paristheonewhoreads - Tumblr blog

paristheonewhoreads · 9 hours ago

Text

Binged this whole thing 💋🙂‍↕️

Making Out for America

Chapter 7: Land of the Free, Home of the Brave

masterlist || one || two || three || four || five || six || seven

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x America's Sweetheart!fem!reader

Mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, set during thunderbults*, sexual tension, forced proximity, arranged marriage, panic attacks, mental health issues, angst (lots of it), no y/n

Word Count: 5.3k

gif by unearthlydust || dividers by cafekitsune

Bucky’s been in the shower for a while. You set your phone down on the nightstand and start petting Alpine, who’s already blinking slowly, trying her best to stay awake.

“Does your dad usually take this long in the shower?” you sigh.

Alpine blinks up at you and nuzzles into your palm in response.

Honestly, you’re starting to think you have more chemistry with his cat than with Bucky himself.

With a tired sigh, you sink further into the bed, your hair spilling over his pillows. Alpine stretches and settles in closer to you, eventually dozing off. You shut your eyes and try to relax, to let yourself drift off—but it’s harder than the last time you slept here.

Back then, it was just a simple sleepover. But now… now you live here. And you confessed your feelings to him a few hours before you ended up here—in his bed.

You toss and turn, unable to find a comfortable position. Alpine gets fed up with your fidgeting and hops off the bed with a little thud, disappearing to sleep elsewhere.

Sorry, kitty.

Eventually, the bathroom door creaks open. A small creak of light cuts through the dark room, and you blink against it as Bucky steps out. His hair is damp, curling faintly at the ends around his neck. A towel hangs loosely around his shoulders, and he’s wearing a white T-shirt that fits far too snugly across his large chest.

You swallow hard and force yourself to turn away.

“Took you a while,” you mutter.

“Didn’t know you were waiting for me.”

You scoff quietly. “I wasn’t.”

You hear his footsteps approach the bed. Instinctively, you tug your oversized T-shirt down over your stomach—it had ridden up from all the tossing and turning. The mattress dips slightly as he sits, but he doesn’t lie down. You don’t even need to look at him to know how stiff his posture is.

“Are you gonna lie down?” you ask quietly.

He inhales sharply. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

You turn your head over your shoulder, watching as he grabs the blanket, lifting it slowly like it weighs a hundred pounds or something. He moves like he’s trying not to disturb a sleeping bear—even though you’re wide awake.

Your brows furrow. What the hell is he doing?

His eyes flick to your face, then trail lower—to your shirt. You watch as he releases a breath he is holding. Finally, he slides under the covers beside you, moving carefully and obnoxiously stiff.

“What’s up with you, Bucky?”

He shifts under the covers, lying on his back like a board, arms stiff at his sides. His eyes are glued to the ceiling. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something about the faint frown tugging at his lips that makes him seem… disappointed—for whatever reason.

“Nothing,” he sighs. “It’s just been… a long day.”

“Do you want me to sleep on the couch—”

“Not this again,” he groans, cutting you off, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. “Just stay here. There’s nothing wrong, alright?”

You frown at his tone and let out a quiet sigh. You roll onto your back, mirroring his position, staring at the ceiling while clutching the blanket close to your chest. The distance between you is small, but it feels like miles. You wonder if you’ll wake up with his arms wrapped around you again, like the first night you spent here.

But after everything he said earlier, that seems unlikely.

You shut your eyes, trying to force yourself to fall asleep despite the pounding in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says suddenly—his voice low, gruff, and tired.

Your eyes flutter open as you turn your head slightly toward him. But his gaze is still fixed on the ceiling. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately,” you murmur.

“I know,” he breathes out through his nose. “I just don’t know what else to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” you reply gently. “If this is about what happened earlier today, don’t apologize for it.” You watch his face carefully, even though he won’t look at you. “If those were your true feelings, then there’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

His jaw tightens, and you can see a rollercoaster of emotions cross his face—though the moonlight only sharpens the mystery. How are his features so expressive, and yet you still can’t read an inch of him?

“It was also stupid of me to let feelings get in the way of business,” you say quietly, forcing the words out. “I just don’t want things to be awkward between us now… now that we live together and all. We should try and be comfortable.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles softly, like he’s trying to convince himself too.

Then finally, he turns to you, his head resting on his arms. “What can I do that’ll make this…” he pauses, his eyes searching yours, “less awkward between us? More comfortable for you?”

You shift slightly, turning your body completely to face him too. The dim glow of the moonlight casts a soft halo around you, and you hear Bucky suck in a breath at the sight of you.

“Just be yourself,” you say, your voice coming simple and gentle. “And I’ll be myself, and from there, we’ll just have to learn to live around each other.”

