“I…” Bucky blinked. “I think I’m the chosen one.”

“You are,” you smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re covered in fur and she already slept on you once. You’re marked.”

As if to prove it, Alpine stretched and rolled sideways, exposing her belly to the ceiling as she purred and rubbed her face into Bucky’s pillow like she was stamping her signature all over it.

He stepped forward slowly, like if he moved too fast she might vanish. But when he sat on the edge of the mattress, Alpine stood, walked over, and—with the most casual entitlement—climbed halfway up his leg like a tiny mountain lion scaling familiar terrain.

“Did you see that?” he whispered, wide-eyed and trying very hard not to move. “She picked me again.”

You grinned, arms crossed. “Yeah. She’s definitely got good taste.”

Alpine nuzzled her cheek into the dark fabric of his pants before curling into a loaf at his feet, purring like a little motor. The kind of sound you could feel if you stood close enough—warm and steady.

Bucky’s voice dropped to something almost reverent. “She’s home.”

—

Dinner was easy that night. The two of you ate on the small dining table tucked against the window, city lights sparkling far below. You passed each other bites between conversation and quiet laughter, half of your attention stolen by the soft presence now occupying the middle of the table.

Alpine had curled up just to the left of Bucky’s plate, nose tucked under her tail, the tips of her ears twitching ever so slightly. Her soft, rhythmic purring filled the space like background music—comforting, cozy, like a fireplace crackling.

Bucky just stared at her for a long moment, chin resting on his palm, spoon suspended in his other hand.

“You good, Buck?” you asked gently.

He didn’t even look away from her. “Mmhmm,” he hummed, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “I’m full already. Could listen to that purr all night.”

You snorted into your drink, setting it down with a smirk. “So that’s it, huh? I’ve lost my queen position to a white cat with jellybean toes?”

Bucky finally turned to you with the softest look—like he’d never been more sure of anything in his life—and said, “Nah. You’re the queen. She’s just… the royal advisor. Or a tiny fluffy tyrant.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her paw.”

“She does,” he admitted, completely unbothered. “And I’d do anything she asked.”

You couldn’t even pretend to be jealous. Watching him like this—gentle, light, his guard down so far it was practically gone—you felt the warmth of this little family settling into place around you.

And across the table, Alpine purred on. Content. Safe. Home.

—

Night fell quiet over the Watchtower, the kind of stillness only broken by the hum of distant aircraft traffic and the occasional creak of the unit’s HVAC system. In the soft light of your bedroom, all was warm and calm. Alpine was nowhere to be seen for now—last you saw, she’d been investigating the inside of Bucky’s tactical boot.

You were already under the covers, curled into Bucky’s chest, his vibranium arm stretched behind your pillow and his flesh hand lazily tracing patterns over your shoulder. Nothing heated, nothing rushed. Just the kind of closeness that spoke in silence—shared warmth, steady heartbeats, fingers laced under the sheets like they belonged there.

“I love this,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed into your hair. “Me too.”

But then, after a beat, you felt him shift. Just slightly. Then again—shoulders squirming, fingers pausing on your back.

“Bucky,” you said, suspiciously. “Why are you moving?”

He hesitated… then whispered like a kid asking for dessert past bedtime, “Can I… go pet Alpine now?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve been waiting all day to cuddle with her,” he said, completely sincere. “I thought maybe she’d sleep on my chest tonight or curl into my arm or something.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You traitor. I lose my spot to a rescue cat in less than twelve hours.”

But before either of you could move, there was a soft thump from the hallway—then the elegant click of tiny paws against the wooden floor. Alpine strutted into the room like she owned the lease.

“There she is,” Bucky whispered excitedly, already shifting up onto one elbow with a smile spreading across his face.

You watched, amused, as Alpine paused at the edge of the bed, assessed the situation like a military tactician… and then, with no hesitation whatsoever, padded to your side and flopped down against your stomach. Not between the two of you. Not on Bucky.

Just you.

Bucky blinked.

You stared.

Alpine let out one satisfied purr, stretched long across your middle like a sash, and closed her eyes. Her white fur glowed in the soft bedside lamp, her little pink nose twitching like she’d claimed her spot and would not be moved.

“…She picked you,” Bucky said, sounding personally wounded.

“Oh no,” you gasped, not hiding your grin. “Oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I believe you’ve been rejected.”

“I fed her salmon bits tonight,” he said, genuinely baffled. “I carried her around PetSmart for two hours like she was royalty. I said she was my girl!”

“She was your girl,” you teased. “But clearly, she has her eye on the throne now.”

He narrowed his eyes, flopping back onto the pillow with an exaggerated sigh. “Betrayal. In my own bed.”

You reached over with a smirk, gently shifting Alpine so she now lay in the middle between you both. She didn’t curl into a tight ball, like she had before—instead, she stretched out flat and long, paws extended forward, belly facing up proudly as if to say yes, I own you both now.

Her purring started almost instantly—loud and deep, vibrating against the mattress like a lullaby.

“Well,” Bucky murmured, giving her a fond scratch behind the ear, “if she’s in the middle, then at least I get joint custody.”

You smiled, snuggling closer, your arm brushing his over Alpine’s fluff. “Looks like the bed’s not just ours anymore.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered, “I don’t mind. As long as you’re both here.”

And under the soft hum of Alpine’s purring, the three of you slowly drifted off to sleep—safe, warm, and home.

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

☆to read/eat☆

I'll do that thing 🔥

Bucky x f!Reader established but secret 🤫

It's too damn hot, the AC is broken, and your boyfriend is a furnace. But there are solutions.

Bucky Masterlist

word count: 1.1k

warnings: pussy slapping, Bucky's vibranium hand, fingering... just a bit of heatwave filth, really. Encouraged by the gif above, darling @sunday-bug ☀️ and my other feral beauties in the gc.

There was sweat in places you couldn't even begin to imagine.

It pooled in the small of your back, in the valley of your breasts, the crook of your elbow, the backs of your knees, behind your ear.

“Engineers said next week,” Bob huffed, flopping down on the floor. Even the marble tiles were hot to the touch.

“I'll be dead by next week,” Lena groaned.

“Think I'm dead now.” You sighed. You shifted an inch to the left, peeling your leg off the one next to you.

The leg moved an inch closer.

You moved another inch away.

When it went to move again, you slapped your palm down hard on their bare leg.

“Ow! Shit!”

“Buck, you're like a furnace. Stop putting your leg against me,” you whined.

“How is every engineer in City busy?” Alexei demanded. “I fix it!”

“No!” Half a dozen voices rang out in unison.

“I'll fix it,” Bucky announced, standing up.

For you, the relief was immediate.

“You?” Ava asked, highly skeptical.

“Me. Fixed Sam's boat. What's an AC unit gonna do?”

“Blow up?” You shrugged.

“Better come with me then, in case it explodes.”

“No way.”

“It'll be cooler in the basement?”

“Deal.”

Across the room, John nudged Ava and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Have fun!”

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

“In this heat?” Lena grimaced. “Disgusting.”

“Fuck you, Walker!” You gave him the middle finger as you followed Bucky out of the room and into the elevator.

“You've gotta stop touching me in front of them,” you said as soon as the doors were closed. “They're gonna know.”

“They already do, babe.” He shrugged.

The basement was cooler, barely.

You found the hopeless AC unit wheezing and whirring. Bucky looked around it, his eyebrows pinched together.

Whatever this was, it hadn't been going on for long. Weeks and months of tense sparring sessions, flirty comments, and open ogling had culminated in him turning up at your door one night and barely putting you down since.

You hopped up to sit on a crate while he ‘worked’. In reality, it was a chance to ogle.

“Can feel you watching me, sweetheart. Something you need?”

“In this heat? Come near me and I'll bite you.”

“Promise?” As he turned to ask the question, he yanked a hose out of the unit.

With a violent hiss, a plume of freezing mist streamed out. “Oh. Shit.” He turned back to the unit.

“Want me to hold anything?” You peered around the unit. While you were distracted, he placed his left palm on the back of your neck.

The vibranium was ice cold against your hot, sticky skin. “Ohh fuck -” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He stepped behind you, replacing his hand with his mouth. His hand, still cold, pulled the neck of your cami down and pinched your quickly pebbling nipple.

Your head fell back onto his shoulder, giving him a perfect view down your body. Your back arched into his touch.

“Still too hot?” He murmured against your neck.

“Mmm, why? You gonna cool me down?”

“Gonna try,” he removed his hand, warmed by your skin, and put it back in the path of the freezing steam.

“S'too hot, Buck,” you insisted, moving out of his hold. Your body was on fire.

“C'mon, I'll do that thing?” He held you tighter, his voice pleading. “Need to touch you, baby.”

The fog hissed, curling around his wrist.

He dragged the cold vibranium fingers back along your collarbone, then lower, tracing the swell of your breast until you gasped. The contrast made your skin pebble under his touch - hot and flushed, meeting ice cold metal.

“That better?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

You didn’t answer. Not with words, just a low, breathy moan.

He circled your nipple with the very tips of his fingers, letting the cold settle in, sharp enough to make you shiver - then cupped your breast in full. A soft whimper escaped you, hips twitching as heat pooled low in your belly.

“Still too warm,” he said, almost to himself.

His hand slipped lower. Past your stomach. Down between your thighs.

The first brush of cold fingers against your slick heat made your whole body jolt.

“Fuck,” you hissed, breath catching.

“That’s it,” he murmured, dragging the metal through your folds again - slower this time, letting you feel the contrast between hot and cold.

Then - a sharp, deliberate slap.

It wasn’t hard, just sudden - a stinging smack of cold against the wet heat of your pussy, and your hips bucked instinctively, a broken moan tearing from your throat.

“Jesus,” you gasped, “do that again.”

He chuckled low in your ear. “Told you.”

Another slap, a little firmer this time. The sound of it, sharp and obscene, sent a shockwave straight through your gut. Then his fingers were between your folds, stroking with slow, steady pressure - cool vibranium rubbing where you needed it most.

“You’re soaking,” he growled. “All that heat getting to you?”

“You,” you whispered, grinding into his hand. “It’s you, Bucky, fuck -”

One finger slid inside - impossibly cold, your body clenching around him eagerly, greedy for it. Then another. He moved them in slow, curling thrusts while his thumb circled your clit in soft, frosty sweeps.

His teeth grazed your neck, his right hand held your hip steady while his left had you seeing god.

It was overwhelming. Heat and cold, sharp slaps and gentle strokes - your nerves couldn’t tell which was coming next.

When he smacked you again, right against your clit this time, your whole body jerked, your thighs trembling. He held you up against him, your back slicked with sweat against his broad chest.

“Oh my god,” you whimpered, hips grinding helplessly against him, pressing hard against your ass. “Don’t stop, please -”

“Not planning to, sweetheart.”

His fingers pumped faster, curling with every thrust, the heel of his hand pressing just right. And when he slapped you again, just once more, timed perfectly, it tipped you over the edge.

You came hard, body arching, a cry caught in your throat as everything clenched and broke open.

He held you through it, murmuring something against your neck you couldn’t even hear over the rush of blood in your ears.

“Oh god,” you breathed heavily.

With an obscene pop, he removed his hand from your aching pussy. He brought his digits to your mouth and you licked them clean.

He turned you gently, leaning you against the AC unit, pulled your top back up, and placed the softest kiss to your lips.

He weaved his hand through the freezing steam one more time and placed it between your shoulder blades. The cool relief made you sigh, the memory of his cold touch made your hips jerk against him, still hard.

“You not done, baby?”

Despite the heat, you arched into him, winding your arms around his neck.

“Not even close. Come take a cold shower with me?”

“Shower?” he grinned, gripping your thighs. “Nah, I want to make you sweat harder first.”

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

oh...OH.

More bucknasty you say? Riddle me this, bucky fucking reader who keeps grabbing handfuls of his ass while he grinds into her. And she keeps getting more and more handsy, fingers brushing his hole a few times once she realizes how much faster and harder it makes him go :D

(anon. you have a twisted little mind and i thank you for it.)

it’s so him. all cocky smirks and that lazy, heavy-lidded look at first, rocking into you slow, grinding his hips down in these deep, lazy rolls like he’s got all the time in the world. metal hand braced by your head, other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, lips brushing your ear every time he murmurs something filthy about how good you feel, how tight you are, how you were made for him.

and you’re behaving at first. or at least, you try. because he’s so fucking thick and the drag of his cock inside you is enough to make your head spin, but your hands start to wander. you can’t help it. he’s always been so fucking solid, mucsle layered over muscle, and when you get your palms on the swell of his ass — that thick, perfect curve flexing with every grind of his hips — it’s game over.

you dig your nails in and he stutters. honest to god, stutters. hips jerking, teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard you’re shocked he doesn’t draw blood. tries to cover it with a growl, “yeah? you like that, baby?” like he’s still got the upper hand, but you can feel how his cock twitches inside you, how his pace quickens a little.

and then your fingers brush over his hole. barely a graze, a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough. enough to make his whole body go tight, a choked, punched-out moan tearing from his throat as he bucks into you hardeer, deeper, almost desperate now. he tries to bite it back, bury his face in your throat like he can hide it, but you feel the way his hips lose that lazy rhythm, chasing it now.

you do it again. and again. letting your fingers tease the edge, pressing just enough to feel him twitch, the muscles in his ass flexing under your palm. every single time, it knocks another sound out of him — broken little groans, high in his throat, like he hates how much he loves it.

“fuck — fuck, baby — d-don’t —” but his cock’s already leaking inside you, thrusts growing messy, pace all over the place because you’ve figured him out and he knows it. knows you’ve got him, that one little touch turning him to fucking mush.

by the time you press your fingertips against it properly, just the barest pressure, his whole body jerks and he lets out this filthy, ragged whimper, burying his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how quick it sends him over the edge.

“shit — ‘m gonna — f-fuck — baby, don’t stop, please—”

and if you think he’s letting you walk away after that, you’re sorely mistaken. you’ll be pinned down and teased within an inch of your life before he even thinks about letting you up.

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

this is so me fr fr 😔

All I can think about is using Buckys abs and getting off on them, just back and forth while he's laying down with his arms on his head just watching, not touching not saying anything just watching you use his body really amused

bro oh my god can you imagine

he’s just happy to sit there and watch you get yourself off honestly

and like. yeah it’s a little embarrassing but it’s so hot you’re not gonna let yourself think about it. because god it feels good to just use him to get off.

maybe every once in a while though… he’ll give your thigh a little tap when you go slower

“keep goin, doll,” he mocks, chuckling

and you whimper and whine because you’re getting tired and want to come but you can’t get yourself there

“not enough doll? need my cock, huh?”

“no,,,,,” you cry, trying to keep rutting your hips, growing desperate. but you’re getting fed up

“never thought i’d hear you say no to that,” he teases

“want to come like this, so bad…” you’ll whisper to him

“yeah? need a little help, don’t you?” he says, eyeing your shaking legs and the way you curl in on yourself more and more as you get tired

“please?”

