purebarnes

[purebarnes]

our wedding is soon ☺️

Ooo Love! Ooo Lover Boy!

boyfriend!johnny storm x fem civilian!reader content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: a cute date day with Johnny! wc: 3.1k

masterlist.

The rooftop is loud. Not with music or fireworks, but with press questions and too many bodies pressed together in expensive suits and sequined dresses. The Future Foundation is hosting another one of its “donor appreciation” nights, which really just means Reed stands by a molecular model all night while Johnny tries to escape three women in red dresses and someone’s very pushy aunt.

You’re off to the side, perched at a high table, nursing a ginger ale and watching the whole thing unfold like it’s a soap opera you accidentally got invested in.

Johnny, for his part, is thriving.

He’s grinning wide under the warm rooftop lights, hair perfectly tousled by the wind, laughing like he doesn’t have a single real problem in the world. He lets a kid borrow his sunglasses for a selfie. He lets someone else get a photo of him doing finger guns. He blows a literal heart-shaped flame into the air when someone shouts, “Johnny, show us something hot!”

Sue looks like she’s three seconds from tossing him off the roof.

You can’t help it, you laugh into your drink.

He catches it. Mid-flirt, mid-flame, Johnny’s eyes flick toward you like it’s instinct. His grin changes. Just a little. Softer around the edges. A secret note played under the show tune.

You pretend not to notice, even though your heart skips a beat like it always does when he looks at you like that.

Later, after the crowd starts to thin and the media finally backs off, Johnny finds you standing near the elevator, scrolling through your phone like you weren’t just waiting for him to come find you.

“Hey, stranger,” he murmurs, sliding up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist like it’s second nature. “Missed you.”

“You were ten feet away,” you deadpan, but you lean back into his chest anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, nose brushing the curve of your jaw, “but that was Human Torch distance. This is boyfriend distance.”

You snort. “Are those different units of measurement?”

“Obviously. Human Torch distance is...PR stunts, bright lights, saying hi to that one lady with the big hair because she gave us half our funding this year.”

“And boyfriend distance?”

“Boyfriend distance is here. With you. Finally.”

He rocks you gently side to side, his warmth soaking through your dress, the press of him solid and grounding.

“You looked really pretty tonight, by the way,” he says, quieter now. “Tried not to be obvious about staring. Think I failed.”

You feel the blush creep up your neck before you can stop it. He rests his chin on your shoulder, humming contentedly like he could stay like this forever.

“You were handsome too,” you murmur, smiling. “You always are.”

He grins against your skin. “I know.”

You elbow him gently in the ribs, but don’t pull away.

Because this is the part the world doesn’t see.

Not the fire. Not the flash. Not the headlines.

Just warmth. Just you and Johnny.

By the time you’re back at your apartment, your shoes are off, your hair’s down, and Johnny is already halfway through making popcorn in your kitchen and pretending he isn’t waiting for you to sit on the couch first so he can immediately flop next to you.

You catch him watching you as you toss your earrings into a dish on the counter.

“What?” you ask, biting back a smile.

He shrugs, leans against the stove, eyes all heavy-lidded and sweet. Too sweet.

“Nothing. Just...you’re so pretty.”

You roll your eyes. “You think I’m pretty when I’ve got mascara smudged under my eyes?”

He crosses the kitchen in three steps, sets the popcorn bowl down, and cups your jaw like he’s holding something sacred.

“I think you’re pretty always,” he murmurs. “But especially when you’re too tired to pretend I’m not your favorite person.”

You swat at him playfully, but your fingers curl around his wrist and keep him close.

You end up curled together on the couch, legs tangled under a too-thin blanket, his chest a living heater against your back. He’s the kind of warm that makes you melt without realizing it. His fingers draw slow, lazy shapes against your arm as the movie plays low in the background—some rom-com you’ve both seen ten times but always return to.

You feel him press a kiss to the back of your shoulder, then hum quietly against your skin.

“Wanna do something tomorrow?”

