kamaria-sweet-writes

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Oooh I loved every bit of this.

“say it.”

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, body worship, smut, oral sex (m & f receiving), mating press position, emotional intimacy, friends to lovers, jealous reader, touch starved Bucky Barnes, first time sex, marking kink, praise kink, reader is lowkey in control, light sub Bucky, consent is sexy ya’ll

word count: 15k

Summary: You were always so careful with him. Always asked before you touched. Always pulled back when he got too still. But Bucky never pulled away. Not from you.

Then you saw Sharon Carter touch him. Completely innocently. Now your hands are on his thighs, your mouth is at his throat, and you’re making him say he wants you.

(He does. He always has.)

notes – not proofread. there is so much dialogue bc they would not shut up sorry yall they are yappers in love

taglist: @overwintering-soldier @loganficsonly

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

It was always easy, being with Bucky.

Even when the rest of the world was loud — filled with meetings and briefings and training drills that pressed in on your skull like a vice — Bucky had this way of making everything quieter. Not because he was silent. But because he listened. Really listened. Like every word you said had weight.

You weren’t sure when it became routine. Maybe the third time you showed up at his apartment after a mission you weren’t ready to talk about. Or maybe the day you realized his couch molded to your shape better than yours ever had.

But it became yours. The space between you.

And you never took that lightly.

“Hey,” you said gently, that one night after brushing against his arm too fast. Your fingers had grazed his wrist, metal brushing against skin before you even registered the motion. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Still, you stopped. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked.”

He turned to look at you, brows soft. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do. I know you’re okay with it, but I never want you to feel like you have to be.”

That got him. You saw it in the way his shoulders loosened, in the breath he let out like you’d just lifted something from his chest.

“I am okay with it,” he said, more firmly now. “With you. I don’t…” He hesitated. “It doesn’t feel the same.”

You tilted your head. “As what?”

He looked at his hands. His right flesh one, curled loosely over his thigh. His left — the metal one — twitching once before going still. “As when anyone else touches me. You don’t take. You ask.”

You let the silence stretch for a second. Let it land. Then nodded. “Well,” you said softly, nudging his socked foot with yours, “I’m still gonna keep asking. Even if it’s always yes.”

He huffed something close to a laugh. “Stubborn.”

“Safe,” you corrected.

He smiled at that.

-

It became your rhythm.

You brought takeout and he picked the movie. He told you about his therapy sessions in half-sentences and you waited out the rest with quiet looks. You never pushed. You just made space.

He always sat with enough room between you to let you choose — to cross the distance if you wanted. Sometimes you did. Sometimes you didn’t.

And every time your fingers brushed, you paused. Just long enough to say, Is this okay?

The answer was always yes.

But you knew that didn’t mean always.

So you never assumed.

-

Once, during a late-night rerun marathon, you fell asleep on his shoulder.

It was unintentional — the kind of gradual tilt that happens after hours of half-lidded blinking and the warm weight of familiarity. You didn’t realize it had happened until you stirred from a dream and felt the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek.

You tensed, heat blooming in your chest. “Shit—sorry, Buck—”

His voice came immediately, low and steady. “Don’t move.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

“I… I like it,” he said quietly, as though admitting it might scare it off. “Feels nice.”

You froze. Not from discomfort — but from the ache in your chest, the one that pulsed louder every time he let a little more softness slip through the cracks.

You didn’t move. Just curled in a little closer and let him hold you.

He didn’t flinch then, either.

-

Another time, you reached for a door ahead of him and accidentally caught his hand — metal fingers warm from his coffee cup, cool at the joints. You let go instantly.

“Sorry—”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupted, voice gentler than you’d ever heard it. “Stop apologizing.”

You looked up, breath stuck in your throat.

“You never treat me like I’m fragile. Like I’ll break. You just… ask. And that’s more than most people ever did.”

You swallowed, pulse fluttering. “I just don’t want to be another hand that takes without checking first.”

“You won’t be,” he said, something softer than affection in his eyes. “You couldn’t.”

And for a second, you thought he might reach for you.

But he didn’t.

He just smiled — quiet and fond — and opened the door for you.

-

Now, sitting on his fire escape at nearly midnight, a blanket draped over both your shoulders, you watch him nurse a mug of chamomile and stare out over Brooklyn like he’s trying to memorize the skyline.

He hasn’t said much tonight. But that’s okay.

He doesn’t have to.

You shift slightly so your knee brushes his. He doesn’t pull away.

You don’t ask this time. You just stay there. Quiet, steady. A little closer than usual. And when he exhales, long and slow like it’s been trapped in him all day, you feel it in your chest too.

You don’t say it yet.

Not I love you.

Not I want to touch you like you’ve never been touched before.

Not I’d give anything to make you feel wanted again.

But maybe soon.

Because tonight, for the first time, he lets his head tip sideways to rest against yours.

And you don’t have to ask.

-

There came a point in the course of your friendship where you stopped asking to touch his hands.

Not because it didn’t matter — but because it had become so easy. So natural. Resting your fingers lightly over his knuckles when you passed him a mug. Brushing your knee against his under the kitchen table while Val rattled on about team dynamics and Bob’s idea for mandatory karaoke. Hooking your pinky around his in the backseat of the SUV on longer missions, where the road hummed like a lullaby and the quiet between you stretched like thread.

The first time you laced your fingers through his and didn’t look for permission, he squeezed gently.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Somehow, he always knew when it was you.

-

You still asked for new things.

The tipsy night you draped your arm over his shoulders at the bar — your chin balanced on his shoulder, your breath warm on his jaw — you whispered, “Is this okay?” against the shell of his ear, even as the others laughed over a round of shots you hadn’t yet taken.

He just turned his head, cheek brushing yours. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

Your nose bumped his jaw before you pulled back.

-

That night ended the way so many did lately: half the team crashing at someone’s place, jackets draped over chairs, heels kicked off at the door, someone trying to order food at two in the morning.

You barely remembered whose apartment it even was. Just that Bucky had an arm around your waist as you stumbled through the door together, your laughter tucked into the hollow of his throat.

“Come sleep in the room,” you murmured when he started gathering pillows for the couch.

He shook his head, already fluffing one of them with that quiet determination of his. “Nah. You take the bed. I’ll be fine out here.”

“You’ll be uncomfortable.”

He glanced up, blue eyes steady. “Doesn’t matter.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

He wasn’t pushing you away. He was protecting something. Maybe not you — maybe just the thing between you. The careful line he thought you both needed to toe.

So you nodded. Said, “Okay,” and walked away.

But twenty minutes later, wrapped in (who you now assume to be John’s) too-soft sheets with the pillow still smelling like cologne that wasn’t his, you slipped out.

Barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, you padded into the living room.

He was still awake.

The room was dark except for the soft flicker of the TV — some old movie playing with the volume barely audible. He looked half asleep, arm curled behind his head, metal hand resting over his chest like a weight he didn’t know how to let go of.

You hovered for a second, heartbeat loud in your throat.

“Can I lay with you?”

He blinked up at you, slow, like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then, quietly, he said, “Yeah.”

You crossed the room before you could second guess it.

His arm lifted automatically, and you slid in beside him — no hesitation this time, not from either of you. Your body pressed flush against his, chest to chest, hips aligned. Your thigh slid over his, your hand resting on the curve of his waist.

Your face tucked into his neck, the soft stubble there like static against your skin.

You let your hand find the base of his neck, fingers slipping into the soft hair curling just above the collar of his shirt. He let out a breath you felt more than heard.

Then his arm wrapped around you. Not tentative. Not hesitant. Just… there. Solid and strong and steady.

You could feel the beat of his heart against your ribs, slow and sure. “I couldn’t sleep,” you murmured against his throat.

“I know,” he said.

“You don’t mind?”

His hand skimmed down your back, slow. “You know I don’t,” he said softly, his affection clear in his voice.

You pressed a kiss to the hinge of his jaw — not romantic, not quite — just something soft. Something grateful.

He didn’t move. Just held you closer.

You stayed like that. Curled against his chest, hand in his hair, his breath warm at your temple. You could feel him — every part of him — molded to you like he’d been waiting for this shape, this stillness.

And still, neither of you said what was burning between your ribs.

-

It started during the debrief.

You were sitting across from Bucky at the mission table, nursing a half-busted wrist and trying really hard not to look at Sharon Carter, who was currently standing way too close behind his chair.

Her hand was on his shoulder. Again.

Like it lived there.

Like that was normal.

For the third time already and the mission hadn’t even started.

And Bucky? Not flinching. Not moving. Just sitting there listening to Val give the rundown with that neutral, brooding face he wore when he was pretending not to be extremely aware of how everyone in the room was staring at him.

You stared at your wrap instead. Tugged it a little tighter. Bit your tongue.

But when Sharon laughed at something and squeezed his shoulder like they were old friends, your jaw clenched so hard it nearly cracked.

You didn’t say anything when the debrief ended. Just stood and shouldered your gear, keeping your eyes anywhere but on the hand still curled over Bucky’s shoulder.

Yelena shot you a look. The kind that meant You okay? but also Do you want me to break her fingers? You didn’t answer either question. Just gave her a flat look and walked out of the room.

The flight to the drop point was silent. Tense. You sat on the bench seat across from Bucky again, knees bumping every time the quinjet shuddered in turbulence. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Sharon was next to him.

Not across.

Next to.

Her leg pressed against his like they were in coach and her hand reached out to brace against the edge of his thigh when the jet tilted. You didn’t look, but you saw it. Peripheral vision was a bitch.

She was laughing at something John had said. You didn’t hear the joke. Didn’t care. Just tugged your jacket higher, stared out the window, and tried to remember that you were good at this. That you didn’t need to get tangled in whatever-the-hell-that-was.

But then came the mission.

Simple recon. A split team perimeter sweep while Bucky and Sharon went inside the compound to retrieve the drive.

Because of course they were paired up. Of course Val thought that was a smart choice. Of course your comms were synced with them, so you got to hear every exchanged breath between them as you trailed the outer wall with Ava.

It was mostly quiet.

Mostly.

Until Sharon slipped—some minor tripwire or loose gravel—and there was a soft gasp, followed by, “Careful, soldier.”

And then—

“Thanks,” she said, and your stomach twisted before she even finished the sentence.

“I forget how steady you are.”

Steady. You pressed your back to the concrete wall and pretended the earpiece wasn’t buzzing against your skull.

But then she laughed again, lower this time. “Nice catch,” she murmured, and then—then—the sound of her hand brushing over the strap of his tactical vest, fingers tapping near his wrist, soft.

You clenched your own injured wrist tighter in its wrap.

By the time you all regrouped, the compound was cleared, the drive was secure, and you were pretending you didn’t have fire burning in your throat.

Bucky was first out the gate, expression unreadable. You followed behind, sticking to Ava’s side while John and Bob debated where the second extraction point should’ve been.

And then Sharon came out.

She said something to Bucky—low again—and you didn’t catch the words. Just saw the way she leaned in like it was muscle memory, the way her arms wrapped around his shoulders like they’d done this a hundred times before.

And he—

He let her.

Didn’t hug back. Didn’t even move much. But he let her.

Your heart did something ugly in your chest. Something raw and sharp and stupid.

You turned away before anyone saw your face. Didn’t see if he looked at you.

Didn’t want to.

-

“So, you and Sharon,” you said later, back at his apartment. “That’s a thing now?”

Bucky glanced up from his kitchen sink, utterly unfazed. “What?”

You leaned on the doorway. “You seemed real cozy.”

“Cozy?”

You nodded, lips pursed. “Yeah. Shoulder touches, hand holding, post-mission hugs. Very… comfortable.”

A pause.

Then Bucky huffed a laugh under his breath. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m just saying,” you continued, arms crossed. “If that’s your new thing, I can adjust my expectations.”

He dried his hands, turned, leaned back against the counter with that signature what am I gonna do with you smirk.

“You jealous, sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened. 

“No.”

He tilted his head, grinning. “That’s a lie.”

You rolled your eyes. “I just didn’t realize you were letting everyone rub up on you these days.”

“She just hugged me.”

“She touched your wrist.”

“So do you,” he said simply. “All the time.”

“Yeah, but I ask first.”

He raised a brow. “You think that means you get less access or something?”

“I think I follow the rules.”

He laughed — laughed — and crossed the kitchen toward you.

“Oh, your self made rules?”

“You’re the one with the boundary issues!”

“And you’re the one who made a formal declaration every time you accidentally brushed my arm for the first six months.”

You scowled. “That’s called respect.”

“That’s called putting yourself in a box I never asked you to be in.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

And Bucky — smug bastard that he was — just kept talking. “You think I don’t like when you touch me? You think I haven’t been waiting for you to stop asking since, like, week three?”

You blinked. “You have not.”

“I have,” he said, stepping closer, voice low and amused. “You think Sharon Carter’s little wrist grab meant anything to me when you won’t even sit in my lap without issuing a written statement of consent first?”

You glared. “I don’t need to sit in your lap.”

“You could.”

“I won’t.”

He smirked, eyes glinting. “Because that would be too easy. To just act on what you want.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You stared him down. He stared back, smug and relaxed and infuriatingly good-looking in his henley. Then, softer, he said, “You could touch me whenever you want, you know. I’d never stop you.”

You didn’t reply. Just stepped around him, shoulder brushing his chest — deliberately.

And this time, you didn’t say a word.

-

The air between you hasn’t softened— not really —but it’s no longer sharp. It’s just coiled. Tension curled like a spring between your ribs.

You flop onto his couch dramatically, the same spot you always take, limbs spread like you’re claiming the whole thing. Bucky follows a beat later, settling into the opposite corner with a sigh that’s trying to sound casual. It doesn’t land.

You cross your legs and pointedly don’t look at him. “Just for the record, I’m still mad about the wrist thing.”

He smirks. “Thought you weren’t mad.”

“I’m mad on behalf of consistency,” you say, pouting. “I have to petition to graze your forearm, and Sharon just—”

“Touched my wrist,” he says, deadpan. “Again, your rules are self-inflicted.”

You throw your legs over his lap without looking at him. It’s a bold move — or at least bolder than usual. You don’t ask. You don’t say anything. You just do it.

Bucky doesn’t move.

Doesn’t shift away, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t so much as blink.

You wiggle your toes against the hem of his shirt, feigning distraction as you flick through his TV options like the remote holds the answers to your problems.

“Just so we’re clear,” you mumble, “this doesn’t mean I’m not still annoyed either.”

He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise.”

“And I’m definitely not touching you because I want to.”

“Of course not.”

“This is about reclaiming my right to spontaneous affection.”

“That’s a noble cause, sweetheart.”

You glance at him, trying not to smile. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugs, his palm resting now just behind your knee, thumb lazily brushing your exposed skin. “You pout when you’re flustered. It’s cute.”

“I’m not flustered,” you say, pouting.

He lifts a brow. “You sure?”

You cross your arms and flop back against the cushions, sighing dramatically. “I was trying to protect your boundaries.”

“And I appreciate that,” he says, not missing a beat. “Even if you were mostly doing it to protect yourself.”

You sit up a little. “Excuse me?”

He’s looking at you now, relaxed but focused. “Come on. You’re not mad about Sharon. You’re mad that you want more from me and don’t know how to ask for it.”

That hits harder than you expect. You try to recover with a scoff. “Wow. You get one hug and suddenly you’re what, a therapist?”

“I’m not wrong.”

You shift, eyes narrowing. “I do ask. Every time.”

“Exactly,” he says, voice gentler now. “You always ask. Even when you don’t have to. Especially when you don’t have to. And only ever for small things.”

Your lips press together.

“And that’s not bad,” he goes on. “It’s thoughtful. It’s careful. But it’s not really about me, is it?”

You look at him then— really look.

And you hate how well he knows you. How easy it is for him to see straight through all your dramatic flailing and defensive posturing.

“You think I’m scared?” you ask, quieter now.

“I think you’re brave everywhere except here.”

That lands. Heavy, quiet, true. You sit with it for a long moment, heart hammering louder than the TV.

Then— still trying to pretend you’re unaffected— you lean forward and let your fingers trail deliberately over the inside of his wrist. Just once. Light, but lingering.

He doesn’t move.

You don’t look at him.

“Fine,” you murmur. “Then consider this me being brave.”

His breath hitches— just a little. And his hand turns over, palm up, offering.

An invitation.

You hesitate—because this means something, doesn’t it?—and then your fingers slide into his, slow and warm, lacing together like it’s instinct instead of decision. His palm is bigger, rougher. Familiar. Your thumb finds the space between his knuckles and traces it absentmindedly, trying to act like your whole body isn’t humming with finally.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just watches your hand in his like it’s an inevitability he’s been waiting on for a while.

You settle back into the couch—sort of. Your legs are still sprawled across his lap, and now, with your hand in his and your hip leaning in, you’re half-twisted toward him. Practically in his lap after all. 

Not that he seems to mind.

The tension is quieter now. Not gone, just… lower, darker. Beneath the surface. A ripple instead of a storm.

You try not to look pleased with yourself. Try not to notice the way his fingers tighten when yours start to slip, just slightly. How he pulls them back into place.

You’re just starting to relax into it—let the silence grow easy again—when his phone buzzes.

Bucky sighs, reluctantly shifting to grab it from the coffee table. Your hand remains in his. You think he’ll let go.

He doesn’t.

“Yeah?” he answers, pressing the phone to his ear, still only half-listening.

You can hear Sam on the other end, loud as ever.

“Barnes. We’re heading to this rooftop bar downtown. Sharon picked it. You in or are you too old and tired?”

You lean in closer, still pretending you’re not listening. 

Then Sharon’s voice filters through the speaker. “Come on, Buck. You owe me a drink. We decided back in Madripoor— one wrist-holding equals one cocktail, remember?”

Bucky snorts. “That’s not how that works.”

You narrow your eyes. Real slow. Then your hand—still laced with his—tugs. Gently at first, then with more purpose. You use the leverage of your legs over his lap to pull yourself closer, closing what little space remains. You’re angled in now, chest brushing his bicep, hand still holding his like it’s yours. Like it’s always been yours.

He glances at you, amused.

Your free hand finds the back of his neck, settling at the base of his skull—where the hair is soft, always a little messy when he’s not mission-polished. You toy with it for a moment, let your nails scrape lightly.

Then, without thinking, you curl your fingers and tug. Not hard. But not soft either.

He goes still mid-sentence. “—yeah, I’ll think about—” His voice wobbles.

You don’t say a word. Your fingers relax, smoothing the spot. Innocent. So innocent.

Except you’re not. And he knows it.

He covers the speaker with his hand and looks at you fully now, something sharp and teasing in his eyes. “Really?”

You smile—tight-lipped, unapologetic.

He leans in an inch. Just enough so his breath brushes your cheek. “You good, sweetheart?”

You shrug, petting his neck again. “I’m fine. Just bored.”

He watches you for a second. Something in his jaw flexes. Then he brings the phone back to his ear. “Yeah. I’m out tonight.”

Sam groans audibly through the receiver. “You are so annoying—”

Bucky hangs up mid-rant.

You grin. “Rude.”

He drops the phone onto the table with a dull clack, then shifts back to face you—slow, deliberate. His hand is still wrapped around yours, thumb sweeping absent patterns over your skin.

“I knew you were jealous.”

You pout. “I was not.”

“You pulled my hair.”

“That was an accident.”

“You pulled it during a call.”

You hum. “Timing’s everything.”

He’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he already knows how to solve, but he’s having fun watching you pretend to be difficult about it. His hand squeezes yours again, firm.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he says, voice quieter now.

You blink up at him, blinking far too innocently. “I’m being brave.”

He laughs—low, real—and drags your joined hands to his chest.

“Keep going, then.”

You shift so that your legs drape lazily over his lap like it’s the most natural place in the world to be. His hand’s still tangled with yours, resting on his chest, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He’s looking at you now. Watching. Not speaking.

You like that.

You reach for the collar of his t-shirt with your free hand, tugging it straight even though it’s not wrinkled. Your knuckles skim the line of his throat. He swallows.

You sit back, all faux-casual, and say, “Y’know, you really should go meet Sharon and Sam. They sounded fun.”

His eyes narrow a fraction. “You want me to go?”

You hum. “I think it’d be good for you. Socialization. Fresh air. Get your wrist touched again, maybe.”

He scoffs under his breath, like he’s trying not to laugh. You lift your hand from his collar, brushing invisible lint off his shoulder with slow, lingering strokes. Down over his bicep. Across his forearm. Light. Innocent.

Coy as hell.

“I mean, Sharon said you owe her a drink,” you add, cocking your head. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“You offering to walk me there?” he asks.

“I could.”

“Would you keep touching me like this the whole way?”