“oh, but i’m gonna need something from you after, doll.”

“anything,” you whimper. “swear it.”

“oh, you’re gonna regret that,” he taunts, bringing his hands to your hips and helping move your hips over his torso the way you’re too tired to keep doing

and fuck there’s no way you ever would have been able to make yourself come like this without his help 

so he finally brings you to orgasm, and god it’s the sexiest thing ever. and afterwards you’re embarrassed because like… well

“you made a mess, doll,” he says looking down at the slick all over his torso. “go on. clean it up.”

you carefully pull back, limbs shaking, and begin to clean the mess with your tongue

“that’s it, doll. there you go. should’ve made you do this before, so fucking hot to watch.”

and then afterwards he kisses you again and you’re awaiting whatever his demands are

“what else you been hiding from me, hmm? you owe me. i helped you out when i wasn’t s’posed to.”

okay well. you might as well tell him the truth.

you take a pause, embarrassed asf

“tell me.”

“your arm,” you whisper.

and fuck he lowkey laughs at you but it’s not intended to be cruel. it’s just… shocking but also not shocking

“you wanna ride my arm? well, come on doll. hop on.”

anyways 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

AMAZING !!!!! THIS IS VERY HIGH ON MY LIST ! ♡♡♡

Sinnerman

Summary : Bucky Barnes is obsessed with a singer at his favourite jazz club.

Pairing : Mob Boss! Bucky Barnes x Jazz singer! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mafia AU. Possessive behaviour. Infatuation. Mentions of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse (not by Bucky), alcohol consumption, forced engagement, fake death, protective!Bucky, eventual happy ending, lots and lots of sexual tension, sexual themes, power dynamics. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 7.4k 

Requested by : Ko-fi request from @ruexj283 <3

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Request Guidelines

Masterlist

The club smelled like cigars and sin, just the way Bucky liked it.

It was his haven — his favourite spot to cool down after a long day. He loved the dim red lights, the haze of smoke curling beneath the chandeliers, bourbon on his tongue, jazz in his eardrums. He came for the music, sure, but more so for the control. He owned this place in all but paperwork — the bartender knew what to pour without asking, the manager nodded whenever he walked in, and the girls didn’t even dare make eye contact with the crime boss, just the way he liked it— he never liked attention that invited further questions about his… business.

Until you.

That night, you stepped onto that stage like the room had been waiting for you.

Oh, Bucky thought. A new singer. 

Fuck, no one warned him about you. Your voice was as thick as honey, your face sweet as sin. You were dressed in a black and slinky dress, your curves caught the light just right, your lips wrapped around the mic like a lover, looking out into the crowd like you weren’t afraid of a damn thing.

Bucky was fucked the second you opened your mouth.

“Won’t you come along with me,” you sang sweetly, “to the Mississippi?”

He whispered a curse to himself, fingers tightening around his glass. You weren’t just singing — you lived the music, bled it out in those sultry notes. You had the crowd in the palm of your hand. But Bucky… you had him by the throat.

“We’ll take the boat to the land of dreams…”

His eyes never left you. Not once. The music slowed, swelled. You held the last note just a little too long, and his mind went places it shouldn't have.

“Steam down the river, down to New Orleans.”

He imagined your lips bruised from his teeth, mascara running as you sobbed out another note for him, only him, somewhere deep in the cabin he had in the woods, where he kept all his most sentimental items. He closed his eyes and imagined no noise but your voice and the creak of the wooden floor under his boots. He’d keep you there — pretty little thing, singing just for him.

God, the things he’d do. The things he wanted to do.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

When your set ended after ten songs and you disappeared backstage, Bucky stayed in his seat, half-hard, half-crazed, drunk on something far more dangerous than the whiskey in his glass. Obsession had a name now. Obsession had a pretty voice and a perfect body he was still dying to feel in his lap.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver money clip — peeled a few hundreds off like dead skin. He gestured to the bartender.

“Send a bottle of Blanton’s and this—” he slid a folded note across the bar “—to her dressing room.” 

The note was simple.

"Sing for me again. -J.B.B."

And then he left, boots echoing in the alley outside, teeth clenched so tight he tasted blood from his gums.

He’d see you again. He had to.

Because Bucky Barnes never left things unfinished — especially not obsessions.

—

Over the next few weeks, the jazz club turned into a shrine.

You were seducing every man and woman in the room, looking right through them all, like they were insects under your heel — and he was no exception.

Oh but he was.

Because unlike the others, Bucky didn’t beg. He didn’t chase. He simply wanted. And when Bucky Barnes wanted something, the world rearranged itself in his favour, right?

Your voice haunted the velvet-lined walls, and Bucky Barnes made sure the goddess on that stage was worshipped properly. He sent everything backstage, from diamonds, to silk, to perfume from Paris, to lipstick in a custom gold case — the exact red shade he imagined smeared on his skin. It always with the same card, always ending in the same initials: — J.B.B.

But you never responded.

No thank you. You didn't even give back coy little notes. You did not even glance his way after the music stopped.

You sang, you smiled, you disappeared behind that red velvet curtain like a mirage. And it was driving him insane.

He watched you from the shadows night after night, never missing a set. A cigarette untouched in his hand, arms tight, eyes following every movement of your hips as you swayed in time with the music. You were wearing them.

The diamond drop earrings.

His diamonds.

They kissed your throat as you sang and caught the stage lights like stars. He’d picked them himself — rare, handcrafted, perfect for your delicate ears. He’d imagined your fingers brushing them, your neck bare save for their shimmer. He wanted to see them on you.

And tonight, he did.

But when you turned, he didn’t see a glance in his direction. You did not say a word, not a word. Not an acknowledgement.

You’d just finished your final number, a slow version of My Funny Valentine that made a grown man at the bar weep into his bourbon. The spotlight dimmed. 

When you stepped into the dressing room, a waiter stepped into your dressing room, clutching his tray nervously. "Miss? Uh, there's a gentleman asking for you."

You tilted your head, smiling like a cat that already knew what was waiting. "Hmm… bring him in."

The door opened.

And in walked Bucky Barnes — tailored to kill in a three-piece midnight suit, eyes like the ocean. You recognized him instantly.

The girls have told you about the mob royalty— the killer who looked like a god who didn’t discriminate against whom he put a bullet through. People disappeared when Bucky Barnes wanted them to. Men with ambition feared him. Women with sense stayed away.

But you just blinked, feigning innocence. You weren’t going to satisfy him like that. 

“Hi,” you greeted, almost amused.

He didn’t answer at first, staring at the curve of your thighs beneath your robe, the sharp point of your stiletto digging into the plush carpet, the glitter of his diamonds in your ears.

“Were the earrings not enough to get your attention, sweets?” he said finally, his voice rough.

You blinked at him, genuinely puzzled. You reached up, brushing your fingertips against one of them.

“Oh,” you said, your voice light. “These were from you?” You gave him a sheepish little smile, like a cat playing with a bird. “Sorry,” you said, and laughed, “I get so many gifts I forget who sent what.”

That shattered something in him.

And all those notes, all those boxes, all the hours he spent picking out the perfect shade of red, the perfect scent, the softest lace for your skin — all of it just ended up buried under gifts from other men.

That little ottoman in the corner — he’d heard about it in the last few days— a joke among the staff. Your gift box, they’d say, the graveyard of failed suitors.

That was when you cocked your head and said, “Wait. Who are you, exactly?”

God.

Bucky took a slow step forward. His teeth clenched so hard he could feel the pressure in his jaw. Still, his voice came out calm.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said. “But my friends call me Bucky.”

“Is that what we are?” You raised a brow, “Friends?”

He gave a smirk. “We will be.”

You hummed, looking him over like he was a piece of art you hadn’t quite decided on. “Didn’t expect a man like you to send me diamonds.”

Whatever that meant. For all he knew, you were just trying to get under his skin.

“I sent more than diamonds,” he said, stepping even closer. “You never answered.”

You shrugged. “I don’t usually respond to men who try to buy me.”

“You wear the earrings.”

“Because they’re pretty,” you said innocently.

You walked across the room, as if knowing exactly what was on his mind, and popped open the ottoman.

Bucky’s blood went cold.

Inside were jewelry boxes, perfume bottles, lingerie, notes.

So many fucking notes.

“That’s where all the gifts go. I don’t have time to sort them all. There’s just… so many.” You turned back to him, smiling like sin. “It’s sweet, though,” you added lightly. “All these men trying to impress me.”

A nerve twitched in his cheek.

He wanted to burn the whole pile. He wanted to take the earrings off your ears gently and push the pin through the eyeballs of all these men. He wanted you marked by him — in bruises, in scent, in his name whispered into your skin until there was no room for anyone else.

He wanted to destroy it.

To flip the ottoman, scatter everything, scream mine like a fucking animal.

Instead, he walked toward you. When he stopped, he was close enough to feel the warmth of your body, to smell your perfume. Your breath hitched — just slightly — and he caught it.

But instead, he took a slow, calculated step toward you.

“None of those men matter,” he said slowly.

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “No?”

“They don’t even know how to touch a woman like you.”

You gave a little laugh “And you do?”

“I’d learn you,” he said, taking another step. “Every sound. Every look. I’d ruin you for anyone else.”

You pretended to be amused, but your breath was already shallower. He could tell. 

“So dramatic,” you teased, stepping back toward the mirror, deliberately putting distance between you. “All this because I didn’t say thank you?”

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

“Don’t I?” you whispered, sweetly mocking. “You look like you want to strangle me and kiss me at the same time.”

He looked down. “Something like that.”

You tilted your head, lashes low. “And what exactly do you want, Bucky?”

“I want you to look at me when you sing,” he said darkly. “I want you to wear those diamonds and know they’re from me. I want you to stop letting a dozen pathetic men think they’ve got a chance.”

“Get in line,” you whispered.

My fucking god.

But still — you leaned in close. So close your lips almost touched his jaw. 

“What,” he asked through gritted teeth, “do I have to do to get your attention?”

Your lips brushed his ear. “Try harder.”

Then you pulled away with a soft, smug smile and turned back to your mirror, reaching for your lipstick— the one he gave you.

It was pretty clear— he was dismissed.

Bucky stood behind you, breathing shallow, watching the way your hand trembled just a little as you uncapped the lipstick.

So… you weren’t entirely immune.

Good.

—

He became impossible to ignore.

His attention became more deliberate. More romantic, possessive in a way that felt carved into the bones of the earth. Bucky Barnes didn’t just want you. He worshipped the very ground you walked on. He moved heaven, hell, and every dollar in between to make sure you knew it.

And he did it beautifully.

Every night, your dressing room transformed.

Fresh roses, red as blood, climbed the walls like ivy. You tried to count them once, just for curiosity. You gave up somewhere around two hundred. Their sweet scent wrapped around your throat every time you stepped inside. Even when you went home, it lingered in your hair, on your sheets. 

This was Bucky’s scent. This was Bucky’s intention.

Then came more gifts. Not tokens — treasures. You’d find them tucked into satin-lined drawers you had in your dressing room. Designer gowns in every shade he’d ever seen you in, stitched to fit your curves like a second skin. He bought out the entire fall collection of a Parisian house you once mentioned in passing. You opened the boxes one by one, gowns tumbling out.

There were perfumes — rare, discontinued blends that couldn’t be found in stores. He must’ve hunted down perfumers in underground auctions to get them. Each bottle had the same engraving:

Don’t want you wearing anything that’s not mine. — J.B.B.

Oh, did he keep his promise. 

He upgraded your shoes. Italian leather stilettos, and then ballet flats for after your set. 

And the jewelry — Christ, the jewelry.

The diamond earrings were just a start. He gave you a delicate bracelet that you’d worn every night since. He gave you a choker of black opals that complimented your eyes. A silver anklet with sapphires so dark they looked black in the shadows. Each piece came in velvet boxes with his handwriting tucked neatly inside.

There were nights you tried to reject it all. You’d say to the staff and band backstage, “He’s insane. Who needs this much lace?” but even they noticed the way your voice faltered when you said it.

See, you used to throw out letters from men after one read — now, you hid his in a drawer. You kept every one. You read them when you couldn’t sleep. You memorised the way he described you.

And you did crave it. 

You loved it.

You loved how he knew you preferred gin over bourbon, so he sent crates of imported gin from Belgium. He knew your feet ached after sets, so a footstool appeared beneath your vanity, carved with roses. He bought the painting that hung in the corner of your dressing room— the one you said reminded you of your childhood— and replaced it with the original, pulled from a gallery in Rome.

And then the world started changing around you.

The other admirers you had vanished. Gifts started dwindling from everyone else. You didn’t know where they went, and you were too scared to ask. The banker, the actor, the smarmy rich boy with a champagne smile, the countess who offered you a villa in Sicily — all gone. One left town. One was caught in a scandal. One had a car accident. One ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw and no memory of how it happened.

Bucky never brought them up.

And though part of you resented that you couldn’t toy with your audience anymore — couldn’t keep them orbiting you like moths — another part of you… loved it. You loved his singular obsession on you, loved the tunnel vision he got when he looked at you.

Still, when the curtain fell and the stage lights went out, you packed your things and went home to your father and told him everything. 

—

You’d just finished your set tonight, when a waitress leaned in and whispered, “Mr. Barnes is waiting for you in his booth.”

You knew which one she meant.

The private one, high above the main floor. Bucky rarely let anyone join him there — just his tight-lipped entourage. But tonight, as you approached, he barely glanced up before giving a command, “Leave us.”

His men didn’t argue.

You slipped into the booth as they filtered out, leaning in just enough to tease. “Fancy seat for a man who claims he doesn’t chase,” you teased, lips curled into a sweet smile. 

Bucky didn’t smile — but there was something in the way his eyes flicked up that made you feel seen. “I don’t chase,” he insisted. “I watch. Different thing entirely.”

You leaned back, kicking one heel off lazily. “Mmm. Well, while you’ve been watching, I’ve noticed I’ve lost a few admirers lately.” You pouted, dragging the tip of your finger around the rim of his half-drunk glass. “One used to bring me opera tickets. Another had a private jet. I was building a little collection. And now they’re all…” — you fluttered your fingers — ���poof.”

Bucky didn’t flinch.

“Tell me, Bucky.” You leaned closer, teasing. “Did you kill them?” 

He didn’t answer at first. He just hummed, then he reached for his bourbon. He sipped, and finally — infuriatingly — shrugged. “Define kill.”

“Jesus,” you shook your head.

“Or maybe I just gave them… a little nudge.” He tilted his head, looking at you from beneath his lashes.

You batted your lashes. “So you just threaten them until they cry into their daddy’s wallets?”

“Not exactly,” he said smoothly, twirling the glass between his fingers. “Some people hear a whisper and imagine thunder. I can’t help what they’re afraid of.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, “what does that even mean?”

He just leaned back and gave you a maddeningly unreadable smile. “Some things just… work themselves out.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m consistent,” he corrected.