“Mmm,” you reply sleepily. “What kind of something?”

“Like...date day something. No work. No missions. No having to be 'Human Torch'."

You smile. “You’re due for some romance, huh?”

“I’m due for you in a sundress holding a little iced coffee and pretending not to laugh at my sunglasses tan.”

You twist slightly to look up at him. His face is lit soft by the TV glow, eyes half-lidded, hair flopped messily across his forehead. You reach up and push it back.

“So what do you wanna do?” you ask. “Ice cream? Hide in a used bookstore until someone kicks us out?”

“Yes,” he says. “All of it.”

“You want the full rom-com date montage, huh?”

“Absolutely. I want to carry your bag. I want to kiss you in front of a fountain. I want to sit on a bench and dramatically feed you a bite of my hot dog.”

You snort. “You’re such a dork.”

He grins. “I’m your dork.”

You reach under the blanket and lace your fingers through his, already picturing tomorrow, the soft buzz of summer in the city, the stupid matching sunglasses he’ll insist on, the way he’ll hold your hand like it’s his job.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Date day. Just us.”

“Just us,” he echoes, voice like a promise.

You fall asleep with your head on his chest and his hand curled around yours, warm, steady, and already dreaming of you.

You wake up to warmth.

Not the filtered sunlight slipping in through the curtains. Not the weight of the blanket half-pushed to the foot of the bed. Him. Johnny. Heat radiating from where his arm is slung across your waist, skin hot and golden even under the sheets. His breath fans across the back of your neck, steady and soft. He’s all tangled up in you, legs knotted with yours, hand tucked beneath your shirt like it belongs there.

It does.

He makes a quiet sound when you shift, half-asleep, half-clingy, and pulls you closer like a furnace with feelings.

“Mmm. Five more minutes,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

“It’s already ten.”

“Okay, five more hours.”

You laugh under your breath, which only makes him nuzzle closer, lips brushing your bare skin.

“We have date plans, remember?”

“Mm-hmm. I remember. I’m romancing you,” he says, voice slurred with sleep. “I’m being amazing.”

“You’re currently drooling on me.”

“Love drool. It’s affectionate.”

Eventually, he stretches out like a sun-drunk cat and flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh.

“Okay. Let’s get you ready. You need to look incredible today.”

“Me?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who’ll be recognized.”

“Exactly. And I want them to see you and immediately understand why I’m completely obsessed.”

You shake your head, amused, but let him follow you into your closet anyway.

Johnny takes the job of picking your outfit very seriously. He sits on the edge of your bed like a fashion judge, watching each piece you pull from a hanger like it holds national importance.

“Too serious,” he says at one dress. “Too corporate.” “Too hot. Not hot enough. Wear that one- wait, no, I won’t survive it.”

You finally settle on something flowy and soft, one of his favorites.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, watching you twirl in the mirror.

“Already did,” you reply, smug.

He grins, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles like he’s your knight instead of your menace of a boyfriend.

You end up at this little breakfast place downtown, handwritten chalkboard sign and flower boxes out front. It’s bustling, cluttered, loud in the best way. Johnny’s a regular, apparently. The guy at the counter daps him up like they’ve been best friends since childhood.

“The usual?” the guy asks, eyeing you with interest. Johnny slings an arm around your shoulder like it’s reflex. “Two of ‘em. She’s my favorite person. Extra strawberries.”

He insists on paying. Tips too much. Picks a booth by the window and slides in beside you, not across from you, because "if I sit over there, I can’t touch you."

The food comes fast—pancakes, eggs, coffee, fresh fruit. He takes a bite of your toast and pretends he didn’t.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” he says, halfway through a pancake. “No aliens. No science emergencies. Just you and me and syrup. That’s the dream.”

You rest your chin on your hand and smile at him, messy-haired, glowing, halfway through over-sweet coffee, absolutely beaming at you like you invented joy.

“This is gonna sound cheesy,” he adds, lowering his voice just a little, “but I don’t care if we do anything fancy today. You could drag me through a dollar store and I’d still call it the best date of my life.”