Bucky stares at you for a while longer. He lets out a steady breath and quietly nods.

“Okay.”

Bucky was anything but comfortable. The past few days had been pure torture.

You weren’t doing anything wrong—that was the worst part. You were just… living, settling in, being yourself. And every bit of that was driving him slowly insane.

First, you took over his bathroom completely. Bottles, jars, and mysterious pastel-colored goop products now lined every available surface. One morning, half-asleep, he grabbed a bottle that looked like shampoo—and ended up smelling exactly like you for the rest of the day. It was sabotage. One-sided, unintentional sabotage.

And the worst part of it all was that he loved the smell of you.

Then there was breakfast. Bucky didn’t do that.

Most mornings, he barely had the energy to brew a bitter black coffee and throw some eggs in a pan. Alpine always got something nice, sure—but he never fussed over himself.

You were up most mornings before him, making the entire kitchen smell like a damn café. There was coffee that actually tasted… good. Fresh fruit, pancakes, and bacon. At first, he didn’t think much of it, now he misses them on the mornings you slept in.

But nothing tested his self-restraint like laundry day.

You had both agreed to share one laundry basket to make things simple. It seemed practical at the time. But now, every time he reached in and his fingers brushed a soft bra strap or delicate lace underwear, he felt like a sinner in church. And he shouldn’t feel like that in his own damn home.

The worst moment came when he stepped into the laundry room and saw you standing in front of the dryer, casually pulling your clothes out. He froze as you lifted a black lacy pair of panties, dangling from your fingers like it was nothing.

“Don’t mix blacks and whites,” you warned him, giving him a look like he was the problem. Then you walked out, leaving him alone with a full basket and a head full of thoughts he had absolutely no business entertaining.

Normally, constant lecturing would’ve just slightly annoyed him, but this just made his frustration worse. No—what actually drove him crazy was the sight of your very intimate clothing, casually laid out everywhere like it wasn’t slowly eating at his sanity.

Every little thing was building up. The scent you left behind in the bathroom, the way you hummed when you cooked, how comfortable you looked walking around in oversized T-shirts that should’ve been his.

It didn’t help that his attraction to you was already a losing battle.

So, every few nights, Bucky would retreat to the bathroom before bed, claiming he just needed to “unwind.” But the truth was far more pitiful. He was spending way too long in the shower, trying desperately to relieve some of that tension before crawling into the same bed as you.

And it would only satisfy him a little bit, but not enough.

It was never enough.

Meanwhile, you have definitely noticed how tense and on edge Bucky had been around you. You couldn’t figure out what his deal was. You had both agreed to be yourselves—to be comfortable around each other—but lately, every time you got near him, his jaw would tighten and he’d force himself to look away like you were some kind of walking inconvenience for him.

The bathroom door was perched open as you did your makeup, Alpine sitting lazily on the counter, grooming herself while you got ready.

Tonight was a big night. Your foundation’s event was being livestreamed, and you and Bucky had your first joint interview right before it. Maybe that explained his nerves—but he had been acting like this for days.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him sitting at the edge of the bed, tugging on his socks, already dressed in a tucked white tank and formal slacks. He was grumbling under his breath, clearly irritated about something just out of earshot.

You put your hairbrush down with an annoyed sigh. “Bucky, what the hell is going on with you?”

He pauses, not looking at you. “What?” he replies snappily.

You turned to face him completely, eyebrows raising at the tone of his voice. “Excuse me?” you scoff, one hand going to your hip. “Is that how you speak to your fiancée?”

He gives you a confused look as he reaches for his dog tags on the nightstand. “What?” He repeats, more calmly.

“You’ve been weird ever since I moved in. And even more today,” you explain, arms folding. “I let it slide, but now it just feels like I’m an inconvenience to you and your space.”

“That’s not it,” he mumbles, grabbing his crisp white button-up off a hanger.

“Then what is it?” you press, stepping towards him. “You asked what you could do to make things more comfortable for me, but it seems like you’re the one uncomfortable in your own home.”

Finally, Bucky turns to face you, frowning at the shirt in his hands.

“What do you want me to say?” he mumbles grumpily. “I’m over a hundred years old. The only other female I’ve ever shared space with is…” he glances towards the bathroom, “...my cat.”

Alpine blinks at him from the counter and promptly looks away, as if insulted.

You blinked, thrown completely off-guard. For a second, you aren’t sure if he was serious or trying to crack a joke for the first time—but judging by his tone and deadpan expression, he was absolutely serious.

Too bad that realization didn’t stop the snort that came out of your mouth.

“Are you laughing at me?” Bucky narrows his eyes at you.

