notreallythatlost

[notreallythatlost]

Hello Gaby! A greeting and a kiss. I’m Daniel Brühl.

Source: @CaribePlay (Twitter)

[notreallythatlost]

Marvel Studios Assembled 1.2: "The Making of The Falcon and The Winter Soldier" Daniel Brühl as Baron Helmut Zemo

Hitting the dancefloor in Madripoor, "trouble?", playing with Bucky's chin, and the single-take Suitkovia infomercial—I woke up with the thought the other day that the most memorable moments from Zemo were improvised by Daniel himself.

[notreallythatlost]

“Nuh-uh, that’s not my name,” he tsked, voice rough with want. His vibranium hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You know the rules, baby girl.”

“Gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he promised, grinding against you, the friction maddening.

jesus, i couldn’t suppress the moan

“Good. Now let’s go back out there. I want every one of those bastards to see you glowing, knowing exactly who fucked you senseless.”

and even though, he’s still such a gentleman. please, send me a man written by rachel 🤭

this may have been short but oh god, lord please have mercy—it was everything i needed 😫

emerald nights [bucky barnes x f!reader]

synopsis: at the annual congress gala, you’re a vision on congressman bucky barnes’ arm, his heated whispers igniting your skin. in a hidden corner, his possessive touch consumes you, proving you’re his alone in a blaze of forbidden passion.

word count: 1000

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors do not interact, unprotected p in v, fingering, daddy kink, praise kink, public sex, possessive!bucky, age gap mentioned

author’s note: oh wow, a scheduled post <3 if you guys see this, please picture me laying in the sun drinking margaritas cuz i’m on my vacay. also, guys, i just really missed writing for congressman bucky. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

masterlist | submit a request

The Annual Congress Gala glittered with ostentatious wealth, crystal chandeliers casting fractured light across the ballroom filled with D.C.’s power-hungry elite. You clung to Congressman James “Bucky” Barnes’ arm, your pulse racing under the weight of countless eyes. You were a vision in the emerald-green gown he’d chosen—a daring, low-cut number that hugged your curves and left little to the imagination. The dress was a statement, a declaration of Bucky’s claim, yet the leering gazes of older politicians made your skin prickle.

Bucky was a force of nature in his tailored black tuxedo, his vibranium arm concealed beneath a sleek glove, its cool metal resting possessively against your lower back. His sharp jaw clenched, steel-blue eyes scanning the room with barely concealed menace. A gray-haired senator, bloated with self-importance, hadn’t stopped ogling you since you arrived, and Bucky’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your hip.

“You’re fucking breathtaking, baby girl,” he growled low, his lips grazing your ear, sending heat pooling between your thighs. “But these old bastards staring at you? Makes me wanna rip their eyes out.”

You shivered, leaning into him, your hand brushing the crisp fabric of his suit jacket. “They’re just jealous, Daddy,” you purred, voice soft but laced with mischief. “I’m yours tonight.”

His eyes darkened, a dangerous smirk curling his lips. “Oh, you’re mine every night, sweetheart. And I’m done letting these sleazy politicians think they can even look at what’s mine.” His tone was a promise, raw and possessive, and it sent a thrill down your spine.

Without another word, he guided you through the crowd, his hand firm and unyielding on your waist. The gala’s noise—clinking glasses, smug laughter—faded as he led you down a shadowed corridor and through a heavy oak door into a private lounge. The room was all dark velvet and polished wood, a haven from the chaos outside. The door locked with a decisive click, and the air thickened with anticipation.

“Bucky—” you started, but he cut you off, pinning you against the wall with his body, the hard planes of him pressing into your softness.

“Nuh-uh, that’s not my name,” he tsked, voice rough with want. His vibranium hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You know the rules, baby girl.”

“Sorry Daddy,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need. The age gap between you only heightened the taboo thrill, his authority wrapping around you like a vice.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his flesh hand sliding down your body, bunching the silk of your gown until it pooled at your hips. The cool air hit your bare thighs, and you gasped as his vibranium fingers traced the edge of your lace panties, the contrast of cold metal and your heated skin electrifying. “You’re so fucking perfect, but I can’t stand them looking at you like they could touch you.”

His lips crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, his tongue claiming your mouth as his vibranium hand slipped beneath the lace, finding you already soaked. You moaned into his kiss, the sound swallowed by his intensity as he teased you, fingers circling with deliberate slowness.

“So wet for me already,” he growled, pulling back to watch your face, his eyes black with lust. “You like making Daddy jealous, don’t you?”

“N-no, Daddy,” you stammered, hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. “Only want you.”

“Damn right,” he snarled, and with a swift motion, he tore the lace clean off, the fabric ripping under his strength. You gasped, but he didn’t give you time to process, his fingers plunging into you with a precision that made your vision blur. The stretch was intense, the cold vibranium amplifying every sensation as he worked you relentlessly, his thumb pressing against your clit in a rhythm that had you trembling.

“Say it,” he commanded, his free hand wrapping loosely around your throat, not tight but enough to make you feel owned. “Who do you belong to?”

“You, Daddy!” you cried, voice breaking as he curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. “Only you!”

“That’s my fucking girl,” he growled, his own control fraying. He hoisted you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed himself against you, the bulge in his trousers unmistakable. The wall was cool against your back, but Bucky was fire, his lips biting and sucking at your neck, leaving marks you’d wear like badges. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he promised, grinding against you, the friction maddening.

You whimpered, clawing at his shoulders, the expensive fabric of his suit bunching under your nails. “Please, Daddy,” you begged, voice raw. “Need you. Now.”

He didn’t make you wait. With a low curse, he freed himself, the sound of his zipper loud in the quiet room. He was thick and hard, and when he pushed into you, the stretch was exquisite, filling you completely. You cried out, head falling back as he set a punishing pace, each thrust driving you higher, the wall rattling with the force of his need.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and you obeyed, meeting his gaze. His eyes were wild, possessive, and the sight of him—older, powerful, unraveling because of you—sent you spiraling. “You’re mine,” he growled with each thrust, his vibranium hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “No one else gets to touch you, see you like this.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted, lost in him, the pressure building until it snapped, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name, nails digging into his back as your body clenched around him, pulling him over the edge with you. He groaned, deep and guttural, spilling into you with a final, possessive thrust, his forehead resting against yours as you both panted.

For a moment, the world was just the two of you, sweat-slicked and sated, the gala forgotten. He kissed you softly, a stark contrast to the ferocity of before, his hands gentle as he adjusted your dress. “You okay, baby girl?” he murmured, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Perfect,” you whispered, still dazed, a lazy smile on your lips.

He smirked, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Now let’s go back out there. I want every one of those bastards to see you glowing, knowing exactly who fucked you senseless.”

As you returned to the gala, his arm a possessive anchor around you, the senator’s gaze lingered again. Bucky’s smile was razor-sharp, a silent challenge, and you knew no one would dare cross him. You were his, and he’d made damn sure you both knew it.

———————————

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @cherriesnmango @positivenergy

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3

[notreallythatlost]

jesus fucking christ, this is the only way to write a fic inspired by this song. truly a masterpiece

where it truly lies 𐙚 b.b

pairing: ex!bucky barnes x reader, steve rogers x cheating!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, infidelity, degradation, rough sex, unprotected sex, toxic relationship dynamics, overstimulation, creampie, possessiveness, guilt/shame (please read the warnings)

summary: you swore you were done with him, but every time steve touches you see bucky instead. one text drags you back to the motel, back to the lies, and steve will never know.

word count: 2.8k

author's note: hi, so this fic was highly inspired by moth a flame by the weeknd who i absolutely love. kinda had it in my head for a few days now, and i'm glad i finally got it out! i hope you enjoy it! thank you for reading love!

also, look at him. raw, no questions asked.

cause he seems like he's good for you. and he makes you feel like you should

You used to believe love could be enough.

That the right man, the right timing, the right kind of affection—could cleanse you of all the pieces you gave away to the wrong one. You believed, foolishly, that once someone made you feel safe, you’d never crave danger again.

And Steve made you believe that again.

He brought peace into your life like it was something easy. Like it was something you actually deserved. He never demanded more than you could give. Never made you feel like you were too much or not enough. He listens, remembers, stays.

The kind of man who folds your laundry and leaves little notes in your coat pocket. Who warms your side of the bed before you crawl in, who touches you like you’re something sacred.

The kind of man who kisses your forehead in the morning and remembers exactly how you take your coffee. Who holds your hand in public just to remind you—I’m here, I see you and I will always choose you.

Who never raises his voice, never ever makes you feel small, never makes you question your worth.

He’s everything love should be.

Which makes the ache in your chest feel even more like a betrayal.

Because here you are—in Steve's bed, in his arms—with his soft, loving words tangled in your hair, and all you can think about is Bucky.

Your ex, your addiction, your god damn curse.

The sex was never quiet with Bucky. Never tender like how it was with Steve. It was teeth against skin, fists in the sheets, breathless begging, filthy promises whispered in the dark. It was rough, ravenous and desperate. He touched you like he was trying to own you, ruin you, keep you so high on him you would forget how to breathe without it.

You left him because you had to. Because love isn’t supposed to feel like drowning.

But it doesn’t matter how far you run—there are nights you still wake up with your thighs clenched tight, gasping his name like a sin.

Nights where Steve’s soft, steady love feels more like a lie you’re trying too hard to believe in.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Steve’s hand strokes your hair as he kisses the inside of your wrist. “I love you,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, eyes soft in the dark.

And god, he means it. He means every word.

“I love you too,” you whisper back. And part of you means it, you really do.

Steve rolls over you slowly, gently, treating your body like something precious. His hands skim your skin with reverence, his lips brushing yours with care. His cock nudges at your entrance and slides in slowly, stretching you with aching tenderness.

He moves like a man who worships. Like a man who wants to be your forever.

And you cling to him like a coward, letting him fill you, letting the warmth of him sink in deep. His breath is soft against your cheek. His fingers lace with yours.

It should be enough.

But it starts anyway—the shift, the betrayal.

You close your eyes… and suddenly it’s not Steve above you.

It’s Bucky.

It’s the past coming back in full colour and full heat, all-consuming. Bucky dragging you by the hips to the edge of his bed, slamming into you from behind while your scream cracked the silence. His metal hand at your throat, pinning you down like a ragdoll while he fucked the fight out of you. His filthy voice in your ear: "you missed this, didn’t you? You missed me."

You remember his tongue between your legs, relentless. The way he’d make you come until you sobbed. The way he laughed when your body begged for mercy and gave it to you anyway.

“One more, sweetheart. Come on, I know you’ve got it in you.”

You remember how he left you trembling. Ruined and grateful.

And fuck—your body responds before your mind can stop it. You clench around Steve without meaning to, a whimper breaking past your lips.

He mistakes it for pleasure. “You okay, baby?”

You force your eyes open, force your smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m—good. So good.”

But your mind is still back there.

Back in that dingy apartment with the blinds half-closed, the sheets damp with sweat and sin, Bucky buried so deep inside you that you swore you’d never be clean again. The way he’d whisper “cum for me, doll,” and you would. Over and over.

Because nothing else ever made you feel that alive.

And Steve—he’ll never know.

He’ll never know what Bucky did to you. What you let him do.

What you liked.

Steve makes love to you like you’re breakable. Like he’d die before hurting you.

And you let him. You love him for it.

But inside, your body is screaming for something rougher. Darker. The kind of touch that leaves bruises behind. The kind of voice that tells you when to open your mouth, when to spread your legs, when to shut up and take it.

Steve moans softly, hips stuttering as he finishes inside you, holding you close like you’re his home.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispers.

And you smile through the guilt, through the ache, through the hollow echo that Bucky left behind.

Because Steve has your body tonight.

But your mind, your heart...