Before you could come up with a snarky comeback, he reached down beside him and produced a slim black box, tied with a red silk ribbon. “Here.”

“What now?” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “The deed to the building?”

“Not yet.” He paused, as if seriously considering it. “Open it.”

Inside was a set of lingerie — deep burgundy silk and delicate black lace, soft as you imagined clouds to be, the kind of thing meant to be seen. It was stitched with your initials on the inside band — not his, like many other men would — and for a moment, you were stunned silent.

This just feels so… intimate.

“Bucky…” you said, quieter now, fingers skimming the lace. “This is… beautiful.”

“All yours,” he smiled. 

You leaned in to kiss his cheek and in the movement, your skirt hitched just enough for the hem to slip high along your thigh.

Just high enough to reveal the faint purple of a bruise.

His eyes dropped, and his body tensed immediately. “What happened?”

You cursed under your breath before feigning innocence. “Oh, that?” You tugged your skirt down quickly. “I’m just clumsy. Slipped on some stairs backstage. You know how I am.”

He said nothing, just stared. His fist clenched slightly.

You kept smiling — too wide to be genuine. “Don’t look at me like that, Bucky. I’m not porcelain.”

“I know,” he said simply, but he didn’t believe you. Not for a second.

Still, he didn’t press. Didn’t raise his voice or question again. Instead, he knocked twice on the side of the booth. A waiter appeared as if summoned.

“Bring me the Cristal,” he said. “The '56 with a bucket of ice.”

Minutes later, a gloved waiter returned with the most expensive bottle of champagne the club had — nestled in crushed ice and frosted glass. Bucky took it without a word and dismissed the server with a glance.

Then, he wrapped the bottle in a linen napkin and gently pressed it to your thigh.

The chill made you hiss through your teeth. “Jesus, that’s cold.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky lulled. “Sit still. This’ll help.”

His touch was careful and never inappropriate. Not once did his fingers stray. Not once did his eyes flick up your clothing. He didn’t try to peel your skirt higher, didn’t crowd your space, didn’t make a single move you didn’t allow.

Still, he sat with you in that shadowed booth, icing your bruise with four-figure champagne, his own glass untouched beside him. For a second, you wondered if he’d burn cities if you asked. Or even if you didn’t.

“Good girl," he murmured under his breath. 

Fuck.

You couldn’t look at him. 

“You didn’t have to…” you muttered, maybe a little embarrassed.

“I wanted to,” he insisted, eyes still on the bruise. 

After a good fifteen minutes, the bruising became more mild and less angry. 

And… you didn't really feel it anymore.

It did help.

He carefully poured two glasses and held on out to you.

You just shook your head, smiling faintly. “Not tonight.” After all, your father probably wanted you home sober.

He nodded, setting it down and turned back to you.

“Need anything else iced?” he asked with dry amusement.

“Depends.” You laughed softly. “You got enough champagne for the rest of my body?”

“I could buy the vineyard,” he said, all too serious. “If that’s what it takes.”

You bit your lip, heart thudding a little too fast.

After that, he didn’t touch you beyond the bottle. He didn’t even lay a hand on your waist, your thigh, your cheek — even though you knew he wanted to. 

—

It was a week later when Bucky Barnes was in his usual place. Not a single night had passed without a gift sent backstage.

But tonight…

Tonight you stepped onto the stage wearing black sheer fabric across your skin, your heels clicking like gunshots. The lights hit you in all the right places, illuminating a shiny something new on your left hand.

Bucky saw it immediately.

A diamond ring.

It was not subtle. Worse yet, it was not his.

The music hadn’t even started yet, and Bucky Barnes was frozen with rage.

You had an engagement ring on your finger. A big one.

His jaw ticked once.

Twice.

You didn’t look his way. Not once. Not even when you adjusted the mic and let your lips linger near it like a kiss. 

Still, he could tell you were wearing the lingerie he gave you — he could see the faint black lace strap peeking out from the deep plunge of your dress. 

But all he could think about was the ring. A fucking ring on your finger.

His fingers curled into fists on the table.

He could barely hear the band start behind you. He couldn’t even taste the drink in front of him. He couldn’t  breathe past the blood pounding in his temples.

You were smiling, singing— your voice as honeyed and sultry as ever — but to him, it was venom. Every time you raised your hand, the diamond caught the light, winking like the devil.

Was this a joke?

A punishment?

He couldn’t even look away. He couldn't think about anything except the fact that someone — some other man — had dared to put that ring on your finger while his lingerie lay against your skin. 

And you… you knew exactly what you were doing.

You sauntered across the stage, hips swaying in rhythm, that ring gleaming like a brand. Bucky could see the faint indentation of the garter belt strap against your hip under the cling of your dress. His teeth clenched so tight, he could feel the ache in his gums.

He wanted to tear the ring off your hand and replace it with diamonds of his own.

It didn’t belong there.

You didn’t belong to someone else.

—

After your set, after the velvet curtain fell and the stage lights dimmed, sweat started pooling down your neck. 

You knew before you even reached your dressing room that he was waiting.

You stepped inside, and there he was.

Bucky Barnes was waiting in the light, suit perfectly pressed, rage rippling beneath his skin like a dog barely leashed. 

He was seething.

His eyes dropped immediately to your left hand— to the glittering ring.

He hated it. He knew the stone was too big for your liking— you liked it small and dainty. That was when you saw the muscles in his forearm twitch.

“Who’s that from, huh?” He asked. 

You let the question hang for a second too long, deliberately pulling the pins from your hair, letting them fall around your shoulders. You walked slowly toward your vanity, knowing he was watching every sway of your hips like a predator tracking prey.

You met his eyes in the mirror and smiled, fake and honey-sweet.

“Oh, just a fella my daddy wants me to marry,” you said with a lightness that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You reached up to toy with the ring, twisting it idly on your finger. “He’s rich. Handsome, but mean.” You turned. “Not nice, like you.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, stepping forward into a pool of light. “I’m not fucking nice.”

You shivered.

There it was—his truth. He was not nice, but protective. Dangerously, obsessively attentive.

He stalked toward you slowly, like he was trying not to break glass. You could practically feel the tension pouring off of him.

“You wore my lingerie onstage tonight,” he murmured, looking at the strap peeking out.

You bit your lip. “Did I?”

“You wanted me to see it.”

“Maybe.”

You were playing, but he wasn’t. His expression darkened, his eyes dropping again to the ring.

“You don’t love him,” he said. It was a question.

You turned back to the mirror, reaching for the lipstick he gave you. “Who says I don’t?”

He took another step forward. He was so close now, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Because you still wear everything I send you,” he said, looking at the pile of paper on the side. “You read my letters. You haven’t missed a single one.”

You didn’t argue—he was right.

“So tell me…” he continued, “Why the fuck are you wearing another man’s ring?”

You tried to joke again— tried to deflect. “Maybe I like the attention. You boys get all riled up.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he leaned in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. His voice was a growl, “You like me riled up, sweetheart?”

You turned your head, lips inches from his. “I like knowing you’re watching. I like that you’d burn the world if I asked.”

He still didn’t touch you.

But his eyes burned into you, holding himself back like a beast on a leash, and somehow… that made it worse.

“You think I’d still want you with his ring on your hand?” he asked, voice harsh. “You think I’d share you with someone who doesn’t even know what perfume you wear?”

You swallowed hard. Your mouth was dry, your knees… shaky.

You turned fully to face him, eyes searching. “Bucky—please.”

Your hand reached up, cradling his cheek gently. 

He breathed out through his nose, like he was trying to smother wildfire in his mind. Still, his hands stayed at his sides. His control was infuriating, and it only made you want him more.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, voice almost regretful. “Not unless you take that fucking ring off.”

You stared at him.

And then, with trembling fingers, you slipped the engagement ring from your finger and dropped it onto the vanity with a small, deliberate clink.

“Good girl,” he murmured, dark satisfaction curling into his smile.

His hands reached for you then— fingertips brushing your waist like he was learning you note by note. You felt his breath at your throat before his lips even touched your skin, and when they finally did—

Oh.

He kissed you like he’d waited centuries. His hands cupped your jaw, your back, your hips. The kiss deepened, and your knees buckled, his arms catching you before you fell.

“You don’t want to marry him,” he growled against your mouth.

“No,” you breathed. “I don’t.”

“Say it again.”

“I don’t want him. I want you.”

That was the only permission he needed.

He lifted you up onto the vanity and whispered all the filthy, possessive things he’d been holding back for weeks.

His hands were on either side of your face, holding you. Your thighs parted naturally, your heels slipping against the stool as he stepped between them. His tongue slid against yours and your fingers tangled in the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer, closer, until your hips tilted against his and you could feel exactly how badly he wanted you.

Your lipstick smeared, your breath came out in whimpers, and still—he never once lost control.

You gasped into his mouth when his hand curled around the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your earlobes. 

“Fuck,” you whispered against his lips, “I can’t—can’t think.”

He gave a dangerous chuckle and pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His pupils were blown, his control hanging by a thread.

“Stop thinking, darling,” he whispered against your skin. 

You surged up to kiss him again, and this time it was messy, desperate—your  body pressing into his, your hands sliding beneath his jacket to feel more of him. He let you, just for a moment. 

Then he pulled back fists clenched tight.

“Enough,” he rasped, eyes blazing.

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

His fingers slid to your hips, gripping firmly— as he pulled you forward to the very edge of the vanity. His lips brushed your cheek, down to your ear.

You tried to chase his mouth again but he gently pushed you back with a hand on your thigh, shaking his head.

“I’m not fucking you here,” he growled. “You’re not some backstage fantasy,” he said. With a smooth motion, he helped you down off the vanity, keeping you steady when your legs wobbled. “I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” you echoed.

“My home,” he clarified, brushing your tangled hair back. “Where you can scream if you want.”

You shivered.

He reached for your coat, draped it over your shoulders, and kissed the top of your head.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me ruin you comfortably.”

—

Bucky's penthouse was exactly what you’d imagined— dark wood, steel, and bulletproof glass. It sat above the city, high enough that the chaos below couldn’t touch him. 

From what you heard, no one ever got this far. No one ever made it inside.

Except you.

No one else was here.

No guards. No staff. No distant footsteps. This was a space no one entered unless they were meant to stay.

He brought you in without a word, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you across marble floors. 

He didn’t offer you a drink or make small talk.

Bucky walked you into his bedroom like he was leading you to a confessional. As if he was finally going to sin the way he’d always wanted with you.

When he finally turned to face you, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen.

“You sure?” he asked.

You nodded, heart already in your throat. “I’ve never been more sure.”

That was all he needed.

He stepped into you and kissed you again. His jacket hit the floor first. Then your coat, your shoes, his tie. The tension between you was molten, almost unbearable. 

He touched you like he’d memorised every curve without ever laying a hand on you.

He laid you down on your bed. His hands skimmed beneath the hem of your dress, and then higher, higher, until—

Fuck. 

His hand was on your hip, and his thumb had just brushed the edge of ink into your skin.

Bucky froze completely.

Then he pulled back and knelt in front of the bed.

You watched the moment realization hit.

His eyes locked on the tattoo on your right hipbone, just beneath the strap of the lace underwear he had bought you. Black ink— a skull with tentacles. 

The mark of a rival, of Alexander Pierce’s syndicate.

“What the fuck…” he rasped, heart caught between betrayal and disbelief. “That’s Pierce’s crest.”

You looked down lazily, like you’d forgotten it was even there, then let out a dry, amused sound.

“Oh,” you said, mock-sweet. “That old thing?”

He looked like he’d been shot.

He stood slowly, hands dropping from your skin. 

Your heart twisted.

“Daddy says hello,” you scoffed, propping yourself on your forearms now.

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t even know your name anymore.

“You…” he breathed, shaking his head. “You’re his daughter?”

You tilted your head in shame, but didn’t deny it. 

His fists clenched at his sides.

Pierce. Fucking Pierce. He knew the man had an apprentice he adopted as his own daughter. He had heard whispers of an heir’s engagement. 

He didn’t realise it would be… you. 

“You’re engaged to Brock Rumlow,” he realised, saying the name through gritted teeth, as if the name burned his tongue. 

“In name only,” you said quickly.

“The son of a bitch torched my cache on 52nd!” he nearly shouted

You bit your lip, hating that you were making excuses. “He didn’t do it personally. Just ordered it.”

“Oh, great,” Bucky snapped, his hands flying up. “Then it’s totally fine.”

You could see it behind his eyes—see the brutal, bloody instincts pulling him in two different directions. 

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same if you had the intel.”

“But I didn’t,” he snapped. “Because you kept me distracted.”

You tilted your head, unbothered by his fury, by the way he looked like he might put a bullet in the wall just to bleed off the rage.

He ought to step away and find a less maddening obsession. He ought to send you back to your father in a body bag. Fuck, he had killed people for less. 

But he was in too deep now. 

“Why?” he growled. “You get off on making me want you?”

You sat up now, brushing your fingers down his bare chest. Your eyes didn’t quite meet his.

“How was I supposed to know,” you said, defensive now. “That I was going to fall in love with the man I’m spying on?”

You loved him?

You—this woman who outsmarted him, danced around him, haunted him—you loved him?

He should’ve grabbed the nearest gun. Should’ve asked you what intel you’d passed on. Should’ve demanded to know how many of his secrets you’d whispered into your father’s ear.

But instead… he smiled.

Just a little. Just for a second.

“You love me,” he said, almost to himself.

“Bucky…” You reached down and hiked your skirt higher, the fabric slipping over your thighs until the black lace revealed more skin marked by bruises. Some were fading, but there. 

One above your hipbone, as if someone had gripped your waist in place, and another over your tummy. 

Bucky's stomach dropped.

Your voice was almost a whisper. “My fiancé,” you said bitterly. “He touches me when I ask him not to. You… always ask.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. He looked at the bruises like they were mortal sins.

“I’ll kill him,” he said to himself, quiet as the grave.

He already suspected it, but he didn’t want to believe it. He just found it so difficult to even think that someone touched you without love. That someone put their hands on your body and didn’t worship it.

Fuck, he hated how much he cared. 

You were supposed to be a spy. A trap. But here you were, with tears clinging to your lashes and bruises blooming like violets and you hadn’t asked him for revenge.

You asked him to understand.

“He’s mean,” you whispered again, “but you… you’d never hurt me.”

You expected him to yell.

You didn’t expect the way he suddenly closed the space between you, grabbed your face in both hands, and kissed you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

It was not rough, not bruising. He kissed you like a man dying of thirst and finding water for the first time. 

His hands were everywhere, palms sliding over your ribs, your back, your arms, anchoring you to the bed.

“You love me?” he whispered against your lips, as if he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, breathless and shaking. “I tried not to”

He hoisted you up, pushing you back on the bed until your back hit the headboard. You reached for him, pulling him down with you. His body was all tension, all hunger, but his eyes were tender.