You cover your mouth, trying to stop from laughing even more. “S-sorry, I… I just didn’t expect that answer—”

“You’re one to talk,” he sets his shirt down on the bed, planting his hands on his hips. “You’ve been living with your mom until, what? A couple of days ago?”

You let out an exaggerated gasp. You part your lips for a comeback, but Bucky beat you to it.

“Let me guess—you gonna hit me with another ‘Is that how you speak to your fiancée?’ line?”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. For a man who has been acting cold all week, the sudden sass threw you completely off balance. And yet… it was kind of refreshing.

“Oh my God,” you let out a laugh in disbelief. “You’re such a meanie!”

A small smirk tugged at Bucky’s lips, proud of himself for cracking through your frustration. He was relieved things had turned out this way instead—lighthearted—because the truth was, he has no idea how to explain the frustration that’s been eating away at him these past few days. Trying to navigate living with you while dealing with the pressure of your father’s foundation had been... a lot.

“Meanie? What are we, twelve?” he teased.

You roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him in response. Alpine chirps from the counter like she’s chiming in to back you up. Bucky lets out a chuckle, shaking his head fondly as he picks up his shirt again. But instead of putting it on, he walks over to you.

He stops in front of you, stopping just a few inches away—close enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

“What?” you ask, wary but curious.

He pauses, eyes searching your face. Then slowly, he reaches up to the back of his neck and pulls off his dog tags. The cool metal glints under the bathroom lights as he holds them out to you. “Here,” he says. “You should wear these tonight.”

You suck in a breath, caught completely off-guard. “W-what? Why?”

He shrugs, trying to play it off as something casual, but even you can see the softness in his eyes. “They’ll look good with your outfit. Plus... it’ll make us look a little more real, don’t you think?”

He nudges the necklace closer, and your fingers brush against his as you take them—the chain slightly warm from where they rested against his skin. Your heart flutters wildly.

Your mom used to wear your dad’s dog tags all the time—back when things were happier and simpler. A faint and sad smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you mentally read back the tag.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Before you can get lost in the fond memory, Bucky speaks again, his voice softer this time. “Here, let me.”

He steps closer, carefully takes the tags back, and slips the chain over your head. His fingers graze your neck as he gently shifts your hair out of the way, then adjusts the tag so it sits perfectly centered against your chest.

His hands are rough, but his touch is unexpectedly tender. The feel of his warmth and the contrast of vibranium against your collarbone send a small shiver through you. Your heart beats faster. You’re sure he can feel it.

You look up at him through your lashes. “My dad gave my mom his dog tags too,” you say softly, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “I know this is sentimental for you. So... this means a lot. Even if I’m only wearing them for a little while.”

Bucky stiffens, and his brows furrow like he’s in pain. He frowns and averts his gaze, looking away. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

You pause.

Sorry?

For what?

This was supposed to be a sweet gesture, not a sad one. You decide not to press it. You’ll have more than enough emotion about your father to deal with tonight at the foundation event.

So you smile again, gently, and try to bring the lighthearted energy back. “Well,” you breathe out, “how do I look?”

He lifts his gaze up to look back at you, and his eyes soften once more. There’s something tender about his expression, and he parts his lips to say something. Maybe a genuine compliment this time. But instead, he clears his throat, and stiffly nods.

“Good,” he says gruffly. “Looks good.”

“You really need to learn how to compliment your fiancée better,” you reply deadpan—half joking, half serious.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. “Okay…” he mutters, then looks at you again, slower, and his eyes impossibly softer. “You look beautiful.”

It’s like your heart skips a beat. His unexpected words hang in the air between you—and for once, he doesn’t look away. You don’t know how to respond.

You clear your throat softly. “Thank you,” you mumble.

He takes a small step forward, and you don’t move. His fingers graze the chain resting against your chest, then trail lightly upward, brushing your collarbone.

“They look like they belong to you,” he says quietly, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

Your pulse flutters under his touch.Your eyes flick down to his lips before you can stop yourself, and just like that, the world feels like it’s paused—like it’s making time just for the two of you. His hands settle gently on your waist, and you rest your hand lightly on his chest, feeling his increasing heartbeat against your palm.

And now you two are back in the same magnetic position that you two just can’t seem to pull away from. You guys are standing close. Too close.

Either of you could easily lean in and—

Meow!

Alpine hops off the bathroom counter, slipping between your legs, her tail brushing both of you lazily.

You and Bucky jolt apart instantly, and the moment breaks like glass.

“I—uh—I need to finish getting ready,” you say quickly, smoothing your dress even though it doesn’t need it.

“Right,” he mutters, already turning away. “Me too. And I think Alpine’s hungry, so I’ll… go feed her.” He grabs his shirt from the bed and hurries out of the room, Alpine trotting behind him, completely oblivious to what she’s done.