They still lie somewhere else.

Somewhere darker, colder. Somewhere Bucky never really let go.

it's just one call away. and you'll leave him, you're loyal to me

It starts with a vibration.

You’re curled up on the couch, still wearing Steve’s sweatshirt—oversized, soft, worn in all the right places. It smells like him, that clean, warm scent of cedar and soap, tinged faintly with the aftershave he only wears on Sundays. It wraps around you like a comfort you didn’t realise you were clinging to. Outside, the morning sun pours through the windows, gilding everything with a false sense of calm.

Your coffee’s has went lukewarm. A quiet song hums through the speakers. For a moment, it all feels deceptively peaceful.

And then your phone buzzes. Just once.

A short, sharp vibration against the wood of the coffee table.

You glance over without thinking, eyes still soft with sleep, mind slow with the kind of haze that only exists on lazy mornings.

And then you see it.

Bucky Barnes Can we talk? Just us.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You sit up too quickly, heart kicking into your ribs. Your pulse spikes before your brain can even catch up. It’s just a name. A message. But it feels like the floor’s tilted beneath you.

Bucky.

You haven’t seen that name in weeks. You made sure of it, you deleted your message history. You told yourself it was over. Swore it was over. And yet—

There he is.

And just like that, the quiet peace you were holding onto splinters into something jagged.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Every rational part of you screams don’t. Ignore it. Block him. Tell Steve. Do the right thing.

But your hands are already shaking. Your stomach’s already tight with something ugly and electric. That coiling tension you thought you’d buried deep. The one that only ever came alive around him.

Before you can even think to reply—or delete the message entirely—your phone buzzes again.

Bucky Barnes I still know what you need, doll. Don’t pretend he gives it to you.

Your mouth goes dry.

And suddenly, everything inside you turns traitor.

You hate how fast your thighs press together. You hate the heat pooling low in your belly. You hate how your body remembers every word, every bruise, every orgasm he wrung out of you until you were crying his name into the mattress.

You hate that he’s right.

Because as good as Steve is—safe, kind, gentle—he doesn’t undo you. Not like Bucky. Not even close.

Behind you, footsteps pad softly into the room.

You fumble your phone screen off just as Steve slips his arms around you from behind, leaning in to kiss your temple. His lips are warm, familiar and comforting.

“I’m gonna head out for my run,” he murmurs. “You good here for a while?”

You nod, trying to smile as you clutch the mug a little too tightly. “Yeah. Of course. Be safe.”

He squeezes your hip, gives you one last kiss, and heads for the door. It closes behind him with a quiet click.

And then—

Silence.

Except for the pounding in your chest.

You stare at the blank screen of your phone like it’s cursed. Like it’s holding a live wire to your skin. Your hands tremble as you set your mug down, untouched now. Cold.

You don’t think. You don’t plan.

Ten minutes later, you’re shrugging into a coat, keys in hand, heart hammering so loud you swear someone might hear it.

And you leave.

Out the back stairwell. Quiet. Cowardly.

Still wearing Steve’s sweatshirt.

But walking straight into Bucky’s orbit as if leaving was only ever an illusion.

i'll pull you in, i'll pull you back to what you need initially

You meet Bucky at a run-down motel just outside the city—one of those places with a flickering vacancy sign and curtains that never open. He’s leaning against the wall outside Room 11, a black jacket clinging to his large frame, boots scuffed, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket like he’s got nowhere better to be.

But the moment his eyes lift to meet yours—steel-blue, sharp, familiar, you know you’ve already made the worst kind of mistake.

“You look good,” he murmurs, voice low and razor-edged.

You don’t return the compliment. “This is a mistake.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Probably. Still came, though.”

You shoulder past him, into the room. The air smells like smoke and old sweat, the curtains drawn tight against the daylight. You spin around, pulse thrumming in your neck. “This isn’t fair. You don’t get to text me out of nowhere—”

Bucky steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him. “Don’t talk to me about fair.” His gaze drops to your hands—trembling. “You’re shaking.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“No. You have a security blanket.”

Your jaw tenses. “Steve loves me.”

“Yeah? But does he fuck you like you need to be fucked?” His eyes drop to your lips. “Or do you close your eyes and wish it was me—pinning you down, fucking you raw, choking you while you cum screaming my name?”

Your hand flies before you think. The slap cracks across his cheek, the sound echoing through the silence.

He barely reacts. Just licks the inside of his cheek, then smirks. “There she is.”

You backpedal, heart slamming. “I shouldn’t have come. I need to go—”

But he’s on you in two strides. You’re slammed against the wall, his mouth crushing yours with a violence you forgot you craved. His kiss is all tongue and teeth and anger, tasting like cigarettes and buried need.

You moan into it, helpless, bitter, clawing at his jacket like you’re starved.

He spins you fast, yanks your leggings down to your knees, and kicks your feet apart with his boot. It’s rough. Disrespectful. Fucking filthy. Your palms slap the wall, breath punching out of you.

His fingers slide between your thighs. “Already soaked,” he mutters. “Fucking pathetic. You walked in dripping for me, didn’t you?”

“Bucky—please—”

“Don’t beg yet.” His metal hand fists in your hair and jerks your head back, cheek pressed to the plaster. “Say it. Say you missed my cock.”

You gasp, heat roaring low in your belly. “I—fuck—I missed it.”

“That’s not good enough.” His voice goes guttural. “Say you missed me ruining you.”

You barely get the words out before he’s pushing inside—hard, unrelenting, no prep, no pause.

You scream, hand slamming the wall.

He fills you so deep, so fast, it knocks the air out of your lungs. His hips snap into yours, pace brutal from the start. The slap of skin on skin drowns out your guilt.

“You miss this?” he pants, breath hot at your ear. “Miss getting used like a little fucking toy?”

“Yes,” you sob. “God—yes, Bucky—”

He slams into you harder, both hands gripping your hips now, fucking you like he wants to break you. “Steve doesn’t fuck you like this. He can’t. He doesn’t know how to make this sweet cunt beg.”

His hand snakes around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your head swim.

“You gonna cum already? Gonna fall apart just from getting pounded like a filthy little slut?”

You try to answer, but your body betrays you—clenching around him, hips jerking. It crashes over you like a wave, white-hot and devastating. You cry out, face crumpling against the wall as you cum hard, thighs shaking.

But Bucky doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking you through it, drawing another broken moan from your raw throat.

“I’m not done with you,” he growls. “Not until I fill you up. Gonna send you home dripping my cum like the little slut you are.”

You whimper, overstimulated and wrecked.

And he groans low when he cums, hips pressed flush to yours, cock twitching deep inside. You feel it—hot, thick, spilling into you as he bites down on your shoulder.

When he finally pulls out, you slump against the wall, legs shaking, your thighs slick with everything he gave you.

You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes from the nightstand.

Steve Hey sweetheart, just got back, where did you go?

You stare at the message, numb.

Guilt claws up your spine, tangling with the aftershocks still rolling through your body. You pull your leggings up with trembling hands, fingers fumbling with the waistband.

Behind you, Bucky lights a cigarette by the window. He exhales slow, watching you through the smoke like he already knows.

You’ll come back.

Because you always do.

Because no matter how good Steve is— Bucky fucks you like he owns you. And some part of you still wants to be his.

does he know where your heart lies? where it truly lies

Steve’s breathing is steady next to you, soft in the dark. His hand brushes your arm, gentle and warm—the way he always is. But your mind is somewhere else.

The way Bucky’s hands grip your hips. The way his mouth claims yours, rough and urgent. The way he makes you come, harder than Steve ever has, with a fire that leaves you raw and desperate for more.

Your phone buzzes silently on the nightstand. You see Bucky’s name. A single message:

I'm nearby. Come.

You swallow hard, heart pounding—not with excitement, but with guilt.

You look at Steve, peaceful and trusting, and for a moment it nearly breaks you. But your body betrays you. Again.

Careful not to wake him, you slip out of bed, dress quickly, and grab your coat. The night air hits your skin cold, but you don’t care. Every step away from your apartment feels like stepping further from yourself.

You find Bucky waiting in the shadows, his eyes dark, hungry. Without a word, he pulls you into his arms, and the ache inside you shifts into something sharper.

The second he touches you, everything else disappears.

His hands are hard, rough—pulling your hair, gripping your waist, pushing you against the brick wall. His mouth is on your neck, biting, sucking, marking. You tremble because you’re his—only his.

He tears at your clothes like he’s been starving for you.

His touch is fierce, relentless. He fucks you like he owns every part of you, deep, fast, bruising, but somehow still so damn good you can’t catch your breath. He calls your name like a curse, whispers filthy promises between gritted teeth, telling you exactly how much you’re his, how much you need him.

You scream into the night, nails digging into his back as he drives into you harder, faster—until you shatter, collapsing against him, trembling.

When it’s over, Bucky pulls you close, but there’s no softness—only possession lingering in his touch. You can still feel the heat of him inside you, the harshness of his grip on your hair.

You pull away, slipping out of his apartment as quietly as you can, the cold night air biting your skin again. Every step back feels heavier, like you were dragging your own shame behind you.

Back inside your apartment, you don’t have the strength to face Steve. You crawl into bed beside him, careful not to wake him, but the weight of your guilt is crushing.

You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, breath uneven. The darkness isn’t peaceful—it’s suffocating.

Because you’re here, lying next to Steve’s steady warmth, but your mind—and your body—still belong to Bucky.

And that truth claws at you like a knife.

[notreallythatlost]

THUNDERBOLTS* – 2025, dir. Jack Schreier

[notreallythatlost]

yep, i definitely have a soft spot for bucky and cutting his hair off. thank you for this <33

Strands of the past

Pairing: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Hair holds memories. A weight. A pain. And carries it on his shoulders, every single day.

Wordcount: 1.922 Words

Warnings: hurt/comfort, established relationship, cutting hair, mention of insecurities, mention of blood, cutting himself, angst, fluff

Authors Note: Beta’d by my love. Thank you to @thevillainswhore for the amazing aesthetics and title, too. Dividers made by me.

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

His thick fingers comb through his long hair, getting stuck whenever he finds a small knot. His scalp hurts from the attempt to detangle them but he only makes it worse. The ends of his brown locks stick together, not even budging when he tries to push his fingers through it.

Bucky curses softly, his eyes water when another strand of hair joins the mess. The pain is unbelievable, burning. It feels like he’s about to rip out his hair.

A soft sigh leaves his plump lips. Pictures flashing in his mind as he tries to untangle his fingers from his hair — somehow, even those are stuck now, just as the memories always have been. Afraid they always will be.

A look around allows him to catch the sight of the scissors you recently cleaned on the bathtub. Bucky reaches for them, he has considered cutting his hair for a while now. So maybe it’s time to finally do it.

Let go of your memories.

And yes, Bucky’s hair holds more memories than anyone can imagine. Some days he can still feel their grip, their pulling and pushing. Bucky can still feel the sweat dripping off them, and it all reminds him of him.

The other him. The Winter Soldier.

Bucky takes the scissors and brings them to his tangled hair. His eyes are tightly scrunched shut, his hands shaking. With another deep breath he slides the blades around the strand of his brown hair and cuts it.

The sound of the scissors cutting through his hair is almost as loud as glass breaking for him. His ears tingle and a few tears form in his eyes. He cut his hair.

It’s just a strand. But for him it’s so much more. It’s like a weight being lifted off his shoulders. A weight he’s carried around for years, for decades.

Bucky moves his hand with the strand dangling between his fingers in front of his face. His eyes flutter open as he looks at it. It looks so soft and yet like the worst pain he’s ever felt.

He takes another shaky but deep breath, letting the strand slide down through his fingers and fall into the sinks. A soft smile forms on his lips while a few more tears roll down his cheeks.