He hovered above you, lips tracing down your neck, your collarbone. You arched into him, gasping his name like a prayer.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “Tell me now, sweetheart, or I’m not letting go of you ever again.”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t you dare.”

“Then take it off,” he ordered, voice wrecked.

You pulled the dress up and over your head, revealing the bruises, the lace, the curve of your body. He hissed when he saw the full extent of the marks, dragging his fingers along your skin.

“I should’ve known,” he cursed to himself. “I should’ve fucking known.”

He kissed your stomach, slowly dragging your soaked lingerie down your hips, his mouth trailing behind the path of the lace. He reached your hipbone and paused. His lips ghosted over the tattoo. He kissed your thigh, just beside the bruises, and you sobbed.

He kissed every inch of your skin like he was rewriting the damage Rumlow had done. 

Then… he took his time.

He worshipped you.

He dragged your pleasure out until you were sobbing into his neck, clawing at his back, begging him to stop teasing and just take you—until finally, finally, he did.

“Fuck,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve been dreaming of you. Every fucking night, princess.”

Tears slid from your eyes. You were overwhelmed by the stretch, the need, the overwhelming feeling of being wanted—not used, not claimed, but desired.

It wasn’t about power, not anymore. It was about need and connection and love so stupidly strong it felt like it could tear the sky apart.

Your fingers clawed into his back, your legs tight around his hips as he fucked ou. He watched every change in your expression. Every gasp, every whimper. He kissed you through every little tremble in your voice.

He grunted your name like a mantra, his hand gripping your throat—not hard, just there—a reminder who your loyalties should lie with.

And you took all of it, screaming his name breaking again and again beneath his hands, his mouth, his body.

And when you came beneath him, he followed you into the abyss.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t even move. He held you there, forehead to yours, both of you still shaking.

You were quiet, lips still swollen from his kisses, heart threatening to burst through your ribs.

You touched his face. “You should hate me.”

“I did,” he said, kissing your cheek. “For about five seconds.”

You could only laugh.

Then he pulled back, just enough to see your face, to make sure you heard him.

“I don’t care who your fucking father is,” he said. “I don’t care what deal he made with the Rumlows. No one gets to treat you like a pawn. No one gets to hurt you, okay?”

You nodded, smiling through your tears.

“Okay.”

—

A year later… 

Bucky Barnes finally got his wish.

He got you.

Not just on your knees, not just in his bed, not just in pretty two-pieces — no. 

He got all of you. 

That dark though he had when he first saw you? He got it. 

He got you his cabin surrounded by evergreens, miles from the rest of the world.

Six months ago, Bucky helped fake your death — a fiery car wreck on a rainy night outside of the city. The funeral was closed-casket. Rumlow didn’t even show up. Alexander Pierce wore black and whispered to his men that someone would pay. But no one ever found a body.

And now here you were.

Hidden.

The cabin was tucked into the woods, an hour from anything that mattered, and only 30 minutes from the small town that knew you both as Mr. and Mrs. Barnes — newcomers who only paid in cash and loved black coffee and kept mostly to themselves. 

Bucky bought the land under a different name, of course. It’s untraceable, just to make sure Pierce would never use you as his pawn ever again. To make sure Rumlow would never place a hand on you. 

You spent your time planting vegetables in the garden and singing with the birds every morning. He chopped wood shirtless just to get a reaction out of you.

He married you shortly after your fake death, a private ceremony with only two of his closest men as witnesses. So now, he spent most of his days playing house with you — which is absurd if you think too hard about it.

The infamous James Buchanan Barnes — mob royalty — wiping down countertops and building you a porch swing just because you mentioned it off-handed one day.

He could still snap a man’s neck with one hand. Still has a gun in every drawer. Still keeps a go-bag under the floorboards.

But now, he reads next to you in bed.

He sleeps with his arms around your waist and his nose in your hair.

He does the dishes.

You kept your diamonds — tucked away the ottoman he managed to transport discreetly— but you haven’t worn them in months. You used to live off silk and lace, but now you live in oversized sweaters and cotton panties, lounging across Bucky’s lap with a book while he traces lazy circles on your thigh as he rubbed herbal ointments on the bruises that never quite disappeared.

You still get gifts, of course, because he can’t help himself.

But they’re different now.

He gave you boots for the cold, handmade pottery from a local artist, and a woven scarf in your favorite shade of green. Things that say I see you instead of I own you.

Every once in a while, when he’d go to the city for one of his business trips, he’d still buy you Cartier just for the hell of it. 

In return, you wore his shirts, made him breakfast, smushed his cheek against yours after he shaved. You teased him about the way he always kissed your ring when he thought you weren’t looking.

Today, you were slicing peaches by the sink, the hem of Bucky’s shirt you stole this morning brushing your thighs every time you moved. The cabin windows were cracked open, letting in a breeze that smelled like pine and rain. His favourite soup simmered on the stove, and the radio played sleepy jazz in the background.

It was the kind of evening you never thought you’d live to have.

And Bucky was sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless, reading a book he’d never admit was romance. 

You glanced over your shoulder and caught him staring.

“Y’know,” you said playfully, flicking a bit of cinnamon onto the peaches, “you’ve been spending less and less time in the city lately.”

He made a low groan in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You licked the cinnamon off your finger, knowing it would drive him crazy. “Almost like your… business is running itself.”

He chuckled — the kind of laugh that always made your toes curl.

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “Just saying, someone’s gotta keep your empire from burning down. And you’ve been out here pretending you’re a farmer.”

Bucky rose from the chair. “Well, now I’m thinking…” He walked and stopped in front of you, crowding into your space, sliding his hands beneath your shirt to rest against the bare skin of your waist. His thumbs brushed lazy circles just above your hips. “…I might just retire.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Retire?”

He kissed your nose, your cheek, then the corner of your lips.

“Let Steve and Sam run the show,” he said. “They’re ready. Besides—” he leaned in, whispering now, lips brushing your ear— “I’ve got more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime, and only one woman I give a damn about sharing it with.”

You melted into him instantly, wrapping your arms around his neck, cheek pressed to his warm chest as you swayed to the gentle sound of Nina Simone’s Sinnerman.

“And who might that be, Mr. Barnes?”

He held you tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You, Mrs. Barnes,” he said simply. “Only ever you.”

You listened to the steady thump of his heart and only heard calmness.

“Retirement does sound lovely,” you whispered, letting your hands drift down his back, your fingertips tracing the scars there. “No more blood or deals. Just you, me, and these peaches.”

“And a cat,” he said into your hair.

You looked up, eyes wide. “Are we getting a cat?”

He grinned. “You want a cat?”

“I always want a cat.”

“Then we’re getting a cat,” he said like it was a goddamn decree.

You kissed him, soft and messy, the cutting board and the peaches and the stove completely forgotten.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes a little glassy.

“I’d still kill for you, though,” he added casually. “Just so we’re clear.”

You laughed, sniffling. “You say that so sweetly.”

“Just facts, baby,” he said. “Anyone ever tries to hurt you again—” he kissed your neck, “—I’ll paint the whole fucking forest red.”

“I know.”

See, the obsession never left. 

It lingered, peeking out in the way his eyes tracked your every move, in how he still slept with a knife within reach, in how he looked at you like he wanted to crawl under your skin and live there. 

It should’ve scared you, but goddamn you, a sick, twisted part of you loved that somewhere deep in this domestic life, he was still willing to ruin the world for you.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder @natalia42069

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

Oh my god. I think you captured bipolar disorder and put it into words perfectly. I love it so much.

Quiet Shifts

The change wasn’t immediate.

It never was with her.

It started subtly — the way she lingered longer in bed each morning, even after the alarm buzzed into silence. How her coffee stayed half full, lukewarm on the counter. Her laughter, which once came freely, became more muted, as though the world had lost its colour a little more each day.

Bucky noticed. He always did.

At first, he didn’t press. He offered a soft kiss on her forehead, warm hands on her shoulders, a “You alright, doll?” that she always answered with a nod.

But the nods grew slower. Her eyes stopped meeting his. The circles under them darkened.

She wasn’t sleeping. Or she was sleeping too much. The playlist she once danced to while cooking went untouched. Her journals stayed shut. Her phone buzzed unanswered.

And then came the quiet. The crushing kind.

Not silence — no, she still spoke. But her words were flat. Empty. Like echoes of the girl she was.

One night, Bucky came home to find her sitting on the floor of their shared bedroom, wrapped in one of his hoodies, knees pulled to her chest. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t even look up. Just stared at the rug like it held the answer to something she couldn’t reach.

“Hey,” he said gently, crouching in front of her. “Did something happen?”

She shook her head. Slowly.

He reached out, brushing a thumb against her cheek. “You’re slipping, sweetheart.”

That made her eyes flicker. The truth in his words — or maybe just the way he said them — broke through for a moment. But she didn’t argue. Didn’t pretend.

“I know,” she whispered.

Bucky pulled her into his arms. He didn’t say it would be okay — because he knew better. He’d read every page of her journal the day she gave it to him. He knew what this was.

This was the storm coming.

And he’d be right there to weather it with her.

The darkness didn’t announce itself.

It didn’t crash like a wave. It crept.

Each day bled into the next without shape or sound. The curtains stayed drawn. Her toothbrush went untouched. The same hoodie — his hoodie — clung to her shoulders like armor, but it couldn’t protect her from the weight inside.

She wasn’t eating anymore. Not really. A piece of toast half-nibbled. A few sips of water. She didn’t even seem to notice the nausea or the hollow ache of hunger. It was like she’d forgotten how to be a person. Forgotten how to want to.

Bucky watched the changes like bruises blooming.

Her hair knotted at the back. She no longer flinched at the cold. She didn’t even curl into him when he sat next to her — and that, more than anything, broke something inside his chest.

He cooked anyway. Left plates of food on the nightstand that always went cold. He’d crawl into bed beside her, whisper stories about Brooklyn, Steve, even Sam’s dumb jokes — anything to keep her anchored to the world — but most nights, she just lay there, eyes blank toward the ceiling.

“I can’t fix this,” he said to her one night, voice cracking with guilt. “But I’m here. Even if you can’t feel it.”

Her lip trembled. Just barely. She didn’t speak.

Sometimes she’d hum. Little noises. Soft breaths, half sounds like maybe she was about to say something but couldn’t find the strength. Other times, nothing.

The worst part? She knew it was happening.

That’s what made the silence so painful.

She knew.

She was aware of the spiral — she’d written about it, spoken about it when the clouds lifted long enough for her to breathe. But now, she was sinking. And she hated herself for it. For being “too much.” For being “this girl” again.

One morning, Bucky found her sitting in the shower. Water cold. Knees to her chest. Her eyes red, but no tears left.

He dropped to his knees outside the tub.

“I miss you,” he whispered.

She looked at him like she was behind glass, and for the first time in days, she spoke.

“I miss me too.”

Bipolar disorder wasn’t new to either of them.

It wasn’t a stranger they hadn’t met.

Bucky had read every book she handed him. Sat beside her in therapy sessions when she asked him to. Memorised what mixed episodes felt like versus the creeping slowness of depressive ones. He knew her tells. The way she tugged at her sleeves. The way she stopped using music. How she blinked slower. Answered softer.

He’d seen her bright, alive, electric with fire. Those were the high days. Dangerous in their own way — when her thoughts raced faster than her body could follow, when sleep felt optional and impulse chased impulse. He’d learned then to gently anchor her, keep her from flying too close to the sun.

But this? This was the fall.

And it was always harder to watch.

“Have you taken your meds today?” he asked softly one morning, crouched beside the bed with a glass of water in hand.

She didn’t answer. She blinked. Her lips were chapped. Her skin looked grey. There was a soft smell of sweat and sleep — she hadn’t changed clothes in three days. She looked like a ghost of herself.

He set the water down anyway. Left the pills by her hand.

He tried to talk her through a breathing exercise later, his voice steady even when his hands trembled. “You’re not a burden. You’re not broken. I’m here. You’ve survived this before, and you will again.”

But she wouldn’t look at him.

And then the call came.

He stared down at his phone, jaw tight.

A mission. Forty-eight hours. Just recon, they said. Quick. Clean.

But what if she got worse?

What if he wasn’t here when she broke?

He sat on the edge of the bed, knuckles white as he gripped his knees. She didn’t even ask where the call was from — didn’t ask if he’d be leaving.

She knew. She always knew.

He had one foot in this world and the other in another.

“Sweetheart,” he said carefully. “I need to leave for a couple of days.”

Nothing.

“I’ll make sure someone checks in, alright? Maybe Sarah, or Sam. Or—”

She turned her face into the pillow.

His voice cracked. “Please look at me.”

She didn’t.

He sat there until her breathing slowed — not to sleep, but that heavy, exhausted rhythm of someone completely worn thin. He brushed her hair back gently and kissed her temple.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Please don’t forget that. I’ll be back before you even realise I’m gone.”

But he could feel it in his bones —

this time, she might not believe it.

*****

He left this morning.

He kissed my forehead, like he always does when he’s scared I’m too far gone to hear I love you.

The door clicked shut, and I swear it echoed for an hour. I lay in bed, watching the ceiling breathe in shadows. The meds he left are still on the nightstand. I counted them three times. Didn’t take one.

It’s not defiance.

It’s… fatigue. Even the act of swallowing feels like a mountain.

I think I ate half a banana yesterday. Maybe. I don’t really remember. All I know is I’m cold, but sweating. My hair is tangled. My chest aches, but it’s not physical. It’s just… hollow.

The thing about bipolar is people think it’s just mood swings. Up. Down. Loud. Quiet. But this — this is the grey. The fog. The part where nothing hurts because nothing feels. It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s just numb.

Bucky used to say I light up a room.

Now I turn the lights off because I can’t bear to see what’s in the mirror.

I miss him. I hate how much.

I know he has to go. I know this is his job. But he’s the only person who’s ever seen the worst of me and stayed.

I keep hearing his voice in my head.

“Sweetheart, you’re still in there. Just come back to me.”

What if I can’t?

What if this is who I am now — a ghost in his t-shirt, too tired to cry, too drained to try, too aware of how small she’s become?

The worst part is…

I don’t want to die. But I also don’t really want to live like this.

And that’s where it gets dangerous.

I curled up in the shower today. Cold water. No soap. Just sat there until my skin went red and my mind went blank.

I wish he were here.

I wish I didn’t need him this badly.

But mostly…

I wish I still felt like a person.

I didn’t answer the knock.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just laid on the couch with Bucky’s blanket half-pulled over me, stale wine on the table from three nights ago, and a crust of toast I never ate.

Then the door creaked open.

“Y/N?”

Sam. Of course it’s Sam.

I hear him step inside, careful, like I’m something fragile. Maybe I am.

“I know you’re here,” he says gently. “Don’t panic. I’m just checking in. Buck asked me to.”

I don’t move.

He sighs.

The fridge opens and closes. Cabinets. Clinks of dishes. The hum of the kettle.