“Come on, baby girl. Let’s go eat,” you hear him mumble before he gently shuts the door behind him.

You finally let out a breath that you’ve been holding in and look at yourself in the tall bathroom mirror.

You, standing there with his dog tags around your neck. You brush your fingers over the engraved letters as his words repeat in your mind.

He was right. They do look like they belong to you.

Tonight was important.

Every year, you and the Jameson Foundation host a major event to raise donations for your father’s cause—a grand evening dedicated to honoring his legacy. It’s a night where families, veterans, corporate sponsors, and old friends gather under twinkling lights and shared stories.

But this year, it feels bigger because Congressman Barnes is here.

The presence of the infamous Sergeant Barnes brings more attention than ever. Whispers follow you both as you make your way through the crowd, hand in hand.

Above you, soft fairy lights crisscross the open-air venue. Giant banners ripple in the warm evening breeze—your father’s face printed on each one, beside the foundation logo. Bucky’s eyes stay fixed on them, staring hard and haunted.

He’s been like that since the two of you arrived.

You glance up at him as you greet a few guests, offering polite thank-yous for their support. He smiles when necessary, nods when needed, but it’s clear he’s not comfortable. It’s like his mind is somewhere far away.

You step a little closer to him and lower your voice. “Are you okay?”

His jaw clenches. “I’m fine.”

But he’s not. You can see it all over him.

“Hey,” you reach for his arm, brushing against the fabric of his suit jacket. “You don’t have to be perfect tonight. You just have to be here, with me. Okay?”

His blue eyes flicker to you, and they look… sad. You’re about to say more—about to pull him aside for just a second to breathe, to remind him that he’s not alone in this—

“Excuse me,” a woman in a headset interrupts, voice chipper but hurried. “They’re ready for you. Both of you.”

You turn and nod politely, giving Bucky’s hand a light squeeze. “Will you be okay?”

He chews the inside of his cheek as he simply nods.

The lights from the stage setup were bright and warm, like it’s all dipped in honey. The cameras are rolling, the crowd is watching, and the interviewer greets you both. You smile brightly, standing straight, shoulders back, posture perfect. You’ve done this a hundred times already.

Bucky, however, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The questions start off simple and straightforward—focused on your father, the veterans, the mission of the foundation. You answer smoothly, your voice steady as you thank donors and honor the families who continue to serve. You smile, gracious and poised, and even mention how special it is to have your fiancé here with you tonight.

Everything seems to be going fine… except for the fact that Bucky stands beside you like a statue. He barely acknowledges the questions, nods stiffly when spoken to, and hasn’t said more than a few short words since the camera started rolling.

You just assumed it was his nerves. Public appearances aren’t his thing.

But then one of the interviewers finally asks the kind of question the press really wants to hear.

“And Sergeant Barnes, what has this partnership meant to you? Supporting this foundation, standing beside your fiancée, being part of something so personal to her story?”

He pauses a little too long for comfort, and the silence stretches awkwardly.

“It’s… important,” he finally says, stiffly. “I’m proud to support her.” His tone is flat. “And the cause.”

You force a small laugh, trying to ease the tension.

“He’s just nervous,” you say lightly, rubbing his arm gently with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But he’s happy to be here. He’s been so supportive.” You glance up at him. “Right, sweetheart?”

Bucky gives you a quick nod but his eyes are fixed on something in the distance. “Yes, of course.”

Robotic.

The interviewer gives a polite chuckle, sensing the discomfort but pushing on. “Understandable—it’s a big night. But really, it must be meaningful to stand in support of such a powerful legacy. Her father was such a beloved figure.”

You nod again, smiling even as your heart beats nervously in your chest. “It means everything to me. And to have someone by my side—someone who’s also served and understands the sacrifice—it makes tonight feel complete.”

You feel Bucky stiffen even more beside you.

They turn back to Bucky. “And Sergeant Barnes, do you feel that connection? Through service, through shared values?”

“I suppose,” he says curtly. “But it’s her night. It’s not about me.”

Another interviewer jumps in immediately. “You two seem like such a grounded couple. Could you share how the proposal happened? We all love a good engagement story.”

You glance at Bucky nervously, unsure if he wants to take this one, giving him the opportunity.

His eyes are still fixed on the banners in the distance. You nudge him softly to snap him back, and he stands up straight and clears his throat, saying the first thing that comes to mind.

“It wasn’t anything special,” he says—immediately regretting his words the minute they leave his mouth. “I mean—it just… it just made sense. This marriage, it… made sense.”

Your heart sinks. And that smile falters for the first time.