You pause. Then press your palm fully against his chest, right over his heart, and say sweetly, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His chest rises beneath your hand. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, voice rougher now.

You pout. “Why?”

“You’re telling me to go with your mouth—”

You smile. “But?”

“But you’re saying don’t you dare fucking move with your hands.”

“Am I?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Your fingers are already gliding back up, this time toward the base of his neck again. The curls there are still soft from the shower, and this time, you don’t tug.

You just play.

Curling, twisting, letting your fingertips rake lightly as you lean in just a little closer. Close enough that your knee presses between his legs now, shifting the air between you.

His breathing slows. Measured. On purpose.

You tilt your head. “Still think I’m scared?”

He studies you for a long second, eyes flicking from your mouth to your hand to the place where your thigh presses against him.

“No,” he says finally. “Not anymore.”

You smile again, pleased, and lean forward enough that your shoulder brushes his. Then, voice soft and teasing, you say, “You sure you want me to touch you how I really want to?”

There’s a pause— not from doubt, but from weight. You feel it when he exhales. Deep. Grounded. Hungry.

Then his hand— the one still tangled with yours— squeezes.

Hard.

And he says, “Try me.”

You don’t move right away. Instead, you ease back a fraction, your head tilted slightly as you study him—really study him. His chest rising slower now, like he’s forcing calm. The way his jaw ticks, and his throat works once like he’s already anticipating where this is going.

You shift in his lap—slow, smooth. You let one leg slide over until you’re fully straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, the soft pressure of your body settling into his with delicious closeness.

He doesn’t move, doesn't touch you, but you feel his breath catch. And that’s enough.

You trail your fingers down the line of his collarbone, feather-light. Like you’re memorizing the map of him one centimeter at a time. He’s warm beneath the fabric, solid, always so still when he wants to be.

“You’re really gonna sit there and let me touch you like this?” you murmur, voice just shy of innocent.

“I said try me,” he says, low and steady. You grin, then bend slightly to press your palms against his chest. One over his heart, the other drifting slowly across to his shoulder, feeling the slope of muscle beneath your fingertips.

“What do you like?” you ask softly.

His brow lifts, surprised. “What?”

Your voice drops a little more. “When someone touches you. What kind of touch do you like?”

He hesitates. Swallows. “You.”

“Not what I asked.”

“You’re the only one I want touching me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Your chest squeezes but you recover quickly, letting your fingers explore again— this time down the slope of his shoulder, then lower, dragging along the length of his bicep with just enough pressure to feel the twitch beneath your hand.

You lean in close, your mouth near his ear now. “So you like when I touch your arms?”

He huffs, not quite a laugh. “That a serious question?”

You run both hands down his arms now, slowly, until you reach his wrists. You toy with the edge of his sleeve, then slide your fingers over the metal of his left arm, slow and reverent.

“You always let me touch this,” you murmur, voice softer now. “Even when no one else could.”

He shivers.

And when you look up, his pupils are blown wide. Still, he’s trying to stay composed. It makes you want to ruin him slowly.

You lift his metal hand, kissing the inside of his wrist, then dragging your nose along the seam of the vibranium like it’s something to worship. Then you switch, taking his flesh hand in both of yours, pressing a kiss into the center of his palm.

His breath stutters.

You tilt your head, eyes locking with his. “You like it when I do that?”

“I like everything you do,” he says hoarsely, almost helplessly.

You smile. “Good.”

Then you start moving. Your hands return to his chest, gliding down his ribcage, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his t-shirt, slow and testing. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, but he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t shift. His hands are still on his thighs, fists curled tight like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

You smooth your palms up under his shirt, over the plane of his stomach—hard muscle, warm skin, scattered scars. Your thumbs trace the edges of them gently.

“Is it okay that I touch you here?” you whisper, softer now, but purposeful.

He nods once, slow. “Yeah. Just… keep going.”

You do.

You inch higher, not rushed, not greedy. You press your palms flat over his chest, then spread your fingers wide, tracing over his pecs with deliberate intent. He’s bigger than you let yourself notice before—broad and built and so solid, like the world couldn’t move him if it tried.

You pause with your hands still inside his shirt, then pull back to admire the way he’s looking at you.

Like he’s not sure if this is real. Like he’s dying to touch you back and refusing to break his own unspoken rule.

“You’re being very well-behaved,” you murmur.

He lets out a low, unsteady laugh. “You think I’m not losing my mind right now?”

You grin and rake your fingers down his stomach again—this time with your nails just enough to make him twitch. “You’re not even touching me,” you whisper. “You’re just letting me have you.”

His voice is tight now. “You always had me.”

You go still. The words land deeper than you’re ready for. But you don’t let that stop you.

You lean in, mouth near his again, close enough to breathe the same air. Then your fingers trail down to the waistband of his joggers, just barely brushing it. Not a threat. Not a promise. Just a question waiting for an answer.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes.

Still not touching you. Still letting you lead.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice curling low and sweet like smoke.

His eyes open. Blue and wrecked.

You bring your hands back to his chest and drag your thumbs across his sternum, slow. “Last chance, are you sure you want me to touch you how I really want to?”

And for the first time tonight—he doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at you. Like he knows exactly what comes next and he’s about to let it happen anyway.

You drag your thumbs across his chest again, and he exhales like it hurts to hold in the words. You lean in, lips close enough to brush his cheek, and say quietly, “If you don’t want more, say so now.”

His head tips back against the couch and he breathes, “I want it.”

That’s all you need.

Your hands move slowly, reverently, slipping under the hem of his shirt again — not just to touch now, but to remove. You edge the fabric up, your fingertips brushing every new inch of skin with quiet precision. He lifts his arms without you asking, silent but pliant.

You pull it over his head and drop it to the floor.

Then you just… look.

His chest is scarred and solid and beautiful. Faint marks along his ribs, older ones that cross the swell of his shoulder and collarbone. His body tells the whole story— every war, every resurrection— and he lets you see it. All of it.

You press your palms to his chest again, but this time you’re not pretending. This is not a test. This is permission accepted. Gratitude given.

Your thumbs graze his sternum. His breath stutters. You lean in. Close enough for your mouth to hover just above his skin.

“Tell me what you like,” you murmur.

His voice is strained. “Anything. Everything. Just—”

You press a soft kiss to the center of his chest. He inhales sharply.

You pause.

“Pressure?” you ask, whispering into his skin. “Too much? Not enough?”

His hand twitches on his thigh, but he doesn’t speak. So you kiss him again. Lower. Slower. Then drag your tongue just a little beneath his ribs.

His hips twitch beneath you.

“I need words, Bucky,” you say sweetly, sitting up slightly. “Harder? Softer?”

His eyes are dark now. Heavy. His voice is raw when he says, “Softer. Just for now.”

You nod. “Okay.”

You adjust your seat, shifting more firmly into his lap, pressing down just enough to keep him honest. His hands don’t move. You know they want to— he’s holding himself still with visible effort— but you’re not asking for that yet.

Instead, you lower your mouth again, this time to the top of his pectoral, and kiss. Soft, slow. Then another. A third, just beside his nipple.

He shivers.

You trail your mouth across to the other side, leaving a series of warm, open-mouthed kisses— not rushed. You’re cataloguing reactions, measuring each breath, each twitch, each slow grind of his hips when you linger too long in one place.

“Do you like it when I kiss here?” you ask, just as your tongue flicks lightly against the edge of one scar beneath his ribs.

He groans softly. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

You press your cheek to his chest for a moment, just listening to his heartbeat. “Do you want it deeper?”

He nods.

So you part your lips again. Let your teeth scrape lightly this time. You bite, gently, into the meat of his shoulder, just above where the metal begins. Not enough to mark — just enough to make him react.

He does. His hips buck once, shallow. Unintentional.

You pull back, grin small and smug. “I’m just learning,” you say innocently. “Don’t hold it against me if I’m good at it.”

He huffs a broken laugh. “You’re killing me.”

“No,” you murmur, licking lightly at a fresh spot below his collarbone. “I’m touching you like I’ve wanted to.”

And God, it shows.

Your hands move to his sides now, fingers gliding down over his ribs, curving around to his back. You press your palms flat against his spine, feeling the shift of his body under yours, how close to trembling he is.

You lean up again, mouth near his ear now. “Do you want more?”

He breathes, “Yes.”

“More pressure?”

He nods again so you press your mouth to his chest again— harder this time. More tongue, more teeth, dragging your lips across the plane of him with purpose now.

And that’s when his hands move. First just a twitch, like he’s resisting. Then finally—finally—they rise and grip your hips. His touch is firm. Unsteady. Like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t not.

You freeze. Just for a beat.

Then you glance up and meet his eyes. He’s watching you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear. Like this is too much, and not enough, and exactly what he wants.

You rest your hands over his. “See?” you whisper. “You’re allowed to touch back.”

His grip tightens slightly and for the first time that night, he pulls you closer.

Your chests brush. Your mouths are inches apart. But neither of you closes the distance.

Not yet.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “I’m gonna keep going,” you whisper. “Until you tell me to stop.”

“Don’t,” he breathes, voice thinned out and trembling just beneath the surface.

You pause. One hand still splayed over his ribs, your mouth only a whisper away from his collarbone.

“Don’t… stop?” you murmur. “Or,” your voice softens further, “don’t keep going?”

He opens his eyes, barely, and you can see it there: the war, the want. The sharp edge of hesitation dulling into surrender.

“Don’t stop.”

You nod once. Just enough that he feels it where your forehead still rests against his.

“Okay.”

You start with his neck. Your mouth moves slowly—pressing a kiss just beneath his jaw, then lower, your lips trailing the thrum of his pulse. His skin is warm, faintly salty, and the sound he lets out when your tongue grazes the hollow of his throat is raw.

You work your way down deliberately. Worshipful. Never rushing.

You kiss along the line of his shoulder, across the slope of his chest. Your hand follows the same path, brushing through the light hair scattered across his sternum. It’s soft, unexpected. Your fingers splay across it, and you lean in again—kissing the center of his chest, open-mouthed and slow.

His breath catches when your teeth scrape lightly across one nipple. Then the other.

“Too much?” you ask quietly.

“No,” he whispers, voice strained. “More.”

You kiss lower, dragging your mouth down his stomach, tongue flicking briefly across a scar beneath his ribs. You don’t look up—just feel the way his abdominal muscles shift under your lips, the way he shudders when your hands slide down to his waist.

You reach his happy trail, the soft line of hair leading below the waistband of his joggers, and pause.

You lay your cheek against his stomach for a moment, just breathing him in. His hand, still gripping your hip, tightens—barely.

You smile against his skin. “Would it be okay,” you murmur, “if we moved to the bed?”

His breath catches again.

“I just want to keep touching you,” you add. “That’s all. I want space to lay you out properly.”

Bucky huffs a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re seriously gonna kill me.”

You lift your head. “That a yes?”

He nods, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You rise first, helping him up carefully, like he might break. He follows you silently down the hall, letting you lead him into the bedroom. You pull back the sheets with one hand and gesture gently to the mattress.

“Lie down for me?”

He doesn’t speak. Just moves.

Slow, deliberate. He lays back against the pillows, arms loose at his sides like he’s still not sure what to do with them. The low lamplight spills over his chest, catching on the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbones. His legs spread slightly, just enough for you to slot between them as you crawl over him, straddling his thighs.

“Better?” you whisper, hovering above him.

He nods, silent.

You sit up and let your hands glide across his chest again. This time you look while you touch. You study the lines of him—the muscle, the soft trail of hair down his abdomen, the scars, the little freckles scattered like secrets. Your thumbs trace the shape of his ribs. One hand follows the line of his obliques.

You lean down again and kiss just above his navel. Then lower, to the crease where stomach becomes hip.

He moans, quiet but broken.

“Tell me if you want anything different,” you whisper.

“Like what?”

You smile. “Softer? Harder? Hands? Mouth? Teeth?”

He groans again, eyes closing. “God.”

You kiss lower. “Do you like this?”

“Yes,” he says instantly.

You press your palm to the curve of his hipbone, fingers sliding over the waistband of his joggers.

You don’t dip beneath.

Not yet.

Instead, your mouth returns to his stomach, teeth grazing lightly just beside his navel. You hear the sound he makes when your lips close over a particularly sensitive spot—feel the way his thighs twitch beneath yours.

You shift up, kissing your way across the V of his hips, then back up the line of his abdomen.

You speak against his skin. “Want it softer?”

He shakes his head. “Harder.”

You nod and scrape your teeth lightly across the flat of his stomach this time, biting just enough to leave warmth in your wake. His hips arch under you.

You smile.

Your hands move up to his chest again, dragging lightly down his sides as your mouth maps out his torso in slow reverence. Every kiss feels sacred. Every brush of your lips is followed by a question.

“Do you like when I use my mouth here?”

He nods.

“Want my hands lower?”

He groans. “Yes.”

But you don’t rush.

You slip your hands down over his hips, fingertips brushing the edge of his waistband again. You watch the muscles in his thighs flex under your weight as your mouth presses soft, open kisses just above the hem.

He’s panting now.

You shift again, just a fraction, and he instinctively bucks up into the friction—his hands grabbing your hips without thinking.

You go still, looking down at him. And his eyes widen, realizing he touched you without asking.

You lean over him, hands braced on either side of his chest. 

“Hey,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he breathes.

“I want you to.” 

His grip tightens on your hips, grounding himself.

You lower again, your mouth trailing up his stomach, over his chest, back to his throat.

Your tongue flicks over his pulse. “You’re allowed to hold on to me.”

He’s shaking now—subtly, but it’s there. Like you’ve unraveled him stitch by stitch and he’s only just realizing what it feels like to be wanted this much.

“Tell me,” you whisper again, your hands stroking up his sides. “What do you like?”

His voice is barely audible.

“You.”

You pause.

“Stubborn,” you tease. You move your mouth to his neck and press a kiss there slowly, whispering against his skin, “then I’ll give you me.”

He’s beneath you, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding himself together by the threads. His chest is flushed, slick with heat, rising and falling in uneven intervals while you kiss along his throat— slow and tender— like he’s something fragile and holy.

He’s still wearing his joggers, barely, the waistband straining where his cock is pressed tight against the fabric. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the need. But he hasn’t asked. Hasn’t begged. Hasn’t moved, not beyond the way his hips twitch when you scrape your teeth across the hollow of his throat.

You ease back, shifting gently from where you’ve straddled his thigh, and settle onto your knees between his legs instead. The change earns a low sound from him— part disappointment, part anticipation.

His thighs part instinctively to make room for you. He’s trembling again.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching for his hands first. You press a kiss to the inside of each wrist, soft and grounding, then lace your fingers with his. “You okay?”

He nods, eyes heavy. “Too good.”

You smile.

“Can I take these off?” you ask, fingertips tracing the edge of his waistband. “Just your pants. Not your boxers.”

He nods again, but this time you wait. 

His voice comes rough, strained. “Yes. Please.”

You hook your fingers into the waistband, watching his eyes the whole time, and ease his joggers down. He lifts his hips obediently, letting you pull them over his thighs, then calves, until they’re forgotten on the floor.

The sight of him makes your breath catch.

He’s hard. Straining against the fabric of his black boxer-briefs. There’s a damp spot already darkening the front, and no room left to hide how badly he wants you. You bite your lip.

He groans. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

You settle back on your heels, palms sliding up his thighs slowly. “Aren’t you?”

His breath leaves him shaky. “You can’t say shit like that when I’m already—”

You lean in and press a kiss to the inside of his thigh. He cuts off with a strangled moan.

You kiss him again, higher. Again. Then drag your teeth lightly over the sensitive skin there and feel him twitch beneath you.

“You like that?”

“Yeah.”

You kiss higher. Then lower. Then switch thighs entirely and mouth at the same spot on the opposite side.

“What about here?”

“Yes.”

You suck a little harder this time, tongue flicking over the bite before you pull away. When you look up, his hands are fisted in the sheets.

You move to his hip, mouthing at the line where his briefs meet skin, and breathe, “Do you like marks?”

His voice breaks on the inhale. “Yeah. I—fuck—I like marks.”

You hum. “Good.”

Because now you start.

You bite softly into the dip above his hipbone and suck there, slow and lingering, until the skin flushes under your mouth. He groans again — head tipping back, thighs tightening under your hands — and you move lower, only to drag your tongue up the length of the mark you just left.

You lift your head. “More?”

“Please.”

You bite into his inner thigh next — harder. And suck. A real mark this time, blooming dark beneath your lips. You feel him jerk when your nails press into the meat of his thigh.

“Can I use teeth again?” you whisper.

“Yes.”

You bite again, then soothe the spot with your tongue. He’s breathing harder now, hands flexing over his stomach like he doesn’t know where to put them.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “If you want to.”

His eyes snap to yours.

“Anywhere,” you add. “Wherever you want.”

One trembling hand lifts and cups the back of your neck. The other settles lightly against your bicep.

“You’re so…” His voice fades off. “You’re so fucking good to me.”

You smile against the mark blooming on his thigh.

You kiss it gently, then move up again — this time dragging your nails lightly up his stomach, over his obliques, following the happy trail with your mouth.

He’s panting now, low and unsteady.

You press a kiss just beneath his navel. “Do you want my mouth here?”

“Yes.”

“Harder or softer?”

He hesitates. “Softer.”

So you kiss lower, slower, gentle but warm, your lips parting slightly, tongue tasting his skin.

“Here?” you whisper, kissing just beside his shaft, where the waistband curves low.

“Yeah.”

Your mouth opens again, and you leave another wet mark there, slow and patient.

His hips twitch.

You press your hands flat against them to keep him still. “I want you to let me,” you murmur. “Don’t help. Not yet.”

He nods, ragged. “Okay.”

You worship him in full now — mouth and hands and tongue, every kiss and bite marked with a question, every answer deepening your resolve to show him what it means to be wanted like this. To be chosen. Loved with reverence, not just hunger.

By the time you’re done, he’s flushed all over. Covered in faint teeth marks and darker bruises. His cock is straining, twitching in his underwear, and his chest is heaving. His knuckles are white where they’re gripping the sheets.

You drag yourself back up, crawl over him slow, weightless. And then, when your faces are close enough to breathe each other in, you whisper, “Bucky?”

He opens his eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

His breath hitches.

You wait.

And then—

“Yeah,” he says, voice broken and reverent. “God, yeah. Please.”

So you kiss him. Soft, slow, patient. Like you have all night. All week. Like you’ll stay right here for the rest of your life if that’s what it takes to show him he’s safe. He’s wanted. That you want him.

Your mouths meet in the warm hush of the bedroom, lamplight casting soft gold against your bare shoulders as you lean into him. The first press of lips is gentle, exploratory. His breath catches in his throat, not quite a moan, not quite a sob.

You tilt your head and kiss him deeper.

He follows your lead — mouth soft, parted, his hands twitching at your sides like he’s trying to keep still and failing.

You shift, climbing further into his lap, settling over his thighs again as you kiss him. His hands rise to your hips, reverent but wanting. His thumbs stroke over the skin just above your waistband, then down to cup the back of your thighs, fingers pressing into the softness there like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

When you break the kiss, it’s only to breathe— to drag your lips down the corner of his mouth, over the stubble along his jaw. You kiss your way slowly across to his throat, and feel his pulse jump when your teeth scrape lightly against the side of it.

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He nods hard. “Yes. Yes.”

So you mark him.

You kiss the column of his throat slowly, wet and open-mouthed. You suck gently just beneath his jawline and feel his whole body shudder beneath you.

You lift your head, breathing against his skin. “You like that?”

He lets out a helpless sound. “Too much.”

“More?”

“Please.”

So you give it to him.

You kiss down the side of his neck, leaving a trail of heat. When you find a tender spot above his collarbone, you bite — just enough to make him whimper — and then soothe it with your tongue. You switch to the other side, and he tips his head for you, offering himself without question.

Your hands move up, trailing over his chest again. This time, you press your palms flat over his pecs, then glide them up to his shoulders, feeling the muscle shift under your touch.

“Can I take this off?” you ask softly, tugging the hem of your top.

He nods, breathless. “Yeah. Please.”

You sit back and peel it off slowly, tossing it aside. You’re bare above the waist now, chest rising and falling as you meet his eyes.

His gaze is reverent. Hungry.

He sits up slowly, hands rising to your waist again. His touch is careful but certain. His palms glide up your ribcage, pausing just beneath your breasts. He looks up at you.

“Okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Yes.”

He cups your breasts gently, like he can’t believe you’re real. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and the sensation makes your breath catch. You lean into him, fingers sliding into his hair, and kiss him again.

This time, it’s deeper.

Slower. Hotter.

You can feel his cock, hard and straining against his boxers, pressing up against you as you grind down just a little. The noise he makes—choked and low—reverberates through your chest.