With a low sigh he takes another strand and cuts it off too. He does it slowly, taking in every little step, every little sound it makes. Until he has the strand between his fingers once more, his shoulders lighten just like the weight of the past.

“Bucky?” Your soft voice comes from the hallway and his eyes widen.

You’re never against any of his decisions, but you love to run your fingers through his hair. Maybe you would be mad now, mad that he did it before he asked you if it would be a good idea.

“Baby, where are you?” You ask, a hint of worry in your voice as he hears your footsteps along the hallway.

But he stays quiet, the scissors in his hair as he listens closely to you. He closes his eyes, not ready to look into your disappointed eyes when you find out what he just did.

Bucky cuts off another strand. Sharp pain jolting his body as he hisses and lets the scissors fall into the sink. His fingers move over the shell of his ear, feeling the pain increasing as he strokes his digits over a deep cut. A cut he caused because he didn’t pay attention.

“Bu-Hey, Baby,” you say, your eyes finding his before you scan his body, trying to find out what just happened.

Cut strands of his hair. Blood drops down his ear. And tears all over his cheeks.

“Buck, what?” You interrupt yourself, taking a step closer to place your hands on his waist and push him back toward the toilet. “Sit down, please.”

Bucky looks at you, eyes widened and fearful as he tries to read your expression. But there is no anger, no hatred. You’re looking at him like he’s the most delicate and softest thing ever. There is nothing but love swirling in your eyes, love for him.

“Can you take your hand off your ear, please? I just want to clean the wound,” you say softly, sliding your hands along his sides to his arms.

Bucky’s eyes are still as wide as before, showing so much innocence and hope that your heart shatters in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes closing. “I-I’m sorry.”

“For what? There is nothing to be sorry for,” you reply, bringing your hands to his cheeks to pull his face closer and kiss his forehead softly. Your lips linger a moment longer when you feel him shaking against you.

“I cut my hair and I didn’t ask you. I-I didn’t ask you if you like it and—“ a sob escapes his plump lips. Bucky only buries his face further in your chest, his fingers digging into your waist like you could disappear if he would loosen his grip the slightest bit. “And that I didn’t ask you to help.”

“You’re a grown up man, Buck,” you whisper against his forehead, drawing small circles along his neck and his shoulders with your fingers. “You’ve wanted to cut your hair for a while now, and while I don’t like that you’ve hurt yourself, I would never be mad that you tried yourself. I’m proud that you allowed yourself to take that step along a path you never went before.”

Bucky pulls back, looking at you with a hint of a smile on his plump lips. “Youre not mad?”

“I will never be mad at you for things like that, Bucky.”

He nods, humming softly. You pull back, turning with his fingers still digging into your waist.

“Could you lose your grip just a tiny little bit?” You ask softly, knowing he needs the comfort right now. But you also want to clean the cut.

Bucky hesitates, but eventually he lets go slightly, still keeping his hands on your waist. You reach up to get the sanitizer, causing your shirt to lift up and Bucky uses the opportunity to hide his face immediately against your warm stomach.

“Buck! That tickles,” you laugh softly, running one of your hands through his brown locks while you put some sanitizer on a small pad and wipe the wound softly. “It’s not too deep.”

You keep stroking his hair back softly, feeling his shoulders relax and the tears dry against your skin. Only when he’s completely calm does he pull back softly and look at you with red rimmed eyes but a soft smile.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Could you… help me, please?”

“To cut your hair?”

Bucky nods, looking at the sink where the scissors and some of his long strands are before his eyes settle back on yours. “Please?”

Your expression softens even more. Bucky wasn’t always as vulnerable and open around you. You had to work for it — you gladly did. And you're all the more fortunate that he lets you see even the broken parts of him, the parts he hates the most because they could make him look weak.

But not with you, never with you. You’re the sweet, lovely woman, who accepts him. No matter what. No matter how broken he is. His past can haunt him in the darkest nights, but there will always be someone — you, who offers him the warmth and light to know he’s more than his fear. His demons.

He’s still the man he used to be. A bit hurt. But he’s still James Bucky Barnes. And you make him feel human, every single time he believes he’s nothing.

Time was needed for him to let down his walls. And you appreciate every time you get to see the softness and love he hides in front of others. For you though, he’s an open book. Every page is available for you to read, to know about him, about his past, his fears. And about his love.

You hum and nod, taking the scissors. “How about we take off your shirt so your hair won’t be stuck to it?”

He looks at you, lost like a kicked puppy. He knows what to do and he wants to do it but somehow, Bucky only watches you with his big blue orbs.

You chuckle softly, taking the soft fabric of his shirt between your fingers and tug it upward softly. “Arms up, Buck.”

The brunette lifts his muscular arms and allows you to help him out of his shirt.

Bucky keeps watching you intensely as you take off his shirt. Your warm fingers make him shudder every time they connect with his skin, goosebumps erupting all over his body.

“Do you have an idea of how you want it cut?” You ask softly, running your fingers through his hair to his neck where you curl them and pull him closer toward you.

Your lips hover just above his as Buckys takes a shaky breath, the motion still so intimate, no matter how often you both have kissed. No matter how often you’re close to one another, it’s still so special for him to feel that kind of love.

“N-not really,” he whispers, breaking the distance to peck your lips softly. “I-I just want it… short?”

You nod, kissing your way from his lips along his nose toward his forehead.

“Then that’s what we are going to do. Cut your hair short.”

Bucky hums, smiling as he sighs softly. “You don’t mind that? I mean, you love my long hair.”

“That I do,” you laugh, taking a comb. Bucky’s eyes widen at the comb, not ready to feel the pain in his scalp again. “But I want you to be happy, and no hair, no matter how luscious it may be,  is more worthy.”

“But you’ll be careful, right?” Bucky asks, his thick fingers curling around your wrist, stopping your movements of the comb moving closer to his hair. “Because it-it hurts a lot.”

You nod. You're always soft and careful. He knows. But somehow he’s still afraid that it might hurt.

“I will only use it to slightly comb through it. Otherwise I might cut your hair like a centimeter long,” you giggle, imagining Bucky being bald. Or with a haircut that makes him look like a hedgehog. “I mean… it might be cute too, my little hedgehog.”

Bucky laughs. Really laughs. His nose scrunches slightly while his eyes crinkle and his chest vibrates softly form the roughness.

“Hedgehog? I’m not sure it would suit me, babydoll.”

“I’m sure everything would suit you!”

Bucky grins, leaning his head back to look at you. Then his expression turns serious once more. The depth of his eyes darken as he looks more thoughtful.” You think so?”

The insecurities he’s carrying on his shoulders. Every day. The thoughts of never being good enough. Of never being what you need, what you want. Little did he know — or believe — that he’s so much more than you could ever have asked for.

“I don’t think that you would always look handsome. I know it.” You whisper against his forehead before you finally push back again and comb softly through his hair. “And whatever your mind tells you, it’s not true. You’re more than your insecurities, than your past. You’re James Bucky Barnes and the love of my life. So, yes, for me you will always look perfectly fine.”

@armystay89 @rogersbarber

[notreallythatlost]

#What about Bucky? TFATWS (2021)

[notreallythatlost]

#i love them your honor

DANIEL BRÜHL and SEBASTIAN STAN Marvel Studios - Assembled: The Falcon and The Winter Soldier (2021)

[notreallythatlost]

“We were just there on set because we knew there was gonna be no dialogue. We knew it was just gonna play back in the museum as silent footage of them together so as we shot it, they were just talking to each other, not even as the characters, they were just talking to each other as Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan, trying to make each other laugh and have a good time just so we have this little moment between the two characters. We actually never had a script in terms of what was happening there in a storytelling level, it was just a moment to show the two were close and had a great relationship.”

                                                                                                   – Anthony Russo

[notreallythatlost]

me right now, because this is so beautiful. the fluff, the love, just everything—i‘m obsessed

the chop ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

summary - bucky decides he wants to cut his hair and you gladly help him

warnings - super brief mentions of HYDRA and what they did to bucky, pure fluff, they kiss a few times but that's it, oh also bucky doesn’t have a shirt on :P

notes - set before tfatws + the reader and bucky are already in an established relationship !! ALSO TY TO MY BBY @emmdubbwrites FOR PROOFING THIS FOR ME

word count - 1.9k

“Are you sure about this?”

A beat of silence. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

You exhaled and nodded, meeting Bucky’s eyes with a soft smile in the bathroom mirror in front of you. He had drug one of the chairs from the kitchen table in your apartment into the bathroom, and now sat in front of you, shirtless, with a towel in his lap. He fiddled with the pair of dog tags on the chain around his neck, their soft clinking against each other drifting between the two of you.

Your fingers threaded through his long hair, tugging softly, teasingly, at the ends of them before resting your arm over his vibranium shoulder. Your face hovered next to his in the mirror. A pair of hair scissors glinted in the bathroom light as you turned them between your fingers mindlessly. 

“If this looks like actual shit after I’m done you don’t get to be mad at me. You gave me the go ahead.” You squeezed his shoulder, grinning at the huff that came from the man in front of you. Bucky took your hand, pulling it around and towards his mouth, brushing a kiss across your knuckles. 

He knew that you could tell he was tense. And it was stupid. It was so stupid that he was this worked up, this anxious over a damn haircut. But Bucky knew it needed to happen. Despite the unease that settled over his frame as he glanced at the shears in your hand and at the electric clippers that sat plugged in on the counter in front of the two of you, he knew that by doing this, by cutting off his hair, he would have some skewed sense of freedom.

For so long, his hair had brushed his shoulders, long and messy. It had been there the entire time HYDRA had owned him, a symbol of their hold over him. They had never let him cut it, giving the excuse that the long hair helped to hide his face. When he had come back, Bucky had kept it long. In an odd way that he didn't totally understand, he had been afraid to cut it off and what that meant for himself and who he was. His hair had been a sort of comfort for him, albeit an odd sense of comfort. It was the only thing he had. Sure, he knew about Steve and the Howling Commandos and his life in the 1940s but that had only come later. His hair had been a constant in the midst of hundreds of memory wipings and erasures. It had remained long, as it was currently. 

He had been toying with the idea of cutting it for a while. When he first brought it up to you, you had crawled over to him on the couch, scooting into his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. You had told him that whatever he decided that you would back him, support him, no matter if his hair was long or short.

And now, with you standing behind him, your hand on his shoulder, bringing an overwhelming wave of calm over him, Bucky knew it would be okay. He knew that by getting rid of the hair that was now growing a bit past his shoulders, that it meant he would be okay. That he was okay. That James Buchanan Barnes is okay.

It meant that he was no longer the Winter Soldier. No longer a weapon for sick, powerful men to manipulate. Rather, he was his own man. His own person. A person that made their own decisions and choices, and he was stepping a foot forward and making the choice, his choice, to cut his hair.

Bucky nodded at you once more and you smiled back at him in the mirror, your eyes warm and patient. Your hand slid off of his shoulder, coldness replacing the heat it brought as you ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back and out of his face.

He closed his eyes, fully trusting you as you sectioned a bit of his dark hair. You spread the hair between two of your fingers. Kissing the top of his head briefly, you clipped the section off with a gentle snip.

Bucky’s eyes tensed at the sound, blinking up at you where you stood at his side, a chunk of dark brown hair in your hands. You smiled like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“See? Not so bad.” You handed the hair to him, his arm reaching up and taking it from you. The hair slid across the cool metal of his hand, stray strands fluttering down to the tile floor beneath him.

You continued to trim off the length of his hair, pausing every so often to squeeze his shoulder or peck his cheek. Bucky kept his eyes closed most of the time, softly answering you when you checked in on him or muttering a comment about how you had better not have been fucking up his hair.

The sharp clink of the metal shears against the counter snapped his eyes open, watching warily as you picked up the electric razor. Bucky glanced up at the mirror and winced.