You quickly cut in, forcing a little laugh. “I think what he means to say is that it was spontaneous. It wasn’t extravagant like most proposals, but it was still beautiful and meaningful to us.”

Everyone in the crowd and the live television can probably sense the tension now—it’s undeniable. Your jaw clenches behind your smile.

This is supposed to be the biggest night of the year—a moment of pride for your father’s legacy. For everything you’ve built.

And all anyone will remember is how off your fiancée looks on camera.

The rest of the evening felt like you were dragging your heels across the floor.

You float through conversations with donors, pose for photos, offer heartfelt speeches and charming smiles. From the outside, everything looks perfect, but behind each nod and polite thank-yous, your frustration burns hotter.

Bucky stays just close enough to play the part, but he’s silent—cold, even. When you introduce him to guests, he gives them short replies. When veterans come up to thank him for his service, he stiffens like their gratitude physically hurts him. You try to brush it off for their sake, smiling harder, laughing a little louder.

But inside, you’re fuming.

Why was he being like this?

He was so sweet and so gentle earlier. And now here you were, wearing his dog tags loud and proud, and he was standing there like he couldn’t stand to be here anymore.

You don’t even mutter a single word in the car ride home. But you can tell that Bucky can feel your tension. He keeps sneaking glances at you from his seat, his hand twitching as if he wants to reach for yours, only to stop midway each time.

You stay silent even as he opens the door for you when you get home. Alpine trots over to greet you both, tail high in the air. Bucky crouches down, scratching her gently behind the ears while you take the moment to slip past him without a word. You head straight for the stairs, and by the time Bucky stands upright, you’re halfway up. His frown deepens as he watches you go.

“Is everything okay?” he calls after you.

You scoff, not bothering to look back. He should know the answer to that.

You keep walking, making your way into the bedroom as he continues to call after you. You’re about to shut the door behind you when a hand catches it.

“Really?” he huffs. “I live here too, you know.” He adds as he pries the door open, letting himself in.

You ignore him as you walk towards the mirror. Your fingers reach up to undo your hair—pulling out the pins one by one, each motion harsher than the last. You don’t look at him, but you can feel his eyes on you, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of your attention.

He moves closer until he’s standing behind you—close enough that his reflection fills the mirror. He’s forcing you to see him, even if your back is to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, arms crossing over his chest.

“You really don’t know, Bucky?” you snap, meeting his gaze through the mirror.

You pull the last pin from your hair, letting the strands fall loose. “You embarrassed me tonight,” you say quietly, hurt lacing into your words. “You couldn’t even pretend to care for five minutes—just five.”

He stays silent behind you, as he always does, and that only fuels the sting building behind your eyes.

“I tried to cover for you,” you continue, turning to face him. “I smiled and tried to carry the damn interviews and you…” you shake your head in disbelief, “you acted like you didn’t even want to be there.”

His jaw clenches, but he still says nothing.

“I told myself it was nerves—that you’d loosen up eventually. But you didn’t. You were curt and dismissive with everyone who approached you. And most of those people came to see you, Bucky!”

He flinches slightly at your words, his frown deepening, but still no words come.

“We were doing so well earlier today,” you murmur, your fingers reaching for the dog tags around your neck. “You gave me these to make us look real, and then tonight… you didn’t even try. I mean… it wasn’t anything special—really? That was the best you could come up with?”

You lift the chain and begin pulling it over your head and that’s when Bucky finally moves. His hand shoots out and gently stops you.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and almost pleading. “Please don’t.”

You pause, raising your brows at him, confused. “What?”

Bucky’s still holding your wrist, his touch firm yet gentle. His brows furrows, and his eyes look haunted—like something is clawing at him from the inside out.

“I…” he starts, his voice straining. “I didn’t mean to ruin tonight.”

You frown. These past few days, it’s like Bucky has been fighting an internal battle with himself, and you have no clue why. He constantly looks at you like you’re this fragile little thing, yet he comes at you with short one-liners, and he always looks like there’s something he wants to tell you, but you don’t know what.

“You always say one thing, but your actions say another,” you murmur. “Why did you act like you didn’t even want to be there?”

“I did want to be there,” he says quickly, almost too quickly. “I wanted to be there for you.”

He takes another step forward, his hands moving from your wrist to the chain around your neck. His eyes flicker all over your face—to your eyes, to your lips, to your neck.

To his dog tags.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters, his fingers grazing lightly over the chain. “I don’t even know where to start. Seeing you wear these… it messes with my head. And being there tonight—it just made it worse. I couldn’t think straight.”

He swallows hard, voice growing more unsteady.