His hands move again—one on your breast, one slipping down to your hip, thumb stroking along your side. Then both are on your back, holding you to him as he kisses across your collarbone, up your throat, across your jaw.

You let him. You want him to.

When his lips reach your mouth again, you’re already breathless.

“More?” you whisper.

He nods. “Yes. Always.”

You start working your way down again. Kissing over his chest. His ribs. His stomach. You drag your mouth along the trail of hair below his navel, and his hands fist in the sheets beside him. When your tongue traces the edge of his boxers, his hips lift slightly, involuntary.

You settle on your knees between his legs again, and this time your hands go to the waistband of his underwear. But you don’t pull.

Not yet.

You look up at him. “Can I touch you?”

He’s flushed all over, lips parted, breathing shallow. “Please,” he whispers.

You palm him through the fabric first—slowly. Your fingers curl around the shape of him, tracing the length, the heat of him making you ache with want. You lean in and press your mouth to the head, damp and dark through the cotton, and he gasps.

You kiss him there. Once. Twice.

Then open your mouth and drag your tongue across the ridge of him, slow and wet, through the fabric.

He groans. Loud. One hand comes down to your shoulder, grounding, anchoring.

You look up. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

He shakes his head, wild-eyed. “Don’t stop.”

You smile. Press another kiss to the head. Then run your mouth along his length again, your tongue flattening through the cotton, your hands gripping his thighs.

He’s panting now.

His cock jerks under your touch, straining against the fabric, twitching with every careful flick of your tongue.

You whisper against him, “I could keep doing this all night.”

He moans. “Fuck—do it.”

You kiss the base of him next, then up again, mouth and hands working in sync. You press your tongue flat, then your lips, then bite lightly through the fabric.

His whole body arches. He’s whispering your name now, like a prayer. And when you glance up, he’s looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more sacred in his life.

You smile again, slow and secret. Then you press one last slow kiss to the heat of him through the fabric, and pull back slightly, breathless with restraint.

“Can I take these off now?” you ask, voice hushed but steady, fingertips already curling into the waistband of his boxers.

Bucky lifts his head from the pillow, eyes dark and dazed. “Yeah,” he says, already breathless. “Yeah. Please.”

You slide them down slowly, reverently. He lifts his hips to help you, and when the fabric finally peels away and you see him—fully, finally—your mouth parts.

He’s hard and flushed, already leaking. Thick, long, curved just slightly toward his stomach. Beautiful.

And yours.

You take a breath like you mean to say something casual, a teasing remark maybe, but it doesn’t come out. Something about the way he looks like this—naked and trembling, waiting for your touch—takes all the air from your lungs.

Instead, you look up at him, press a hand to his thigh, and say, softly, honestly, “You’re beautiful.”

His brow creases slightly, like he doesn’t know how to take it. So you say it again, louder this time. “You’re so handsome.”

Your hand curls lightly around the base of his cock, and he lets out a choked breath. You stroke once, slow, from root to tip. He bucks slightly, involuntarily.

“Strong,” you whisper, eyes on his face. “You’re so strong, Buck.”

He swallows hard, lips parted. Your thumb drags gently over the bead of precum at the tip. “And you make me feel so safe.”

That breaks something in him. His eyes squeeze shut, chest rising with a shaky breath. His hand comes down to cup the back of your head, trembling.

You lean in and kiss the head of his cock, soft and open-mouthed, letting your tongue flick lightly along the underside before pulling back.

His hand clenches in your hair.

“I’ve wanted this,” you say, your voice velvet and low. “I’ve wanted you. For so long.”

You pump him again, slow and careful, watching how his face changes with every motion. “I’ve touched myself thinking about this. About tasting you. About having you in my mouth, undone. Because of me.”

He groans—deep and guttural.

“I want you to feel good,” you murmur, kissing down his shaft. “I want you to know how it feels to be worshipped.”

You lick up the length of him now, tongue flat, slow and steady. His hips twitch under your touch, but you steady him with one hand to his thigh.

You look up, lips swollen, breath warm. “You deserve this, Bucky. You deserve everything.”

He’s panting now, absolutely wrecked, one hand still in your hair, the other clenching at the sheets. His muscles are taut with the effort of staying still.

You take him into your mouth. Just the head, at first—wet and warm, your lips sealing around him as you suck, gentle but deliberate.

His hips jump, and a strangled sound rips from his throat. “Jesus—”

You pull back, smile, stroke him with your hand. “Too much?” you ask, but you already know the answer.

“No,” he gasps. “No, please, please, don’t stop.”

You take him deeper this time—inch by inch, working your way down with slow, reverent hunger. Your free hand strokes the base while your mouth works him, careful, never rushing.

He’s moaning now, breath catching on every exhale, fingers trembling against your scalp. You hum around him, soft and soothing, and he nearly sobs.

When you pull back for air, you press kisses along the shaft, open-mouthed and wet. “You taste so good,” you whisper.

His head tips back again, throat taut. “You’re—fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile against his skin. “Good.”

You suck him back into your mouth, deeper now, cheeks hollowed, tongue working carefully underneath. His cock throbs against your tongue, and his moans fall apart completely.

Still, you keep praising him between strokes—whispered confessions and soft declarations as you work him with your mouth and hand.

“You’re so good for me.”

“I love how you sound when I touch you.”

“Let me take care of you. Just let me.”

He’s gasping your name now, shaking, his voice ragged. “I’m close—if you keep—fuck—”

You pull back and kiss the inside of his thigh. “Not yet,” you murmur. “I’m not done showing you what you deserve.”

Then your mouth is on him again, and his body answers before he can speak. You can feel him trembling. Not just his legs—though they twitch beneath your hands with every roll of your tongue—but everywhere. The long stretch of his stomach, the hollow of his hips, the hand braced in your hair. He’s holding himself back, holding himself still, like any movement might shatter this moment. Like if he lets go, it’ll end too fast. Too good. Too much.

It makes your chest ache.

You lift your head slightly, your hand still stroking him, and look up at him through your lashes. “Bucky,” you whisper. “You don’t have to hold back.”

His eyes, heavy and blown wide with lust, flutter down to meet yours.

“You can move,” you murmur, running your palm over the inside of his thigh, grounding him. “You can fuck my mouth. I want you to.”

He lets out a breathless curse—part disbelief, part surrender.

You lean in again, lips brushing the head of his cock. “Let go for me.”

You don’t have to say it again. His hips shift immediately, tentative at first—testing. He doesn’t thrust, not quite. Just pushes forward, slowly, letting the tip of his cock press past your lips, into the wet heat of your mouth again.

You moan softly around him in encouragement, and that sound alone nearly makes him unravel. You flatten your tongue along the underside, letting him glide in deeper, and his hand tightens in your hair.

“Jesus,” he groans, low and wrecked.

Your hands curl under his thighs, anchoring yourself as he begins to move—shallow at first, his restraint still holding by a thread. You hollow your cheeks, let him feel the gentle suction, the warmth of your mouth molding around him.

You glance up again, needing to see him fall apart. He’s staring down at you like you’re made of starlight and salvation. And so you pull back just far enough to whisper, “You’re so good.”

You kiss the flushed head, then suck it back between your lips with slow reverence. “You’re so fucking handsome.”

Another kiss. A slow stroke of your tongue. “I want to feel you fall apart because of me.”

He whines. Actually whines.

You smile against him. “You’re allowed to want, Bucky. You’re allowed to feel good.”

You guide him in again, relaxing your jaw to take more of him, and this time he doesn’t hold back. His hips roll deeper, more desperate. His breath stutters. Your name slips from his lips in a rasp.

Your hand trails up his thigh to his stomach, palm pressed to the flexing muscle just below his ribs. You can feel everything—every tremor, every breath.

“I’ve wanted this,” you murmur between strokes. “I’ve thought about your cock in my mouth for so long. Thought about you, shaking like this, saying my name like that.”

He’s panting now, lips parted, chest rising in frantic, shallow swells. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, voice barely a whisper, wrecked.

You nod, never stopping, your lips and tongue working in perfect rhythm, your hand stroking the base with just enough pressure to push him closer.

“Good,” you murmur against his skin. “Let me have it.”

His hips stutter, then jerk. 

“Fuck—baby, please—”

And then he’s coming.

With a strangled moan and your name torn from his throat, his whole body tenses beneath your touch. His fingers fist in your hair, not pulling, just clinging to you like he might fly apart if he lets go.

You take everything into your mouth warm, slow, and patient. You don’t let up until his hand loosens in your hair, until he goes still, until the shaking in his thighs gives way to heavy, contented weight.

When you finally pull back, you press a kiss just above his hipbone. Then another, lower. Then one more in the center of his stomach, just where his muscles are still twitching with aftershocks.

He’s sprawled across the mattress now, skin flushed, chest heaving, eyes fluttering open to find you.

You crawl back up over him slowly, resting your weight on your forearms as you hover just above his lips.

He’s still breathless. Still reeling.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He nods, throat working as he swallows. Then, in a voice that makes your heart clench, he murmurs, “I don’t think anyone’s ever… touched me like that.”

You lean down, press your forehead to his. “I meant every word,” you whisper. “You deserve to be loved like that.”

He’s still breathing like the wind’s been knocked out of him, wide chest rising and falling beneath you as you lay there, tucked into the curve of his body. His arms are warm and heavy around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other tangled loosely in your hair. The taste of him lingers faintly on your tongue, and your body thrums with the weight of everything that just passed between you.

He’s quiet for a long moment. Not because he’s retreating—no. His thumb is rubbing slow, lazy circles against your spine, anchoring you to him.

Then he speaks, voice rough and low in your ear, “I wanted you to do that,” he whispers, like a confession he’s been afraid to say out loud.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, blue and honest and unbearably tender.

“I wanted it for so long,” he says again, as if saying it once wasn’t enough. “I didn’t know if you ever would. If you’d ever be brave enough to just… take what you wanted.”

Your heart stutters. He shifts then—slow, easy strength—and rolls you gently beneath him.

The mattress dips with the weight of his body. His knee slips between yours, and his hands come up to cradle your face, like he’s memorizing it. His expression is soft. But his eyes—his eyes—are hungry.

“And now I know,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek. “You want me.”

His lips move to the corner of your mouth. 

“You want me.” He says it again, as if trying to rewire a decade of silence and restraint with those three words. And you let him.

“Yes,” you whisper, lifting your chin as he kisses the underside of it. “I do.”

“Say it again.”

Your breath hitches. “I want you.”

He makes a sound deep in his throat—like relief, like disbelief, like desire barely leashed.

Then he kisses you. Slow. Reverent. His lips are soft at first, just a gentle press, an exhale shared between mouths. Then firmer. Deeper. His tongue flicks against yours, and you open to him without hesitation, moaning softly when his body presses flush to yours.

The slow drag of his chest against your bare breasts makes your nipples ache. His mouth devours you gently, then greedily. His hands start to roam—down your arms, your sides, your waist. One slips beneath you to press at the small of your back, arching you up into him. The other cradles your cheek, then slides into your hair, holding you where he wants you.

It’s still slow. But it’s filthy, now, too.

He kisses you like he’s trying to drink you. Like he’s starved. Like he just realized you’re real and here and his, and he’s making up for every year he didn’t get to have this.

When his mouth leaves yours, it drags wetly down your throat. He kisses each pulse point, teeth grazing lightly. His hands settle on your waist, then your hips, fingers spreading wide as he drags your pelvis against his.

He groans, deep and low, when he feels just how wet you are through your panties.

“I wanna return the favor,” he mutters against your collarbone, kissing the swell of your breast before moving down. “Let me make you feel good. Please.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh, still breathless, cheeks flushed. “You probably… probably don’t need to.”

His brows lift as he glances up. “No?”

“I’m…” You bite your lip, embarrassed and squirming a little beneath him. “I’m probably already wet enough for you to just put it in.”

His eyes darken. Burn. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, gaze flicking down. “I can see that.”

And he can. Your panties are soaked, the large wet patch clear under the soft lighting of the bedroom. He groans again, this time half in reverence and half in disbelief, and presses a kiss to your hip, right at the waistband.

“I still want to taste you.”

You shiver.

He slides lower, mouth moving down the slope of your stomach, over the soft dip of your navel, until he’s kneeling between your legs, the expanse of his chest framed by your thighs. His hands stroke up your legs, kneading slowly, kissing every new inch of skin he reveals as he nudges your thighs further apart.

And then he mouths you—through the soaked fabric—long, slow, deliberate licks with his lips and tongue that make your hips roll helplessly into his face.

You gasp, fingers tangling in the sheets. “Bucky…”

He hums, clearly pleased. The warmth of his mouth through the cotton is almost too much already. You rut against him without thinking, grinding down, chasing more.

He doesn’t stop you. Just holds your hips steady, letting you ride it, letting you lose your composure while he licks and kisses and sucks at you through your panties like a man possessed.

Then he stills, pulling back slightly. His fingers brush the elastic at your hips.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, voice ragged, breath fanning against you.

You nod, but he waits. You know why. “Yes,” you say, voice steady. “Please.”

His hands are reverent as he slides them down your legs, dragging the panties with them. You feel exposed, vulnerable, seen. But not in a way that makes you want to hide.

Not with him.

When he lowers his head again, there’s no teasing this time. Just worship. Just Bucky Barnes kissing you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.

He groans against you, low and reverent, when he finally has you bare beneath him—laid out in his bed, flushed and trembling, your thighs parted around his shoulders. There’s no pretense anymore. No coy jokes or skirting the edge of want.

There’s just the way he’s looking at you like he’s the one coming undone.

His hands stroke your thighs like he’s trying to memorize their shape. Slow sweeps of his thumbs just above your knees, feathering inward, parting you further without pushing.

You’re already soaked, throbbing, heartbeat in your throat, and he hasn’t even really touched you yet.

“I can’t believe I get to do this,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee. Then again, higher. “I used to think about it sometimes.”

Your eyes fly open.

He’s smiling against your skin—soft, almost shy. “Not in a shitty way. Just… nights when I couldn’t sleep. Nights when I wanted to feel human again. I’d picture you like this. Bare. Open. Letting me take my time.”

Your breath stutters.

His mouth trails higher. To the crease where thigh meets pelvis. He breathes deep and slow, and when he nuzzles in and licks just once—broad and deliberate up your center—you gasp.

He groans again, deeper now. “Fuck,” he whispers. “You smell so sweet.” He noses closer, “you’re so warm.”

You reach for him instinctively, fingers finding his hair and tangling tight, needing something to ground you.

His hand covers yours. Grounds you. And then he goes back in.

He’s slow at first—so goddamn slow. Open-mouthed kisses along your folds. His tongue traces the length of you, testing, learning. And then he starts using the tip, just barely flicking against your clit. Light and teasing.

You gasp and buck your hips slightly.

“Too much?” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak.

“No,” you whisper. “Not enough.”

He chuckles—a quiet, low sound that feels like a vibration against your skin when he presses his mouth back down.

You’re gasping now. Whining. Rolling your hips slowly because you can’t not. And he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t hold you down. He lets you grind against his tongue like it’s your god-given right.

“Tell me what you like,” you manage, breathless. “Want to make you feel good too.”

His voice is rough as gravel when he answers, tongue still moving. “You are. You are, baby.”

That baby breaks something in you.

You moan, hips stuttering. You don’t even realize you’ve said his name until he groans again—muffled by you. His hands tighten on your thighs now, pulling them farther apart, encouraging you to fall apart for him.

He moves his tongue in slow, practiced motions now. Flattened for pressure, then curling in. Every few passes, he closes his lips over your clit and sucks, gentle but deliberate.

You cry out—his name again. A broken, breathy plea.

He pulls back only to whisper, “Harder?”

You nod quickly, flushed and dizzy. “Yes. Please.”

He does. He listens. He adjusts. And it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.

You’re trembling, thighs shaking, whimpering now. Begging. And the worst part—the best part—is that he’s watching you.

His eyes are hooded, half-lidded, but focused on you—on your mouth falling open, on your hands clutching the sheets, on the way you’re coming apart beneath him. Because of him.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs between licks. “Taste so good. So fucking beautiful when you let go.”

You gasp. “Bucky—”

He wraps his arm under your thigh, anchoring you, and his other hand slides up—palm broad, warm—and rests on your belly, grounding you as you shudder.

“Can feel you trying so hard not to fall,” he whispers. “Don’t. Let me have it. Let me see what it looks like when you come just for me, baby.”

And that’s it.

The unraveling is sudden and slow all at once. It feels like falling into warmth, like drowning in light. You cry out for him. Your body bows. Your hands clutch his hair like lifelines. And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking, coaxing, worshipping you with his mouth as you break apart—again, and again, and again—until you’re shaking, until you’re sobbing his name into the dark and your thighs are twitching and he finally, finally pulls back, pressing soft kisses to your skin as you come down.

He rests his cheek against your thigh, breathing just as hard as you are.

And when you finally look down at him—flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen—he smiles up at you.

Like he’s the lucky one.

Your hands find his hair again as he starts to crawl back up your body, kissing along your hips, your belly, then higher—just under your ribs, then your breastbone. Not to arouse, not to tease, but to worship. To ground. To say I’m still here, I’m not going anywhere.

When he finally reaches your mouth again, you press into the kiss like it might keep your chest from cracking open. It’s slow and deep, tongue soft, lips gentle. He tastes like you.

Your thighs are still parted, and he settles between them without asking—not because he assumes, but because you guide him there with a quiet tug of your hands. You want him on you. You want to feel the weight of him, the heat of his skin on yours.

Both of you are naked now. Skin to skin, no space between. Your body still shudders a little when he grinds down against you—slow, testing, careful. You moan into his mouth before you can stop it.

“Sorry,” he whispers, pulling back slightly, eyes flicking down where your bodies are pressed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe. “You feel good.”

He groans softly at that, nose brushing yours. “You’re soaked.”

You bite your lip. “And you’re hard.”

He laughs, almost nervously. “Yeah. That tends to happen when someone beautiful lays me out and makes me see stars.”

Your smile is sleepy and crooked as you cradle his face. “Come here, Bucky.”

He kisses you again, slower now. You wind your arms around his neck, arching your chest to meet his, and he grinds again—this time more deliberately. His cock slides against your heat, dragging through slickness, and your mouth falls open on a soft gasp.

He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaky. “You keep doing that, I won’t last long.”

“You don’t have to last,” you whisper. “You just have to be here. With me.”

He exhales hard—like that cracks something in him.

You reach down between your bodies, slow and deliberate, and wrap your fingers around his cock. He jerks slightly in your hand, hips twitching, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes stay locked on yours as you guide him down, letting his tip drag through your slick folds.

You don’t line him up just yet.

Instead, you ask, quietly, “Do you want me to?”

He blinks.

You ask again, firmer this time. “Do you want me to put you inside? Want to feel me?”

His lips part. He breathes out your name, reverent. “God, yes.”

You smile then—soft and satisfied—and shift your hips just slightly, just enough.

He slides in.

You both shudder.

It’s slow. Torturously slow. His eyes flutter closed. Yours roll back. You gasp when he presses just an inch deeper.

He’s thick, hot, and so hard it makes your head spin.

You wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer, and he groans like he’s coming undone just from the feel of you.

His arms shake as he braces above you, but you take his hands, thread your fingers through his, and guide them up—above your head, pinning them gently to the mattress.

You don’t break eye contact.

He slides in another inch.

You cry out—quiet but unfiltered—and he stills immediately.

“You okay?” he rasps, throat tight.

You nod, breathless. “More.”

He does as you ask. Each inch is a surrender. Each press forward is a prayer. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple as he moves, holding you, grounding you, murmuring “so good,” and “so warm,” and “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

When he’s fully sheathed inside you, you both just breathe. You can feel him shaking. Holding still. Fighting for control. You kiss his throat, his chin, the corner of his mouth. Then you whisper against his skin—

“Move for me, baby.”

So, he starts to move.

It’s cautious at first, like he’s afraid to break something. Like the walls he’s carried for years might still crumble if he gives too much. But you squeeze his hands tighter where they’re laced above your head, and that’s all the permission he needs.

A slow, rolling thrust—deep, steady. Your breath catches. He does it again, just a little more. You moan softly, and his head drops to your shoulder like the sound broke him. “Jesus, sweetheart…”

You tilt your chin and whisper, “You feel so good. You’re perfect.”

His lips brush your neck. “Say it again.”

“You’re perfect.”

His hips jerk forward at that—sharp and helpless—and this time it’s him who groans against your skin, low and ragged. He pulls back, just enough to look at you. The blue of his eyes is darker now, heavy-lidded and heated.

“Is this…” His voice breaks. He tries again. “This angle okay?”

You nod, panting. “Feels amazing.”

He grinds deeper. “This?”