You kick him under the table. He grins wider.

“Ow. Romantic violence. Nice.”

After breakfast, he offers his hand dramatically and walks you out all dramatic. Sunglasses on. Other hand in his pocket. Entirely too proud to be seen holding your hand.

“Next stop,” he announces. “Books. Because you like books. And I like watching you pretend not to fall in love with me all over again while I read dumb poetry out loud.”

“That’s not what happens.” “It absolutely is. You’re obsessed with me.”

You don’t deny it.

Because it’s true.

The bookstore smells like old paper and dust and sunlight.

You find it tucked between a flower shop and a record store, the kind of place with crooked shelves and handwritten recommendation cards. Wind chimes jingle as the door swings open. Johnny ducks slightly as you step inside, like he’s trying to contain his energy, like he doesn’t want to break the spell.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales a soft “whoa,” eyes tracing the mismatched lamps and towers of books and the sleepy cat curled on the counter like it owns the place.

“This is so you,” he says finally, already smiling.

You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said that about the diner.”

“Yeah, but this time I mean it like...” He gestures vaguely. “You in a bookstore? This is just where you belong.”

He lets you lead the way, trailing a few steps behind with his hands in his jacket pockets, touching nothing, but watching everything. You, mostly. You, skimming the spines, pulling down titles and flipping through pages. You, biting your lip when you find something good. You, holding a book to your chest like it might float away.

He pulls a slim poetry chapbook off a shelf and follows you into a quiet corner near the windows.

“Can I read you one?” he asks, already opening it.

“Johnny…” you say, suspicious. “I can be cultured,” he insists. Then, clearing his throat dramatically, “Love is a fire.” He pauses. “Ooh. This one’s got my name on it already.”

You groan, but let him keep reading.

His voice drops when it’s not a joke anymore. Slows down. Words softer, careful. You watch him in profile, sunlight catching in his lashes, the faintest pink in his cheeks. He finishes the poem and looks up, sheepish.

“That was kinda good, right?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You should read to me more.”

He swells with pride, the way he always does when you compliment something real about him.

He buys the book. Signs the inside cover. "To the prettiest girl I’ve ever read poetry to—JS."

You lose him for a few minutes between aisles.

You’re deep in the nonfiction section, thumbing through a book on obscure cosmic history you’re pretty sure Reed wrote under a pen name, when Johnny reappears with a small stack in his arms and a crooked grin on his face.

“Okay. I took this very seriously,” he says, setting them down on the bench beside you. “Here is my curated selection for the love of my life.”

He presents the first one with a flourish: a graphic novel about time travelers who fall in love through post-it notes.

“Romantic and nerdy. I’m killing this already.”

The next, a battered, clearly well-loved paperback with stars and planets on the cover. You open it—and tucked inside is a faded, pressed flower.

You glance up at him. “Did you—?”

“Nah, found it like that,” he says, quieter now. “Felt like it was waiting for someone. Kinda like you and me.”

Your breath catches a little.

“That was gross, right?” he adds quickly. “Like...disgustingly sweet?”

“No,” you say. “It was perfect.”

He gives you a look like he wants to kiss you right there between fiction and sci-fi, but instead he just nudges your knee with his and leans back.

“Also I picked a cookbook because you said you wanted to try making dumplings from scratch.”

"Johnny.”

“And a mystery novel because I know you like to ry to solve what happens before it's revealed.”

You’re quiet for a moment, holding the stack to your chest.

“You really listen to me, huh?”

“Of course I do,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You’re my favorite voice.”

You feel your heart do another flip as he kisses your cheek.

The two of you end up in the park next, shoes off, blanket spread across the grass, half a baguette in a paper bag between you because Johnny insisted on stopping by a bakery before the park.

The sun is high, warm but breezy. Johnny lies flat on his back, one hand behind his head, the other idly playing with the hem of your skirt where it pools at your knees.

“Look,” he says, pointing lazily at the sky. “That cloud looks like the letter ‘J.’ For ‘Johnny.’ The sky loves me.”