“I didn’t want to ruin your night. I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

His breathing begins to shift, shallow and uneven. His shoulders tense, chest rising faster now. You recognize the signs of his panic attack immediately—his heartbeat quickening, the distant look in his eyes.

“Bucky,” you say gently, reaching for the hand still resting near your collarbone. You take it in yours, pressing it firmly against your chest. “Just breathe, okay? You’re alright. I’m here.”

He nods, though his jaw is tight and his eyes flicker with something like guilt—or fear. His hand is warm but clammy in your grasp, and neither of you moves for a long moment. Just silence. His breathing slowly begins to steady under your touch.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” he repeats, his voice more steady. “When we started this… whatever this is, I told myself it was convenient. Something that would help us both.”

He meets your eyes now, his hands never pulling away.

“But then you started taking up every piece of my mind. You moved in, you took over my kitchen, my bathroom, my mornings…” he shakes his head, a self-deprecating laugh escapes him, “...you called my arm beautiful.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest.

“I know I’ve been short with you. I’ve been distant. But it’s only because… because I—” he stops, the words catching in his throat. His heart is racing again, but he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t even need to finish his words—because you know his true feelings. You’ve known for a long time. You knew the tension between you two was never just for show. You knew the truth even when he rejected you—back before you moved in, before all of this.

Because you knew.

But still, there was something about the way he was looking at you, the way he looks… almost like he’s in pain. Like he's broken.

This should be a good thing, right?

Your feelings are mutual. He knows that. And things can finally be normal.

So, why does he have such a sad look in his eyes?

“I’ve never wanted something to be real more than I want this. I care about you,” he says finally. “More than I ever meant to. I care about you so damn much, and it’s selfish for me to say that because—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt softly. You stand slowly, still holding his hand. “I care about you too—you know that. But why did you say no to me that day? When I told you how I felt?”

He frowns. “I was scared,” he says so softly, it almost came out like a whimper. “I… I don’t deserve this—”

Bucky stops himself before he can say anymore. His bottom lip trembles, and your free hand comes up to caress his cheek. He stiffens slightly at first, but then relaxes just as fast—almost melting into you.

Like he’s craving you.

His fingers drift back to the dog tags resting on your chest.

“Please, just keep them on,” he pleads softly. “They belong to you—just as much as you belong to me.”

back || next (in progress)

315 notes · View notes

paristheonewhoreads · 17 hours ago

Text

I’d set back women by like 80 years for them 🙂‍↕️

I want these deeply problematic and visibly dysfunctional men in ways that are concerning for feminism.

#clearly I have a type #lewis pullman #owen taylor #jordan weaver #lewis always understands the assignment

382 notes · View notes

paristheonewhoreads · 18 hours ago

Text

666 notes · View notes

paristheonewhoreads · 21 hours ago

Text

soft around the edges

chunky!beefy!bucky x pregnant!reader mentions: 18+, struggles with body image, insecurities, tooth-rotting fluff, comfort, angst if you squint word count: 1.1k main masterlist

Ever since you got pregnant, Bucky has been putting on extra weight—specifically around his stomach area. He's been feeling insecure, thinking you won't be attracted to him anymore. But little does he know, you absolutely fucking love his body.

Bucky had been noticing how differently your hands wandered over him these past few days. It used to be his hands you reached for, his biceps you squeezed, or his hair you ran your soft fingers through.

But now… your fingers had found a new favorite place to land. His belly.

He kept telling himself it was nothing—that you weren’t really lingering there on purpose. But every time your palm settled over the soft curve of his stomach, that little voice in his head started up again, whispering things he didn’t want to hear.

You used to run your hands over his abs—and hell, he had abs—back when morning runs and daily workouts kept him in shape. But now, between your pregnancy and the way he’d traded gym time for extra sleep, home-cooked meals, and midnight ice cream runs with you… well.

The Winter Soldier had a dad belly.

And he wasn’t sure how you hadn’t noticed. Or maybe you had, and you were just too kind to say anything.

You, on the other hand, had noticed his physical changes. The way the sides of his stomach spilled over his jeans just slightly, how he was a bit more sluggish getting up from the couch, how his shirts were starting to fit snugger around his middle.

And you absolutely loved it.

One evening, he caught you staring while he stood at the kitchen counter, prepping dinner. His eyes darted everywhere but to yours, deliberately avoiding your gaze.

“You look really good, sweetheart,” you called from the couch, your hand resting over the swell of your belly, your eyes soft and warm on him.

“Guess I’m really leaning into the ‘dad bod’ thing, huh?” He forced a chuckle, but the insecurity in his voice overlapped in your mind as your thoughts took a sharp, entirely inappropriate turn.

You licked your lips. "You sure are."

He froze for a second, eyes flicking towards you like he wasn’t sure if you were teasing him or just… agreeing.