You gasp—too loud to be polite. “Yes.”

He presses a kiss under your ear. “Harder?”

Your fingers dig into his. “Yes.”

He pulls out, just enough to drive back in, harder now, and your body arches into him like it’s instinct. His name stutters out of your throat as the pace builds—still slow, still worshipful, but with more weight, more tension.

“Faster?” he whispers, mouth ghosting over your jaw.

“Mhmm.” You can’t find words anymore. Only the rhythm of your hips chasing his. The wet slide of your bodies. The heat curling low in your belly again.

“Deeper?”

That one makes you whimper. “Please.”

He obeys. He pulls back to his knees, still inside you, hands leaving yours to hook under your thighs, pressing your legs up—bent and spread, your knees tucked to your chest.

The angle of the mating press makes you cry out. You feel so full. So stretched. So utterly his.

“Oh my God,” you gasp.

Bucky moans like he’s in pain. “Fuck, baby—feels so good like this. Can feel all of you.”

You cling to him, one hand gripping his wrist, the other threading into his hair again as he finds a rhythm—slow, deep strokes that hit something devastating every time. Your whole body is trembling now. His is too.

He dips forward again, lips crashing into yours. It’s hungry now. Filthy and reverent all at once. His tongue tangles with yours and he groans into your mouth like it’s the only sound he remembers how to make.

When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t go far. He mouths down your jaw, your throat.

Then he sucks hard—just below your ear.

You gasp.

He pulls back, pleased, and rasps, “Mine.”

Your whole body clenches around him. His hips stutter and he chokes on a moan.

“Yours,” you whisper. “Always yours.”

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding the spot just above where you’re joined, circling—careful at first, then more confidently when your thighs shake in response.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod desperately. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop—!”

He kisses you again, wet and hot, and thrusts deeper, harder, dragging you closer to the edge.

And still, he keeps asking. “Like this?”

“Yes—God, yes!” 

“Want me to stay right here?”

“Yes—please—don’t stop—!”

“I won’t,” he groans. “I’ll give you everything. I swear.”

The sound of skin on skin, the slick slide of him, the intimacy of it—his body pressed to yours, his hands holding you open, the burn of that mark on your neck—it’s too much. Your body starts to spiral, tightening, every nerve pulling taut.

He sees it. Feels it. Groans deep in his chest. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Come on, baby girl. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You fall apart, gasping his name, your body arching beneath his like you’re being pulled under. Your orgasm crashes through you and doesn’t let up, wave after wave, as he keeps thrusting through it—dragging every last second out of your pleasure.

You barely register the way he’s shaking above you, losing rhythm.

His breath is ragged. His eyes are wild.

“Inside?” he manages. “Can I—? Please?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes—come inside me—want you to!”

He slams deep once more and cries out your name, loud and raw and undone. His body seizes. He throbs inside you, pouring into you, forehead dropping to yours as the world finally stills.

You lay there for a long time, breath tangled with his, arms wrapped around each other.

And when he finally moves—rolling just enough to hold you close—you feel his mouth at your temple. 

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to have you like this,” he whispers.

You pull his hand to your chest, right over your heart. 

“You always did.”

The room is quiet now, the air still humming with the weight of what just happened—what’s still happening, really.

You’re trembling, even in the stillness. Muscles twitching in your legs where he’s still nestled deep inside you, your bodies locked together in the fading rhythm of something neither of you can quite believe was real.

Bucky’s breathing slowly evens out. He drops soft kisses over your jaw, down your cheek, until his mouth hovers by your ear.

“You okay?”

You nod. Or try to. But your thighs are shaking, and your fingers are still curled in his hair, in his hand, like you’re afraid if you let go, the moment will dissolve.

He feels it.

Carefully, reverently, he presses one last kiss to your mouth and shifts, gently slipping out of you. You both gasp, stunned by the sudden loss of contact.

Then—his hands. Warm and calloused and so careful. One on your stomach, grounding you, the other slipping beneath your thighs.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coaxing your legs down from where he’d pinned them so high. “You’ve gotta be cramping up.”

You whimper softly as your hips try to move and he immediately hushes you, already sitting back on his heels.

“I got you,” he says again, as if it’s a promise he’s made a thousand times.

He lowers your legs with almost military precision, but there’s nothing cold about it—he’s so gentle it makes your eyes sting. Once you’re lying flat again, his thumbs start to rub slow, firm circles into your inner thighs, coaxing the ache out of every trembling muscle.

“Sorry,” he mutters, though he sounds more awed than regretful. “Didn’t mean to wreck you.”

You manage a breathless laugh, chest still rising and falling. “You did a little.”

His eyes flick up, pleased. “Yeah?”

You hum. “In the best way.”

He leans over and kisses your belly, right where your skin is flushed. Then another just above your hip. He massages there, too, working out knots you didn’t even realize had formed.

The warmth of his touch, the focus in his gaze, the way he’s still treating you like something precious even after getting everything you gave him—it nearly undoes you.

You reach down and lace your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he crawls back up the bed and settles beside you. You shift into him immediately—naked, tangled, unapologetic. Your leg draped over his, your chest to his chest, your fingers skating lazy circles on his sternum.

He grins at you then, soft and smug, eyes crinkling.

“You know,” he murmurs, “for someone who’s spent all this time treating me like I’d shatter if you breathed wrong, you sure had a lot of confidence tonight.”

You smirk, still playing with the soft hair on his chest. “I had good incentive.”

“Oh?” His brow quirks. “What changed?”

You blink at him, coy. “A certain blonde with her hands all over you.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Gonna have to send her a thank-you gift.” He drawls.

You roll your eyes and smack his chest. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, eyes glittering.

“Kidding.” He drops his voice. “But also… not.”

You press your face into his neck, unable to stop the smile curling against his skin. He’s so warm. He smells like you now, too—skin and sweat and something heavier, muskier, sweet.

“You’re smug,” you mumble.

He shrugs beneath you. “You’re in love with me.”

Your whole body stills. You shift your head just enough to look at him. “Bucky—”

“I know,” he says, his voice gentler now. “You just showed me. Every touch. Every kiss. Every time you asked me what I wanted. How I liked it. Every time you didn’t stop until I told you I wanted more.”

You feel your throat tighten.

He reaches up and cups your cheek. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

You turn into his touch, closing your eyes. Then you whisper it.

“I love you.”

His eyes flutter shut like it physically hits him. He exhales, slow and full. Then he pulls you tighter against his chest, tangling both arms around your back, one hand petting your hair while the other strokes your spine.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, voice thick and quiet. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Like I said. I didn’t know if you’d ever be brave enough to touch me like that. Didn’t know if I’d be brave enough to let you.”

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. He shifts, so you’re tucked fully into him, skin to skin, legs tangled, his chin resting atop your head.

He keeps rubbing circles into your back, and your fingers find the soft ends of his hair again.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

You feel his smile as his lips press to your temple.

The room is quiet again. The only sounds are the subtle rustle of sheets and the deepening rhythm of your breath syncing to his. You feel him drifting—and you let yourself drift too.

Wrapped in the man you love, nothing between you but skin and truth and the promises of everything still to come.

-

You’re warm before you’re awake.

The kind of warmth that isn’t just physical—though that’s there too. The blanket’s half-kicked off the bed. The late morning sun slants through the windows in lazy streaks. You’re wrapped in a cocoon of body heat and muscle, the air still holding the faint, spent scent of sweat and sex and skin. But there’s something else warming you, too.

The feel of him.

His chest beneath your cheek. His arms around your back. The steady thrum of his heart, slow and unbothered, beating against your temple. The scruff of his jaw grazing the top of your head when he shifts, snuffling in a deep inhale.

You blink your eyes open just a little, then immediately shut them again.

Nope.

You’re not ready for this part.

The after-after. The being-seen part. The sunlight and the nakedness and the full realization of just how thoroughly you climbed that man like a tree and left not a single inch of him unkissed. Your mouth aches in ways that have nothing to do with speech.

You feel a deep, steady breath against your scalp, followed by the familiar timbre of his voice—low and sleep-heavy and teasing.

“You’re awake.”

You groan. “No I’m not.”

He chuckles. It rumbles through his chest, under your cheek, and straight through you. His hand trails lazily along the curve of your back, fingertips skating your spine.

“Morning,” he murmurs, and then his lips brush your temple. Then your hairline. Then your cheek.

You tense and start to squirm. “Bucky, no—my mouth is gross. We are not kissing.”

He huffs, almost insulted. “You think I give a shit about your breath?”

You try to duck your face away, and he doesn’t let you. He holds your chin, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. You giggle, squeal, try to hide under the blanket. He follows.

“You had your tongue in my mouth last night,” he reminds you, amused.

“And other places,” you mumble, burying your face in the pillow.

His laugh is delighted now. “Exactly.”

You reach behind you and land a lazy smack on his hip, which only earns you a pleased grunt and the unmistakable feeling of him half-hard against your thigh.

You pause, then risk peeking at him.

Bucky’s watching you with the softest expression you’ve ever seen on his face. All fond affection and sleepy wonder, like you’re something he dreamed up and never thought he’d get to keep.

You blink, heart tight, suddenly shy. “What?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just traces your cheekbone with his knuckle. Then slowly lifts the edge of the blanket to peek underneath it at your bare body, the trail of hickeys running down your sternum, the soft slope of your stomach, the scratch marks you left along his ribs.

He grins.

You cover your face with your hands.

“I swear I didn’t mean to make you look like you lost a fight with a wild animal,” you mutter.

He grins wider, pries your hands away gently. “Oh no, sweetheart,” he says, voice smug. “That’s exactly what I’m telling everyone. ‘She came at me like a feral little thing. I barely made it out alive.’”

You groan. “You’re impossible.”

He shifts onto his back, flexing slightly—stretching like a cat, muscles pulling and flexing, and oh, God, yeah. You definitely did that. His shoulder has a full imprint of your teeth. His neck has your fingerprints. One of his thighs has a faint red mark from where your heel had braced.

He catches you looking and raises an eyebrow. “Admiring your work?”

“Mortified by it,” you correct.

“You’re not.” He rolls back toward you, reaching for your hip again, tugging you across the sheets until your bodies are lined up. “You’re proud of it.”

You don’t answer—just nestle into his chest, cheeks burning.

He brushes a hand through your hair. “I am.”

You pause. “Proud?”

“Yeah.” He nods, then kisses your forehead. “Marked up by you? You think I’m gonna complain that the woman I’m in love with made me feel that good?”

You blink slowly, breath catching in your throat.

He sees it, reads the hesitation, and softens further. “I meant it last night,” he says gently. “I love you. You don’t have to be scared of that.”

“I’m not scared,” you whisper, voice small. “I’m just…”

You trail off, but he nods.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

There’s a silence. It’s comfortable, easy. But full, too—like there’s still more to say. You settle back into his arms and let the sunlight soak into your skin.

After a while, your fingers start to wander again—brushing along his stomach, the edges of the marks you left. You glance down. Trace one gently with your fingertip.

He watches you. Then his hand comes up to your jaw and turns your face toward his.

He kisses you. Slowly. Softly. Morning breath be damned. It’s warm and lazy and perfect. The kind of kiss that means stay. The kind that says I’m not going anywhere.

When it ends, you rest your forehead against his.

“We have to get up eventually,” you murmur.

He hums. “Eventually.”

But neither of you move.

Because why would you?

You have everything you want. Right here. In your arms. Covered in your marks.

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

I freaking love a OTT Bucky.

Title: Top of his list

Summary: Your mafia boyfriend has a few priorities in his life and you’re number one.

Pairing Mafia Bucky x reader

Warnings: Canon level violence, fluff, protective boyfriend

Word count drabble

A/n written on my phone. Do not copy, rewrite, translate or repost my work.

****

Bucky believes there are only a few things and people in his life worth protecting. 

And you are at the top of his list.

His life changed when he met you. So used to violence and death that accompanied his work, he was unprepared for the light, love and softness you would bring in his world. 

Before you he was convinced he would spend the rest of his life with women who only cared about his wealth, status or reputation. An endless array of meaningless dalliances that were only going for passing the time until the next encounter.

Bucky is an intelligent man, and he recognizes treasure unlike your ex boyfriend. 

Things were going well, you were happy and in turn he was happy. 

Until your ex tried to come back in your life.

Bucky suspected something had happened in your past relationship, you were too hesitant with him at first. He swore you sometimes flinched if someone was too loud or moved too quickly towards you. 

He kept his observations private, sharing them with his most trusted men. Ordering them to be mindful-careful- around you. The unspoken threats he made more terrifying than his spoken ones. He changed his own brash behavior to make you feel more at ease around him.

He made sure you knew your worth, telling you every day how much he loved you. Showing you through his actions. Showering you in affection, attention and gifts.

And you blossomed. No longer shy, nervous or afraid.

He had never been more proud.

No other accomplishment compared to when you fully trusted him and gave him your heart.

Keep reading

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Whatever It Takes

Summary: Bucky is willing to do whatever it takes to get you back. “But I know what I want, and I’ll do anything to get you back. You want me to beg, I’ll beg, you want me down on my knees, I’ll get down on my knees”

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Smut, implied violence, bad dates, overstimulation, choking kink, praise kink, fingering, mirror sex. Exes to lovers.

A/N: Sinday drabble #1. Beta’d by the wonderful @cwbucky and @lunarbuck. Line dividers by @maysdigitalarts

This is, without a doubt, the worst date you’ve been on. The restaurant itself is stunning, the romantic family-owned spot is only a few miles from your home, and you’ve been dying for a chance to eat here again.

The waiter, Peter, has been fantastic. You can’t remember the last time you’ve had such delicious, decadent food, you’re amazed to see the menu has all your favorite foods. The music coming from the live band is phenomenal, you almost want to join the other couples on the dance floor.

Almost.

Everything should be perfect, your first date at your dream restaurant. It would be if you weren’t sitting across from the most obnoxious, self-centered man you’ve ever met. Lance.

You should have known when he walked in ahead of you, leaving you to pay for the cab he used to pick you up. Then he was short with the hostess, and the way he’s been treating poor Peter is embarrassing. You’ve already made a mental note to leave him a huge tip as an apology.

Keep reading

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Omfg I’m so ready for this!!!!

A little preview of my next big project~

The interior of the palace was just as ridiculously lavish as the outside. Thalassa led Una through wide, twisting corridors decorated in every shade of blue imaginable. She had barely any time to digest what she was looking at, before something else caught her eye instead. Beautiful cobalt satin hung from the ceilings, billowing in the light breeze. At one point, they passed through a hallway with statues of tall, slender insect fae - each wearing their own variation of a crown.

"The Nectarium's past kings," Thalassa said, as if sensing Una's unasked questions. "Someday, King Heracles will have his own statue too."

Una felt a flash of disappointment that she quickly stifled. She still had no clue as to what King Heracles was like; not even a glimpse of what he looked like. 

She realised, as Thalassa came to a stop outside of an enormous pair of double doors, that she was about to find out.

The two fae standing guard wore identical armour to Thalassa, except theirs was a deep navy rather than the bright gold and royal blue Thalassa wore. They nodded and stepped aside; allowing the doors to sweep open and reveal a beautiful throne room.

More of those billowing drapes hung from every available surface - the ceilings and the walls, clinging to the staircase that led to the throne. They fell in such a way that led straight to the throne itself, which sat on a raised platform lined by miniature blossom trees.

Sitting on the throne, adorned in heavy armour, was the tallest man that Una had ever seen. Thalassa and the other guards that Una had seen had all been slender despite their armour, poised with a kind of ethereal elegance in ever movement; but King Heracles was big and bulky, with enormous shoulders and a thick, stocky waist. The spiralling horns jutting from his forehead made him look even more huge, and it was impossible to know his true height.

"Your Majesty," Thalassa spoke as she strode forward, nudging Una forwards too. "I have brought your bride. Una Cailbhin, I believe her name is."

King Heracles rose from his throne; and as Una came to stop at the bottom of the raised platform, she saw him fully for the first time. Pitch black hair tumbled over his shoulders in thick waves, some sections pinned back with clasps that looked like tiny wings. He didn't have a crown like the kings in the hall of statues, but rather slender, delicate gold jewellery draped across his horns. It was joined to a circlet around his head, resting just below those horns.

"Lady Una," he said, and his voice echoed throughout the otherwise silent throne room. "I hope your journey wasn't too difficult. It can be... uncomfortable to travel by portal for the first time."

Una parted her lips to speak, but her mouth was dry and the words wouldn't come. King Heracles was nothing like the willowy, effortlessly beautiful fae she had come to expect from the stories - or even from what she had seen of Thalassa and the others. He was hefty and rugged, but there was a softness to his expression that made her shiver.

If she had no choice but to be wed, she decided, there were worse choices in the world.

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Totally wanting more of this story please.

Werefox (Harcourt) x human female reader ~ part 1

You're twelve when you hear your mother yelling outside.

"Get out!"

You scamper into the backyard to see her shooing the scrawniest werefox you've ever seen away from the chicken coop. He's got egg yolk clinging to his chin. His sunset orange ears are pinned to his head as he deftly dodges your mother's flailing dishcloth and leaps over the fence, disappearing into the brush.

"But Ma!" You wail, "he's cute and hungry!"

"Such creatures are a pestilence. Besides, dear, you can't keep him as a pet. He'll grow just as big as you, and he's no true animal."

You pout for the rest of the week, but she doesn't budge, like any sensible mother. The little werefox had a den nearby, you figure, so you set out to find it, taking two eggs from the coop. His den isn't hard to find. You've seen fox dens before he looks like he hasn't learned how to create a proper and safe den. As you step on the crunchy leaves surrounding his home, his head pops out of his den like a jack-in-the-box and he stares at you.

"Hello," you say, tromping forward without much thought to your safety. "I brought you eggs!"

He cocks his head to the side. You put the eggs on a leaf close to him and watch him snap them up, crunching on the shells and licking his lips.

"Can you speak?" You ask him next.

He watched you silently, ears swiveling. You glimpse a worn, scruffy collar around his neck and reach out to hold the tag. He squirms and shivers, but lets you have a look.

"Harcourt? That's such a fancy name," you laugh.

"I was a circus pet," he blurts out, eyes widening like he can't believe he just spoke. "I-I ran away!"

"Well, nice to meet you," you say and give him a big hug, breathing in the dusty scent of his fur. "We're going to be best friends!"

So, that's how you made your unlikely friend. Nine years later, he's still runty and lanky, although he's almost as tall as you if he stands. You're still very good friends, even if he is a stubborn little shit and refuses to leave his den most of the time.

"I'm going to stop bringing you food," you tease one hazy afternoon as you watch him scarf down the ham and cheese sandwich you brought him.

"Then I'll steal your eggs," he says, licking his muzzle and then licking the taste of ham from your fingers, his sharp teeth nipping lightly at your skin.

"You already do that. You're lucky the hens are laying a surplus, otherwise, my mother would notice."

"I trade for the eggs though," he protests.

"The baskets of fruit that appear on our doorstep? I'm pretty sure you steal from the neighbor's orchard," you snicker.

He narrows his golden eyes at you and huffs.

"Never mind me, stolen fruit tastes sweeter." You tuck up your skirts and get on your hands and knees and crawl into his den uninvited, because you know he won't mind. "Oh, you enlarged it! And you took my advice and got some bedding- is that my spare quilt?!"

"Stop fussing already," he grumbles, squeezing in after you. "You don't need it. It gets cold out here."

"But you could have asked. Wait a second... No wonder I couldn't find these panties. You took these two!"

You burst into laughter and nudge him playfully with your foot. "You didn't even try to hide them. Shameless."

"You're not mad?" Harcourt curls up in a ball and tucks his nose into his tail, peering at you.

"No, but why did you take them?"

"They smelled good and they make me feel funny."

You slap a hand over your face. "Oh my god, it's almost like you grew up in the wild by yourself... Oh right, you did."

"What? Did I say something wrong?" He asks, perking his head up.

"Er, so what do you do with my panties? Just drape them over your nose and go to sleep?"

"First I chew on them."

"So I can see," you raise your eyebrows at the holes in your undergarments and drop them on the ground.

"I think there's something you're not telling me," Harcourt says.

"Definitely. You'll figure it out when your first mating season comes around," you reply and lie back against the quilt, staring up at the dirt ceiling.

A couple of roots are bared to the gaze. You learned long ago that it was best to keep your eyes closed in his den, otherwise, you'd get dirt in your eyes. You close your eyes now and Harcourt scoots closer, plopping his head on your stomach. You run your fingers through his fur, which is always silky now thanks to the brush you gifted him.

"Do humans have a mating season too?" He asks.

"Not really. But we are expected to pair off with another human and have babies. My mom has been talking about it since I turned eighteen. She's worried that I'm getting too old."