“You’re the most humble person I’ve ever met,” you say, deadpan.

“You know it.”

A quiet falls between you for a while. Comfortable. Unrushed. His fingers eventually find yours in the grass and stay there, thumb brushing gentle circles against your skin.

“I love being with you like this,” he murmurs. “Not just in, like…the big ways. But the small ones. The regular ones. I’d do this every day for the rest of my life if you let me.”

You don’t say anything. You just squeeze his hand.

Later, when the sun starts to drift lower in the sky, you find yourselves near the ice cream truck Johnny insisted you walk past because “I swear this guy’s got the best strawberry swirl in the city.”

He orders for both of you, then adds a third cone at the last second for a kid in line who drops their cone.

“What a hero,” you say.

“My girlfriend thinks I’m cool. That’s all I need.”

You sit on the curb while you eat, your knees knocking together, your cone starting to drip. Johnny leans over and steals a bite without asking, then grins like he just won something.

“Hey!”

“What? I was saving your dress from getting icecream on it!”

You wipe a smudge of ice cream off his chin with your thumb. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You taste like sugar,” he murmurs, voice suddenly low. “No wonder I’m addicted.”

The city starts to shift as the sky turns gold.

Shadows stretch longer. Streetlights flicker to life one by one. Somewhere nearby, a jazz band warms up, their chords floating between buildings like smoke. And you’re still hand in hand with Johnny, wandering with no destination, letting the day stretch out for as long as it’ll give you.

He walks with his sunglasses on top of his head now, sweater sleeves pushed up, a paper bag in one hand filled with books and dumb little trinkets he insisted on getting “because they reminded me of you.” He keeps brushing his knuckles against yours as you walk, even though you’re already holding hands.

“Are you trying to hold my hand hand and my knuckle hand?” you ask, amused.

“I’m trying to hold every version of you,” he says, only half-joking.

Eventually, you stumble into a quiet little plaza tucked between two apartment buildings. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t show up on maps, just a stone path, a few benches, some ivy, and a fountain in the center. You can hear water trickling gently, the hum of traffic a distant hum instead of a roar.

Johnny stops walking.

“Wait,” he says, tugging gently on your hand. “This is it.”

“This is what?”

“The fountain moment. You remember. The romcom-certified romantic one.”

“Oh, right,” you say, playing along. “The one where you kiss me so perfectly I forget my own name.”

“Exactly. Very important. Very canon.”

He steps closer. Both of you smiling, soft around the edges, glowing in the amber light.

“You ready?” he murmurs.

You nod, and he leans in, not rushed, not showy, just…gentle. His forehead rests against yours for a second, breath mixing with yours. His hands cradle your waist like he’s holding something sacred.

“You’re my favorite thing I’ve ever found,” he says.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow and steady and unselfconscious. The kind of kiss that doesn't need witnesses. The kind you feel hours later, like sunlight on your skin. The water behind you bubbles softly. Somewhere, a breeze picks up and flutters the edge of your jacket.

You pull back first, but only because you’re smiling too hard.

“That was…” you start, breathless.

“Legendary,” he finishes. “Worthy of a rom-com montage.”

“It really was.”

You find a bench nearby and sit with your legs over his lap, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting against the curve of his neck. It’s that hour of the day where everything softens, edges, voices, hearts.

“Can I say something dumb?” he asks after a while.

“Always.”

“I know we’ve only been dating for a few months...” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “but I think I’d be good at loving you for a long time.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are on the sky. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to charm you—he says it like a quiet truth he’s been carrying all day.

“Like, I know it’s cheesy,” he continues, “but when I think about the future, it’s just…you. Not the superhero stuff. Not the press. Just mornings and bookstores and dumb fountain kisses. That’s what I want.”

You rest your hand on his chest, right over his heart. It’s beating fast. Yours is too.

“That’s not dumb,” you say softly. “That’s perfect.”

He turns his head toward you, eyes wide and warm and a little bit vulnerable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses your forehead like a promise.