“Yeah, well… s’not exactly something to brag about,” he muttered just out of earshot, turning back to the cutting board.

His words completely flew over your head as you watched him—his big strong arms working the cutting board, his shirt stretched snug across his broad chest, and that slight bulge of his stomach under the fabric.

You pressed your legs together, trying to ease the growing heat that had been building all evening.

“You’re really putting a lot of love into this dinner,” you said, voice soft but teasing.

He paused mid-chop but didn’t say anything. He narrowed his eyes at you just a little before resuming.

You grinned, oblivious to his discomfort. “Baby, you look so big and beefy…”

Bucky froze, a flicker of panic flashing across his eyes. “Big and… beefy?” he repeated, voice tight. “You… you really think so?”

You blinked, taken aback by the crack in his voice. “Huh? I mean—like… strong. Like a big, soft, cuddly bear!”

He frowned, lowering his head as he returned to the chopping board. Your chest tightened as realization dawned: he had been quietly battling insecurity about his body.

Since your pregnancy began, you’d noticed the subtle signs—how he lingered in front of the mirror longer, how he tugged at his shirt or folded his arms to hide his stomach.

Even when you lay together at night, your hands resting on his belly were met with him shifting your hand to his chest or gently interlocking your fingers with his. “Don’t grab there, doll. It’s… not exactly my best feature these days,” he would mutter, but always with a soft chuckle afterward.

You had always assumed it was a joke—after all, you've been through so much together, carrying this baby, building your life side by side. Surely he knew you loved him unconditionally, dad bod and all.

You pushed yourself up from the couch with a small groan. Bucky caught your movement, setting down the knife.

“What are you doing, baby? Sit down—you need to relax.”

With one hand supporting your back, you slowly tread toward Bucky, meeting him in the kitchen. You wrapped your arms gently around his waist. He stiffened at the feel of your hand resting on his belly. You rose on your toes and pressed a tender kiss to his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I love every inch of you—all of you. Especially this part…” You squeezed the soft flesh of his stomach, planting another kiss on his cheek.

He shuddered, voice shaky. “I just… haven’t been feeling like myself lately. I know I’ve packed on some weight, and I try not to let it get to me, but sometimes… I worry you might not be as attracted to me anymore, not like when I was fit.”

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. Your eyes widened at his confession—less attracted?

That was impossible.

“Bucky,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I could say the same about me. Just look at me—I’m a walking balloon waiting to explode!” You chuckled, hoping to ease the tension. “But every day, you remind me I’m beautiful. You hold me, kiss me, reassure me you’re still crazy about me. And for that, I couldn’t be more—”

You paused, noticing the sad smile lingering on his lips, the quiet pent-up sadness behind his eyes. Your heart sank as you realized you hadn’t been there for him the way he’d been there for you, especially as your bodies changed. You’d been too busy swooning and drooling over him to even notice how badly he has been handling it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” your voice softened as you cupped his cheeks. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see how much this had been bothering you. But you need to know… I’m insanely attracted to you. Like, dangerously attracted. Every inch of you—dad belly included.”

His eyes widened, caught off guard by your blunt honesty.

“You have no idea how much this—” you squeezed the soft curve of his stomach “—turns me on. I can’t stop thinking about you, about feeling you, about just… touching you all the time.”

He blinked, a slow smile tugging at his lips as you felt the tension in his body start to ease.

“Honestly, it’s kind of ridiculous how much I love this ‘chunky, beefy’ version of you,” you said, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Makes me want to sneak kisses whenever I can—and maybe more.”

Bucky laughed softly—the kind of laugh full of relief and warmth you knew and loved. He wrapped a strong arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a gentle hug careful not to press on your belly, and pressed a tender kiss to your lips.

“Thank you, baby,” he sighed, holding you close. “I really needed to hear that.”

You looked up at him with hearts in your eyes and gave him a warm, reassuring smile. “I love you, Bucky. More than anything.”

He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes curling up as he pressed a kiss to your head.

“I love you more.”

808 notes · View notes

paristheonewhoreads · 1 day ago

Text

Silent Treatment

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Genre: Slow Burn, Smut, Emotional Tension, Slight Angst

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unresolved tension, rough sex, wall sex, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex (wrap it up IRL), intense eye contact, praise, aftercare

Word Count: ~2.6k

Summary: John Walker has been unusually quiet. The teasing, the banter — gone. You miss it, and you miss him. One night at the tower, you catch him alone. You want answers. What you get instead is a buildup so thick it nearly breaks you both.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

You weren’t used to silence when it came to John Walker. The man was cocky, sharp-tongued, always ready with a smug little jab that made you roll your eyes — and blush when you were out of sight. He teased, smirked, made your skin buzz.