"Are you?" Harcourt sniffs. "You smell young to me."

"I have no idea what you mean, silly. I'm only twenty-one and I think there's plenty of time yet. I don't fancy any of the men in town because they're forceful with what they want. At this point, I need a stick to beat them off with."

"I can guard you," Harcourt offers.

"Oh no, don't do that. If you think my mother is bad, then you're not prepared for the men in town. Some of them might try to shoot you."

"Hmmm, it's why I stay away from humans," Harcourt murmurs sleepily. "They all want to shoot me or cage me up."

"A pity," you murmur back.

You end up dozing off with your hand still in his fur. Harcourt sleeps like he's still a kit, draping his body over you, then curling up at your side, and then nuzzling into his tail, constantly moving. You think nothing of it until you're completely woken up by his tongue rasping over your skin.

"Oi, I took a bath this week. I don't need another one," you grumble sleepily.

He purrs deep in his throat and licks your arm again, his body caged around you like he's a motherly cat.

"Hey," you cry in proper protest as he moves on to your hair. "Stop it."

"You always smell so nice," he purrs. "You smell nicer than your panties."

You huff out a laugh. "You're clueless, you overgrown fox-child. Release me, if I don't head home now, my mother will send someone to find me."

"Fine," he grumbles. "Don't take so long to visit next time."

"I won't," you promise as you scramble out of his den, shaking leaves and dirt out of your hair and clothes.

You look frightfully dirty and sneak back to your house and up the stairs to change before your mother catches you. For the next few days, you're incredibly busy. The harvest is in and all your time is spent preserving, canning, salting, drying, and pickling. You leave a few gifts tucked in a secret corner of the coop for Harcourt. The nights are becoming warm and the crickets sing. You wonder when the mating season begins for foxes, and when you'll see any more of them.

You know they're there, but they just don't live so close to human towns. In that way, Harcourt is a bit of an anomaly.

The next morning, you're taking in the morning eggs when you notice something strange. The chickens are milling around their coop, staring at something underneath. You crouch down to have a look and come face to face with a slender female werefox. She's crammed into the tiny space, which doesn't look very comfortable.

"Hi," you say. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know," she replies, and with a grunt of effort, she crawls out. "I was hiding from a male. I did not want to mate with him and he chased me all the way here. He did not dare to come close to the house so I have been hiding here until he goes away."

She lifts her muzzle and sniffs the air. "He is gone now," she says in satisfaction.

Her golden eyes fall on you and she says,

"I do not scare you, human?"

"No, I have a werefox friend who lives nearby."

"Yes, the lonely one. I have scented him around your house," she says. "He must like you to guard your property like this."

"I guess," you smile and glance back at your house. "I can't promise my mother will be happy to see you here, though."

"I need a place to sleep and a reliable male to den with. This fox friend of yours, he is good?" She asks.

"I would say so, yes."

"Then take me to him," she says, placing the soft pads of her paws against your arm and squeezing. "I would rather choose a male than be forced to pick one."

"I understand how you feel. Let me put the eggs away, then I'll join you."

Together you take the secluded path through the forest. Your new werefox acquaintance flits around you like a butterfly, listening for danger and cocking her head to the sound of rabbits or squirrels. You've never seen a female werefox before and you can't help looking at her breasts. The six of them are much more obvious than they would be on a male werefox, with rosy pronounced nipples like she's already had a litter or two.

When you get close to Harcourt's den, she bumps into you and stops you with a paw on your arm.

"Be aware he is in a rut," she says. "He may bite us and chase us."

"This is his first one," you say. "Does that make it any better?"

"No," she said. "He might not even realize who you are. He will want to mate with you."

"But that's what you're here for," you say quickly. "Let me look at him."

"I will wait." She grabs your cheeks and holds your face still, rubbing her muzzle against your neck and giving you a little lick. "I cannot promise what he will do to you when he scents me on your skin," she says. "Be cautious."

You trudge towards the den and stop a few feet away from the entrance.

"Harcourt?" You call out.

The growl you receive in response is immediate and none too friendly.

"Someone is in a mood," you mumble.

You crouch and crawl into the den, praying he doesn't bite your face off. Harcourt is curled up in an aggravated ball, his nose pushed into his fluffy tail for comfort. He glares at you.

"Are you okay?" You ask, looking him over.

He looks scrawnier than usual like he hasn't been hunting.

"No," he growls. "You didn't come and visit me."

"I'm sorry, there's been so much work to do in the house that I couldn't find any time to steal away," you sigh. "You didn't come for any of the gifts I left you."

"I can't. I'm miserable," Harcourt huffs. "I'm hot all over and I'm leaking everywhere and I've wanted to bite you and do things I cannot fathom. I was afraid I'd hurt you."

"Oh," you smile. "You're precious."

"I don't know what is happening to me!" He snaps, his ears pinning back. "And I ask that you leave me be until I am myself again."

"I can't do that," you say. "If you don't get any help you're going to be like this for a long time."

Harcourt blinks and uncurls his slender body, tail whisking against the quilt.

"You mean, it's never going away?"

He looks mournfully down at himself, at his pink cock that has poked out of its sheath and rubs against his belly, plastering the fur there with precum.

"No," he whispers. "But I can't stay like this! I can't sleep, I can't hunt, I can't even groom myself properly because it hurts."

He turns to look at you with dilated pupils. "You have to help me," he whimpers.

Before you can answer, the female werefox crawls into the den, and Harcourt freaks out, hissing and ducking behind you.

"Woah, calm down, she's with me," you say.

"I come in peace, little one," she says. "You're much younger than I thought you would be. Inexperienced. My name is Nitaki."

She looks around the den and wrinkles her muzzle.

"Get out of my den," Harcourt huffs. "Leave me alone."

She crawls forward, brushing her muzzle against your cheek. "The human is a friend to you?" She hums.

"She's mine," he snaps.

"Um," you begin, but neither of them pays attention to you as they face each other with wrinkled noses and bared teeth.

Nitaki stares him down imperiously until he gives up and looks away with a whimper. Whining your name, he attempts to scoot back to your side, but she blocks him off.

"I want only one thing from you. To end this cycle of heat."

"I-I don't know how," Harcourt says anxiously, nostrils flaring as he takes in the cacophony of scents from both females, so different and yet so alike.

It makes him disoriented and dizzy.

"I will teach you," she says, prowling closer.

He leans away, even snapping when she gets too close. Frustrated at his rejection, she spins around and locks her eyes on you.

"It is your human female you truly want, is it not?"

Harcourt's pupils widen more than you had thought they could. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his sides heave.

"Yes..." He says.

"Um, that's not-" You begin, but Nitaki flicks her ears and holds out a paw to you.

"Join us," she urges. "And we can all get what we want."

"But I..."

"Please?" Harcourt says, his claws digging into the quilt as his cock throbs against his belly. "I want you."

You're still hesitating when Nitaki pounces on Harcourt, knocking him onto his back. He growls and tries to push her off. But the Nitaki is stronger than him, a true alpha female. She keeps him down and ignores his squirming, leaning down and placing her teeth around his neck. He goes still immediately and his eyes roll wildly as he whimpers.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"I want him to submit to me," she mumbles against his fur. "I do not have patience for teaching."

Once she's satisfied that Harcourt is subdued, she rolls off of him and gets on her hands and knees, displaying herself for him. Perhaps her pheromones finally penetrate his dumb skull or he finally realizes what he's meant to do. Either way, he crawls up to her, sniffing the air. He growls and bares his teeth, fumbling at her hips. She flicks her tail out of the way and shuffles her knees open wider, waiting.

You can see how wet she is.

"Human, help him," Nitaki commands. "Are we shall be here for the rest of the day."

Silently, you move over. Harcourt jumps a mile when you take his cock in your hand. It's different from a man's, pink and slippery and with a slightly flared head. It looks huge, throbbing menacingly in your palm. Harcourt whimpers, and his body trembles. You guide him to the female werewolf and feel her lubrication wet your fingers as you press him in.

It doesn't go exactly as you had imagined. Nitaki is content to drive her hips against him and does most of the work while he shivers and clutches her hips. When he cums, it startles him most of all. He tries to pull out, but she grabs his paws and pulls him against her back, unrelenting. He gives up and leans heavily against her, panting.

Finally, she pulls away and shakes herself off. Harcourt slumps onto the quilt, dazed. His cock is still throbbing and leaking cum lazily.

"Good luck with your little runt," Nitaki says to you. "I have what I needed."

With that, she scrambles out of the den and leaves the two of you to your own devices.

"Harcourt? Are you okay?" You lean over him.

His eyes open and he grunts. "I want to do it again," he says. "But with you this time."

─────────────── · · · · ✦

So stressed right now, ngl. Reblog/like if you want me to write part two of this crazy shit!

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Pure genius. I only wish Steve walked in on them lol.

Hands Off: Bucky x Reader (AU)

Summary: You’re Steve’s cousin and he has some rules when it comes to you that Bucky isn’t a fan of. Mainly, that he can’t have you.

Part 2 

Words: 1517

Notes: cursing. Wrote really fast. hope it’s ok. Comments are always appreciated. 

Hands Off

“Stay away from her!”

Steve had said a lot of other things in that little speech of his, but Bucky only remembered the part he liked the least.

“Stay away from her! Don’t hit on her!”

Keep reading

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Amazing! Loved every word and can’t wait to see what happens next. Kudos.

Title: Take cover

Pairing: Winter soldier/Bucky barnes x reader

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

WARNING - The following fic contains: dark themes, stalking, obsessive/protective behavior from Bucky, Bucky is semi delusional/mentally unstable, fluff (in the end), reader is a bit naive, post-CATWS, Bucky on the run, fluff.

Summary: you discover someone has been watching you, - but like a guardian angel or a viscous stalker? You’re about to find out.

“I know what you’re doing.” You called out to the man hiding in the shadows. “Leave me the hell alone.”

For weeks you had noticed something off with your daily routine. You felt watched, - like someone had their eyes following your every movement as you went about your days.

It was about a week in where you caught a man walking the same route as yours a distance behind you. It wasn’t the first time you had been followed, - in fact you could have sworn you were followed by three men a while back but they disappeared after a second glance. This guy was someone else entirely though.

You had never seen him before, and while it could have been merely a coincidence that he was taking the same routes you take on a daily, that reassurance was quickly crossed out when you started to test him, - to see if while you stood still he’d walk right past. But he never did. When you stopped or slowed your tempo, so did he. When you walked a different route, so did he.

It was beyond creepy, and it didn’t help that he was dressed basic with his cap hiding his face and a brown jacket. Only thing that made him different from other men was his longer dark brown hair and his taller figure. Not many men in town were quite as tall as him, which made you feel even more threatened.

As you became more aware of him, you stopped taking afternoon strolls and tried your best to be in crowds to feel safer. It didn’t work much as he never seemed to loose track of you though. Walking into your favorite cafe didn’t stop him from waiting around the area to continue his stalking as soon as you got out. You didn’t think he could have a job with how much time he was occupying following you from work to back home.

You thought of going to the police, but in this town in particular there was little to no such luck of getting actual help from the police, let alone a stalker case where the guy in question could argue he’s just walking around by his right to do so. So, it left you with two options; either hope for the best of not getting murdered (or worse) by your stalker or confront him.

The 5th week was your last straw, and you decided to go with the confrontation as you were standing outside of your apartment, eying directly at the man who had done nothing but walk after you.

The man was stunned when he heard you, not leaving his spot, - as if he couldn’t believe he was caught. When your eyes at him told otherwise, he left the corner of the next block building, slowly walking towards you.

He mumbled, “I’m sorry, I was just…”

“Stop following me or I’ll call the police.” You interrupted with a harsher tone.

This seemed to make the man agitated, and he reached out his hands in surrender. “No, please! Don’t! I have a perfect explanation for it all. Hear me out, - I won’t get any closer to you.” He offers reassurance, not making you any less scared but he sounded convincing enough to give him a chance of explaining himself.

First thought that came to mind was he could possibly be working for secret service, or something like that. Crimes had been on the rise in this part of town, and there had been rumors of FBI lurking around to check after illegal activity. But what could you have possibly done to make yourself seem suspicious?

“I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you think. I promise, I would never. The reason why I’ve been following you all this time is to protect you, Y/N.”

How does he know my name? You had to wonder. “Protect me?” You repeated his answer in question. “What’s that supposed to mean? From what? Who are you?” You added questions, emphasizing the last one.

The man swallows before he answers, “My name is James but friends in my past used to call me Bucky, - I think. And I’m protecting you cause…there are a lot of terrible people around than you realize. People who would want to hurt you. I knew the moment I saw you that I was meant to protect you from those people.”

He thinks his name is that of what he told? Trying to protect me from terrible people? His answers confused you even more. He must be on something, and it freaked you out knowing you were dealing with a crazy person. “Y-You should seek medical attention. I don’t think you’re in your right state of mind -!”

“You don’t understand!” He interrupted you and broke out. “You’re the only thing, - person, who brings consistency to my life. Me using hours and nights looking after you, to make sure you leave for work and come home safe gives me a purpose. I… - I have nothing left to live for.”

Your lips fall a little, sad as you had only heard those lines in fiction used typically of that one hopeless character clinging to the last branch of hope before it all falls for them. Why did you have to be so sympathetic? You had no idea who this man was. One thing for sure, he was a fucking stalker.

You should call the police as you speak, but you don’t want to.

Why didn’t you want to? Why weren’t you running into your apartment and locking the front door? Why did you want to get a closer look at him?

“Sir, I…”

“Call me Bucky. Please.”

“Bucky, listen…I don’t know your life story, but this isn’t healthy. This is obsessive. We don’t even - you don’t even know me!”

“I know enough to like you.” He argued. “I know you like animals, - you sometimes trail off from your main path home over to the park to watch the dogs play there. You order any sweets at the cafe but only if there’s strawberry or vanilla in it, - strawberry milkshake, vanilla shortcake, - you name it. I know you’re a good person, always opening the door for the elderly by the library and voluntarily help stack books by the shelves. I have caught you smiling when you read romance novels. Those seem to be your favorite genre. You live alone, no siblings or parents in the picture that I know of. You’ve always been…alone, for as long as I’ve been watching after you. That makes the two of us in a sense.”

Why did he have to call you out like that? Sure, it was nothing but the truth. You didn’t have people you could call friends at work, and you had long ago lost contact with your friends from college. Also, you did in fact have no siblings but you did have parents - you just weren’t on speaking terms at the moment.

You were alone as one could possibly be.

You didn’t know what you could add to what he had said as it was mostly true, but you didn’t need to as Bucky continued, “First time I laid my eyes on you…three men walked behind you in that lonesome street in the evening. I know you saw them cause you turned around once. They had knives in their pockets, and one of them had a rope. I was only a small distance away when I heard them say ‘let’s get her’. So, as you made the corner, I beat them up, one by one. Because like I said, I wouldn’t want anyone to hurt you. You don’t deserve that at all. You deserve to be safe. That is why it’s you. It may sound dumb but I believe it was fate. I feel at peace when I know you’re okay, and I can’t remember the last time I felt that. He doesn’t allow peace in my mind, but he seems to make you an exception.”

You’re simply taken away by what you had been told. So your gut instincts were right, - you were followed then too, except apparently they hadn’t just disappeared. Your stalker took care of them.

Bucky let you process in silence till you started to get closer to him as you asked him all of a sudden, “Are you armed?”

“No…- well, I do have this…” Bucky reveals as he removes his jacket carefully, showing the metal arm he has forcibly attached to him. Your mouth parts a little, your eyes widening at the sight before you turn to look at the ground.

“You don’t have a place to stay?” You ask.

He shook his head with a sigh. “No. But I’m used to it.”

You look up again, offering the unexpected, “Come. I have an extra mattress in my apartment. You can use that while we figure out your situation.”

Bucky looked up at you in awe, beyond shocked of what you had just suggested. If it wasn’t dead quiet at this time of hour, he would have assumed he heard you wrong. “But why? I thought you said that…”

“I have heard of you, you know. That metal arm of yours with the red star…you have been around for quite some time, yet you haven’t aged. My uncle who worked for the military knew about you as he was a witness at the Hotel Inessa where an assassin with a metal arm just like yours committed a massacre. Ever since that day he used the next years connecting the dots to previous cases, and he told me all about it once. That was before…he got taken out within the base. No one knew for what particular reason but I always knew. And what do I know, he was right. You’re real. You’re the winter soldier.” You conclude, putting Bucky on the spot as he realized just how small the world was.

The odds of someone outside of government officials knowing of his past was unlikely, yet here he was, the one person he found purpose with knew about it. He didn’t like it. She must think I’m a monster, - rightfully so, he thought. “I don’t know what to say…I-“

“You didn’t kill him.” You cut him off, “Person of interest was described to have two human arms. He was presumably a Russian spy within the base and took it upon himself to take out my uncle before more came out about what he knew.”

He shrugs, “Still…it doesn’t make sense why you would allow me into your home, - now knowing what I’ve done, what I was controlled to do. It was still me. So again I ask…why?”

“Because, I need answers,” you reasoned. “And knowing what I’ve learned about you, you would have taken me out a long time ago if you had plans to do so. And it’s clear to me that you’re a bit out of it but from what I understand, seeking psychiatrical help is out of the question for you. So let’s help each other. You’ve been in hiding, right?”

Bucky nodded again, “They’re still after me, you know. I can’t drag you into my mess.”

“Well, you have been good at hiding so far, and if something happens you’ll protect me, right? Like you’ve done all this time.” You remind him.

He smiled shyly as he let out a quiet ‘yeah’. He was sure he would keep doing that with his life.

With that, you let him into your place, not aware that this was only the beginning of a heartfelt relationship with the ex-winter soldier himself, - one that would bond the two of you for eternity.

N/A: I know this was short but there might be a part two for this if I’m feeling up for it! Let me know what you liked and if you’d like a next part.

Hearts & Reblogs are very appreciated! Thank you!

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Omfg this kid! I love Jordan and Bucky together. The apple juice and whiskey swishing had me cackling

Catch Me If You Can 2

Mob!Bucky x single mom police officer

I am so happy you all loved these two so here is more from this AU. I had the story half in mind but wasn’t sure if people would feel it, once again, LMK if you want more! 

Warnings: fluffffff, single mom reader, crappy ex, Mob Bucky is a whole ass warning 

-

You woke up to the smell of fresh coffee, sun pouring in the giant room, your body still aching from the night before but the peaceful rest proved to be helpful. You smiled at the steaming cup that sat by your bedside table, picking up the hand drawn card that was placed beside it; giant heart coloured red was in the middle with the words Get Well Soon decorated in bold letters. You grinned, opening the card to read your sons hand writing. 

Dear mommy,

Get well soon. Uncle Bucky says he took good care of you and that you’ll arrest him once you’re all better. He bought me a kinder egg. He seems nice. Maybe give him a running head start. 

Love and kisses and cuddles,

Jordan 

PS: Can we stay a little longer? Peter is still trying to beat me in Mario Kart

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[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Counting my pennies presently to see if I can afford one of these spots. This author does amazing work.

A little redo of my commissions. Now available via Ko-fi too! 

If interested, please PM me or check out my Ko-fi here! 

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Why do I love him so much?

Mistake

Pairing. Dark Bucky Barnes x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Rule number one in your relation - never try to leave Bucky.

WARNINGS: Violence; Toxic Relationship. 

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

--

His metal fingers squeeze hard against your throat, his hold unwavering even with your nails weakly clawing at him. Your eyes roll, your body desperate for air. 

Bucky clicks his tongue, faking a pout. 

“Aw, my baby can’t breathe?” he mocks you, but you can’t bring yourself to care about his tone. Not when your lungs are painfully burning, strength leaving your body at an alarming pace.

“Maybe you should have thought about that before trying to rat out on me, babe. I don’t appreciate my girl being sneaky around my back.” he growls, all hints of mockery now gone.

His grip tightens and you cough, the lack of air hitting cryptic levels as you start to hyperventilate. 

Bucky reaches closer, nuzzling your nose with his in an almost endearing gesture, one that contrasts with the evil position he has you in. 

“Never again, okay? You’re not pulling that type of shit ever again, understood?” his voice is dead serious, ignoring how you struggle. You can barely say a word but Bucky somehow understands your submission, finally releasing you.

You fall on the ground with your body completely limp, your throat burning as precious air finally fills it. 

“You better not repeat this again.” he orders, darkness looming over his face as he looks at you. 

“Cause next time, you won’t get off the hook so easily.”   

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Is there such a thing as wholesome smut? I’m pretty sure this author just wrote it.

Some Alpha: Part 8

Fandom: Marvel (ABO AU)

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky is an Alpha, but can never seem to find someone who wants him to be their Alpha. Until he finds you, a Beta, who’s as firey as an Alpha, yet also tender-hearted like an Omega.