“Maybe I should’ve seen Sam’s guy.” Bucky muttered, running a hand through his now choppy hair. It was uneven on the sides, some bits long, some shorter. You scoffed, rolling your eyes, playfully kicking his shin with your bare foot. 

“I’m not done yet. You gotta trust the process.”

You flicked a painted fingernail over the side of the razor, the soft hum of electricity whirring to life. Bucky tensed. You noticed and shut the razor back off, leaning back against the counter.

“You okay?”

He nodded, swallowing hard, adjusting in the hard wooden seat of the chair. 

“I’m good. It’s just…different. Not a bad different. Just weird.” Bucky mumbled, meeting your eyes and quirking the left side of his mouth up in a half-hearted attempt at a smile. You nodded in response, pushing off the counter and tilting his chin up. He relaxed into your hand, muscles exhaling. You kissed him easily, tongue ghosting his, before pulling back and resting your forehead against his.

“It’s okay for you to be different now. You’re allowed to not be him and just be Bucky. To be your own man.” You pecked his forehead once more before switching the razor on again and moving to stand behind him.

When the razor buzzed against the nape of Bucky’s skull, moving across his neck and over his ears and against his temple he didn’t tense up. He didn't panic. He didn’t get the urge to react that he typically did.

Instead, he breathed. 

He breathed and it was easy, it didn’t take everything in him to steady himself. His chest loosened and his eyes stayed open this time, focused on you. The tip of your tongue stuck out of the corner of your mouth as you concentrated on not nipping his neck. Your hair was tucked behind one ear, a stray piece falling in front of your eyes. His own shirt, the stupid one Sam had given him for his past birthday that had Grumpy Old Vet plastered on the front in alarmingly bold letters, hung on your frame, a size or two too big, but he thought it fit perfectly. 

In moments like these, Bucky knew he was absolutely in love with you. He knew it most certainly when you did what you thought were little things for him, such as this haircut, but in reality, things that meant everything to him. When you would take the long way home from work just to stop by that diner the two of you loved to grab his favorite pancakes to bring home for supper that night. Or when you would go scrounging around in some dingy antique store, just so you could return with a stack of old black and white movies that you hadn’t heard of in your arms just because you knew that he would know them.

Bucky paused and furrowed his brow at the silence in the bathroom that had suddenly dawned on him, stirring him from his thoughts. You still stood behind him, the razor, now off, hung lopsided in your hand. You chewed on your bottom lip and he noted the slight rose tint that now stained your cheeks.

“Is it that bad?” He teased, breaking the stillness, your eyes snapping to his. You shook your head, reaching around him to set the razor on the counter, balancing on one foot as you leaned over him, your chest pressing into his back.

“You look good, Bucky. Like, really good.” You tousled his hair, smoothing the sides and running your fingers through the top. “How’s it feel?”

Bucky finally looked up, startling slightly at the man that looked back at him in the mirror. His hair was no longer lengthy, cupping his chin and grazing his shoulders. Now, it sat cleanly, trimmed and short, but not too short. Bucky reached a hand up, brushing over the hair around his ear.

He ran his tongue over his teeth as he nodded, clearing his throat. His voice felt stuck, like a boulder lodged in his windpipes.

“I like it.” He mumbled softly, running his hand, again, through his hair. “It feels good. Feels like I can, I don't know, like I can breathe. God, that’s dumb.”

You shook your head, a grin tugging at your lips as you pushed his hands down from where they had been aggravating his hair. 

“That’s not dumb. It makes sense. You know…,” you kissed the side of his neck, slipping around in front of him and hopping up on the counter, crossing a leg under you, “...people say that hair can hold memories and all that. That when you cut it, it's like starting fresh. Clean slate. That’s what you just did.”

Bucky glanced up at you as his chest prickled as he watched you get comfortable on the hard granite of the counter. “Yeah?”

You nodded, leaning over to rinse the shears in the sink beside you. “Besides, now when people compliment you on your hair you get to tell them how your talented girlfriend oh so graciously cut your hair.” Your eyes flashed up to his, biting back a grin.

Bucky rolled his eyes, folding up the towel in his lap and standing. He stepped towards you, moving to stand between your legs. You finished drying off the shears, setting them to the side and tossing the towel into the pile of laundry near the door.

He smiled at you, the causality of your actions causing the prickle in his chest to grow. He ducked his head down and kissed you, gently rubbing a circle on your boxer-clad thigh with his metal thumb.

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbled as he pulled back, kissing the top of your head. You wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face into his chest, body straightening as you inhaled against his ribs. His chin rested on your head and he smiled to himself as the soft scent of strawberry from your shampoo tickled his nose.

This was what it was for. 

What the cutting of his hair was for. He was a different man, the man that loved you, and by cutting his hair, he knew that he could fully be that. He could fully breathe, fully exist, fully love. 

And for the first time in ages, James Buchanan Barnes was fully himself.

[notreallythatlost]

𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍 as 𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒/𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒 as 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒/𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀

Bucky in Thunderbolts* (2025) Steve in Infinity War (2018)

this Steve with this Bucky

[notreallythatlost]

bad idea ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

summary - you have a moment of weakness and call bucky in the middle of the night. just for some company, of course. nothing else.

warnings - !! 18+ mdni - you are responsible for your media consumption !!, smut with like no plot, fingering, teasing, p in v, little bit of angst if you squint and tilt your head

note - baby's 1st fic of any sort :D also, this was inspired by "bad idea" by girl in red

You knew you shouldn't have called him.

You both agreed that last time really was the last time.

But as you sat on the couch in the living room of your apartment and Bucky appeared on the screen along with his team, looking oh-so-dreamy in his New Avengers suit, you hand drifted to your phone. Somehow, it had developed a mind of its own, scrolling through your contacts until his name popped up, immediately opening the text thread and shooting him a quick ‘text me when you get a minute’.

The two of you had met at one of what seemed like a hundred briefings since Valentina’s forming of the New Avengers. You had been assigned to sit in on the meetings and conferences, taking notes and acting as a sort of secretary slash journalist. Bucky had greeted you with a flash of a smile and from that moment, you knew you were fucked. Literally and metaphorically.

Soon after, Bucky and you had spent the night together, up into the early hours of the morning. Then you spent another night together. And then an afternoon. And then a few days. And so on and so forth until you had become tangled in the hot mess that was whatever this was. A situationship? Co-workers with benefits? Just a hookup? You weren’t exactly sure to be honest. Not that it really mattered.

But then the weekly hookups had gotten riskier. Less careful and more spur of the moment. One particular evening, you were working late, camped out in the common area of the New Avengers lounge. Typing away at your laptop in an effort to get a few emails scheduled before you clocked out for the day, Bucky had slipped in silently, sliding in beside you, shutting your laptop gently and resting a hand on your thigh, trailing it upwards.

One thing led to another and you had straddled his lap, mid-makeout when from the kitchen in walked Yelena, bowl of mac and cheese in hand. It had clattered to the floor and she had gasped, hand covering her mouth, eyebrows raised. You had scrambled out of his lap faster than you’ve ever moved in your life.

Yelena had blinked at Bucky and then back to you. “You…and her? Damn, Barnes. She’s waaaay out of your league.”

She had shook her head, chuckling softly, as Bucky groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. You had snatched your laptop up and darting out of the tower, muttering about how you were never showing face again.

After that whole…ordeal, you had told Bucky that it had to stop. That it had gone too far and the two of you had gotten too bold for your own good. In that moment, common sense had slapped you in the face, and you realized just how messy it was – fucking your co-worker who was also kind of, sort of your boss in a way. And of course, being the frustratingly good-natured guy that Bucky was, he had accepted that with no if, ands, or buts. Very 1940’s gentleman of him.

You had put distance between yourself in the team now, working remotely, only coming in when absolutely needed or specifically requested. During meetings you kept to yourself, taking your notes, asking your questions, and vanishing afterwards before anybody could catch you to chat. You hadn’t seen Bucky in weeks, only communicating with him via Val if even at all. Every time you had gone into the tower, he avoided you like the plague (which, honestly, was fine by you), so you hadn’t seen how he’d grown his hair out. Or how the light stubble on his chin had become thicker. Or had much more muscle he had gained.

But now, seeing him on the screen in front of you, his picture plastered on the screen while a news reporter went on and on about how the team was becoming more public, you couldn’t help but pull your lower lip in between your teeth. Bucky looked good. Like, really fucking good.

You glanced back up at the TV, watching as the broadcaster pivoted to another story. Your hand, who, by the way, was a real traitorous bitch, now held your phone in front of you, eyes darting down. A grin spread across your face as three little bubbles popped up in the text thread before ‘you okay, doll?’

Your throat suddenly dry, you swallowed hard, swiping up and clicking the Call button, raising your phone to your ear. It rang once. Then twice. Then three times. You flopped back on the couch with a soft groan, about to hang up when it clicked over.

“Hey, doll. Everything okay?” Your chest warmed, tight and tingly as you heard the concern in his voice.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah I’m fine. I’m good. I just…,” you rolled your eyes at yourself before finally biting the bullet, “I saw you. On TV. Just now. You look good, Buck.”

There was silence for a moment. “Yeah? And you decided to call me in the middle of the night to tell me that?” Bucky laughed softly and you swore you could hear his stupid, cocky smirk on the other end

“No. No, I called to tell you to come over.” You exhaled nervously, eyes squeezed shut, half out of embarrassment, half praying he’d say yes.

“Give me twenty minutes.” The line hung up with a click and you blinked at the black screen of your phone.

18 minutes later, not that you were counting or anything, a knock came from the entryway of your apartment. You slid around the corner of the hallway from your room, having hurriedly made something of an attempt to fix the mess that was your hair.

Again, this was not a good idea. The voice in the back of your head was screaming at you to walk away, ignore the knocking, leave him alone. This was a very, very, bad idea. One that was only going to end up in more hurt and more awkwardness and more tension.

But fuck that.

Smoothing your shirt you opened the door, blushing at the man in front of you. Why hadn’t you changed shirts? Internally you groaned, regretting the two sizes too big Looney Toons shirt you wore.

You blushed at the man in front of you, face prickling with warmth. 

His hair. His hair was different. Different and good and so good you just wanted to run your hands through it and tug it while he — You cut yourself off mentaly, audibly exhaling through your nose, sharp and breathy. 

You were absolutely, completely, totally, fucked.

“Did I come all the way over here just for you to ogle me or are you gonna let me in?” Bucky grinned, leaning in over you. Shit. He knew it. He knew how you were looking at him. Why you were looking at him like the way you were.

You blushed harder, opening the door further. “Shut up.” You glanced away as he stepped in, rolling your eyes.

As he stepped into your apartment you shook your head. “This was a bad idea,” you muttered as you rubbed a hand over your arm, stepping around him and into the kitchen. Bucky followed behind you, watching as you stood on your tiptoes, grabbing a glass from the cabinets above the kitchen counter. His eyes narrowed, catching on the way your shirt raised with your shoulders, revealing the smallest sliver of skin. Bucky blinked. You two hadn’t fucked in weeks and he was still just as enthralled as he was before. He grunted, stepping towards you.

“Really? Because I think it's a good one.”

You paused, slipping the glass back onto the shelf and turning around, your back now digging into the edge of the counter. Bucky was now inches away, his broad shoulders tense as his hands rested beside you, caging you in. He exhaled, breath warm as it ghosted over your lips.

He raised a metal hand, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. “Do you know how much I’ve missed this?” He grunted, trailing off, examining the way your cheeks bloomed into a rosy shade of pink. The almost imperceptible way your breath stuttered. The way you blinked up at him, mouth slightly agape.