He’s making tea. Of course he is.

He returns a few minutes later, crouching in front of the couch.

“I brought chamomile,” he says. “Don’t know if it’ll help, but it always works on my nephews when they’re having a tough night.”

I still don’t move.

He sets the mug down next to me, then sits on the floor. Not the chair. The floor. He’s always known how to be grounded around people falling apart.

“I know this part,” he says, after a few minutes of silence. “Not like you do. But I’ve had my time with grief. With rage. Feeling like I’m outside my own skin. Like maybe the best thing I can do for the people who love me is just disappear.”

That word stings.

Disappear.

“I’m not going to tell you to snap out of it,” he continues. “And I’m not gonna guilt you by saying how worried Buck is. You know that already. I just want you to know… even if you can’t talk, I’m still here. You don’t scare me.”

My voice is dust. Cracked and splintered.

“I’m so tired, Sam.”

He looks up. Soft eyes. Hands clasped in his lap.

“I know,” he says. “But you’re still here. Still breathing. And that counts for something.”

I try to sit up. My body protests. The blanket slips. My skin is pale and bruised and thin — like I’ve been carved down to just the bones of who I used to be.

“I feel like I’m made of air,” I whisper. “Like I’ll blow away.”

Sam doesn’t flinch. He just nods.

“That’s why you need people to hold onto you. Until you remember how to stay.”

And for the first time in days, I cry.

Just a little.

Quiet. Shaky. But real.

He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t crowd.

He just sits and breathes — loud enough that I don’t feel alone.

*****

The bedroom was too quiet.

Too dark.

Too much like then.

Y/N sat curled into the corner between the dresser and the wall, fingers tangled in her hair, knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her breaths came shallow and sharp, ragged with the kind of terror that didn’t need a reason — only a memory. The walls were closing in. The shadows too loud. The silence deafening.

And then —

“Why do you always ruin everything?”

A man’s voice. Her father’s. But not here — there.

From before.

Before she knew what love was supposed to feel like.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t help. Her hands trembled violently. Her throat tightened.

“Stop crying, I said stop crying—”

The belt. The shouting. The silence that always came after.

Her chest clenched, her ribs aching with every shallow gasp. Nails digging into her legs, jaw tight as sobs ripped from her throat. Every sound in the room was warped by panic.

And then the front door opened.

Bucky stepped into the house, shoulders aching from travel, his heart already tugged by instinct alone — something was wrong. He dropped his bag. Didn’t call her name. Just listened.

A scream.

From upstairs.

He ran.

The bedroom door was ajar, and what he saw made the floor vanish beneath him.

Y/N, curled into herself like a child, screaming through gasps for breath. Trapped in her own mind. Her own memories.

“Y/N.”

His voice was steady. Gentle. Just above a whisper. He stepped into the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

“No—don’t—” she whimpered, eyes wide but unseeing, hands up like shields.

“It’s me, sweetheart,” he said, dropping to his knees in front of her. “It’s just me. You’re not there. You’re here. With me. You’re safe.”

She was shaking, soaked in sweat, breath stuttering.

“I can’t—I can’t breathe—he’s—he’s still—”

“No,” Bucky whispered, reaching slowly, carefully, fingers brushing her arm. “He’s not. He can’t hurt you now. He can’t touch you.”

She blinked. Her gaze flicked toward him, frantic and lost — but this time, she saw him.

“Buck…”

“I’m right here, baby,” he said, sinking to the floor beside her, pulling her into his arms. She clung to him like a lifeline, sobs wracking her body, her nails clutching the fabric of his jacket like she could disappear if she let go.

He rocked her gently, whispering to her over and over.

“You’re safe. You’re home. I’ve got you.”

He kissed her temple, her damp forehead, her shaking hands. And he didn’t let go. Not when her breathing steadied. Not when she cried again. Not when the flashbacks quieted and all that was left was a girl trying to survive.

He was home.

And she was still here.

Only the sound of her shaky breaths filled the space, her body still curled tightly against his. Bucky didn’t rush her. He just held her, grounding her with the weight of his arms, the soft press of his cheek against her temple, the warmth of his chest rising and falling beneath her palms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely audible, hoarse from the screaming. “I’m so sorry for being like this.”

Bucky’s eyes closed for a moment. That kind of apology — it always hit him like a knife.

“You don’t have to be sorry for surviving,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers gently through her hair. “You hear me?”

She shook her head against him, tears leaking again. “But I—I ruin things. You were gone for two days and I—I can’t even make it without you. I’m a mess, Buck. I can’t breathe. I can’t sleep. I’m not—normal.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to tilt her chin gently upward so she’d look at him.

“You think I love you because you’re normal?” he said, brow furrowed, voice thick with emotion. “Sweetheart, I love you because you’re you. Because you keep going, even when it feels like the world’s crumbling around you. You fight through every storm your mind throws at you. That’s not weakness. That’s bravery.”

Her lip trembled.

“I just want to be better again.”

He cupped her face, eyes glinting with steady truth. “You will be. This is one part of the cycle, not the end of it. We’ve been here before, remember? And every time, you’ve found your way back.”

She stared at him, breaking quietly in the safety of his gaze.

“You really think I can come back from this?”

He leaned forward, brushing his lips to her forehead — reverent, certain.

“I know you can.”

And for the first time that day, she believed him — even just a little.

It had been quiet for a few days.

The kind of quiet that felt like a breath held underwater — still, slow, gentle. Bucky had been patient, as always. Making her breakfast even when she only took a bite, gently rubbing her back when she trembled, talking to her in soft murmurs at night when the memories came knocking. He didn’t push. He never did. He simply stayed.

And she was coming back to herself, bit by bit. The shadows under her eyes hadn’t disappeared, but there was a new glow behind them. A tired light, but a light nonetheless.

Until one morning — everything shifted.

She was already up when he stirred, music pulsing from the living room.

Bucky blinked groggily and sat up. It was loud. Fast. Bouncing off the walls. The kind of song that made your heart race even before you reached the beat drop.

“Sweetheart?” he called out, voice gravelly from sleep.

“Bucky!” she shouted back from somewhere near the kitchen. “Oh my god, you have to hear this — actually, wait, you are hearing this! Isn’t it amazing? I cleaned the bathroom, reorganised the bookshelf, made coffee — like, real coffee, the strong stuff — and I’m gonna bake something next, I think! Brownies? Muffins? No, wait — cookies!”

He stepped out into the room slowly.

There she was — radiant, glowing, electric.

She was spinning in her socks across the hardwood floor, one of his T-shirts hanging off her shoulder, her hair wild and her cheeks flushed with energy. She looked beautiful. Euphoric. But Bucky had lived this long enough to know the look in her eyes. The kind of wild that burned too hot, too fast.

He offered a soft smile, masking the familiar twist of worry in his stomach. “You’ve been up a while, huh?”

“Since four!” she beamed, eyes wide. “I couldn’t sleep — not in a bad way! I just had so many ideas, Buck. So many. I feel amazing. I was thinking, maybe we should go on a trip? Or repaint the flat? Maybe both! Do you think I could write a book? Oh my god, I should write a book.”

He approached her slowly, gently placing his hands on her waist as she bounced on her toes.

“Hey,” he said softly. “How about we slow down just a little?”

Her eyes flicked up to his, still sparkling. “Why? There’s so much to do, Buck! I’m finally me again. Don’t you see it? I’m me.”

Bucky swallowed thickly. This part always broke him a little — how beautiful she was when she was manic. How invincible she felt. How hard it would crash when it came down.

He nodded carefully. “I do see you, sweetheart. I always see you.”

And he held her tighter — not to contain her, but to steady the storm before it spun too far.

The morning light spilled softly through the curtains, but Bucky didn’t get the usual quiet wake-up he’d hoped for.

Instead, he blinked open his eyes to the faint, frantic thumping of music, the scent of paint, and an unmistakable buzz of chaos.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stumbled out of bed.

The living room was almost unrecognizable.

Walls that had been a calm beige were now splashed with wild, sweeping strokes of bright teal, sunburst yellow, and fiery orange. The floor was littered with paint tubes, brushes, and open bags. Half-assembled shelves stood against the wall, surrounded by boxes of houseplants, vases, and random trinkets — none of which they’d owned yesterday.

And there she was — hair pulled back messily, cheeks flushed with excitement, humming loudly as she swirled a brush through a patch of yellow on the wall.

“Oh! Buck!” she chirped, spotting him in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you get up! I was just so inspired. I figured the living room could use some life, y’know? I even ordered all these cool things last night — rugs, lamps, plants! It’s gonna be perfect! And wait — I was thinking about repainting the kitchen next! Maybe the bedroom! Do you think green would be too much? Maybe mint green? Or forest? Or—”

Bucky took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“It’s… definitely lively,” he said softly, stepping in carefully. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

She beamed, eyes shining like the sun. “I have been! I feel incredible, Buck. I want to do everything. Fix everything. Make everything perfect.”

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I know, sweetheart. I know you do.”

Her energy was infectious but overwhelming — the mania buzzing in the air like electricity.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and kept his voice low, steady. “How about we take a break soon? Maybe some water? I can help with the kitchen after breakfast?”

She hesitated, paintbrush midair, then nodded slowly.

As much as her fire was beautiful, he knew this spark could burn too bright. But he’d be here — steady as always — to catch her when she fell.

After agreeing to take a break, she finally set the paintbrush down and followed Bucky into the kitchen, where the morning sun cast a gentle glow over the counters. Bucky filled two glasses with water, and she took hers eagerly, the cold liquid grounding her buzzing senses.

They sat together at the small kitchen table. Bucky kept the conversation light, telling stories from his missions, recounting moments with Sam or Steve — nothing heavy, just steady, familiar voices. She laughed quietly at some of the memories, her energy softening from frenetic to calm.

As the hours passed, the wild flutter inside her chest slowed. She still moved quickly, but her bursts of movement became less urgent, more deliberate. Bucky helped her tidy the paint supplies, carefully folding up the new rugs and setting plants in the sunniest spots. The living room felt less chaotic, the colors less overwhelming when seen through calmer eyes.

She started to settle into the rhythm of normal again, her breathing deeper, her words less scattered. Bucky noticed the exhaustion behind her bright eyes, and when she paused to sit quietly on the couch, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

“Let’s just relax for a while,” he murmured.

She leaned into him, her body finally sinking into stillness.

The day moved on gently, and as evening fell, they found themselves curled up on the couch, a soft movie playing on the screen. The room was cozy now, the wild colors in the living room softened by dim lighting and quiet comfort.

But then her eyes started to roam — over the walls, the painted swirls, the bright yellows and teals she had chosen just hours ago.

Her brow furrowed.

“I hate this color,” she whispered, voice barely above the movie’s dialogue.

Bucky shifted, concern flickering in his eyes.

“What? Which one?”

“All of it,” she said, voice low and tight. “It’s too loud. Too much. I don’t know why I picked it… it feels like a mistake.”

He squeezed her hand gently. “Hey, it’s okay. We can change it. Whenever you’re ready.”

She let out a shaky breath, resting her head against his chest.

“I just want it to feel like us again.”

And in that quiet moment, with her slowly coming back to herself and him right there beside her, it felt like maybe they could find their way — color by color, moment by moment.

The next morning, sunlight spilled softly through the curtains, warming the room with a gentle glow. She woke slowly, feeling the familiar weight of peace settle over her like a comfortable blanket. No racing thoughts, no restless energy — just quiet, steady calm.

She stretched, the tension in her muscles gone. The color in her cheeks returned, her breath even and easy. Sitting up, she glanced over at Bucky, still peacefully asleep beside her. The steady rise and fall of his chest was a quiet reminder she wasn’t alone.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt truly like herself again.

She smiled softly and slid out of bed, the soft creak of the floor grounding her senses. The world outside was the same — but she was different. Balanced. Present.

Downstairs, she brewed coffee, savoring the simple ritual, feeling no urge to rush or retreat. Bucky joined her shortly, pulling her into a warm hug that felt like home.

No words were needed — this was the calm after the storm. The space where she was just her again. Strong, steady, and whole.

The soft thud of footsteps on the stairs pulled her attention just as she poured the last drop of coffee into her cup. Bucky appeared in the doorway, his hair still tousled from sleep, eyes warm and gentle as they settled on her.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep.

She smiled softly, setting the cup down on the counter. “Couldn’t sleep past sunrise.”

He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. The steady beat of his heart against her back was grounding, comforting. “Feels good, huh? Feeling… normal again?”

She leaned back into him, resting her head against his chest. “Yeah. Like I’m finally me.”

Bucky’s hand slid up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “I’m proud of you. For fighting through all of it. For being so strong.”

Her lips curved into a small, grateful smile. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He kissed the top of her head softly. “I’m always here. No matter what.”

They stood there a moment longer, wrapped in quiet warmth, letting the new day start with nothing but love and calm between them.

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

wait....😔 i need this.....

okay this is stupid but my allergies are going nuts lately and this just came to me~

bucky x fem!reader :)

Bucky’s favourite season has quickly become spring

not because of the blooming flowers

or the subtle warming of the air

or even the bright rays of sunshine that are now blessing the running track outside and his bedroom during the early hours of the morning

no he loves spring because of you

sure it was a plus to get to see the pretty outfits that had been hidden away in your closet the last 5 or so months

but good god that man would do anything in this world to hear you sneeze

doesn’t matter if it’s as dainty as a kitten sneeze or one of those full body, yelling kind of sneezes

anytime you sneeze bucky just about bursts with love

no matter where you are in the apartment, if he hears a sneeze, sure as shit he’ll be on you within the next 30 seconds

his large frame fully covering yours as he envelopes you in a bear hug

kissing all over your face, hair, neck-everywhere

telling you how much of a cutie his little doll is, how she’s such a sweet little thing, oh such a poor baby with her sniffly little nose

after a few minutes you’re only chance of ever getting back to what was going on previously is to either push him off with all your strength

or beg for bucky to get you a tissue

which he will always say yes to

but also always with the caveat that he gets to hold it to your nose as you blow

there’s always a fierce glare on your face as you allow his babying to continue

but what’s the harm in giving his girl a little love?

bucky is obsessed with you

and your cutie patootie sneezes

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

bucky loves me confirmed 😌✊🏻 btw, i LOVE THISSSS he is sooooo soft ♡♡♡

Grilled Cheese (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Request: “Fluffy Bucky x reader where he comes home tired after a mission and just wants the reader to feed him his dinner and the reader finds it hilarious that this man used to be an assassin but now look at him. Thank you! ❤️”

Thanks to @sxbby-barnes for your request. Here’s a short piece of soft Bucky for you. I hope you like it!

Warnings: one curse word

Buy Me a Coffee

As Bucky enters the kitchen in your shared apartment, you can’t help but disguise a laugh. With a white towel draped low across his hips, short hair a tangled mess upon his head and an exhausted expression on his features, it seems unimaginable that this man is an Avenger and an ex-assassin amongst other titles. Watching as he lets out an audible exhale as he sits, you lean against the counter, an expression of amusement on your face.