Warning: smut - fingering

A/N: slowly and surely. we’re getting close to the mating chapter!!!

Bucky couldn’t make it to your class today. He was called in for work early to supervise some trial runs. Despite you being so understanding and supportive of Bucky, he still felt like he was failing you. Even though you had a smile on his face and made him promise to come by after he gets off of work, he still couldn’t help that he was disappointing you, and he hated that. 

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[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Oh no! I don’t want him to lose his softness.

Some Alpha: Part 4

Fandom: Marvel (ABO AU)

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky is an Alpha, but can never seem to find someone who wants him to be their Alpha. Until he finds you, a Beta, who’s as firey as an Alpha, yet also tender-hearted like an Omega.

A/N: Yes, THE Lance Tucker.

Bucky didn’t like that you were on your suppressants again. He loved the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and vanilla coming off you. But he also knew that you needed it for your safety, which is top priority above all else. Fuck whatever he wants. He just wants you safe. But occasionally, he’ll get a real whiff of you and it’ll just render him speechless and frozen. 

“Bucky? Helloooo?” you’re waving your hand in front of his face.

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[kamaria-sweet-writes]

These two are adorable!

Some Alpha: Part 3

Fandom: Marvel (ABO AU)

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky is an Alpha, but can never seem to find someone who wants him to be their Alpha. Until he finds you, a Beta, who’s as firey as an Alpha, yet also tender-hearted like an Omega.

warning: smut under cut

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[kamaria-sweet-writes]

You have me on the edge of my seat with this one. Kudos.

Heal - I

Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader (female)

MASTERLIST

🦅 Summary: As a nightmare doesn’t ease up, you have no choice but to take the plunge and try to wake Bucky.

Warnings: Descriptions of sexual assault, violence, forced knotting and claiming/marking, trauma, bond breaking, angst, injured reader, near death experience, lots of emotions, smut

Word count: 1,725

You were well accustomed to Bucky's screams in the night. Although they were a regular occurrence, they still made your bones shiver and forced you to clamp your hands over your ears to try and block them out. You usually held your breath until you heard Steve barge into his room to calm him down, but you still found yourself sleepless in the hours remaining until dawn.

Part of you wanted to run for the hills. Part of you wanted to slide into his bed and wrap your arms around him, pulling him against your chest and whisper sweet nothings into his messy hair. That part was bigger, but it was also more terrifying. Because even though every part of your anatomy gagged for the only alpha you had only truly wanted, you were also shit scared of him. Not of the Winter Solider, which most people were, but of him. Of Bucky. Of the rejection you'd know you'd have to face if he knew how you felt. Because even though you knew he wasn't actually your alpha, and you knew he would never be interested, you weren't sure you could survive actually hearing him say it. Which was the reason why you kept your distance and protected your sanity.

But tonight was different. Steve was on a mission, accompanied by Sam, Natasha and Tony. That meant only you and Bucky were sleeping on your floor of the compound, with Bruce and Clint a level below and Thor away in Asgard. So when those petrifying sounds ricocheted through your skull, you knew you were the only one to hear them. Which meant you had no choice. You had to go to him.

Your legs were trembling beneath you as you inched towards your bedroom door, opening it as quietly as possible and shuffling through without lifting your socked feet off the floor. Your chest felt like it was about to explode as your heart boomed with such ferocity and you had to keep reminding yourself to breathe as you fumbled your way towards his room. You chewed on your lip as you rested a hand on the doorknob, bracing yourself what you might be about to enter into. You knew that sometimes Bruce had to come and sedate him, and there were even times when both Steve and Bucky had emerged the next morning with busted up faces from having a physical fight. Sure, you were a well trained agent who never usually shied away from a fight, but this was different. You knew you'd never be able to hurt Bucky, even if he was the Winter Solider. Put in that situation, in the situation you were in now, you were just a vulnerable omega who couldn't even stand her own ground.

Another shrieking cry jolted you out of your thoughts and you whimpered involuntarily. This was not the cry of a violent man, but that of someone in extreme pain. Without hesitation, you flung the door open and ran in, taking barely a second to survey the layout of the foreign room before you were at the beside. Bucky was still asleep, his eyes screwed shut as he grimaced and panted. Sweat coated his forehead, his hair sticking to it as well as the pillow that had started to slide up against the headboard as he tossed and turned.

"Bucky-" you could barely hear yourself over the sound of the blood coursing through your veins, which meant he certainly hadn't. You cleared your throat, barely trusting yourself to try again, before speaking up. "Bucky!" This time you leant forward, shaking his damp shoulders to try and bring him back to reality. "Bucky its okay, you're okay. C'mon, wake up for me, you're okay", you brushed the hair from his face, cupping his cheek. You were pushing back the panic that was forming at the proximity you were to him and you instead used it to your advantage, touching him in the ways you had only dreamed in order to bring him out of his own.

Just as you were about to consider that this was a losing battle, Bucky froze. His eyes flew open and you let go of his face, stumbling backwards in shock. "Bucky, I-". Suddenly you were back where you started, a trembling mess whose instinct was to drop to her knees and submit to her alpha. He sat up straight, staring straight at you as his chest heaved with uneven breaths.

"Y/N?" He tilted his head slightly and squinted in the darkness as you tried to sustain a whimper. Your stomach was churning and you clamped your legs together as you willed the slick to retract.

"Are you okay?" you whispered with a gulp. He nodded, relaxing slightly as he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"Yeah. Thank you."

You nodded and started to glance around the room, unable to look at him any longer. You had awoken your alpha from his precious slumber without his permission, and although you knew that was the right thing to have done, your hormones were saying otherwise.

"Are you okay?" You were surprised to hear the words come out of Bucky's own mouth, but as you glanced over at him and noticed his flaring nostrils, you hung your head in shame. He could clearly smell the panic that was overtaking your body and you probably reeked of omega right now. Sure, you'd never explicitly hidden your status from your colleagues, but you kept it private, dealing with your heats yourself and using your suppressants discreetly. You chewed on your lip once again, this time tasting blood as you nodded and tried to compose yourself. With a sigh, Bucky pulled back the bedsheets and beckoned for you to come forward.

"C'mon, you can't just stand there. I feel terrible and you need to relax. Hell, so do I. Come here, will you."

You were frozen on the spot, not entirely sure what he was asking. He sensed that, closing his eyes for a second as he snorted under his breath.

"Omega. Come and sit with me."

Well now you had no choice. You practically flew off the floor and under the covers, welcoming Bucky's flesh arm as it snaked around your back and you curled up into his shoulder.

"Sorry," you mumbled without looking up.

"Don't be," you felt Bucky's stubble brush against your cheek as he shook his head. "I forgot how scary a tormented alpha can be. Let alone a tormented alpha who used to be a brainwashed assassin. You should have just let me ride it out."

"I couldn't do that," you rushed out, already starting to relax and feel more comforted than you had in a long time. His scent was intoxicating, and although he still smelt of fearful memories, it was still comforting to you because it was distinctly him.

You lay like that in silence for a while longer until at some point, you drifted into oblivion. It was a dreamless sleep, wrapped in your alpha like you'd always wanted.

Until it wasn't. While you might have been calmed, Bucky was not. He hadn't fully come out of the nightmare, and he had hoped that having you against him would help that. Admittedly he was ashamed the omega he'd been pinning for since coming to live at the compound had to see him in that state, but he couldn't pretend that having her in his bed was a completely knew kind of comfort. Except Bucky hadn't shared a bed with another in over 40 years, so when he inevitably slipped back into that same nightmare, the feeling of a warm body against his disorientated him. It was strange and it was not supposed to be there. The only reason it could be there was if it was going to harm him.

Your eyes flew open the second the cold metal squeezed your windpipe. You wanted to call for Bucky, but it was no use; the creature hovering above you was not him. Yes, it was his body, but his mind was asleep, and the pieces that still remained of the Winter Soldier had pushed forward to the surface. You tried to claw at his hands, at his face, at anything but it was no use. He was a pent-up alpha assassin, fuelled by an artificial super serum. You were no match.

As you wined through his grasp, the nightmare-frenzied Bucky started to take in the girl beneath him. The omega beneath him. She wasn't here to murder him; she was here to test him. Maybe she was a gift, or maybe she was a slave. Either way, she smelt amazing, and his body was yearning for her. His toes curled as he reached down and freed his throbbing penis, letting it rub against her bare legs.

You cried out as you suddenly realised what was going on. He wanted you. Not in the way that you wanted him, but he wanted to take you. To have you. To violate you. You tried to break free as much as possible, weakly kicking against him and pulling at his hair, but it was no use. Although he was no longer choking you, his metal hand remained stern around your neck to hold you in place, applying just enough pressure to halt any cries that tried to escape. His flesh hand meanwhile was pawing at you, squeezing your nipples hard before fisting your vagina. What only hours ago had been crying out for him was now locked up and trying desperately to reject his efforts, which only made him try harder.

"Bucky, please" you mumbled but it was no use - he was gone. This was not your Bucky. Your Bucky would hate himself for this. Your Bucky would certainly never want to look at you again after this. Just as you started to drift away, to blur out what was going on and sink into nothingness, you felt the full force of his penis lurch into you and you had no choice but to succumb to his thrusts. It wasn't until after he had ridden you so hard you bled that he let his knot pop and he sunk his teeth into the tear-soaked gland just below your jawline. Only then did you fully collapse into the darkness.

🫀Part II

To be added to my Bucky taglist, comment below

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Cackling maniacally at Bucky getting schooled by feisty omega

Mr. Grumpy (1)

Summary: Bucky hates omegas. You change his mind.

Pairing: Alpha!(Mobster)Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader

Characters: Steve Rogers

Warnings: angst, language, a/b/o, grumpy Bucky, scenting, feisty omega, mentions of erections/knotting/kidnapping

Square filled: Bucky Barnes

Divider by @firefly-graphics​​​

Mr. Grumpy masterlist

13 k Followers ‘Lucky #13’ Celebration masterlist 

“Not again,” Bucky Barnes, the kingpin of Brooklyn grumbles. “Steve, can you take care of that needy omega. I bet she will come here and crawl onto my lap.”

“Buck, that’s the waitress,” Steve shakes his head when you walk toward his friend to take his order. “See, she’s wearing the new uniform.”

“That’s a black dress and,” a deep guttural noise leaves the alpha’s throat when you step closer. “Heels. She doesn’t look like a waitress.”

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[kamaria-sweet-writes]

Freaking perfect. I need more of these two.

knife party [knife play part 2]

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Rating: NSFW

Word Count: 7,355

Warnings: ABO, lots of bodily fluids, magical healing vagina, mild angst, dirty talk, claiming, mentions of blood/injury, stealing cars, a whole rainbow spectrum of Bucky, and knotting.

Listening to: This Is Love by Air Traffic Controllers

Summary: Part 2 to this. They're on the run and Bucky goes into rut.

Author's Note: Well. Someone asked if I'd continue knife play... and I kinda messed up my wip list and needed something to post, so, here's part 2 to knife play.

A while ago I made up my own ABO rules with a friend, and I still use them. ABO is so much fun.

want to be tagged? lemme know.

my masterlist

"Who sent you?" the Winter Soldier asked as he marched toward the forest, stepping over one of the guards he'd just killed.

You had to avoid one of the bodies, almost walking into him, as you replied, "SHIELD."

He didn't seem to like that answer but didn't stop as he barreled onward into the woods. You struggled to walk next to him, deciding to go behind him and let him make a path through the dense underbrush. After a few minutes, you asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Run," he replied, and you had an idea. 

"You could come with me," you offered, and he stopped. 

Turning to face you, his face the picture of determined rage, he only said one word, but you didn't argue, "No."

You weren't as scared as you'd been, but he was still intimidating. It wasn't until he looked around that you were able to ask, "What's the plan?"

He was walking again and didn't answer you. Part of you wanted to demand answers, but you also didn't want to push your luck. What was worse was that you didn't want to leave him, and you wanted to stay with him if he wouldn't return with you. It probably had more to do with him fucking you not even fifteen minutes ago, but you weren't some horny Omega trying to please a potential mate. As terrifying as that had been, you'd seen something change in him and couldn't abandon him.

Your abilities also meant you could control your own hormones. Your heats were easy, practically nothing compared to other Omegas. And that meant that your baser urges were easier to ignore. The idea that his dick was so good you'd throw your career away was laughable. But the look in his eyes after killing those guards was different. Your idea that he was an experiment solidified, and you weren't going to just let him fend for himself. 

A couple of hours later, you were doing your best to keep up with him as you crept around the edge of the tree line. He hadn't said a word the entire time, but neither had you. You were worried he'd demand you leave or make it so you didn't have a choice but let him go, so you did your best to be helpful and quiet. 

As he was breaking into a car, an old Volks Wagon Beetle, he looked your way for the first time in a while. Pulling open the driver's door, he left it open and walked around the front of the car. You hesitated for a moment, but once it was clear that this was your invitation to go with him, you took it. 

You got in and asked, "Screwdriver?"

The Winter Soldier just grimaced, which was fine. You twisted in your seat and dug in the back, almost giggling when you found a toolbox. Sitting back in your seat and holding a flathead screwdriver up, you got to work. You were backing out and on the road only a few minutes later. 

"Aren't they going to be looking for you?" you asked. The silence in the small car was probably going to drive you nuts. 

He'd been staring straight ahead, ignoring you while you tried and failed to get the radio to work, but you saw him turn his head out of the corner of your eye before he said, "Yes."

"Okay," you said, knowing this was not okay, "I have to find a place with a phone, then—"

"No," he cut you off but didn't say anything else. 

You were getting frustrated and explained, "I have intel and need to tell my contact where to pick it up."

"Burn it," he offered, staring out the windshield again. 

"No," you said, imitating his monosyllabic bullshit, but added, "You want everyone trying to find us when we go back to grab it?"

He didn't reply, but you knew you won. Despite not explaining his plan, you decided to let him know what you were going to do, "I already dropped it. I just need to let them know where and that I'm going on leave. They'll already know about… you, so I need to let—"

"Or they assume you're dead," he said, the longest sentence yet. 

You thought about this and said, "Shit. That's better than what I was thinking. Fine."

The silence returned, and the sun was going down. Every few hours, he would ask you to stop next to a parked car, siphon the gas, and it was back to driving. By the time the sun was coming up, and it was clear that you were getting tired, he broke the deafening silence again. 

"Next left," he said, and you wondered if you'd be able to fall asleep before he filled the tank. 

To your relief, he directed you to a parking garage and instructed, "In the back."

You passed out almost as soon as you killed the engine. Driving for nearly 14 hours after trekking through a forest was hard when you had music and someone to talk to, but you'd had neither. Thankfully, he waited for you to wake up on your own instead of jerking you awake. 

As you stretched out the tension and stiffness in your back from sleeping in a car, you asked through a yawn, "Do you... eat?"

All you got in return was a glare, and you'd started to understand his stilted communication: that glare was an affirmative. Relaxing into the seat, you said, "I need food, and coffee would be a good idea."

He moved, leaning over in his seat, before holding a wad of cash out to you.

You took the money and looked at him warily, "You just carry this on you?"

Again, he glared, but this one was a negative. You could figure out later how he got the correct currency; you only cared about getting something in your stomach. A few miles later and you were parking next to a small bakery. He waited in the car, ducking down as you went inside. 

The bakery was cute, and you were able to get not only food and coffee but directions to a nearby store. Back in the car, you took a long drink of the hot coffee before you started driving. 

"Wrong way," he said, but you shook your head. 

As you took another wrong turn, according to him, you pointed out, "You can't go around dressed like that."

Another stop, and you were back at the car, tossing a bag at him, "We can burn that stuff later."

You had parked out of the way behind the clothing store you'd just been in. After handing him his new clothes, you started changing. Neither of you looked like civilians, which would be a problem, but you'd just solved it. When you pulled the new sweater over your head, you were met with his blue eyes staring at you. 

"Get changed," you said as you pushed your pants down.

He stood for another moment before nodding and pulling his shirt off. He'd turned around as he started to take his belt off, and you studied the scars on his back. If you hadn't already known that he'd been a science project, the state of his back would have had you asking what happened. 

Tearing your eyes away, you grabbed his discarded clothes as he pulled on the red shirt. Tossing the bag filled with things to burn later into the backseat, you waited next to the driver's door for him. 

You had questions, but they could wait. For now, getting whoever used to be the Winter Soldier somewhere safe was more important. He mirrored your position, opening the passenger door and leaning against the car as he said with a grimace, "Thank you."

That was not expected, and you shrugged it off before asking, "What's next?"

"We hide," he offered, looking around before he added, "We should get moving."

🔪

His name is Bucky, well, James Buchanan Barnes, but that came much later. He hadn't seemed to know he even had a name until a week after the escape. You didn't push him for information at first, too worried that it might set something off or just piss him off. Now you know better. 

The Winter Soldier had been terrifying, but Bucky was a pushover, sort of. He was still scary, but you weren't worried about setting him off. Getting close to six months on the run and almost four of those months being completely isolated in the middle of nowhere Canada, you didn't think you'd enjoy the simplicity of being on the run. 

He'd wanted to hide out in a city. Yes, hiding in plain sight and blending in would be easy, and so would getting food, but going entirely off the grid would be better for the long term. Bucky didn't resist and enjoyed certain aspects, like chopping wood. 

Getting the abandoned cabin back to livable conditions had been a bit of a struggle, but worth it. The dense trees surrounding the long-forgotten building made it unlikely for anyone to find it accidentally. 

Plus, he'd been right about SHIELD assuming you were dead. Legally, you'd been dead since the day your mission went pear-shaped, but it didn't bother you. This meant no one was looking for you, and you didn't have to hide like Bucky did, but it also meant you didn't have to go full Unibomber in the woods. You could go into town and buy supplies or gas up the car, and no one seemed to care. They were just happy for the business and only asked the usual questions. Where you from? You just visiting? Do you know this person or that person? Nothing you couldn't handle. 

By the time the snow started, you and Bucky had settled into a nice routine. You'd go into town every other week; the trip there was a few hours, so you didn't like going more often than necessary. The typical day started with breakfast, and then you'd go hunting or do some chores, followed by Bucky chopping more wood than was needed while you dealt with any additional chores or cooking. 

Once you figured out who he was and realized he had no idea, you borrowed some books from the library. He didn't seem happy when he discovered that he was an infamous fallen soldier, but it didn't bother him for long. Bucky still didn't talk much, but he was making progress. Whoever he was before HYDRA was probably long gone, but this new person wasn't that bad. 

The only point of contention was you abandoning everything. Bucky did not like it, and when you were particularly curious about him one night, he told you just to go back to your real life. Obviously, you hadn't, but you knew that this troubled him. Eventually, he'd get over it, or you could take him with you. If you explained who he really was and what was done to him, maybe things would be different. But he is far from being ready for that, and not because you like playing house with him. 

The first time you met had not been discussed, not even hinted at, but that didn't mean you didn't think about it. Or want to do it again. Out of the tactical gear, Bucky was delightful to look at. You were aware that you could dose him again, but that was wrong. Bucky was barely accepting that you wanted to be in the middle of the woods with him; you didn't need to trick him into bed. Plus, he didn't seem to understand what you could do, and he didn't want to talk about it. Besides, if anything were going to happen, it would be a long way out. Luckily, your heat didn't seem to affect him as long as you keep your levels in check. 

You glance out the window; he's still chopping wood without a coat, only that red shirt you bought him ages ago and a pair of jeans while the snow is falling heavily around him. The cold didn't seem to bother him, and you weren't complaining about the view. As much as you'd deny it, you did enjoy quiet moments like these. The distant sound of the ax splitting a log as you surreptitiously watch him while pretending to read a book in case he caught you. He'd insisted that morning that you take a break, and you hadn't pushed back. If Bucky wanted to do all the chores while you read, then who were you to stop him? 

You nearly panic when you watch him slam the ax down and rush toward the door. He didn't move quickly unless he needed to, and running to the cabin? Never. No reason to run here unless you wanted to. 

He burst through the door and looked terrified but didn't say anything. Slamming the door behind him, he walked toward the sink and got a glass of water. 

"What's wrong?" you asked, getting up and putting your book down. 

All he did was shake his head as he refilled his glass. You slowly approached him, but that seemed to startle him. He spun to face you, panic all over his face as he said dismissively, "Nothing." Then he rushed past you, nearly knocking you on your ass, before he slammed the bedroom door.

As you tried to follow him, just to find out what was going on, you heard the lock click. With a sigh, you knocked on the door and started to ask, "What's going—"

"Nothing!" he shouted from the other side, "Leave me alone!"