Bucky smirked, shifting his hand to cup your chin as he angled it up and leaned in, his lips brushing yours. You moved up into him, slotting your mouth against his. The contact seemed to drive him over an edge he had been teetering on.

He lifted you up like you were a feather, hands cupping the backs of your thighs. His fingers, cold and warm shocking together in contrast, dug into your flesh as he wrapped your legs around his waist. You whined softly, twining your fingers through his hair as he crossed the kitchen and into the hallway.

Your back met the wall with a soft thud, a gasp of air escaping through your lips. Bucky grunted, setting you down and pushing you further into the wall behind you, hands cupping your face as he kissed you, hard.

You gasped into his mouth. He took advantage of that, tongue darting in, drawing you in even closer into the kiss and into him. Breathing you in as if he was a man drowning. His teeth and tongue clashed against yours, sending a flush reverberating throughout your limbs.

Your hands fumbled with his belt and he pulled back, laughing gruffly, moving to unbuckle his belt. He flicked the clasp open and jerked the smooth leather out of the loops on his jeans in one fluid motion. Somewhere out in the hallway it skittered along the floor with a clatter. You leaned back against the wall, chewing on the tip of your fingertip as he shrugged his jeans and boxers off, kicking them out of the way.

Bucky ran his tongue over his teeth, grinning before gripping the hem of your shirt with his vibranium fingers and jerking down. You scoffed lightly as the fabric split. He shrugged it off of your shoulders, fingers brushing your skin, leaving a blazing trail in their wake. You shuddered.

“I liked that shirt.” You pouted, glancing back up at him as it disappeared behind him, his eyes never leaving you.

He ran a finger over your shoulder and down your bra strap, grazing over the thin lace trim. One metal finger hooked the strap, tugging it teasingly, and releasing it with a quiet snap. 

“I’ll get you another.” He dipped his head in, latching on to your neck, trailing up towards the nook between your ear and neck. Teeth met skin, nipping playfully before turning more sensual. Bucky worked your skin with his lips, pulling away slightly, smirking at the purple spot that has already begun to stain your neck.

He nudged his head gently into the side of yours, lips hovering near your ear. “It's probably a good thing you’re always ‘out of office.’ Can’t think straight half the damn time with you there,” he uttered, low and deep, stirring something in your belly.

You exhaled shakily, your hands drifting to the hem of his shirt. Bucky leaned back, allowing for you to lift the shirt up and over his head. You knew he had gotten more muscular, more beefy, but not like this. 

He chuckled lowly, apparently amused by your staring. Your fingers ghosted down his chest and over his stomach as he kissed along your collarbone, tugging your flimsy pajama shorts down, popping the waistband of your matching panties. His hand slipping lower, a finger pressing against the damp fabric between your legs. Bucky grinned into your collarbone.

“That wet already, huh?” Tugging the hem of your pants again, he slid them off your waist and down your legs. He patted the backs of your thighs, wordlessly telling you to step out of them. Bucky ducked his head down, dragging his nose along your sternum until he reached your chest, nudging the silky fabric of your bra to the side and taking your nipple into his mouth. His tongue worked the sensitive flesh, teeth grazing it gently. He groaned around your breast, low and rough, as if the sound were stuck in the middle of his throat. You breathed out, heading lolling onto his shoulder in a haze.

Bucky smiled at you. Not a smirk, not a grin, but a smile, shaking his head. “You are so pretty it fucking hurts.” He met your eyes, your lips meeting his own in a slow, deep kiss. You ran your hands over his broad shoulders, fingertips sliding over vibranium. Bucky encircled you with his arms, softly unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor between the two of you.

He tapped the backs of your legs again, motioning for you to jump, which you did eagerly, wrapping your thighs around his waist. He let out a guttural groan at the movement, head rolling back. Using the wall to hoist you up, he braced a hand against the wall, the other dipping between your legs, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Cold metal met hot skin and you arched, back lifting off the wall with a soft groan. You gasped, mouth floundering as his fingers worked your clit, slow and steady. “I need more,” you whined breathily as he sped up before slowing down once more. Agonizingly slow to teasingly fast. Up and down. Left and right.

“Yeah? How much more do you need, doll? Tell me what you want.” His hand stilled, pausing and making you circle your hips in desperation. Bucky kissed along your shoulder, breath snaking down your spine, sending a shiver down it. Every now and then, he twitched his finger, relishing in the way your face scrunched up and how little whimpers escaped every time he flicked his digit against your clit.

“All of it. I need all of it. All of you. Please,” you gasped out, voice failing you as you stuttered helplessly, like putty in his broad hands.

All Bucky did was grunt in response. His hand drifted away from your core, leaving you trembling and unsatisfied. You were about to fully fold, on the verge of begging him to keep going before you paused with a soft moan at the feeling of cock grazing against the slick of your folds.

He ducked his head into your neck with a groan. “Fuck, Y/N.” You squirmed underneath him, legs tightening around his hips, fingers tugging at the ends of his hair. His chest was flush against yours, warm pressing against warm. Whether it was the dizzying cloud of heat swirling in your head or the rapid thudding of Bucky’s heart against yours you weren’t sure, but you felt him before he was even inside you. 

You swallowed hard, rutting your hips into his. “Please,” you whimpered as you nudged his head with your chin, making him look at you. His steely eyes met yours, pupils dilated and needy. Bucky sloppily kissed your chin and then your mouth and he pushed up into you.

“Shit…,” you groaned, in synchronicity with his own. Your back grated against the wall as Bucky tucked his hips back ever so slightly and then back up. Another grunt tumbled past his parted mouth as he thrusted up, gaining traction and speed. 

He was full and consuming and every bit of what you wanted. What you needed. You swore you could’ve come right then and there just from the sensation of him simply being in you. The way he moved into you was smooth and heavy, as if his body was quite literally made to fit into yours. As if he was honey in the form of a broody, 107-year old man who was forever a pain in your ass. Even if he could make you feel like you were in another plane of existence.

Your hands clawed at his back, seeking some sort of tether as tension began to build up inside you. He growled as your nails found purchase in the toned muscle of his shoulder, leaving little crescent moons to trace over with your fingers in the morning.

Bucky’s movements became harsher and more desperate. You gasped out as he hit the spot inside of you only he ever reached.

“That it, baby?” He asked, gripping your ass, giving him an even deeper angle to thrust into you at.

You nodded fervently, not entirely conscious as to what he was saying. He stilled once more, titling your chin to him. Your walls pulsed around him, contracting around his width. Bucky swore mentally, trying his damnedest to not give in and fuck you senselessly right that very minute.

“Beg for it then. Beg me to fuck you, Y/N.” 

You shook your head against the wall, babbling nonsense about how you needed him. How you needed him to move. Bucky brushed a strand of hair out of your face, plastered to your sweat-dampened temple. He nodded, bucking up into you, hard.

“Good girl. That’s my doll.” You moaned as he drove up into your hips over and over again. The air around you thickened, sweat, sex, and mumbled words of praise swirling in the virtually imperceptible space between his body and yours.

“Shit, shit, shit” you rambled, quivering in his grasp. “Just like that. God, Bucky.” 

You whined, resting your forehead on his shoulder, the smooth coldness of the vibranium sending a white hot flash of tingles down your neck and through your spine.

Bucky grunted. “Gonna fill you up. Every fucking inch of you.”

He moved faster, pounding in and out of you, your back thudding against the wall behind you. Your eyelashes fluttered against your cheeks, body tensing up before slumping with release. You felt it everywhere. In your toes, in your arms, in your legs, in your belly, in your fucking fingertips which twisted up taut in his hair.

“That’s my girl,” he hummed, his movements becoming erratic and sloppy, chasing his own high. He palmed your ass, gripping it with a ferocity and aggression that made you moan. With one final thrust, he shuddered, gasping, digging his hips as far into you as he could.

After a beat of labored breathing and lazy fingers working circles on hips, Bucky lifted his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“Was it worth it?” He hummed, pressing another kiss to your temple as you groaned, rolling your eyes.

Bucky smiled softly, wrapping his arms around your back, shifting your weight forward and onto him. He stepped away from the wall, holding you tight against him. The gust of cool air that followed made you shiver and you leaned further into him.

Bucky laughed softly, running a hand over the back of your hair and padding down the hallway towards your bedroom. He gripped you to him with one arm, jerking the mismatched blankets of your bed back, sliding into them.

You smiled up at him from where you lay under him, his forearms resting on either side of your head, his hips resting between your legs. Leaning up, you pulled his face down gently, ghosting your lips over his.

He took your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling it back teasingly. “Still think this is a bad idea?”

You shook your head, dissolving into exhaustion-driven laughter as Bucky growled, ducking his head into your neck once more. 

Bad ideas be damned. 

[notreallythatlost]

i’d die for him

Sebastian Stan as Bucky Barnes // Thunderbolts* 2025

[notreallythatlost]

god, i’m SWEATING (not only on my forehead, oops) this is so hot 😫

 Thick Arms, Slow Grind

Title: Thick Arms, Slow Grind Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count:  513 words (drabble)

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, missionary sex, penetrative sex, overstimulation, sweaty/grimy intensity, filthy dirty talk, size kink, Bucky’s arms/biceps obsession, praise kink, soft possessive dominance, prolonged grinding… Wrote at work today after the group chat talk while I was on the train… A/N: For my Beefy!Bucky hoes

You were already trembling.

Legs bent high and braced against his thick waist, your calves pressed to his ribs as he loomed over you. His forearms planted beside your head, massive and flexing with every shift, caging you in, framing your face like a promise. The mattress barely registered beneath you. All you could feel was him: the salt of sweat, the leather of his scent and sin pressed into every inch of your skin.

Bucky didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up. Didn’t even slow down.

He fucked you like he meant it, chest pressed to yours, grunting low as he rolled his hips, grinding in deep. Long, dragging thrusts that pulled moans straight out of your throat. He rocked into you like his life depended on it- elbows tucked beside your head, the weight of him smothering, suffocating, perfect.

And those arms. God.

Biceps thick and hard as carved stone, flexing with every slow, devastating push. You could barely wrap both hands around one, fingers slipping on sweat-slicked skin as you gasped his name, barely holding on. Every inch of him was over you, under you, around you, inside you. Each stroke a full-body drag, the head of his cock hitting so deep it nearly hurt before pulling back with maddening control.

You’d already lost count of how many times you’d come.

Didn’t matter. He hadn’t.

“Oh, just like that, doll,” Bucky groaned, lips dragging over your jaw, forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck- yeah, squeeze me, pretty girl, that’s it- c’mon, again for me.”

You shook your head weakly, hips twitching as he ground up, buried to the hilt. “Bucky- I can’t-”

“You will,” he growled, a grin slicing through his stubble as he shifted his weight, pinning your hips with his. “You got more in ya Doll, I know you do. Look at me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, lashes damp with tears. His blue eyes blazed back, so close they blurred, lips swollen, teeth flashing when he kissed you again, messy, biting.

“That’s it. Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered between kisses, lips brushing yours when he talked. “Takin’ me s'good. You feel that? How deep I am, huh? Ain’t nobody ever gonna get in this deep but me.”

You whined helpless, overwhelmed, the thick, brutal grind of him nudging something that sent heat ripping through your belly.

“God, you make such pretty sounds when I break you open like this,” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “Love watchin’ your face while I fuck the fight right outta you.”

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as the burn built again- sharp, white, rising fast.

“There she is,” he groaned, hips stuttering as he felt it- your body fluttering around him, so wet, so fucked-out you could hardly breathe. “Yeah, baby. Gimme another. Be my good girl, come on, come again.”

You shattered with a sob, buried beneath him.

And Bucky all sweaty, smirking, still so hard, just kissed your temple and slowly pulled back, only to push himself back in.

“Not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

[notreallythatlost]

so beautiful, so sweet—i’m in love

Enchanted

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky finally found his missing piece and it was you.