“You alright there soldier?” Bucky’s eyebrows raise as he looks up towards you, the dark shadows underneath his eyes more noticeable in the light above the dining table. You realise that he is struggling to keep his tired eyes open, yet he had expressed his hunger as soon as he had walked through the apartment doorway.

Whilst he showered, you had prepared a quick grilled cheese, one of his favourites. As soon as he eats, his grumpiness will subside and you know he will sleep like a baby afterwards through until morning.

Taking the plate from beside you on the countertop, you sidle over to the table, taking a seat opposite Bucky and slide it across the wooden tabletop in front of him. He steadily eyes the food before looking back to you again.

“What’s wrong?” A slight panic sets in as you think of all the things that can be causing this behaviour.

“Feed me.” His voice is pleading as he speak, voice low and full of fatigue. You can’t help but let out a small chuckle, yet the look on his face reads complete seriousness.

“Shit, you’re being serious?”

“Please.” The blue of his eyes shimmer as he meets your gaze and you cannot help but do as he asks. Never before had you witnessed him this tired, this run down.

You bring the plate back towards you, and taking a slice of the grilled bread, you break off a bite sized amount, holding it between your fingers. The interaction between you both is not so uncommon on date and move nights, but this feels so much more intimate, more loving than before. A soft smile reaches Bucky’s lips as he takes the food from your fingers, his tongue swiping the tip of your finger causing you to giggle. You can tell he is too tired to play along with you, but it is safe to say that the both of you are enjoying yourselves. Him for exerting no energy to eat and you for seeing him so innocent and relaxed.

Once he has eaten, you tell him to go to bed, to rest. He only leaves the room on the promise that you will join him shortly, wanting to fall asleep in your arms after being away for so long. After washing the dishes you enter the room to find him already fast asleep, face pushed against the softness of your pillows, his body sprawled across the mattress at a diagonal angle. With care, you slowly lower yourself onto the bed, moulding your body into his side, gentle as to not wake the sleeping super-soldier.

“Goodnight, my love.” Your whispered words are met with a soft snore from his mouth as you place a loving kiss to his forehead, setting against him it does not take you long to fall asleep along with him.

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

i can confirm this 😔✊🏻

bucky barnes would like getting his hair pulled i fear

he looks at you almost pissed when you do it. indignant and appalled that you'd dare. he's typically the one in control, he's been tortured by having his bodily autonomy taken from him so now that he's got it back he's very purposeful with it. sex goes how he wants it to go because he's the one doing it. he leads; he doesn't offer, he takes charge. so whether you yank on his hair to get him to stop biting so rough at your tits, or whether it's because you're blissed out with your fingers tangled in his hair and you can't stop yourself, once his neck rolls back he's letting out a guttural groan that sends a wave of raging heat through your sex, almost enough to make you cum right then and there, and he's stopping dead in his tracks. he looks almost possessed, eyes locked firmly and predatorily on you, something animal alight inside of them. he stares, every ounce of his attention focused on you and what you're doing.

'where the fuck did you learn to do that, hm?' he murmurs, his voice raspy and gruff as you untangle your hands from his strands of hair, 'got someone on the side i don't know about?'

'n-no,' you whimper helplessly, fingers tense from the muscle strain of tugging on his hair, 'no, i- i just wanted to, it felt right and it made you-'

'do it again,' Bucky offers, his stubble-covered jaw inches from your own as he leans in to let his breath wash over your face, 'and you won't walk for a week.'

whether that's an invitation or a threat, you can't figure out, but he's not lying.

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

this is GREATTT ! omgggg ! LOVEEE this idea.

also,...

You climbed into the small twin bed, and snuggled deep under the blankets, trying to calm your racing heart. Where was an invisibility cloak when you needed it.

I UNDERSTOOD THAT REFERENCE 🫵🏻🫵🏻

Jenga

Avengers Bucky

Summary: You and Bucky are at a safe house waiting for pick up when you find a game in a closet because you're both bored. It's Jenga. You set it up and discover there are questions written on some blocks, with a note tucked into the game box that says for anyone who doesn't answer, they must take an additional block. You show Bucky the paper and he scoffs at it and tells you to set up the game, so you start playing. Little do you realize, the questions are quite spicy.

Content warning: Some semi-adult scenes towards the end, sexual innuendos, language, teasing/playful Bucky that turns into possessive Bucky, little fluff too?

"So, the extraction jet will be here tomorrow to get us at noon." 

You tucked your communication device away and flopped down on the lumpy couch that has seen better days. Bucky grumbled something from his chair by the window, but you didn't know what. You tapped your foot and looked around the sparse room and sighed.

You and Bucky had just finished a mission earlier than expected and were staying at a safe house for the night as no other extraction teams were available to pick you up. You wandered the safe house and discovered a bedroom with two single beds, sparse kitchen, living room that had an old couch and chair, with a small bathroom off to the side. It wasn't much, but it was decently clean and comfortable.

"Is there any food in the pantry?" Bucky asked from the chair. 

"Few cans of soup, bottled water, and one mystery can surprise." 

"What's a mystery can surprise?" 

"Well, the label is off, so it could be anything from soup to dog food, hence mystery can surprise if you open it." 

Bucky shuddered.

After a quick meal of soup from the cans you were sure was soup, you sat in the living room, completely bored. 

"Ugh, this is so boring..." you groaned. 

Bucky looked around.

"Anything in that closet over there? The last safe house Sam and I were in had a few decks of cards. It's something at least." 

He pointed to a small hallway closet next to the bedroom. 

You got up and wandered over to it, opening the squeaky door. 

"Hmm..." You rummaged around and let out an "ah ha!", coughing and sputtering at some dust while you brought a box out.

 "Here." 

 You plopped the box on the coffee table and pointed at it proudly. 

"What is it?" 

"Jenga!" You gushed and opened the box. 

Bucky had no idea what a Jenga was, but he perked up and wandered over to it, sitting next to you on the couch.

"You take a block from the bottom and put it on top." You sang the old commercial jingle as you unboxed the game while Bucky looked at you like you grew a third eye. 

"Like this." 

You showed Bucky a few moves on a smaller tower so he would get it. You started setting up more of the blocks but noticed writing on some of them. 

"Is that supposed to be on there?" 

He pointed to the writing. You took one and looked it over. 

"Generally, no, but I guess people can do whatever with the blocks. Oh..." 

You read what was on it and blushed hard.

"What?" 

"Well, there are questions written on it." 

You put the block down and sorted some of the blocks, noticing that some were blank. The writing looked to be Nat's writing. Some may have also been Sam's, but it was hard to tell. Of course, the question was sexual in nature. You started thinking if there were more of those types of questions when you noticed a little slip of paper fall from the box, so you picked it up. 

"Answer the questions on the blocks. Your partner will also answer the same question. If either of you refuse to answer, you must grab another block." Was what it said. 

When you got back to the compound, you were going to have words with Nat. You showed Bucky the piece of paper the 'rules' were scribbled on, and he smirked at that. 

"Whatever let's play. It'll pass the time." 

Bucky interrupted your thoughts while he leaned forward. You finished getting the tower all set to play. He gestured for you to take the first block.

You studied the tower and decided on a block closest to the bottom. You took the block with little wobbling from the tower and smiled triumphantly while placing the block on the top. Thankfully, there was no writing on it, so you didn't have to answer anything scandalous. 

Bucky studied the tower and decided on a block a few rows higher than yours. He wiggled it free and smirked seeing the lettering on the side, so he tipped it and read the writing on it. You could see his eyes widen slightly before he held his hand to his mouth to cover a small cough, then he cleared his throat. 

"Well? What does it say?" You asked. 

"Um..." 

He looked at the block and you could see the tips of his ears pinken slightly. 

"What turns you on most about the person you're playing this game with?" 

"Oh..." 

Now it was your turn for your face to pinken. 

You watched as he placed the block on top of the tower and then he sat back on the couch and thought about it. 

"You can take another block, it's early yet so nothing will fall..." 

Bucky blurted out "Your voice," before he looked away and anywhere else but at you. 

"Oh, ok..." 

You had never thought he would say that. 

"Why?" You asked but internally smacked your forehead for asking. 

"It's nice to listen to." He admitted. 

Oh. 

"You?" 

Bucky sat forward and was looking at you.

 "Umm..." 

You always thought Bucky was hot, there was no question about that, but you always admired him from afar. Too shy to ask him out for a date, you tended to avoid him whenever possible. 

"Umm..." Your blushing face was not holding up well. "I like your eyes, they're kind." You finally said, wanting the couch to swallow you whole. 

He smirked and nodded to himself then he gestured towards the tower for you to continue.

You chose a block higher up to remove and held it up. 

"Oh." You looked at the writing on it and cringed when you read the question. 

"What? What does it say?" 

You re-read the question in your head, and you thought your face was going to bust from the overheating. 

"It-it's asking if I've ever used toys in the bedroom." 

You weren't a prude by any means, but your bedroom escapades were dismal at best. You've never used toys with a partner. 

"No," you quickly mumbled and placed the block on the tower. 

You couldn't look at Bucky as your eyes shifted throughout the room waiting to hear what his answer would be. 

Bucky leaned across and studied the tower before he said "Yes" and gave you a wink, then he grabbed a block and placed it on the top of the pile.

A few more rounds of you and Bucky not getting any questions on your blocks was refreshing. Knowing too many sexual things about your friend and mission partner when you have a raging crush on him but are too scared to do anything about it makes you feel like a dumbass. 

A horny dumbass, but a still a dumbass, nonetheless.

The Jenga tower was perched precariously on the coffee table, but it was still standing as you eyed your next move. 

"Come on," Bucky groaned, "Just pull a block already." 

You scowled at him before you chose one you started inching out of its hole. 

"Finally!" 

You sighed and looked at the writing on it. 

Damn it. 

You scanned it and let out a sigh before you looked over at Bucky who was smirking at you. 

"Not enough alcohol for this shit." You grumbled then sighed. 

"Well?" 

"Yeah, yeah..." 

You took a deep breath and read the question on the block. 

"What is your favourite sex position? Grab someone and show them!" 

You were searching the wobbly tower for your second block to take since there was no way you would ever show Bucky that when he reached out and placed his hand on yours, breaking your concentration. 

"Well?" 

You snorted. "Well what? I'm not showing you." 

Partly because you were inexperienced but mostly because it was Bucky and there was nothing handy to fling yourself off in utter embarrassment. 

"So, are you going to take another block?" He asked. 

You thought about it. 

"Maybe..." 

Bucky nodded along but he smirked and said, "I'd like you to show me." 

Making your eyes snap to his. 

"Wh-what?" 

He shrugged. 

"You heard me. No one else is here. Show me." 

He was staring at you. 

"Umm..." 

How do you tell him you're horribly inexperienced and the only two positions you had ever done were the most basic and vanilla ever. 

"Umm, well..." 

You breathed in and then rose from the couch, walking over to where there was space by the chair and small window. 

You cleared your throat and knelt on the floor. 

Bucky watched your every move. 

"Uhhh..." Your face was a red tomato as you looked around. 

Bucky got up from the couch and joined you on the floor. He leaned over and asked, "Where do you want me?" with his breath on your neck sending shivers throughout your body. 

"Umm...." 

Was all you thought about before you shook your head and cleared it. 

"Well, I'm just going to...yeah..." 

You laid down on your back and looked over at Bucky. 

"So, like..." You wiggled yourself closer to him. 

Bucky sat back and watched you struggle. 

He had a good understanding what you were doing but wanted you to suffer a little longer before he stepped in to help.

You wiggled and flopped closer to him, feeling frustrated and shy. 

"So, like here..." You gestured towards your body. 

"Solo? Nice!" Bucky smirked. 

"No! Well, I mean...Ugh! Never mind, I'll just grab another piece, this is stupid..." 

Bucky chuckled but he quickly stopped you from getting up and sighed. It was his turn to take over, so he did. 

"Just stay there." 

He shifted himself next to you. 

"I think you're going for this one?" 

Bucky brought his leg over your side, so he was above you, missionary style with your legs on either side of him. You nodded. He placed his hands above your head and leaned down, rocking gently into you. 

You could feel every muscle on his body, and it was quickly heating yours up. Your mind was racing imagining what this would really be like with him when he leaned down and whispered, 

"This is good doll, but I think there are better..." making you shudder at his low voice. 

"Right, I know that..." 

You cleared your throat and looked all over the room. You had avoided eye contact with Bucky quite a few turns ago. 

"Let me show you mine, although it's hard to pick just one." 

He whispered and winked at you. 

"Ok..."

You watched as he carefully sat up from you and moved you, so you sat upright, facing him. 

"Get on your hands and knees for me and face away..." 

You gulped but nodded along and did what he said. His voice seemed to take on a deeper command. You got on your hands and knees as he moved behind you. Your heart was racing as his hands slid to your hips and squeezed a little before he sat up and nudged himself behind you. 

"See, this is one of my favourites. You can arch your back, move yourself lower for a deeper feel, and hang on to a headboard for more force." 

His hands began circling your hips as he nudged into you from behind and rocked a little. You moved with him slightly. It took everything in you not to moan at what you were doing. 

"Then, after a while, I can also do this." 

He brought your front up so your back sat against his chest. His hands roamed from your hips, gripped them tight, and pushed you down slightly while he rocked into you. 

"I can use my hands here..." 

He moved them to the front of you, smoothing your stomach, and going lower. 

"I can put my hand low, and my other here." He whispered while his metal hand moved across your throat and squeezed slightly sending sparks throughout your body. 

You gulped as you started moving with him. He brushed his lips along your neck, leaving small whisps and breaths against your skin. 

"But then, if it gets to be too much for you, I can move you to your side, like this and still have access." He gently moved you to the floor again and stayed behind you. 

"I can move my hand over you, like this..." His hand moved on your upper body, squeezing your side, then stomach as he rested his hand right below the bottom curve of your breast. 

"Bucky..." You breathed out. 

Between the positions he put you in, his hands, voice, and breath on your skin, you were on fire.

He leaned over you and you felt him rock into you slightly, feeling a slight bulge behind you. 

"There are so many other positions doll..." 

You let out a soft whimper as he gently moved away from you. 

"I can show you them sometime," he smirked and moved back to the couch you were on. 

Your head cleared while he got to his feet, helping you up. You swayed a little and held your head in your hand to steady yourself.

You sat down next to him on the couch, resuming your game. You have no idea how you managed to take a block after Bucky's turn, but you did. When it was his turn to grab a block, he knocked the tower over as he went for a particularly teetering block. 

"Well, that's that then..." 

Bucky helped you pack up the game and place it back in the box. You didn't say much apart from a few 'uh huh's' and 'mm mm's' to Bucky's questions regarding the pickup time, as you placed the box back in the closet. 

It was late, so you announced you were going to sleep for a few hours and Bucky waved at you saying he would be in later.