But lately, he’d gone quiet.

Too quiet.

You’d pass each other in the hall and he wouldn’t say a word. No more lingering stares. No more flirty snark during sparring matches. Just a tight jaw, stiff shoulders, and a complete shutdown. You tried brushing it off. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was just being an asshole. But it gnawed at you. The way he used to look at you like he wanted to devour you, and now couldn’t even hold your gaze.

So when you saw him alone one night at the tower, leaning over the railing of the training deck with the lights dimmed and his back to you, you didn’t hesitate.

“You ignoring me now, or is that just my special treatment?”

He didn’t turn.

You waited.

Eventually, he said, voice low, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

You walked up beside him, arms crossed. “Can’t sleep. Wondering why Captain America’s gone mute.”

John exhaled through his nose. “I’m not mute.”

“You are with me.”

He finally looked at you then. Eyes dark, unreadable. But his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“I just figured…” he started, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

You leaned in slightly. “No, no, I’ve had two weeks of you brushing me off. I want to know why.”

He looked at you — really looked — and the heat in his eyes nearly knocked the breath from your chest.

“You always mess with me,” he said, voice strained. “And I thought I could keep doing it back. Keep playing along. But at some point, it stopped being funny.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means—” He cut himself off, jaw tight. His voice dropped. “It means when you tease me, I can’t stop thinking about it. And when you laugh, it messes with my head. And when I see you in those goddamn leggings—”

He turned away suddenly, hands gripping the railing. You could see the muscles in his forearms twitching.

“It got too much.”

Your voice was quieter now. “So you decided to pretend I didn’t exist?”

"I decided to protect myself,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Because if I gave in, I wasn’t sure I’d stop.” The air between you turned heavy. Thick. That invisible string stretched taut. You stepped closer — slow. Deliberate.

“And what if I want you to give in?” His head snapped toward you, eyes wild. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

He didn’t move. Just stared at you like he was barely holding something back. “John,” you said, voice soft, but firm. “Say something.”

He crossed the space in two steps. His hands slammed against the wall behind you, boxing you in — not touching, but so close you felt the heat radiating off him. His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His lips were parted. His jaw clenched.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled. “Tell me to walk away.”

You didn’t.

You held his stare, chin tilted slightly up. That’s when it broke.

His mouth crashed into yours, hot and desperate, years of frustration and need and want pouring out in a kiss that felt like fire. Your back hit the wall as his hands finally touched you — rough palms sliding up your sides, under your shirt, gripping your waist like he needed to anchor himself.

You gasped against his mouth, and he groaned, pressing his body against yours fully. You could feel him — hard, twitching, barely restrained.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your lips. “You have no idea.”

“Then show me,” you breathed.

He spun you fast, pressing your chest to the wall, his mouth at your ear. “You’re gonna let me take my time with you,” he growled. “Gonna let me have you.”

You whimpered as he pulled your leggings down roughly, fingers sliding between your thighs.

“Already wet,” he said, voice almost broken. “Fuck, baby…”

His fingers slid inside you, slow at first, then faster, curling just right. Your moans bounced off the wall, and he cursed under his breath. "You sound like a fucking dream,” he groaned. “I’m gonna ruin you.” You came on his fingers with a cry, shaking, and he kissed your neck, whispering, “That’s it. Let go for me. You’re so good.”

You heard his zipper next.

“Need to be inside you. Now.”

He didn’t tease. He didn’t wait. He lined up and slid into you in one smooth thrust that made your knees buckle.

“Oh fuck— John—”

“That’s right,” he hissed. “Say my name.”

He fucked you hard — rough and deep, one hand on your hip, the other gripping your throat just enough to make you gasp and arch back into him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled. “Tight, warm, all mine.”

You came again — didn’t even mean to — just clenched around him and cried out, and that was all it took. He slammed into you one last time and groaned your name like a prayer as he spilled inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound was your breathing. Wild. Ragged. Tangled. Eventually, he turned you around, resting his forehead to yours. “I tried staying away,” he whispered. “Tried being smart. I’m not proud of how much I wanted you.”

You looked up at him, still breathless. “Then be proud of this.”

He blinked.

You kissed him again — softer this time. “Because I wanted you too, John. You’re not the only one who's been losing sleep.” He closed his eyes, forehead still against yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured. You look his ice-blue eyes and cupped his cheek and kiss him. Not in a rush, slowly and full with emotion. Like you want to proof him he deserves it.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

hey! im back with john. ı may have hated this guy at the tfatws but in the thunderbolts.. that damn movie. he was so cute in that movie with his little beard...

305 notes · View notes