Word counts: 2.8k

Warning: FLUFF. Cursing. Congressman Barnes era. Mentioned and described about anxiety. Bucky mourned Steve. Reader have long hair. Reader didn't have any specific age but look like in 20s or 30s. The story took place before Thunderbolts*. No beta read.

Notes: Hi~! this is my first Bucky Barnes fanfiction ever!! I've been hiding for sometime until I had a courage to write my own Bucky Barnes fanfiction! and English is not my first language so if you find any mistake I hope you don't mind. I hope everyone enjoy my work and if you do, it would be more than thankful to know your thoughts! Please enjoy!

P.S. Anxiety is very serious. I—myself—am dealing with it and I want more people to be aware of it and be aware of people who is dealing with it. Thank you so much!

Nightmares were gone.

He was finally free. No more fighting. No more carrying guilt like a shadow that followed him everywhere. No more reminiscing of distressing bygone days. Eventually, Bucky could choose to live the life he always wanted. But…why did he still feel empty inside? A missing piece lingered in his heart, one he couldn't quite name.

This missing piece was considerable. It kept Bucky in an uneasy episode. It was difficult enough to be a man out of time in the modern world. He was drained to keep up with current political predicament as a congressman. And not to mention cutting-edge technology which was really helpful but confusing. It was different. Everything was different without Steve. Maybe the void, the missing space was Steve, the space that was impossible to fill.

Every day was the same. He woke up at 6 a.m., or earlier if he couldn't sleep, and went for a walk to clear his mind before going to work. He still didn't fully understand the modern protocols of Congress. It was significantly changed after the war—as it should. Sometimes he called Sam to keep in touch. It helped—talking with Sam—but still, it couldn't fill the emptiness inside him.

It had been bothering him a whole lot lately. He never felt like that before. He couldn't work, couldn't keep focused. His mind wandered around like a puppy that lost its owner. What was happening to him? He was always able to suppress the feeling but not this time. He felt like it was near, but what is it?

Bucky shook his head before keeping focused on his bowtie—the damn bowtie. One of the disadvantages of being a congressman were social events. He couldn't avoid it under any circumstances now that he merely had the position for six months.

It was ironic. He used to love social events, he was the one who dragged Steve to the fair but look at him now, whining about how he hated it. Maybe he had to admit that he was too old for this.

Bucky exhaled before checking himself in the mirror for one last time, stared at his figure and thought about how far he had come. Evidence of viability was written all over his face. He couldn't deny it but it was what made him who he is today. Maybe he was finally ready—like he always told himself—but he never was. It scared him every time he thought about it. The thought of how he was never going to fit in. Even though everything was better, however, the hungry eyes were fixed on him. It was a mind game in the sealed room. He had to prove himself that he was worthy. Of what— he didn't know. It was just that he felt like he had to prove himself that he was no longer the person who was once the most feared individual on the planet. Bucky told himself one last time—He's not him. He's James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky was being dragged from one conversation to another. He met countless people that he didn't even have time to remember. Throughout the entire encounter, he avoided any eye contact that followed him everywhere like he was a sculpture in the museum for people to extract the gist. He was forcing laughter and faking smiles. People seemed to be amazed that he was genuinely a normal person and learned of what he thought, he could hear them thinking; He's not what we have read in the museum!

The fifth champagne didn't help in this situation. He was looking around to find an excuse for a moment before someone asked him about his time as the Winter Soldier. The question caught him off guard and left him momentarily speechless. He wasn't prepared for the question and the fact that it had done something to him. The storm of feelings crawled back expeditiously and ultimately it caught on his throat. Bucky started to feel overwhelmed amongst people who shot questions perpetually at him. Everything around him seemed blurry and he couldn't keep focused. His heart was beating faster, he was grasping for some air but the air suddenly was heavy to breathe in. His grip faltered and the champagne flute in his hand dropped to the floor. The champagne splashed on the marble, some droplets caught on the margin of dresses and tailored pants, then someone made a joke;

“Oh, it seems like congressman Barnes is already sloshed.” And they laughed. Bucky shot a look at the person who said it but she didn't seem to notice.

“Excuse me, I need a moment.” Bucky declared before broke his way out of the group of people who circled around him. He found a place where there were not many people around. He grabbed the marble pillar to help him stand straight. His legs went limp, it felt like if he loses his grip he would outright fall to the ground. Bucky was trying to breathe slowly before turning his face to focus on his vicinity.

“Ok. 333 rule, come on.” Bucky said before looking around the room.

“Three things I can see…the red cocktail dress…ummm congressman Gary? Man, where the hell have you been all night. That's definitely a pre-tied bowtie. God, I hate pre-tied…and…” Bucky shifted his eyes from congressman Gary to the person who he was talking to. It was you.

“The white satin dress on the most beautiful woman I've…ever seen.” Everything around him stopped all at once. His eyes fixed on you and only you. He captured every possible detail that he could see. Your perfectly curled hair rested on your exposed shoulders. Your sweet eyes. Lovely nose. Irresistible lips. He was wonderstruck by your beauty across the room. Everything went black and white but you shone golden radiant through the room and gave them light. You were an oasis in the desert. The rainbow after the storm. The first snow of winter. The missing piece in his heart. Bucky knew at that moment that he couldn't lose you. You were the one who he was missing dearly even though you never met.

Bucky saw you excused yourself from congressman Gary. His consciousness was back and then he was starting to follow his heart. His legs, instantly, had the strength to walk again. He followed you to the bar and sat at the adequate distance. He ordered something strong to encourage himself. There was only you and him at the bar. It was quite awkward even though he thought you didn't even notice him. You didn't say anything and he was too anxious to speak. There was no conversation going on between you for a short while, somehow Bucky didn't feel uneasy in this situation. He felt relaxed and easier to breathe now that he had your company.

“It’s intense, isn't it? This endless abyss” You broke the silence. He wasn't fully looking at your direction because he wasn't sure if you were talking to him or not.

“I'm talking to you, congressman Barnes.” You giggled when he startled before facing you. He swore your voice was so sweet like a bird chirping in the crisp morning.

“Oh, umm, yes. Yes, it is.” He cleared his voice after and changed his focus to the glass in front of him. He didn't know what to say. He cursed to himself; You can't lose her, James Buchanan Barnes. Fucking do something! Say something!

“You—”

“You—”

You looked at each other for a second or two before his eyes went wide and you laughed simultaneously. He looked at you, threw your head back and laughed at him. He felt embarrassed but in a good way. How long has it been since he courted someone? He felt petrified at the idea of it. His body went numb and he didn't want to move too fast. It was a strange feeling when he thought that you were at most in your 20s or 30s but now he's an old man who was 110 years old merely last month. It wasn't like in the 1940s anymore and it suddenly scared him.

“You, first.” Your voice broke through his thoughts.

“Oh, no. There's nothing—”

“Oh, come on. If you want to court me. Here's your chance. Is that what you called it in your days? Court?” You laughed again and then his face turned red. He tried to hide it by sipping the whiskey in his hand but it was still obviously in the exposed light at the bar.

“It’s not and I wasn't trying to court you.” He tried to hide his smile but he hated to admit that those times when he was out on the mission was easier than trying to not swoon at your presence. His hand was meddling with the rocks glass, fingers playing with the beads around it. Your eyes followed his fingers, it sent heat through your body.

“Who are you, by the way. I never saw you anywhere.” Bucky shot a question to keep the conversation going but it was also his genuine question too. He never saw you at any other social events that he went to. Nothing could escape his eagle-eye and surely not even a pretty little thing like you. You would be the first in the room that caught his attention.

“Maybe I was there but you never saw me.”

“That's impossible.”

“Oh, of course. I forgot that you were a spy.” You lifted your hand up and did the O shape around your eye. Bucky chuckled and licked his lips. He knew at that moment that you were going to be the death of him. Gosh, it must have been too long since he's falling head over heels for someone. It's a strange feeling that he willingly submitted to.

“No. I mean—I don't think if I ever saw you, I'm going to let you out of my sight that easily.” Suddenly, the world stopped again. You exchanged eye contact across the adequate space. It felt too far, he needed to get closer to hold you. The piano caught his ears and the idea came into his mind. He needed to make a move and it had to be a move that he was familiar with.

“Dance with me.” He extended his hand to you. You laughed because you thought it was a joke but then you looked at him and there was nothing playful written on his face. You looked at the group of people standing, no one was dancing along the music. You looked at him again.

Fuck it.

The moment you took his hand was something new entirely. The feeling was overwhelming but in a good way. There was something that you didn't know how to describe. It was like lightning—a magnet that pulled you closer. He led you in the center of the room. Everyone was looking. You could see their bewildered eyes staring. Your heart was beating fast. It was a ludicrous idea and you liked it but now you weren't entirely sure.

“Hey, look at me.” Bucky grabbed your waist and pulled you closer. You looked up at him and met his piercing blue eyes. His vibranium arm guided your hands to rest on his shoulders. The coldness of the material sent shivers through you. He rested the arm on your waist and started to move.

“Don't be scared. Just follow me.” Bucky started to sway and lead you to smooth movement. You were restricted at first but then started to relax and follow his steps. You never shifted your eyes from his. You were embarrassed at the idea but didn't regret it at all.

“Are they still looking?” You asked with a trembling voice. Suddenly, you wanted to disappear into the ground.

“Yes. They're always looking.” You swallowed nervously.

“You know what? I haven't danced since 1943…Feels like.” Bucky said with that playful glint in his smile and you burst out laughing and buried your face in his chest. At this close you could hear his heart pounding fast like he just went on a marathon. His cologne kicked your nose, it was earthy and fresh. It helped you feel relaxed.

“This is a bad idea.” You said while shutting your eyes and breathing in his scent.

“I know.”

“But I like it.”

“Me too.” Bucky said and kissed the top of your head. You were surprised at his move but you didn't complain. You wanted to keep this moment forever. You wanted to keep him forever.

You didn't know how long the time passed. The next move that brought you back to reality was when Bucky touched your wrists. You opened your eyes and realized that everyone was now dancing. You were amazed at your surroundings. You looked at Bucky and he was already looking. A spark of delight drew all over your face.

“They're looking at you.” You said with the awed in your voice.

“No. They're looking at you.” Bucky said and looked into your eyes. His eyes always looked like it was telling you something, something that wasn't a word or a number but a feeling. He wanted to preserve this moment forever.

“It's almost time. Can I bring you somewhere?” You nodded and then he guided you to the garden outside the estate where there's nobody there. The moon was full. The sky was clear. Everything was quiet. It looked like a dream. You looked at him while he was already looking. He didn't seem to shift his eyes off you. Just like he said.

“Are you going to kill me here?” You told a joke and smiled. If you are going to die tonight, it might be worth it.

“Maybe.” Bucky smiled. It felt like he was bewitched by you—heart and soul. Merely a minute, you could catch his heart and play with it. He was more than willing to give you everything. If you want him to kill, he would kill for you. If you want him to die, he would die for you. If you want a star he would find a way and give it to you. Because all of this wasn't hard at all compared to all this time he was waiting for you.

“What do you want to show me?” You asked.

“You have to lie down first.” Bucky guided you on the fresh green grass. It was poking on your sensitive skin but after a minute, you got used to it.

“I have these strange feelings.” Bucky said while lying on his side and looked at your face.

“What feelings?”

“I think you bewitched me.”

“What?” You laughed out loud like no one would hear. In fact, there was no one there to hear you anyway.

“I never felt this way before. It had been so long since I fell in love. It was a feeling that seemed unfamiliar to me until I saw you tonight.” There was no evidence of playfulness on his face. Everything was genuine. Under the moonlight he was still undoubtedly attractive. It scared you for a moment; the thought of losing him.