You climbed into the small twin bed, and snuggled deep under the blankets, trying to calm your racing heart. Where was an invisibility cloak when you needed it.

What the hell was that? 

He was you mission partner for fuck sakes. Now, you have the distinct feeling of him being between your legs, knowing how he FEELS under his clothes, and all you can do is blush like mad, mumble, and run away like a scaredy cat. 

Awesome.

You were counting down the hours until the jet was coming to get you when you heard the bedroom door open and sensed Bucky. You heard the bed next to you squeak and groan as he got into it, settling the covers over him. 

How could he be so open about what transpired earlier? Does he want something with me?

You sighed and snuggled in tighter to your blanket when you heard Bucky next to you. 

"I can hear those gears in your head turn doll." 

You tensed at his words then a few minutes later he spoke again. 

"What happened here earlier is only the beginning. When we get back, you're mine." 

Then you heard rustling as he must have turned over to sleep.

Yeah, you were definitely going to have a chat with Nat when you were back about her little Jenga game. 

You weren't sure if you were going to thank her or smack her for opening the door to being with Bucky.

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

oh my god, SEASON 2 !

I LOVE THISSSSSS I LOVE IT

One of the Guys (Season 2, Episode 1)

Summary: Y/N has to settle a stupid bet.

Word Count: 2k

Previous part

It was a fairly normal day in the apartment.

The summer heat making them bored and lazy, “bears in the sun” was how they tagged themselves.

Bucky and Sam had offered to walk down to the ice cream shop whilst Steve and Y/N opted to stay inside, where the beautiful invention of Air Conditioning existed.

Bucky and Sam were summer people through and through; Bucky was always one to run cold and Sam had an affinity for going shirtless.

He was odd, but they loved him regardless.

They loved the beaches, they loved the early mornings and long nights, they loved the blistering sun.

Y/N and Steve were definitely cut from different cloth; they longed for the days of cozy sweaters, hot coffee specials instead of iced, fall fairs and ice skating.

So, they stayed inside.

“How’s this one?” Y/N asked.

She leaned over the edge of her bed, reaching down to show Steve the photo.

Steve peeled his eyes off of his summer school essay and leaned back from her desk.

He squinted at the photo, before shaking his head.

“No.”

She scoffed, “What? I look great in this photo. My teeth look so white.”

Steve hummed, debating between honesty and kindness.

“Yeah it’s cute, but you have better pics.”

She slid to the edge and hung herself further off the bed, dangling upside down and staring at her friend.

“Such as?”

He continued to type on his keyboard, his finger twirling in the air over his shoulder as he tried to recall the one on her instagram.

“Um… that one from that thing.”

“Wow, helpful.”

He turned in his seat, “You know, that photodump with Nat from that one weekend. The concert.

She tilted her head, “You think those are good pics?”

He nodded. One, it helped her appear social and lively. Two, her smiles in every photo were genuine, not posed.

Maybe he was different from most guys, maybe guys didn’t actually think like that. But that’s how he felt, so that’s what he said.

“Yep.” He said.

Her upside-down smile beamed at him, “Awe, thanks Stevie.”

“Of course,” he turned back to his computer, “Now shut up so I can focus.”

She mocked him, but returned to her perch silently.

If she didn’t get any matches on this app, she was blaming Steve.

Suddenly, yelling filled the apartment.

The two’s heads perked up as the fighting continued down the hallway to just outside her door.

Bucky and Sam came in without a falter in their conversation.

After running into a pretty girl at the ice cream shop, the two had debated who had a better shot with her.

Of course, neither of them did anything, and their attention became directed towards who had better chances in general.

“You have no rizz.” Sam declared.

“Never use that sentence again.” Bucky stated, swiftly passing the ice cream cups to Y/N and Steve, who watched in silent confusion.

The boys filled the small space, facing each other with a fervor.

Sam braced against her door frame, “Why? Cuz you know it’s true?”

“No,” Bucky defended, “because you’re a grown man. Our age group does not say rizz.”

Y/N glanced between the two, bending down to look at Steve for clarification.

But he was just as lost.

“And it’s definitely not true.” Bucky continued, “I could easily pick up more chicks than you in one night.”

Sam scoffed, pointing to the man at the desk.

“Steve could get more girls than you.”

“Hey!” He called out.

Sam sighed, “Well c'mon man, you have no idea how to talk to women.”

Feeling cocky, Steve leaned back in the chair, arms resting behind his head.

“Maybe it’s not the talking that they like me for.”

Y/N giggled from her loft, continuing to swipe on tinder.

“Oh shut up.” Bucky said.

Steve glared, pointing at his friend.

“You wish you had my moves.”

The brunette rolled his eyes, but Sam and Steve simply stared.

Did no one think he had charm?

“Y/N liked my moves, right?”

What on earth are you talking about?

She shot up, only making the other two just as shocked.

Bucky’s hands flapped, panicking at the insinuation.

“Our last party! We all played it up; you saw it first hand. Who was the best?”

She felt her cheeks burn, shaking her head.

“Can we be normal people for once? Not have ridiculous arguments over moves?”

The small room filled with loud defenses and pleas, each man’s ego on the edge of collapse.

She groaned from her ledge, “You’ve got to be kidding, guys.”

“Seriously, who do you think would get the best in bed?” Steve asked.

“That’s totally different from the best rizz.” Sam chided.

“Again, stop saying that.” Bucky held up his hand to Sam, “Actually that word is banned from this apartment.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I’m not participating.”

“Come on, please?” Sam pleaded.

Her eyes darted between the 3 men, feeling more conflicted than ever.

This was so stupid.

So, so, stupid.

But it wasn’t like they’d let up; they had the rest of the afternoon to poke and prod until she gave an answer.

She shook herself from her thoughts, deciding to view it as a rational analysis over anything else.

“Well I don’t know.” She thought for a moment, “I know Steve looks good naked.”

Bucky and Sam’s eyes grew wide.

“WHAT?!” They said in unison.

This didn’t phase Steve as he nodded, as if it was the most nonchalant statement he’d ever heard.

“Thank you for your candor.”

She peeked her head over her railing, smiling down at him.

“You're welcome!”

“I’m sorry,” Sam started, “are we NOT gonna talk about what you just said?”

“However,” She continued, “Bucky’s a good kisser. And um, well yeah, and that thing—”

Steve squinted at her wavering voice, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The two boys looked at each other unknowingly, but Bucky gave a more questioning look…

Did she mean what happened after the kiss?

The pinning against the counter, the rapture his voice evoked…

“And SAM is always hyping up his game. In some cases that could be misplaced, but—”

With a hand placed on his heart, and his face full of offense, Sam cleared his throat. “Pardon me—”

“—I was saying that sometimes confidence is part of it! Or it’s not just talk, it's the walk.” She confirmed.

Sam nodded in agreement, his mojo returning to him.

She huffed, the dignity of their friendships aside, she genuinely could not choose who the best suitor would be.

“I don't know guys, I don’t know about your… agenda.”

She chose her word carefully, but left the men lost.

“Our what?” They asked.

“Your itinerary… so to speak.”

With the boys’ confused shared looks, she rolled her eyes.

“Ugh, come on. What are you guys like in bed?”

Immediately they clammed up.

“Jesus Y/N, how are we supposed to answer?”

The men stood there awkwardly, though they could shoot the shit about their game with each other, it felt strange doing it with a member of the opposite sex.

She groaned, “Okay fine.”

She gave herself a moment to prepare the question, phrasing it as closely to the original as she could…

“We’re in a room alone; we order dessert with room service.” She started, “There’s three options on the menu; sugar and strawberries, devil's food cake, and warm honey.”

She leaned over the edge of her bed, looking between them.

“What do you order for us?”

Bucky felt his throat go dry, Sam’s hands felt sweaty, and Steve felt the room become smaller…

“Why?”

She glared, ”You want me to choose? Then answer the question. You can repeat answers. And remember, this is all subjective so—”

“Devil's food cake.” Steve interrupted.

Her eyes went wide, nearly falling off her bed.

“Really?” She asked.

His face drew grim; “is that bad?”

“No!” She defended, “Just surprising is all.”

Only further intrigued by her words, the two remaining men rushed to find an answer.

“Sugar and strawberries,” Sam decided.

She laughed, “I knew it!”

Sam threw his hands up, “Well is that bad?”

Still chuckling, she shook her head.

“No, not at all. There’s no bad answers.”

The group turned to Bucky, the last one to answer.

He gulped.

He knew what his choice was, but it seemed cheesy. And with her testimony to the other choices, how would she react to his?

It didn’t feel like he was proving himself to the group, but proving himself to her.

She’d said it was subjective, it felt subjective.

In some undertone; she was choosing the best of the group.

The silence lingered too long, and he breathed out an answer.

“Warm honey?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Are you saying that because it’s the last option?”

He shook his head, filling with more confidence.

“No… that’s what I’d choose.”

She smirked, the breath nearly knocking from his lungs as she chose.

“It’s Bucky.”

Steve and Sam screamed in disbelief, as Y/N simply laughed and enjoyed herself from her loft

“No way.” Steve said, pouting from his rolling chair.

“Why?” Sam asked, he’d tried to pick the right answer. Going outside the box. But maybe he needed to go to the basics. “Is it like a licking thing? Like it’s—”

She shrieked. “No Sam! That’s not what it is.”

He questioned. “Well what is it?”

Bucky stood silent in the doorway, eager for an answer but too afraid to ask.

“No.” She said.

“Tell us what it is!” Steve demanded.

“NO!”

Though the group protested, she wouldn’t budge.

Keeping her secrets to herself and kicking the more than confused men out of her room.

~

“So what is it?”

The question echoed in the quiet space, from the kitchen to the couch where Y/N sat peacefully.

The other two had gone out, tired of asking Y/N what her test really meant, and opted for proving to themselves that they had great moves.

Bucky, oddly enough, chose to stay in.

She chuckled, closing her book and looking over her shoulder.

She’d picked him after all, she might as well tell him what it meant.

“It’s from this show, Lie to Me.”

His eyes narrowed, analyzing her from across the room.

He slowly stepped towards her, intrigued and wary all at once.

“Okay…”

He sat on the couch, his legs resting on the coffee table.

“Looked it up on Reddit, basically the main character asks this girl at a cocktail party. Like a pick up line. It’s… how your partner would behave in bed.”

When Bucky remained silent in nervous distress, she continued.

“Strawberries and sugar are like, excitable and playful. Willing to try new things, but not necessarily long lasting.”

Made perfect sense for Sam.

“Devils food cake is intense, not necessarily serious but there’s like an edge to it.”

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

“Kinky?”

She laughed. “That wasn’t clear. Potentially but you can’t quote me on that.”

Bucky turned to look at his roommates’ door, shock hitting him unexpectedly.

Damn Stevie, atta boy…

Y/N gulped, realizing she’d saved the explanation for his choice as the very last…

“Honey is sensual, experiencing your partner's body and taking in everything . Indulging…”

His eyes left Steve’s door, his mind wandering at the sound of her sultry explanation.

She sighed, “It’s sweet and slow.”

He spoke without thinking.

“That how you like it?”

The quiet between them lingered too long.

Often, when moments like this happened, someone broke it up.

Either Nat with an all-knowing jab, Steve with an oblivious question, or Sam with… well Sam would say anything at any time, he was a chatterbox in his own world.

And now they were in theirs.

There was no one else around, in fact… their other roommates were already asleep.

She felt hot, sweaty, damn this summer heat.

He shot up, “Well, thanks for boosting the uh—”

Her brows raised.

“The ego. My ego. Good to know, good to—”

“Yeah man, hey, no worries. Just being honest.”

Pacing awkwardly, unsure what to do with himself, he stalked back to his bedroom.

God, this was gonna be a long summer.

~

Tags!!! Sorry if I missed you 🤍

@pigeonmama

@blackhawkfanatic

@dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable

@dumb-ass-3

@cuddlycalcifer @lonewolf471 @niiight-dreamerrrr @fandomsfallnomore @elliee1497 @godspeedlover @sexwithhiddlesbatch @shower-me-with-roses @yougottalovefandoms @rebekahdawkins @gentlybarnes

@globetrotter28

Bucky tag list

- @emmabarnes

- @imawhore

- @justlookingforrickanddaryl

- @wickedfun9

One of the guys

- @il0vebucky

- @the-undateable

- @chronicallybubbly

- @ironhottubstranger

- @minami97

- @kayden666

- @redsbookshelf

- @blackrigel

- @wildflowerwattpad0217

- @dayastarkorwtvr

- @stars4birdie

- @grilledcheesewithjalapeno

- @cjand10

- @barnesxstan

- @sebastians-love

- @losers-clvb

- @winterslove1917

- @destroyer-of-za-warudo

- @widow-cevans

- @bonnyclydecat

- @ordelixx

- @mouseratface

- @civilbucky

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

oh my god 😭😭😭😭 this is greattt ! i miss you btw 😔✊🏻

Wrote in a rush and this was meant to be a fluffy drabble (lo behold is now much longer) but give me Bucky who finds the littlest ball of orange fluff on the side of the road, picking her up and tucking her into his leather jacket to take care of her. He can't leave behind that trembling baby behind on the streets which is exactly why she's scooped away without protest and snuck right into the tower and straight to his room, doors locked behind him immediately.

His biggest concern isn't the fact that he's currently housing a stray kitten in his room. It's not that he was breaking the no pets policy which he was already given an exception for. Once.

No.

His biggest concern is currently staring daggers at him with blue eyes that match his and an irritated swishing tail.

"C'mon Alp" Bucky tried to reason with his stubborn cat only to be met with the bat of a paw to his cheek, "You gotta be nice to your new baby sister, she needs a home"

Alpine isn’t having any of it. He saunters away and curls up high on the cat tree Bucky installed, turning away to ignore the new visitor.

"That could have gone....worse" Bucky mumbles to himself, knowing a grumpy Alpine was as good as it was going to get.

Now, he didn't exactly think any of this through when he picked the kitten up. He forgot how sharp those tiny claws are and he definitely forgot orange cats were a different breed. Still, he manages pretty well, playing with her and feeding her.

It's great until there's an attack on the compound the security system is breached. It's more of an inconvenience than actual threat which is why Bucky grumbles while rubbing sleep from his eyes when he hears the sound of a scuffle down the hall near his room. He's out of bed and grabbing his gear, the handle of his room jangling before being kicked down by the intruders, weapons in hand.

Alpine jumps up to his spot high in his cat tree waiting for daddy to handle business. Bucky is about to take down whoever entered his room until he feels soft fur brush his ankles, his tiny orange furbaby leisurely strutting over and sitting in front of the first gunman without a care in the world. She licks her paw and just before Bucky could react-

"What's this tiny piece of shit-OHFUCK-FU-

*Silence*

"What the hell..." Bucky's jaw is on the floor and his eyes are frozen on the spot where the intruder stood now empty. Because he is in his baby's belly. His tiny kitty just unhinged her jaw and a bunch of tentacles for a tongue grabbed the man whole and swallowed him like a Friskies snack.