"Moody ass," you muttered, giving the door a kick before going back to the kitchen. Whatever happened, you'd find out eventually, and you decided to clean the glass he'd used while making yourself another cup of coffee. 

When you sat down again, it was clear that you wouldn't be able to read, not that you were before this. The sounds coming from the other room were distinct, but you didn't understand why. It took you longer than you'd like to admit to realize what was happening, but once you did, you were pounding on the door, "Let me in, you stubborn asshole! Goddamit, Bucky! I can help, but you need to talk to me!"

His only response was a frustrated moan and the furious sound of male masturbation. You tried to calm your voice because you knew you hadn't done anything to set him off. The fear that he'd been on suppressants since the 40s was your focus as you cautiously asked the door, "When was your last rut?"

It took him a little bit, but he replied, "Before the war… I think."

"Shit," you couldn't hide your reaction. 

"I'll be… fine," he struggled to speak, the odd slapping noise picking up speed, "Just, fuuuuck… just leave me alone."

"I can hel—"

"No!" he shouted, something heavy hitting the door, "Leave me alone!"

"Bucky, I—"

"Stop talking!"

🔪

For two days, you waited. Bucky didn't come out of the bedroom, he didn't eat or drink, and you were pretty sure he wasn't even sleeping. You'd been so focused on keeping your heat to yourself that you hadn't noticed how his scent had changed. With two days of sitting and waiting under your belt, you were pretty sure he'd been trying to hide his rut from you. The last couple of days before this, he'd been spending as much time away from you as he could manage. It wasn't noticeable, just him offering to do things that kept him out of the cabin and away from you. 

You'd tried pointing out that he was being an idiot. This was the one thing your ability was helpful for, and he was choosing to suffer. You weren't about to offer to help him in any other way, although you were not opposed to that; you could at least settle him down so he could sleep. You might even be able to make it so he could give his dick a break and eat something without even being in the same room. Too bad he wouldn't even let you explain.

The same hormones and pheromones that could drive someone insane with lust could also calm them. It was as easy as keeping your own heat under control, but you wouldn't do anything without him asking. You weren't being petty; you wanted his consent. After that first time and the mental gymnastics you went through, you never wanted to force him to do anything ever again. Even though you were literally built to help someone through a rut, you weren't going to make him do anything he didn't want to. 

You knock on the door every few hours and offer him a meal and some water, but he's refused all of it. The smell of him permeates everything. At first, you'd only noticed it when you were near the door, but now it was seeping into the wood. This cabin would probably never smell the same. 

You check the time and figure you can wait a little longer before trying to get him to eat again. He's been quiet for about an hour, and you hope he's sleeping. Then you hear the lock click. Sitting up in the armchair, you watch as the door slowly opens, but only a few inches. 

From inside the dark room, you see Bucky's exhausted face. You can only see part of it, but it's clear that he's drenched in sweat and running on fumes. His right hand grips the doorframe, and he leans on it heavily as a wave of his scent rushes out of the room. It's so much worse than before, he smells rancid, and you don't know what to do as his tired eyes meet yours. 

Before you can even think of something to say, he speaks, his voice hoarse and weary, "Please."

It takes a second for what he said to sink in, but once it does, you scramble out of the chair and rip your shirt over your head. Tossing it behind you, you say, "I can explain later. You just need to relax." 

You get to the door and already have a steady supply of calm the fuck down coming off you, and you see his face relax as he pulls you into the bedroom. You hadn't expected that, but you realize, probably too late, that you should have at least explained why you took your shirt off. 

Turning to rush through your explanation, you are struggling to not stare at a very naked Bucky, but you're only able to mutter, "Hormones… doesn't work if my... um... covered— you're just whole-ass naked."

You yelp as he spins you around and pins you to the bed. This was not like the first time. Your ass is in the air, and you know he misunderstood you, but you aren't mad. You'd thought about this so many times in the past six months and didn't want to push him, but there would be consequences. Along with your control over your body chemistry and others, you were also very fertile and currently in heat. 

"Bucky, you need—oh, fuuuuuck," you tried, you really did, but he was too far gone to listen to you, and finally having him inside you again felt too good. 

Despite your efforts to control your heat, being around a rutting Alpha seemed to negate that, especially when you'd fantasized about that same Alpha doing precisely this. It was impossible to remember that you needed to explain... something to him, but you could deal with that later. 

His thighs flush against yours, arms wrapped around your waist, and he starts to grind against you as he mutters, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…."

"S'good," you whimper before he starts to move. 

Very different from the first time, Bucky thrusts are fluid and immediately rough. He's pounding into you and grunting each time he bottoms out. And this time, he is getting his entire length inside you. All you can do is take it as you feel him press his forehead between your shoulder blades. 

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck—fuuuuuuuuck," he was chanting with each thrust, then shouted as he came. 

You feel his cock jerking inside you and wait for his knot, but it doesn't come. His breathing is still ragged, but he seems calmer. You increase the pheromones you're letting loose, but feeling him like this is distracting. 

"Sorry 'bout that," he whispers against your back, his hands stroking your sides, "Next time'll be better for you, doll."

"What?" you ask, stunned at how his voice sounded on top of everything else. Was that an accent? Did he always have an accent and just never spoke enough for you to notice it? And what accent was it? 

He chuckled, and you were officially freaking out as he said, "C'mon, doll, round two."

Then he pushed you over and up to the middle of the bed, settling between your legs. He moved you so effortlessly you can't do anything but gawk at him, and it gets somehow worse: Bucky's smiling. A wide, unabashed smile as he ducks his head before he says something. You don't even remember what you had to tell him, let alone how to listen—comprehending language? Nope. Nothing. All you can do is stare at him because he's also still balls deep inside you. 

It isn't until he repeats your name a couple of times and the smile starts to fade that you realize you missed something, "What?"

"You okay?" he asked, the smile back, and everything's okay again. 

You nod, "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"Seem a little distracted," he says as he rolls his hips. You bite your bottom lip to keep from moaning, but your body betrays you. Bucky's head drops as he feels the rush of slick. 

"Try this again," he says as he leans closer and asks, "Can I kiss you?"

All you can manage is to nod then his lips are against yours. You didn't think you'd remember your own name at this point, and then he starts to move again. As he rolls his hips lazily, his lips part, and you feel his tongue run along your bottom lip. 

You give in, moaning as he kisses you. It isn't until you feel his teeth as he tugs on your bottom lip that you notice how loud you are. Breaking away, you whisper, "Sorry."

Resting his forehead against yours, the unfamiliar but delightful sound of him laughing has you trying to look up at him as he says, "Nothin' to apologize for. 'M tryin' to make this good for you, and you make such pretty noises."

"It's so good," you whine, gripping the back of his neck to keep from pulling his hair. You'd offered to cut it a few times, but he refused. Now you're struggling to resist grabbing two fistfuls and pulling to see what kind of noises he might make. 

He shifts above you, his left hand behind your knee and pushing it toward your chest as he thrusts with more purpose. Soon the dark room is filled with the sound of his body slamming against yours, and you lose your inner battle at leaving his hair alone. 

Bucky moans as you tug on his hair, then he's fucking you faster as he says, "C'mon, doll, lemme feel it."

"Fuck," you barely gasp the word out as you start to cum. 

"Good girl, keep it going, don't hold out on me," he says, pushing himself up so he can drive his cock into you harder. 

Your back arches as Bucky's thrusts start to get sloppy, and he collapses on top of you, "Gonna give you what you want. Fuck, little cunt isn't gonna let me go until—oh, fuck." 

He takes a deep breath before his mouth falls open, and his body shakes. The sigh he lets out as he falls on top of you isn't from just cumming, but you don't have the brain power to analyze it right now. Feeling this full and with his body pressing you into the mattress, you are having a hard time caring about anything else. 

You giggle as you feel him pressing his lips to your neck, the stubble on his cheeks tickling you. He pushes himself up, biting his bottom lip as he looks you over. His eyes drag over every inch of you that he can see, and his usual grimace is replaced with a very different expression. You'd seen this before, you were sure of it, but never on him, only in pictures from a history book, and those pictures did not do him justice. 

"Always took me a while to knot," he said, the weird accent back again, "But you don't seem to mind."

As he flops onto his back, dragging you with him, you sit up and look down at him. His hands are on your thighs, running up to your hips, then back down to your knees, as he winks up at you, "You look good like this. Might be my favorite, but this needs to go…." Bucky's voice trails off as he leans forward and unhooks your bra, then he falls back on the bed with a sigh, "Yeah, this is much better."

That same look on his face, and you were struggling to figure out what was going on. Instead, you focused on what you would call this particular expression. Smug? No, but it was close, maybe confident? Cocky? Fearless? Arrogant? You know it doesn't matter, but it's so different from who he'd been while you've known him. And why was he talking so much?

"You need a break, doll?" he asked, pulling you out of your head. 

You'll figure this out later. Or Bucky might go back to normal once his rut passes, but it doesn't matter. You shake your head and decide to enjoy this, "Not yet. Why do you keep calling me that?"

"Callin' you what?" he asked with a grin. 

"Doll," you clarify, even though he knows. You don't think you'll mind if this is what he's like from now on. This playful, flirty shit is fun once you get used to it. 

His hands slide up your thighs and around your hips to grip your ass. Pulling you down as he pushes his hips up, he lies, "I never called you that."

"Must have misheard you," you shoot back, leaning forward so you can roll your hips, "My mistake." 

His back arches and he moans, "Just like that, doll. Do it again for me?"

You can't help but laugh, and you also don't stop. Setting a slow but steady rhythm with your hips, you aren't as distracted as before. Feeling his hands leave you, you get the urge to slap him as he folds them behind his head. You look at him and want to call him an asshole, but that smile is back. He has no business being able to smile like that. 

"Don't stop," he says, thrusting his hips, and you realize you'd stopped. 

Bucky had used a little too much force, and you fell forward but caught yourself before you smacked your head against his. Your face is only a few inches away from his, and he whispers, "Show me what those hips can do."

When you didn't move, he repeated his action, thrusting a little harder this time as he asked, "Never been on top before?"

"What?" you asked, very confused and distracted by too many things to count.

"It's easy, doll," he cooed, the hands on your hips started guiding you as he moved under you, "Just relax and—"

"I know how to ride a dick," you grit out, planting your hands on his chest a second before you snap your hips. The look on his face was worth the amount of effort this was about to take. 

To your delight, he didn't seem as cocky and didn't put his hands behind his head again as you fucked him. The urge to put a hand on his throat kept sneaking into your head, but you resisted; he didn't make it easy, though. If he wasn't staring down between your bodies and running his mouth about how good you take him, he was looking up at you and biting his bottom lip. Soon, he was moaning and gasping as he watched you, and then he started meeting your thrusts. 

His hands were still on your hips as he fucked up into you; this small amount of power he took back had him running his mouth again, "Gettin' close, doll?"

All you did was glare at him as you panted. Of course, you were close, but you couldn't talk about it; you were busy. 

"Your little cunt starts grabbin' me when you get close," he said, his voice hoarse, but his movement didn't falter, "C'mon, use me."

"Oh, fuck!" you shout as you grind against him.

Bucky's grip on your hips tightens, lifting you off him as he keeps going, "You know better than to stop, doll." 

Your arms give out, and you collapse on top of him, gripping his shoulders as he uses the leverage to his advantage. Tucking your head against his neck as you cry out because you're still cumming, you hear him say, "Good girl, there's my good girl. Keep going. Give me a little more, just a little more. Need to feel you cum fo—fuckfuckfuckfuuuuuuck…."

His fingers dig into your hips as he pushes himself as deep as he can into you. It isn't until you finally start to regain control of your brain that you notice he still hasn't knotted you. Propping yourself up, you can't help but grin when you see the blissed-out look on his face. He might not have knotted, but he was definitely satisfied for a while. 

"You need water," you whisper before kissing his cheek, "And food."

Before he can grab you, you are off the bed and heading out to the kitchen. You hear him groan as you get two glasses and pull out some of the sandwiches you'd made earlier. All that nervous energy while you stood vigil outside the bedroom had you preparing so many things, and now it wasn't going to waste and made taking a food break much easier. 

Bucky, still naked, sat at the small table as you placed a plate and glass in front of him. He takes the water first, chugging it, before asking, "How'd you make these so fast?"

You, also still naked, roll your eyes as you grab his glass, "I made them yesterday while you were busy." 

As you refill his glass, he asks, "For me?"

"No," you say as you place the glass in front of him, "Some other asshole who didn't know he was in rut."

"I knew I was going into rut," he shot back before taking a bite of his sandwich, "Just didn't think it'd be this bad—damn, this is good."

"It's peanut butter and jelly. Calm down," you say as you start eating. 

Bucky is focused on eating and quiet for the first time in a while. It isn't until he finishes his second glass of water that you notice how quiet it was before. He sets the glass down, his eyes are on you, and he smiles. 

"Need another sandwich?" you ask, knowing you shouldn't talk with your mouth full but being the subject of his undivided attention is more than you can handle. 

"No, thank you," he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, still watching you closely. Bucky seems to be thinking before he says, "Maybe something else if you don't mind."

"Sure," you say as you try to swallow, taking a drink of water before you ask, "What do you want?"

That life-ruining smile is back, and you know you fell into a trap. The smug bastard winks at you as he says, "You." Then he's between your legs. 

You're still holding half a sandwich as he gets your legs over his shoulders. The sandwich falls from your hand as Bucky ducks his head and starts to lick. Leaning back in the wooden chair is not comfortable, but it's necessary as the hand that used to have a sandwich plants itself on the back of his head. 

It doesn't take much before he figures out what to do, and you're cumming again. He lifts his head, his face covered in your slick, and asks, "Did you cum already?" When all you did was glare at him, he shrugged, "Says a lot more about you than it does me, doll."

"You did it again," you point out, wondering if he knows how different he's acting. 

Straightening his back and eye level with you, he reaches to grab the back of the chair and pulls you closer, his face too close as he says in a dangerous voice, "I didn't do a damn thing."

"Bullshit," you whisper. You aren't scared, not even close, and push Bucky a little further, "What about how I just fucked you says I'm a "doll"?"

Cocking a brow, he asks, "You really wanna know?" You nod but hold your breath as he moves even closer. His lips brush against yours as he whispers, "Too bad, doll."

"Bucky!" you shout, slapping his chest as he laughs. 

He stands, then picks you up bridal style and carries you back to the bedroom, "We have more important things to do, doll. Quit asking ridiculous questions." Setting you on the bed, he kisses you, then says, "Present for me, doll."

You have to fight back the squeal of excitement. As much as you wanted to know why Bucky wasn't just calling you 'babe' like most would, you were hoping you might finally get his knot. There was this nagging feeling that you forgot something very important, but if it were so important, you wouldn't have forgotten it. 

Ass in the air and resting on your elbows, you didn't try to look behind to see him. You knew he was there, and he'd take care of you. Instead of his hands or his cock, you feel his lips and tongue again. Arching your back and pushing against him, you whine, "That's not fair."

He pulls away for a moment and says, "No, it ain't."

You sigh as he tries to get his tongue as deep inside you as he can manage before he's back to teasing your clit. It doesn't take much before you're gripping the sheets, then he pulls back. You try to see why he'd stop when you were so close, but feel him push two fingers into you and don't care. 

"Probably a bad time to ask, but," he starts, sliding his pointer and middle finger deep inside you, "How far are we taking this?"

You know from his tone what he's really asking: are you going to let him claim you? Right now is not the best time to make these sorts of decisions, but it isn't like he's some stranger. It's Bucky. You technically died for him and left your whole life behind for him. Why not give him this too? If it means you get to fuck him again, then there isn't a downside you can see. It would make staying in this cabin a lot more interesting. 

"As far as you want," you say, not giving him any parameters other than those he gives himself. You might be dick drunk, but you could still be clever. 

His thumb circles your clit, as he asks, "You sure 'bout that, doll?"

"Very," you moaned, your orgasm coming back with a vengeance. 

Before your orgasm takes over, he's kneeling on the bed behind you. This isn't like when you came into the room or even when you were on top. Bucky is calm, almost lazily fingering you instead of trying to get his cock inside you as quickly as possible. It wasn't you trying to manipulate things with your ability, either. You had sort of forgotten about trying to keep him calm. 

Hearing him sigh as he removes his fingers and lines his cock up with your entrance, he speaks like this is your last chance to back out, "I'll make it good for you, doll. Promise."

As he fills you, he moves closer, bending at the hips to drape his body over yours. With his chest pressed against your back and an arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close, he kisses you between your shoulder blades before he whispers against your skin, "'M gonna be good for you, doll."

Something about that has your brain trying to think through the heat haze, but it's hard and becomes nearly impossible as he starts to thrust. Already you can feel the band around the base of his cock beginning to swell, and you know he's going to knot this time. 

Your brain feels like it's melting as his knot starts catching every time he bottoms out, making both of you moan once he gets it inside you. Whining as you start pushing back, desperate to make him feel good, to help him. 

He's kissing up to the back of your neck, and then you feel him start to lick; you know what's coming. You tilt your head, showing him that you don't just want it but are ready for him to claim you. When he drops his head, resting his forehead against the junction of your neck and shoulder, you whine, "Please, Bucky…."

Bucky lifts his head, still thrusting steadily, but manages to say in a ragged voice, "No going back."

For a moment, one oddly lucid moment, you laugh as your mind races. This was a lot more than not going back from getting claimed. You were far beyond the point of no return with him, and you didn't want to go back anyway. Some part of you knew that you couldn't go back months ago when he cornered you on that mission, and the freedom of giving in to him was so much better than you could have imagined. Neither of you were human weapons now, and you didn't want anything else but to stay in this shitty little cabin with him. Even without all the other shit that led you to him, you'd still choose Bucky. Now all you had to do was say that without completely killing the mood, "Do it, coward." Close enough.

"Mine," Bucky growls as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder. 

You're rigid under him as your orgasm rips through you, and you feel slick gush out of you around his cock. He bites harder as you feel his knot swell, locking him inside you, then his cock throbs as he starts to cum. 

You focus on trying to breathe. It's all you need to do right now, but it's so hard. You don't notice that you're making noise until you feel Bucky release you. The bite stings, but you don't mind; it's helping you think. You've been knotted before, but nothing about Bucky is easy to manage, and his dick was almost too big without his knot adding more girth. 

Nearly cumming again as he starts to lick the claiming mark, you hear him sigh before he starts absently grinding against you. He can't move much like this, but it still feels good. Then Bucky rolls both of you over. He holds you close as he asks, "How you doin', doll?"

"So good, you?" you reply and feel Bucky's dick noticeably throb in response. 

You both laugh, and then you remember what you didn't think you forgot. Your mouth suddenly goes dry as you try to stay calm, and you ask, "Do you want to wait till that goes down before I give you bad news or…."

"No such thing as bad news," he says, pressing his lips to your neck. 

"Yes, perspective, but—"

"If it's about your heat, I already know," he says, derailing your panic. Despite this revelation, he keeps saying, "You've been driving me nuts for the past two weeks with how good you smell. Couldn't stop thinking about making you mine."

There is no way he could know that. You were so careful, you knew that suppressing your heat wouldn't be a long-term solution, but you could do it once without a problem. You didn't notice you stopped breathing until he turned your head and made you look at him as he said, "Heightened senses, and you worry too much."

You sighed, "You could have said something."

He pressed his lips to your forehead before settling behind you, "I figured you knew about me and were trying to keep it to yourself."

"Wait," you said as you remembered something else. Doing your best to turn to look at Bucky, you ask in a rush, "Why are you talking so much? And what's with the accent?"

"Dunno," he said, pushing himself up and kissing you, "Just… feel like me again." Then his hand drifts down your body and settles over where his cock is trapped, and you both sigh. 

You refuse to assume anything, but if he knew that you were in heat, he must know the risk of what you two had done and still were doing. With a carefully measured voice, you say, "Yeah, that might be a problem." 

He didn't even hesitate before he spoke like you were talking about getting a new car or toaster, "We have some time. Grab a few medical books from the library, and we should be good."

"You are handling this so much better than I am," you said, unable to hide the shock in your voice.

"And you don't seem to remember that you saved me," he said so casually that you nearly broke your neck to glare at him. Before you could demand he explain it, he says, "Plus everything else you do. The least I can do is not be a dick about knocking you up."

Stunned into speechlessness, Bucky simply smiles and kisses you before he says, "And now you're mine." He kisses you again, then whispers, "My little Omega."

Completely overwhelmed and utterly demolished by what he said, your body puts the final nail in this coffin. You whimper as you cum, rocking your hips against him. This is way more than you can handle, and you assume that it's some combination of being claimed and still knotted, but you know that's not what did you in. 