“You may think this is crazy but I would kill for you. I would die for you, if you say so.” You caressed his face with your hand and looked straight into his eyes.

“Live for me. Never let me go.” Tears welled up in his eyes and dropped on the grass, filling the earth with his blissful tears. You were getting closer and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. He pulled you in for a more passionate and longing kiss. You were yearning for each other like it had been so long since you met but it was odd when you realized this is the first time.

You startled when the sound of an explosion echoe in the sky. Bursts of color lit up in the night. You looked straight and saw fireworks cracked and popped above. The flickering lights filled the inky sky and danced around the full moon. It was magical.

“You like it?” Bucky asked but there was no answer. You just pulled him in for another kiss. Surely, you won't let him go. He bewitched your heart and soul. It might have taken him more than decades to finally find you but ultimately he did. And he was grateful that it happened at the right time—when he was ready for you. Ready to live for you and love you wholeheartedly. Maybe the myth was true, the one that said you were meant to find your other half and fortunately, now the missing piece had been filled.

[notreallythatlost]

You stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “No,” you whispered. “But I wish I were yours.”

holy shit this is sooo good, and everything i needed!! can’t wait to read more

beneath the crown (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader (set in medieval times)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, forbidden relationship, lots of tension, loads of pining

summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you’re a princess promised to a prince you don’t love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you’d risk everything just to be his.

word count: 2.5k

a/n: yay! chapter 1 is finally here! i genuinely hope it doesn't flop on me! thank you so, so much for reading my loves and please leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed it, i would really appreciate it! love ya and stay safe darlings!

series masterlist

The castle has never felt so cold. Tall arched ceilings echoed every whisper of conversation and footsteps, the marble floors that royalty generations before you had walked on were polished to a mirror’s shine beneath the flickering chandeliers.

Golden sconces lined the stone walls, casting pale light over the crimson tapestries and ornate banners bearing the crest of your house in silver, bold and unbending. Servants moved quietly through the corridors, heads bowed, eyes averted, as if the walls watched and guards stood stoically at every turn, their armour gleaming in the light like polished bone.

But none of it felt like home, at least not anymore. You sat stiffly in the great hall, hands clenched tightly in your lap, the silk of your gown whispering with every breath you took, you were dressed like a bride already—draped in ivory and gold, dressed to the nines, every day of your life, since you were born.

Your hair, coiled into elegant twists by your handmaidens, your throat encircled by a delicate sapphire necklace, gifted by your grandmother to you, that seemed to feel more like a shackle than a gift. 

Though you were the only princess ever born to the king and queen, hailed as the light of the realm on the day you were first presented to the people of your kingdom, you never truly felt that way. You hardly saw beyond the gilded, golden bars of your palace prison, never saw what life truly had to offer besides the one you were born into. Adored, perhaps, but always constrained.

Sometimes, you envied the townspeople in their simple lives, free to choose, to love, to marry whoever they wished, to breathe without permission. 

Across the length, your father, the king stood proudly beside the visiting envoy, the herald of the man she would marry. The great prince of House Hydra who had not even bothered to come himself, sending nothing but his regards.

The man who would inherit your hand, your title, your body, the man who would rule over you, the man you were expected to serve. He was chosen not for love or even friendship, but for land, allegiance and gold. 

A political transaction. 

That was all you had become, raised, fed and taught to become nothing but a bargaining chip, a living seal on a loyal contract. Your heart thuds with rage as you remember how swift the announcement was.

There was no warning or private conversation with your father, none of that, simply a scroll, read aloud by his majesty at the high table, his voice ringing off the walls with pride.

“The princess (y/n) (l/n) shall be wed to Prince Rumlow of House Hydra, a noble union which will ensure peace and prosperity across all kingdoms”. 

Peace, prosperity, what of yours?

Completely disregarded.

You blinked slowly, swallowing hard against the tightness in your throat, your mother had said absolutely nothing, shooting you a glance that urged you to accept the decree, to do your duty as princess.

You didn’t blame her, you couldn’t, she too had wed your father under the very same circumstances. She had simply bowed her head as the court erupted in polite applause and some of the duchesses congratulating you as if being offered to some man on a platter was an occasion to be celebrated. 

“Are you well, Princess?” The voice came low beside you, gravel-smooth and unmistakably his, you turned your head, already knowing who stood at your shoulder. 

Sir James Barnes, Bucky, your sworn knight, your silent shadow stood just behind you, ever watchful. He was a towering figure of black leather and polished silver plate, his broad shoulders framed by the dark cloak clasped at his collar.

The hilt of his sword gleamed with deadly promise at his hip, well-worn from use, the etching of the royal sigil barely disguising the notches of war along its edge. He looked carved from steel and smoke, unyielding, stoic and impossible to ignore. 

His hair was slicked back from his face, his features sharp and angular, a soldier’s face, honed by battle and shadowed by the weight of things unsaid.

A strong jaw dusted with the beginnings of a beard, cheekbones carved you suspected were carved by Aphrodite herself, high and severe, and a mouth that almost never smiled, but when it did, gods help you. 

But it was Bucky’s eyes that captured you most, steel blue, clear and cold and somehow endlessly deep, they never left your face, not in four years, not since the day he was assigned your guard, plucked from the battlefields of the border wars, his name carried by whispers of brutality and brilliance.

They had said he was ruthless, relentless, a weapon barely unleashed. And yet when he looked at you, there was a softness, fire, a hunger so carefully buried, it almost felt like a secret you were never meant to witness. 

Bucky had bowed before you in the great hall that day, kneeling in tarnished armour, blood of the kingdom’s enemies still drying on his gauntlets as he swore his oath before the court. He was to guard the kingdom’s most prized possession, to protect the crown’s only heir. 

You remembered how his eyes had narrowed when you snapped at him for following you a tad too closely, the way he hadn’t apologised when you ordered him to leave your chambers when you were dressed in nothing but one of your sheer nightgowns, he only lowered his gaze respectfully, jaw tight and unmoved.

Overtime, however, something shifted, a grudging understanding, then a fragile trust and now, perhaps something else. 

“I’m not well” you replied softly, eyes scanning the court for any nosy handmaiden, “but i’m surviving”. 

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his gloved hands flexing at his side. “If you gave the word-”

You looked up at him sharply, “what?”

“If you told me to,” he said, voice low, so only you could hear, “I’d help you escape all of this”. 

Your breath caught, he had meant it, every word. There was no jest in his tone, no playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, Bucky's gaze held yours with unshakable intensity, carved from iron and shadow and in it, something deeper stirred. Not just the rigid armour of loyalty he wore so well, but a burning heat beneath it, a quiet consuming ache. 

It pulsed in the space between the both of you, the kind of yearning that cannot be named, only felt, it was ancient, wild and utterly ruinous. It had stretched between the both of you for months, like a bowstring drawn too tight, trembling with restraint, begging to snap. It was the lingering glances across the room, the brush of your fingers against his that should have been accidental but never were.

You and Bucky had never crossed the line between knight and princess—not truly that is. But you had danced along its edge, toeing it in the shadows where nobody could see, a breath too close, a touch held too long, words unsaid, heavy with meaning.

All of this taut and forbidden. 

“I can’t” you whispered, “you know I can’t”. 

“You already do” Bucky replies. 

“Not the way I want to”. 

The confession crashed over you like a wave, sending your pulse skyrocketing, you turned your face forward again, willing yourself to stay still, to hide the tremble in your hands. 

Not the way I want to. 

You lost count of the nights you spent, laying awake, staring at your ceiling, thinking of the rough timbre of his voice, of the stolen glances you had both shared across the council chambers, his training yards and moonlit corridors.

The nights you had spent imagining pressing your lips to his, tasting the fire you saw behind those cerulean blues, that barely showed any emotion, except when it comes to you. 

Too many. 

Bucky was your knight, sworn by blood and steel, bound by an oath beneath the banners of war. You were the crown princess, first of your name, heir to a throne gilded in tradition and chained by countless expectations, rules.

The space between you and him was carved by laws, wide, deep and merciless, it was a chasm filled with duty, danger and the ever-looming spectre of consequence. 

To betray that sacred divide meant death, not just for Bucky but for anyone who dared conspire with him, after all, the crown does not forgive disobedience. It punished treason with fire and blade, seen when your father made examples of lesser men for far smaller sins.

And Bucky was no ordinary man, he was a symbol, the battle-worn soldier pulled from blood soaked soil, knighted before a crowd of nobles. He is the kingdom’s quiet weapon. 

And yet, your heart raced everytime he looked at you like that. 

Not like a knight beholding his charge, but a man staring down temptation. Like he knew exactly how soft your skin would feel under his calloused hands, like he had memorised the shape of your mouth when you whispered his name in the dark.

Like he was always mere seconds away from shattering every vow he had ever sworn. 

“Come” you said softly, standing, the heavy chair behind you scraping lightly against the marble, “I wish to walk the gardens”. 

Bucky nodded silently, and fell in step behind you as you swept out of the hall, your chin high, posture regal, but you knew, beneath all of that, you were shaking. 

The castle gardens were quiet this time of the night, cloaked in moonlight and the hum of crickets. Roses bloomed in wild tangles along the stone pathways, their scent thick in the cool air. Lanterns flickered gently in the breeze, casting golden shadows over the hedges and statues. 

You walked until you were far from the windows, far from the eyes of the court. Bucky followed without question, ever the silent sentinel. When you finally stopped, it was beneath the wide, open branches of the weeping willow, the one your mother whom you recall used to read to you under it, now it had become the one place you always came when the walls of the castle felt too tight. 

“Do you think I am weak?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. 

“What?”

“For accepting this, for just bowing my head and smiling through my own damnation” you say, a bitter ache swelling in your chest, shame twisting with helpless fury as the words slipped from your lips like a confession. Your voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the weight of a thousand silenced protests, all the defiance you had swallowed in the name of duty.

Bucky stepped closer, like a storm barely held at bay, broad shoulders tense, his cerulean irises burning with a fury reserved only for those he could not protect. “You aren’t, there is no weakness in survival Princess, there is no shame in doing what you must”. 

“I feel like I am being sold,” you said, breath catching, “packaged like meat to some man who I have never met”. 

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You’re not his. You’re not anyone’s.”

But mine, he almost said. The words burned on his tongue, scorching with truth, but he swallowed them down. He couldn’t risk it. Not when both your lives hung in the balance.

You stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “No,” you whispered. “But I wish I were yours.”

The words escaped your lips before you could even stop them, your heart pounded like a drum against your ribs, defying reason, downing out duty. Bucky’s chest hitched, chest rising as if he had been struck, the raw hunger in his eyes, sharpening, no longer hidden, no longer restrained.

“You don’t mean that,” Bucky replied tightly, his voice strained, torn between hope and torment, almost as if your words had cracked something open in him that he had fought too long to bury. 

“I do” you whispered, “I’ve meant it for months James”. you replied softly, his name lingering on your lips.

Bucky’s hand rose, hesitated in the air, then slow and gentle, he touched your face, callused fingers grazing your cheek. His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone with aching tenderness, as though you were something sacred he would only ever dare to worship from afar. The fire in his eyes flickered with conflict, a desire that warred with discipline and love for you that was tempered by fear.

“I’ve known it since the night you carried me from the fire in the east wing, since you bled for me, since you stayed by my side”. you said, leaning in, your lips just a breath from Bucky’s.

His breath shook, “if I kiss you, I won’t stop”,

Your eyes searched his, “then don’t”.

His lips crashed against yours, all hunger and desperate, breathless need, it was far from gentle, it wasn’t careful, it was the unraveling of restraint, the collapse of every unspoken word between them.