"Meow" She purrs and comes to nuzzle against his leg, her tail swishing and curling around his ankle as she looks at him with all the love in the world. She goes back to licking her paw like nothing happened and Bucky stays rooted in place.

A Flerken. The tiny kitty he rescued was a whole ass Flerken.

Fuck.

After that night, imagine every time Bucky joins the team for dinner or training he has a new scratch somewhere or the other. The longer he hides his secret, the worse his excuses get but how can he tell them it's just his baby Peaches. Little Peaches the orange kitten who was also apparently a Flerken.

"I-I nicked myself while shaving"

"On your arm, Buck? Really?"

"It's just a papercut!"

"Why the fuck is it on your chin"

"Broke a cup, must've been the glass"

"....across your nose. The broken cup got you across the nose..."

"Yep"

"What are you, training with Alpine in your room?"

"...something like that"

Now at some point he does get caught because all you hear from his room is “awww-ow, fuck-shit-aren’t you the cutest”as he continues to coo, rubbing Peaches' furry tummy, his little paws reaching to bat the long strands of his hair. Everyone know he definitely can't be talking to his sassy white fur baby so who could it be-

"Really Bucky?" You stood at the door with an incredulous expression your face while he's in the middle of his cuddle session. You knew your boyfriend was hiding something all this time. Honestly, no one is really surprised given how much of a "secret" softie Bucky can be.

Still, no one really gets why he had to keep her a secret for this long, it's just a cat, what was the problem....

Now, I’d absolutely love for him to sneak her on a mission, a small lump rumbling in his jacket and Sam and Steve can only assume it's some type of weapon though for some reason Bucky keeps petting it. Eventually they get to their location and instead of reaching for his he pulls out Peaches, holding her out like a rifle.

Before anyone can bombard him with a flurry of questions as to why in the FUCK would he bring a kitten to a mission, she eats off 4 of the bad people with one swallow and a content meow.

“That’s my baby” kisses her head before stuffing her back into his leather jacket where she purrs against his chest.

"Barnes what the fuck-"

"You guys can get what you came for" Bucky says with a shrug while scratching her behind the ear, a now stunned Sam and Steve slowly backing away to retrieve whatever they came for.

Bucky couldn't be prouder. The only mission he's still working on is getting trying to get Alpine to not plot to kill them both and it's going great.

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

i'm with bucky in this one

going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.

that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.

"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"

"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"

now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"

"no, it's not a date."

"it is a date"

"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"

"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"

"it's normal? you've done it before?"

you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"

bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.

"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.

"yes i have"

"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"

you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.

he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

save me cowboy bucky save me 😭😭😭

the cowboy rule - bucky barnes

warning - contains 18+ content

You’d been in Texas for three weeks, and every second of it felt like culture shock with a splash of sunburn.

The heat clung to your skin like a second layer, thick and humid, and the wide, dusty roads felt like they led to nowhere. People were kind, too kind.

Strangers tipped their hats and called you "ma'am," which still made you blink like they were speaking another language.

But the best part of moving here?

James Buchanan Barnes. Or, as everyone called him, Bucky.

You met him on your second day, when your rental car got stuck on a back road and he pulled up in a beat-up Chevy truck, boots dusty and smile easy.

“Looks like you took a wrong turn, doll.” he’d smiled.

He helped you out, then made it his personal mission to show you around the small town. Introduced you to the good barbecue joint, took you horseback riding, showed you where to get the best iced tea.

You weren’t sure if it was his jawline, the Southern charm, or the way he always touched the small of your back, but James Bucky Barnes had burrowed deep under your skin.

That weekend, there was a little throwdown at the local tavern. Live music, whiskey, and dancing. Bucky told you to come, that he’d be there. You weren’t sure if he meant it as a date, but you wanted to go anyway.

So you did. You wore denim shorts and a tied-up flannel shirt, not quite blending in but looking just enough the part to be welcomed. The music was loud, feet stomping against the wooden floors as couples twirled in time to the fiddle.

You didn’t see Bucky at first, so you ordered a drink and swayed to the beat near the corner of the room. Dancing alone. Not caring. You could feel eyes on you, this town was small, after all but you were having fun.

And then he appeared.

Strolling through the crowd like he owned it, hat tilted just right, jeans hugging his thighs, that ever-present glint in his eye.

He didn’t say a word as he approached. Just smiled that cocky, slow grin and plucked the hat off his own head.

Then placed it right on yours.

You blinked, not sure of the hat on your head, “James?”

Bucky leaned close, breath brushing your ear. “You’re wearing my hat, doll. You know what that means?”

You shook your head slowly, already breathless at the close proximity.

He smirked. “You wear a man’s hat, you take him for a ride.”

Your heart stuttered. The bar faded around you. His fingers dipped under the edge of the hat, adjusting it just so, then trailing down your neck with a featherlight touch that left goosebumps in their wake.

“You gonna follow the rule?” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Yeah. I think I will.”

His house sat on the outskirts of town, secluded enough that when he backed you up against the door and kissed you like he’d been starving for it, there was no one around to hear your gasp.

Bucky was all rough hands and controlled strength, lifting you like you weighed nothing and pinning you against the wall, grinding his hips into yours as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

“You been teasing me since the day I met you,” he growled, lips dragging along your throat, teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

“Swaying those hips, looking at me with those eyes. Know what you do to a man?”

“James-”

He silenced you with another kiss, this one deeper, filthier, tongue pushing into your mouth with purpose.

His hands roamed, cupping your ass, then spanking it hard enough to make you whimper and cling tighter.

“That’s sir tonight, doll.” he corrected, voice thick with heat. “You wearing my hat. Means you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He carried you to the bedroom, tossing you onto the bed like a rag doll. The hat stayed on. Bucky made sure of it.

“Don’t you dare take it off,” he said, stripping his shirt and revealing that sculpted chest you’d imagined too many times.

He undid his belt with slow, deliberate movements, letting the anticipation curl hot and tight in your stomach. “Looks too good on you.”

Then he was on you. Mouth at your collarbone, hands everywhere, peeling your clothes away like wrapping from a present. His palms skated over your bare skin, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked. You arched into him with a gasp.

He kissed a line down your stomach, dragging his stubble along the sensitive flesh and making you squirm.

Then his mouth was between your thighs, tongue flat against your clit, slow and torturous.

“Fuck.” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him between your things.

“You taste like heaven,” he groaned, lips slick and hungry. His fingers worked in tandem, curling inside you just right, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. “You gonna come for me, doll? Come on your sir’s tongue like a good girl?”

You broke with a cry, legs trembling as your orgasm hit hard and fast. “Sir!”

He didn’t stop. Licked you through it, over and over, until you were shivering from overstimulation and begging for more.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth and chin were wet, and his pupils were blown wide with lust.

“Still with me?” he rasped.

You nodded, dazed, only for him to flip you onto your stomach and pull your hips up.

You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and then he was inside. Slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. So fucking pretty in my hat.”

He set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against yours with every thrust, the sounds obscene and raw.

You were half-wild beneath him, cheek pressed to the mattress, hands gripping the sheets.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he said, grabbing the brim of the hat still perched on your head and tugging it back, forcing your face to tilt toward him. “Tell me who owns you.”

“You, sir. It’s you. Yours!” you gasped through each thrust.

“Damn right.”

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back again and plunging in even deeper, one hand around your throat, thumb stroking gently as contrast to the brutal snap of his hips.

“I want to watch you fall apart,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face as he fucked you harder. “Want to see you come with my name on your lips and my hat on your head.”

You did. You shattered beneath him, second orgasm wracking through you like a wave. He followed with a groan, spilling inside you and collapsing onto your body, the sweat-slicked heat of him wrapping around you like a blanket.

Even then, he didn’t pull out right away just stayed there, buried deep, mouth at your ear.

“Don’t think you’re getting away from me now.” he murmured.

You smiled sleepily against him, the brim of his hat brushing your forehead.

“Didn’t plan to.”

The next morning you woke to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. The sunlight was warm, the sheets soft, and your body was very sore in all the right places.

Then you shifted.

And the cowboy hat fell off your head, landing on your face.

You snorted a sleepy laugh, brushing it away and blinking at the bright morning light filtering through the window. The hat still smelled like him, leather, cedarwood, and just a hint of smoke.

And last night. God, last night.

You were never going to look at that hat the same again.

Padding out of the bedroom with the sheet wrapped around you, you followed the sound of sizzling into the kitchen. And there he was.

James Bucky Barnes. Your cowboy.

Still shirtless, wearing those same jeans from the night before, hung low on his hips now and whistling as he flipped a piece of bacon in the pan.

He looked up when he saw you and gave you the softest damn smile you’d ever seen.

“Well, morning, doll.” he said, voice all low and husky.

You leaned against the doorway, biting back a grin. “You cook too? What don’t you do?”

He chuckled. “Plenty. But breakfast ain’t one of ‘em. You hungry?”

You nodded, stepping into the kitchen, sheet trailing behind you like some ridiculous lacy robe.

He handed you a mug of coffee without even asking how you liked it. One sip told you he already knew.

“James,” you said between sips, eyeing him playfully, “you’re being very sweet this morning.”

His brow quirked. “That a bad thing?”

You laughed and leaned against the counter. “No, it’s just funny. You were so…” You paused, pretending to search for the right word. “Interesting last night.”

Bucky’s ears turned pink.

“Doll,” he drawled, turning off the stove, “a man’s got layers.”

You grinned. “Oh, you’ve got layers, alright. One minute it’s ‘yes, sir’ and a whole lot of- ” you gestured to his shirtless self.

He groaned and ran a hand over his face. “and the next, you’re frying bacon and makin’ me coffee like a perfect southern gentleman.”

He turned and gently caged you against the counter, one hand braced beside your hip.

“I can be both,” he murmured, eyes twinkling as he leaned down. “Real rough when I wanna be,real sweet when you need it.”

Your breath hitched. Even now, he could melt you with a few words.

“But you’re not sore, are you?” he added softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

Your face flushed. “I am, actually. A little.”

He gave you a slow, satisfied smile. “Then I did it right.”

You let out an embarrassed laugh and smacked his chest lightly, but he just kissed your forehead and handed you a plate.

“Eat up. You’re gonna need your strength,” he teased.

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Mhmm,” he said, sitting beside you at the table. “After breakfast, I’m takin’ you out to see the horses. Show you around proper. Maybe get you up on a saddle again.”

You blinked. “Is this a second date or are you just trying to get me sore again?”

He smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

You couldn’t help it you burst out laughing, resting your forehead against the table as he sat there, sipping coffee like he hadn’t just said the most casually filthy thing imaginable in the most charming tone.

Bucky reached over and gently adjusted the hat on your head, which you hadn’t even realized you were still wearing.

“You’re keeping that, by the way,” he said.

“Your hat?” you asked, looking up.

“Mmhm. It looks better on you anyway.”

You shook your head, smiling. “What if I wear it in public?”

He leaned closer, voice soft and honeyed.

“Then everyone’ll know you’re mine.”

And with the way he was looking at you, soft and warm and possessive in the sweetest damn way, you didn’t mind one bit.

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

i did it. i finally managed to stumble across a colin shea fanfic ✊🏻😖 this is GOOD!

CE Character prompt: Colin Shea you find out about his past with women and fight angsty with sweet fluff ending? Idk if this is stupid lol

Changes

Here you go my lovely! I hope you enjoy! ❤️

Starring: Colin Shea x female reader

Summary: Colin asks you a very important question.

Warnings: None really, maybe a little angst, but a lotta fluff! Loosely proofread, and all mistakes are my own!

Word Count: 663

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What happened!?” Colin is confused as he watches you rush around his apartment, picking up your things that were scattered around. Finding your shoes by his bed you quickly slip them on your feet.

“I’m leaving Colin. Lose my number.” You push past him to leave, but he catches one of your swinging wrists, pulling you back against his chest. “Let me go.”

“Y/N, what’s wrong, what did I do?” Colin’s eyes search your face. You had spent the morning in bed together like you normally do since you started seeing each other. Deciding on a coffee run, you ran into some of your friends while waiting for your order to be ready, quickly catching up on the latest gossip. It all quickly went south when your friend Marie asked if you were still seeing Colin.

“My friends told me everything!” You shout, wiggling free from Colin’s grasp. “What you used to do to women, how you would hide in the apartment across the hall until they got the hint and left.” Tears prick at the back of your eyes threatening to fall. “I’m not waiting around for you to do that to me.”

“Please sit down,” Colin grabs your stuff from your hands as you sit down on the bed trembling. Your bottom lip begins to quiver, and your vision blurs as the first few teardrops fall from your eyes and onto your leggings. You can vaguely make out Colin kneeling between your legs, brushing the tears staining your face with his thumbs.

“Y/N, look at me,” his hands softly frame your face, tilting upward until he can look into your eyes. “I used to be like that, it’s true.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath before continuing. “I was selfish, and there aren’t any decent enough explanations that I could give you that would begin to justify what I did.”

You swallow a sob as you wait for Colin to continue. Running a hand through his hair, he looks at the floor, gathering his thoughts before looking back to you.

“Things are different with you.” He rushes out wringing his hands together. “I feel different when I’m with you. I’m happy just spending time with you, I don’t care what we’re doing.” Colin’s eyes are pleading you to believe him. Begging you not to leave. “I.. I think I’m falling for you.”

You scoff, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “How can I believe you? You probably said it to all of those other women.”

Shaking his head, Colin stands and reaches for a small box sitting on his dresser. You feel the mattress dip next to you as he sits next to you. He hands you the small silver box, folding his hands in his lap. “Open it.”

Lifting the top of the box, you find a key. Looking at Colin, then back at the key, you can’t help the small smile that forms upon your lips. “Is this what I think it is? Is this a key…”

“To my apartment.” Colin finishes the sentence for you. “Well, our apartment if you’ll move in with me.” Taking the box out of your hands he squeezes your hands in his, linking your fingers together. “You’ve changed me, Y/N” Colin places a chaste kiss on your lips. “What do you say? Will you move in with me?”

Throwing your arms around his neck, you tackle him to the bed, the both of you giggling like teenagers in each other’s arms. You capture his lips with yours, before peppering his entire face with your lips. “Yes! Yes, I’ll move in with you!”

Colin sits up, rummaging through your things before finding your keys and slipping the brand new key to your now shared apartment on the ring. He presses his forehead to yours, his hands tangling in your locks, gently bringing your face to his for another kiss. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too.”

[grilledcheesewithjalapeno]

☆to read/eat☆

Bella’s Masterlist

Masterlist Updated: 05/06/2024

*All photos in my headers are not mine. Credit goes to the creators!*

*ALL FICS ARE READER INSERT UNLESS STATED OTHERWISE*

CHRIS EVANS MASTERLIST

STEVE ROGERS MASTERLIST

Keep reading