Bucky is unphased, kissing your shoulder as he enjoys the moment before you calm down. You lay there in silence for a few minutes before he asks, "How's the wood?"

"Um…" you say, trying to figure out how to answer, "...good? You're bigger than I remember."

You can feel him laughing, but still can't get away or backtrack before he says, "Thanks? I meant the firewood."

"Oh, we should be good for a few more days," you say, giving up on trying to recover from any of this. Bucky broke something in your brain, and he would just have to deal with it. 

"Good," he says before he starts moving around. Settling between your legs, he starts grinding his hips against yours. 

You aren't mad but stunned as you ask, "How do you still need more?"

He shrugs, but that life-ruining smile returns as he says, "My mate's in heat. Gotta give her what she needs."

"Anyone ever told you you're a bit much?" you ask, but reach up to pull him closer. 

"Yes, many times," he says before he presses his lips to yours, then pulls back with a sigh, "This goes both ways, doll."

"What does?"

"You're mine," he says, kissing you again, and you feel his knot start to go down, but he's still hard. He rolls his hips, and you feel a mixture of cum and slick leak out of you before he fills you again, "And I'm your's."

[kamaria-sweet-writes]

This was intense in all the best ways!

revenge of the kinks #10 - kinfe play (Winter Soldier x Reader)

Pairing: Winter Soldier x Reader

Rating: NSFW

Word Count: 4,437

Warnings: ABO, dark!Winter Soldier, cannon divergent, espionage, superheroes, weird superpowers, mild violence, angst, dubcon (but that’s if you didn’t know what the MC is thinking, and you do.. So.. only dubcon if you squint), and… smut.

Listening to: Rev 22-20 by Puscifer

Author's Note: Okay... I might have a problem. Please, read the warnings and I'd like to point out I'm not making anyone read this. Choose your own adventure, my guys. But this was also a lot of fun. Happy Halloween, ya sloppy bitches.

want to be tagged? lemme know.

my masterlist

Taking a steadying breath and pressing yourself flat against the cold concrete wall, you waited until the two guards passed. You were smirking to yourself as they walked without even looking back. You weren’t exactly the sneakiest person, but that’s why you got this easy assignment. Get in, get the files, and get out. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. It was like they weren’t even trying. Slipping down the dark hall behind the clueless men toward the room. 

The sickly smell of antiseptic hit you first as you got the door open. The room was floor-to-ceiling white tiles with the same concrete floor. There was an exam table with stirrups and straps in the middle of the room that made you nervous, some industrial lighting fixtures, and a desk with a leather stool. 

You’d never been a fan of doctors, especially those who worked in buildings like this, but you wouldn’t be here for long. In and out, that was the plan, and the plan was going so smooth. This whole mission had been surprisingly uncomplicated and was going well. You wondered if you’d get some sort of reward, maybe a bonus for absolutely nailing it. 

You did your best to focus as you walked toward the simple wooden desk. It was hard to take your eyes off the bloody exam table, it was nearly impossible not to fixate on all the blood, but that wasn’t you’re problem. Kneeling, just in case, you searched the drawers and found the files you’d been sent to collect. Slipping them into your bag, you were done. The only thing left was getting out, and that just meant going back the way you came. You were crushing this spy shit, and your supervisor was worried because you knew barely any Russian. It was laughable. 

Closing the door behind you had been necessary, but now you weren’t going to be able to tell if there was anyone on the other side. You waited and listened, but there wasn’t any sound, no footsteps or voices, only silence. You shut your eyes, resting your head for a moment against the cool tile wall, before gripping the handle and slowly opening it while hoping for the best. 

“Fuuuuck,” you hissed as you made direct eye contact with one of the guards that had passed you. You hadn’t been tracking the time or their route; you didn’t think you’d need to be that careful. 

One guard was shoving the other; the taller one that had seen you was muttering in Russian, his eyes wide with shock. You’d have a few seconds to handle them before they set off an alarm or called for help, and you used that time to run at them. 

The short guard didn’t even turn around, scrambling away from you and shouting something, he seemed scared, but you were focused on the taller one. As you cocked your fist, his hands went up to cover his face before you made contact with the side of his head, and he went limp, slumping against the wall. Glancing down the corridor, you watched with a sinking feeling as the other guard disappeared around a corner at least twenty feet away, still screaming his head off. 

Running as hard as you could, you’d barely made it to the opposite end of the hall before the lights all went red, and there was a panicked voice over the intercom. Mentally kicking yourself for not learning Russian, you did your best to backtrack and hope you got out. 

But you knew hope wouldn’t cut it, and you ripped off the protective fabric along your neck and arms. If you were cornered, you wouldn’t be for long. You’d unload enough pheromones to take down an entire battalion, which would be enough to knock out the predominantly beta crew that worked in this building. Things hadn’t gone entirely to shit, and if you made it to the exit, you wouldn’t have to use the only thing that set you apart from others. 

With your shitty plan ready and your arms and neck fully exposed just in case, you took what should have been the last turn to find a dead end. The door that should have been about thirty feet down the hall, the one you knew you’d entered through, was gone, and this corridor seemed shorter. Cautiously walking toward the wall as bile rose in your throat, you realized it was reinforced metal and must have come down when someone hit the panic button. 

There were a few doors, but none would be an escape route. This building didn’t have windows and only a handful of doors that led outside. You started to panic when you heard footsteps approaching. They weren’t quick or light like the panicked guards; they were slow and heavy, determined and filled with purpose. You tried to get into any of the rooms, anything to get away from whatever was coming your way, but it was too late. 

He, because as much as you didn’t think he was human, it was definitely male, stopped in the middle of the intersecting halls, boxing you into what was maybe a ten-by-ten foot box. A black mask covered most of his face, but even in the red light, you could see that it wasn’t designed with you in mind. A gas mask, or whatever it was, wouldn’t do much against you as long as he had skin exposed. 

Slowly he started to approach, his boots making a heavy, echoing clunk with each steady step. You were backed against the metal barrier but couldn’t do anything yet; he needed to be just a little closer before you could do anything. 

You were listening hard, not just for an increase in his breathing or a change of pace from the man approaching you, but for more people; they had to send more. Right now, you could hold this guy off on your own for maybe a few minutes, even if he was somewhat intimidating. Some people in your line of work seemed desperate to be the meanest or craziest person in the room, but you knew what they really were: slaves to biology. It didn’t matter how stoic or sadistic someone was, alpha or omega. Even betas weren’t exceptions. It was also gross, but you didn’t care about that right now.

It wasn’t until he raised his left hand that you realized how screwed you were. The voice over the intercom was still rambling, but now the words cut through your thoughts; it was in English now, “Evacuate! The Asset has been released! Evacuate!” 

As you heard the plates of the metal arm, you looked at the face that was still covered and panicked. Everyone had heard rumors about this guy, but he couldn’t be real. There was no way that they would keep him at this medical facility, and they wouldn’t just sick him on some unknown threat. They had to have soldiers or some sort of police force on staff, aside from the unarmed rent-a-cops that ran from you. Unless it was a medical facility and there wasn’t anyone else to protect them. That would be insane. But that would explain why you’d been given this particular assignment: no armed guards, no one was supposed to be an actual threat. You remembered it on the briefing as you tried to melt into the unyielding metal behind you.

Without another thought, you used the only weapon you’d ever had when he was a few feet away, almost an arm’s length away. Out of fear, you closed your eyes and unleashed everything you had. You were an omega, but that’s where your abilities came from; your biology was weaponized. Not even another omega could resist when you let loose the stores of pheromones. On a good day, you could render a regular person to nothing but a writhing, cumming mess in a few seconds, again, ew. Depending on how much you released and how many people would determine how long and how severe the effects were. 

You hadn’t just let out enough to subdue someone; you completely emptied yourself, but the inhuman assassin bearing down on you was nowhere near a regular person. You’d never done this before, and the last time you’d gone too far, you’d nearly killed a dozen people, but this guy wasn’t stopping. 

You caught the glint off the knife he unsheathed in a ludicrous display before you were slammed against the metal barrier. The blade against your throat, digging into your skin, overwhelming pressure against the cartilage, but nothing else happened. Frozen in this moment, you held your breath as you were pinned to the barrier, hoping that whatever he was going to do would be as simple as a knife across your throat and bleeding out in a few minutes. 

But nothing happened. 

Flinching as his left arm started to move, you were shaking against the cold metal as he brought the metal hand to his face. The sound of that arm, the whirring and clicking, had your stomach clenching. The idea of those metal fingers touching you, hurting you, was more than you could stand, but that’s not what he was doing. 

The black mask that covered all but an inch below his hairline was tossed aside. You barely registered the clattering of the heavy mask on the floor with what you were now looking at. No one had ever seen the Winter Soldier’s face, but you were on the receiving end of the world’s shittiest staring contest. 

You couldn’t tell exactly what color his eyes were in the flashing red lights, maybe blue, but they could be green, but you knew the look on his face. Even if the Winter Soldier was a killing machine, he was very much male, still human, and most likely an alpha based on his build alone. 

A new terror washed away the fear of the knife at your throat or the legendary assassin holding it there: he wasn’t incapacitated. If anything, he seemed to be thinking, and the longer he stared you down, the more you realized he looked confused. 

With the building being evacuated along with who you’d just given a nuclear dose of fuck-me-pheromones, there wasn’t going to be an easy exit. You’d trained, you could fight. Against even a trained alpha, you could do enough damage to get away, but you’d never anticipated this. No one could have. This wasn’t what you were supposed to be dealing with ever; you didn’t even have a real weapon. No knives, guns, nunchucks, a couple of throwing stars, not even a purse with a brick in it or a pillow case with a few bars of soap; you had nothing. The closest thing you had to a weapon you’d just used, and he didn’t even seem to flinch. The Winter Soldier was just a story to the few who even knew about him, and even those who’d encountered him and survived would brush off any concerns. Hydra didn’t release this particular nightmare unless absolutely necessary, and only to overthrow a government or something.

You had nothing left in the proverbial tank, not that it would have done anything, and you couldn’t fight him. Blinking for the first time in what felt like an hour, your eyes refocused on his, and it was quickly becoming apparent that you wouldn’t need to fight. 

The lighter iris of his eyes was receding, engulfed by his pupils until they were fully dilated. You heard his breathing become labored, and the metal arm moved too fast, pushing you harder against the barrier and knocking the breath out of you. 

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his as he moved closer. His body against yours felt like you were going to be crushed between him and the barrier, then his hips jerked toward you. The only coherent thought you had was that there were worse ways to die; at least he was cute, even if he did look at you like you could be lunch after he was done with you. Good bone structure was still important, right?

Trying to stay calm was thrown out the window as his lips parted, and in a hoarse voice, he rasped out, “Mine.” He sounded like he didn’t talk much, but that’s not what you were focused on. The metric fuck-ton of pheromones you’d hit him with had done their job. It’s the only reason he was simply holding the blade against your throat and hadn’t moved it. 

The metal hand firmly planted in the middle of your chest tensed before it dropped down to the front of your pants. He tugged at your belt, pulling it away from your body but not enough to break it and his brows furrowed. You knew what he wanted, and it would be less stupid to cooperate, but only slightly. 

One of the reasons you sought out this particular career path was your need for risk. It was hard to think of something dumber or more life-threatening than letting the Winter Soldier take out his pent-up sexual frustrations on you, but you couldn’t deny that spark of curiosity. It might kill you, but you had a chance, a tiny one, of surviving this. The danger slut in you was practically purring at the idea of what he wanted, even if it was entirely your fault that he wanted anything other than to kill you. 

You gave him a slight nod, anything more and the blade at your neck might break the skin, and your hands were on your belt. You were alarmed that he hadn’t just torn your clothes off but hopeful that he wasn’t completely out of it. His coherency startled you, but it was clear that he wasn’t just some well-trained assassin. He might not be like you, born with some sort of fucked up ability, but he’d definitely been through something that changed him. More than brainwashing, but less than being created in a lab. He was an experiment but was still human enough to be susceptible to you. 

Before you were able to finish unzipping your pants, he was pushing them down. The fabric dug into your thighs as the knife left your throat for a second, and part of you missed it. You should probably see someone after this, the knife at your throat should have scared you, but you’d liked it.

He only switched it to the metal hand. You didn’t dare look down as he mimicked you, undressing just enough, while he almost delicately dragged the edge of the blade along your cheek, and you liked this too. You really needed to see a shrink if you survived this, maybe daily appointments.

Again he spoke. This time it was more like a growl, “Mine.”

The heat from the parts of him that you were only vaguely aware of snapped you out of whatever hold his intense gaze, and the knife had had. Your eyes dropped to see his fingers wrapped around the biggest dick you’d ever seen, and the beginning of the band around the base confirmed that he was an alpha. You weren’t excited; if anything, you were pretty sure he’d break you in half with it or worse: make a new hole that could accommodate him. 

Then he was kicking at your boots, and you complied, widening your stance as much as possible. He stepped between your feet, bending his knees as he stroked himself with his flesh hand while lining himself up. 

His breathing was ragged as he pushed between your legs, the heat from the head of his cock forcing your hips forward, welcoming him. You didn’t fight your body; you needed your instincts to help you survive what he might do to you. It didn’t escape you that he seemed to be running on nothing but need; he didn’t seem to care that you weren’t presenting. He didn’t need any of the usual mating formalities. All he wanted was release.

You didn’t even have a moment to prepare yourself as he dragged along your folds before forcing his way into your body. Even though you weren’t a virgin and you’d taken your fair share of knots, without any prep or even your heat to relax you, there was a distinct sharpness as he tried to fill you in one thrust. He met resistance, and you nearly cried out in relief when he stopped. Something had finally gone your way, and he probably wouldn’t fuck you to death. Yeah, this would probably hurt, but no more than a usual night with a rutting alpha. You could handle this, maybe even enjoy it, but you wouldn’t tell anyone about that part.  

The awkward angle, his mechanical determination, and your body not responding appropriately might frustrate him, which would be bad. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to think that you wouldn’t die and that this was nothing compared to what else he could be doing to you, but your body didn’t seem to care. 

He paused, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath, and pulled back. This flipped some magical switch in your body to finally start producing slick, and you were able to open your eyes when he started moving toward you again. This time was different.

His jaw was clenched, face screwed up in concentration, everything about him seemed strung so tight that he’d snap at the slightest change, and he was focused on where his cock sank into your body. As tempting as it was to lose yourself in the moment and possibly enjoy this, you weren’t stupid. He could cum, even knot you, but that wouldn’t save you. Right now, the only plan was to keep him distracted because that would keep you alive, and for maybe a few hours, the only possible distraction you had was between your legs. 

“Alpha,” you whined, forcing yourself to sound as weak and defenseless as you could with only one word. 

The Winter Soldier’s head jerked up, and you would swear on all the money you’d ever seen that he looked concerned, maybe curious. He didn’t speak, but he did stop moving. You pressed your luck, hoping what you’d done to him would cloud his mind enough as you begged, “Please—Fuuuck!”

His face went stoic, and he slammed into you. The angle didn’t seem to matter as you felt his hips pressed hard against your own, the heavy-duty material of his pants digging into your thighs. Your mouth was open wide in a silent scream as he leaned close, his forehead resting against yours, and he repeated himself, “Mine.”

The knife you’d forgotten about was at your throat again, but not like the first time. With the tip of the blade under your chin, you could either follow its lead or let it dig into your jaw. Even though he was too close for your eyes to focus properly, he wanted you to look at him. 

He rolled his hips, grinding against you. His girth was enough to cause an unfamiliar but pleasant burn, but that friction made this almost nice for you. It wasn’t bad, but you knew it could get worse once he started moving again. 

Feeling what you were hoping was your slick starting to drip down your thigh, you swallowed thickly before you said in an unsteady voice, “Yours.”

You could never be sure, and it didn’t seem possible when you thought back on this moment, but you thought you’d seen him smile. Not a full smile, only one side of his mouth perked up, just the corner. Regardless, it was gone as soon as it had come, if it had even been there at all. 

He raised his head, towering over you, and the metal hand pulled back. Another stupid flip of the knife, and it was at your throat again. He was resting the blade against the side of your neck, and you could feel your skin pressing against the sharp edge as your pulse raced. That shouldn’t have you gushing around his length, but here you were: knife at your neck and slick running down your legs. Maybe you needed to see a few people if you survived, this was not normal, but you liked it.

His right hand, the still scary but not as scary one, dropped to your stomach. He was pushing against your lower abdomen as his hips pulled back. He only moved back a few inches before he slammed back into you. You knew that the liquid making the squelching noise as he bottomed out was slick, it had to be because you weren’t in pain, but that could just be the adrenaline coursing through you.

Without grace, he started to fuck you. His movements were stilted, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing or couldn’t relax enough to let his body do what it wanted, or there was some disconnect between his mind and his body. He picked up the pace, grunting as he slammed into you, and a new fear reared in your mind: they might have done something to stop his rut or suppress his presentation altogether.

Trying to think how long the rumors had been going around about the Winter Soldier, you were panicking. Breathing hard as he fucked you, you watched his face as his lips curled and he bared his teeth. It had been at least a few decades, maybe thirty years. That’s why it had been so ridiculous to think he was real; no man could keep that up for so long unless they’d done something to him. Suppressed his rut, basically castrating him, maybe tried like so many others to replicate that fucking shit they’d given Steve Rogers. Even one of those options was horrific, but mixed with what you’d done? You might be fucked in a few new and exciting ways, and none of them resulted in you surviving. 

As his grunting turned to a consistent growl and his face contorted in rage, you couldn’t do anything as you watched him come undone; he was unhinged. The blade at your neck hadn’t moved, but the hand pressed against your body was. Pushing hard against you, even if he was feral, you knew he’d still try to get what he needed. 

The constant push and pull, the seemingly neverending friction, was affecting you. The pressure under his hand only made it more intense, and you knew that you would cum soon. Your mind was miles away while your body gave in to him. 

Then his hands moved too fast again, scaring you as they gripped your hips, then he started pulling you toward him. The strength he seemed to use effortlessly had you scrambling to hold on to something as he thrust into you while wrenching you toward him. Your hands gripped the front of his tactical gear to keep from losing your balance. 

The steady hum of the metal plates, the thundering of his hips meeting yours, the sloppy, wet sounds, and his deep growling were all you knew. You didn’t know when you’d started, but you were cumming, and it was nothing compared to what he was still doing to you. Any thinking you had been doing was done. The only thing you knew was this, and it was glorious. Your back arched as he pulled you harder against him, jerking your hips back and forth on his thick cock as he continued to buck into you. 

“Mine!” he howled, pushing as much of his cock into you as he came. 

You waited for his knot for a few dreadful seconds, but it didn’t come. He was panting, his flesh hand had moved back to your lower stomach, and you realized he was saying something. Simply repeating over and over, barely above a whisper with each exhale, he said the same word, “Mine… mine… mine….”

A shudder ran through him as he pulled out, his still-hard cock quickly tucked into his pants as he took a half step back. Lifting his head, he averted his eyes; you would have slapped him had he not still been holding a knife, or you know, wasn’t the Winter Soldier. Hormones or not, he could still rip you apart.

He had the audacity to look almost sheepish while you leaned against the metal barrier, your pants down, and his cum dripping out of you. Rage was starting to boil inside you when he finally looked up. In a matter of seconds, everything changed. 

The knife was back at his side, secured in its sheath, and he was pulling your pants up. Jerking at them roughly, you tried to help, and his hands left you. He took a whole step back this time, shaking his head before looking around. Once his eyes were back on you, taking stock of you, it seemed, he tilted his head back the way he’d come and started walking. 

You knew he was supposed to kill you, but you couldn’t resist following him. A few feet behind him and to his right, you were still uneasy around the inhuman arm. 

Barely a minute later, he was holding a door open, daylight pouring in as he motioned for you to go through it. It had been so easy, the building was empty, and he seemed to know his way around. But there was no way that he was helping you escape. This had to be a trap. 

You’d watched him almost lose his mind, but he pulled it back, and now he was staring at you impatiently. Muttering, “Fuck it,” to yourself as you walked past him and outside to theoretical freedom. Every fiber of your body was on edge as you passed him, waiting for the inevitable, but it didn’t come. 

The door slammed close behind him, and he was walking again. He didn’t even look back as you let him go ahead of you. He knew that you’d be behind him. There were more guards who started approaching the Winter Soldier. They shouted in Russian, gesturing with guns in your direction before they dropped to the ground. 

You only saw him holstering his gun, and it dawned on you: he was escaping. He wasn’t getting you out; this probably had nothing to do with you, just a happy accident. You still had what you’d come to that isolated building for, but now you had questions. Running, you were at his right side and glanced at him and found out two things: he was scared, and his eyes were a stunning shade of blue.

🖤

Part 2