His hands framed your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks, you could feel the cold press of his armour against your chest but it did nothing to dull the searing heat radiating from his body—from his mouth, his touch, the way he kissed you, like he had been starved. The raw ache behind every movement sang through your body, full of all the things you and Bucky were never allowed to utter.

But before the kiss could deepen, the sound of footsteps echoed across the path. “Your Highness?”

You and Bucky broke apart instantly, breath heaving, eyes wide. 

Your handmaiden, Yelena, rounded the hedge, “The King requests your presence in the throne room immediately Princess”. 

You straightened, your heart thudding, face burning. “Very well, thank you Yelena”. 

“I am sorry Princess, I know this alliance is not what you wish for” she replied softly, her gaze moving towards Bucky, she knew, she always knew of your feelings for your knight. You offered her a tight smile, the ache behind your ribs sharpening, “nor is it what I would choose,” you murmured, eyes flickering towards Bucky just once, your voice low but steady, “but I was never offered choices was I?” 

Yelena’s expression softened with quiet understanding, but she said nothing more, she didn’t need to. 

Bucky’s gaze changed, it was something darker, protective, possessive. 

“Whatever it is, you won’t face it alone” he says. 

You nod, turn and walk with him at your side, your fingers still tingling from his touch. 

The throne room was filled with lords and ladies, their fine jewels glittering under the light, your father stood before them, hands raised for silence. 

“The date is set” he announced, voice booming across the chamber, “my precious daughter, the crown princess shall be wed to Prince Rumlow in three weeks time, all preparations shall begin at once”. 

A round of applause filled the hall and your stomach dropped like a stone. 

You turned just enough to catch Bucky’s expression where he stood in the shadow of a column, his jaw was locked, his cerulean eyes were dark, like storm clouds threatening rain. His hands were clenched into fists at his side, as if he was restraining himself from crossing the space between them. There was a storm brewing behind those eyes, not just fury, but anguish. 

He looked like a man ready to go to war. 

a/n: and that's chapter 1! gosh i hope you loved it, please leave a comment or reblog this if you did, it would mean the world to me!

[notreallythatlost]

That no matter how many times she asked him to stay, that he was just a guest in her world.

don’t mind me… i’m just sitting in the corner —crying 😭😭 this one hits right in the feels

but again, i’m so in love with every single word

DRIFTING — Part Two: Cold Coffee

Bucky Barnes x Reader [Set post TFATWS]

Word Count: 1.9k // Warnings: Angst central

Part Three (Coming 5/30) // Masterlist // AO3

The apartment was too quiet.

Bucky stared at the faded brick wall across from his couch, elbows on his knees, metal fingers drumming silently against the side of a chipped coffee mug. He hadn’t drank the coffee. It was cold now, forgotten on the table for hours. The light barely streamed into the room through gaps in the curtain, making it feel like it was the same hour it had been all day.

The silence gnawed at him. Not the good kind. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that reminded him something was missing. Someone was missing.

No sound of her voice humming from the kitchen. No soft creak of her footsteps on the floor. No cluttered chaos of her stuff everywhere— the bag that always ended up on his chair, the hair ties she left on every surface like some kind of breadcrumb trail. He’d cleaned it all up and put it in a drawer the night he got back from Louisiana. 

It was stupid.

He let his head fall back against the couch, his jaw tightening as he thought back to the week before.

It had been six days.

Six days since he walked out of the Wilson’s house in Louisiana. Six days since he said something he couldn’t take back. Since she said something back to him that landed in his chest like a knife.

Everyone you have left is here.

He’d heard worse. Hell, he’d said worse. But somehow those words — words coming from her mouth — cracked something open in him. Because she wasn’t wrong. And maybe that was the part that hurt the most.

He hadn’t called her. Couldn’t call her. He didn’t know what he’d say. Because if he heard her voice and it was cold, or distant, or worse — indifferent — he didn’t know what he’d do.

A knock at the door cut through his thoughts.

He didn’t move – hoping it would stop, that whoever was knocking would go away.

Another knock. Louder this time.

“Buck!”

Sam.

Bucky sighed and pushed off the couch, dragging himself to the door. He opened it without a word. Sam stood there, holding a paper bag and two cups of coffee. He gave Bucky a once-over.

“You look like hell.”

“Good morning to you too,” Bucky muttered, stepping aside to let him in.

Sam walked in and set the bag down on the kitchen counter, pulling something out of it. He unwrapped a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich like it was the most important thing in the world and shoved it into Bucky’s hands. “Eat,” he said. “Before I make you.”

Bucky leaned against the edge of the counter, taking the sandwich from Sam reluctantly. They ate in silence for a minute. Then Sam said, 

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

“No thanks.”

“Okay.” Sam took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Then I’ll guess.”

Bucky gave him a sharp look. “Not necessary.”

Sam ignored him. “She got mad. You got mad. You both said some dumb shit. You left.”

“You done?”

“Nope. Because now you’re here brooding in this sad little apartment in New York instead of doing something about it.” 

Bucky stood up fully and tossed the sandwich wrapper in the trash. “It’s not that simple.”

“Actually,” Sam said, crumbling up the paper bag slowly, “It kind of is.” Bucky paced through the kitchen.

“We’ve just been going in circles for awhile now. She wants to be in Louisiana. I can’t do it, Sam. I just… I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because Brooklyn’s all I’ve got.”

“Is it?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Or are you just hanging onto your memories of the past here?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Sam let the silence sit before asking quietly, “Do you love her more than you love the past?”

“Yeah.”

“Then figure it out, Tin Man.”

Bucky sank back into the couch again, silently staring at his hands. 

“I think I really screwed it up this time,” he said finally, glancing up at Sam for a moment. “I’m not sure we can come back from it.”

Sam didn’t offer any words of encouragement. He just stood there, watching Bucky with some sort of sympathy-filled expression. 

“You got two choices, man. Sit here and wallow, or get your shit together and go back to Louisiana. This isn’t going to fix itself. Y’all have to talk.”

“I need time.”

Sam nodded once. “Fine. But not too much. The world hasn’t stopped turning.”

–

Bucky stared at the flickering light above the kitchen stove, trying to remember when the buzzing hum had become something he noticed. Probably around the same time he’d stopped sleeping. Six days ago.

The coffee Sam had brought still sat untouched on the counter. Bucky wasn’t sure if he didn’t want it or if he just didn’t feel like he deserved something warm right now. 

Sam hadn’t left. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Bucky with that look — the one that made Bucky feel like he was being studied under a microscope.

“You know,” Sam finally said, breaking the silence, “you don’t have to do this thing where you punish yourself.”

Bucky scoffed, not looking up. “I’m not punishing myself, Sam.”

“Right. You just haven’t left this apartment in three days because that’s what healthy people do when they’re not punishing themselves for screwing up the good relationships in their lives.”

“I didn’t ask you to come over and give me a therapy session,” Bucky muttered.

“Well, maybe you should have.” Sam’s tone softened a fraction. “You won’t talk to her, you won’t talk to me. That’s a lot of silence for someone who’s supposedly doing better at opening up to people.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “We fought, Sam. And it wasn’t like the others. This one… I just really don’t know if we can come back from this one. It feels like we went too far.”

Sam didn’t say anything. It was the kind of silence that made Bucky flinch more than any words.

“I said something I shouldn’t have,” Bucky finally admitted. “But she did too.”

“Sounds like a relationship.”

Bucky finally looked up, his eyes dull. “You ever love someone so much that you’d do anything for them, but the one thing they need is something you can’t give?”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “I have.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “She wants to stay. Sarah, the boys, the dock, the memories of her grandparents — it's all home for her. And I want to want that, but…” He exhaled sharply. “Brooklyn’s all I’ve got. It’s where I remember who I used to be before the war. Before HYDRA. It’s who I’m trying to be now. I just can’t give that up.”

“Did she ask you to?” Bucky hesitated for a moment at the question. 

“No. But she looks at me like I should. Like if I really loved her, I’d stay.”

Sam moved closer, sitting in one of the rickety kitchen chairs. “You’re both scared. That’s what this sounds like.”

Bucky let the words sit there. He didn’t want to be scared. He wanted to be the man she believed he could be. The one who held her in the middle of the night when her nightmares clawed up her throat. The one who made breakfast on quiet mornings in Louisiana while the boys played outside.

The memory hit him hard.

Flashback

He saw her in the kitchen, barefoot and still half-asleep, swaying to some old Marvin Gaye record while she made coffee. He had slid up behind her, rested his hands on her hips, and she hadn’t flinched — not even a little.

“You smell like syrup,” she’d mumbled as her head leaned back against his chest.

“Because AJ used my shirt as his napkin,” Bucky grumbled, and she laughed — that easy, unguarded sound that made something in his chest feel like it could burst.

It had felt like forever. It had felt like maybe, somehow, the two of them could make it work.

But then came the quiet reminders. The mail that piled up back in Brooklyn. The subway rumbles he missed. The history carved into concrete.

And worse — the feeling that he didn’t fully belong in Louisiana. That no matter how many times she asked him to stay, that he was just a guest in her world.

Present

Back in the present, Bucky stood and walked to the window. The city buzzed outside. Cars, people, life. Nothing like the slow quiet of the Wilson's porch.

“I don’t think she’s going to call,” he said softly.

Sam didn’t answer right away.

“So you’re just gonna wait around?”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m giving her space.”

“That’s not the same as giving up,” Sam pointed out.

“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I think maybe we both need time to figure out what we’re actually fighting for. Because if it’s just to be right…” His throat felt tight. “Then maybe it’s already over.”

Sam leaned forward. “She loves you, Buck.”

“I know,” he whispered. “That’s the part that makes it hurt.”

Sam finally stood, heading for the door. “You’ve got my number,” he said. “Use it. Or don’t. You just can't keep sitting here like you don't care.”

Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”

Sam paused at the door. “I’m serious, man. Don’t let stubbornness be the reason you lose something good.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and Bucky stood alone in the kitchen again, watching the fan turn. The memory slammed into him like a truck.

Flashback — Two Weeks Earlier

“Tell me again why you won’t just leave that damn fan alone?” She stood in the kitchen, her shirt sticking to her back with sweat, arms crossed as she watched Bucky fiddle with the old clattering box fan in the window.

“Because it’s a death trap,” Bucky grunted, pulling the back panel off. “It’s about to catch fire. Or fall out the window. Or both.”

“It’s been there since I was a kid.”

“Exactly my point.”

She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back.

“Leave it,” she said softly. “Come outside with me.”

He turned in her arms, “It’s literally a hundred degrees outside.”

“You’re a super soldier. You can handle it.”

He huffed out a laugh. “You know that’s not how it works.”

But he let her tug him out to the porch anyway.

They sat side by side on the steps, her head on his shoulder, the cicadas screaming in the trees as the sun started to set.

“You ever think about just… not going back?” she asked.

“To New York?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t answer right away. “Every time I’m here.”

“But?”

“But then I remember I don’t belong here. I’m a guy from another time, doll. People still look at me like I might snap. And this town… it’s not mine.”

“But you're mine.”

That pulled his gaze to her.

“I mean it,” she said, softly. “You’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel like I could have something good.”

He leaned in, kissed her forehead. “I want to be that. For you.”

She nodded, but the words hung there — unspoken — between them.

Then she said, “Maybe we don’t have to pick just one place.”

He sighed. “Maybe.”

But even then, they both knew — compromise didn’t feel like enough.

And neither of them were ready to give up.

Present

He looked at the untouched coffee Sam left. Then finally, he picked it up and took a sip.

It was cold.

Still, he drank it anyway.

————————

Author's Note: Part two! Ahhhh! Let me know what you think. :) Bucky's POV was a new one for me, so I hope y'all like it. Thanks to my pal @buckybarnesfic (a real life angel) for beta reading!

Chapters of this fic will be posted on Fridays around 8am EST / 12pm GMT / 10pm AEST

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