“Good. Because I think I’m already all in.”

[purebarnes]

the tags kill me😝

Childproof

my main masterlist

pairing: johnny storm x fem!reader

word count: 3.5k words

description: sue announces her pregnancy. johnny is elated for his big sister. but it makes you feel some type of way when you know he wants kids of his own. something you're not very sure you want.

warnings: 18+ content, MDNI, no spoilers for f4 really, no use of y/n, reader is 18+, established relationship, basically pwp, talks of use of birth control, reader is afraid of being pregnant, johnny is a menace, johnny the Dom, sub!reader, uses of "daddy" and "momma", heavy on the breeding kink, lots of dirty talk, unprotected sex, fingering, exhibitionism, creampie, no real aftercare lol

authors note: hey..... this came to me before i even watched the movie. i watched that one clip and was like yeah.... i'm horny. anyway. saw the movie, loved it and needed to write more for this doofus. also coming up with the title made me giggle. if you get it, lemme know. hope y'all enjoy!

how to help palestine ~ dividers by @saradika-graphics

Johnny knew how to get under your skin. He loved it. 

You and Ben had just completed dinner, working for over an hour on perfecting his famous red sauce. Johnny had been bothering you two the entire time, pestering you specifically on how much longer it would be.

“We have dinner at the same time every night, Johnny,” You bite as you butter the bread. He did not let up, asking you to elaborate. He loved seeing your face get red and your lips opening up to let out a long sigh. 

Once everything was plated and the table was set, you sat down at the table. You turn everyone’s forks and knives the right way as Ben sprinkles some more Italian seasoning over the pasta.

Johnny slams down in the chair next to you, a big box of Lucky Charms in his grip. Ben immediately takes note of it before you can even say anything.

“What are you doing?” He asks Johnny, his voice sort of small with a slight offense to it. 

Johnny takes a handful of the cereal and dumps it in his mouth. “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

You peer at him, annoyed, already on edge with him today. He had been extra irritating today after you rejected his morning advances. You swore the man needed you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

“You are going to ruin your appetite,” You say, grabbing the box from him. His bright blue eyes rolled to the back of his skull as he dumped the rest of the handful he had into his mouth.

“‘M hungry, baby.”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the question Ben had posed about Sue and Reed being late to dinner. Everyone always arrived before the set time, and by the looks of it, they were about 5 minutes late. You check your small watch front, humming a response. You hear some footsteps from across the living room, and see the two of them looking like they just got caught with their hands in a cookie jar.

“You’re late,” Johnny shouts to them, dusting his hands off over his clean plate. You grit your teeth. Why was he like this?

Reed and Sue stop dead in their tracks. 

“What, uh, what do you mean?” Sue poses, slowly walking forward to her usual spot at the table. Johnny rolls his eyes again, and you silently plot how you could get away to stab him with your fork.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You’re late for dinner,” Johnny explains, pulling his napkin into his lap, just like you taught him. Took him years to figure out how to prevent so many stains on his clothing until you came around and completely changed his entire world.

Sue and Reed go into an elaborate explanation as to why they took so long, but you sensed a shift. Reed never had a good poker face, his big brown eyes giving him away immediately. 

Ben noticed, too, because he shot you a look.

“Why are you being weird?” Johnny asks, noticing their behavior to be rather off. 

They go into more word vomit, and you cannot help but let a smirk spread across your face. 

Ben quips up, “Are you pregnant?”

Sue’s face instantly shifts into a smile as she lets out some air from her nose, “Yeah, I’m pregnant.”

She and Ben stand up together, hugging one another in celebration. Reed gets up as well to join in on the embraces after he rattles off some weird and awkward gestures towards a flabbergasted Johnny. You shift out of your chair, grabbing him for a hug, whispering excited congratulations. 

Johnny is sitting there completely astonished. “What? Really?”

You all look to him, still seated at the table. Sue nods, giving him a confident ‘yeah’. And then the celebration gets even bigger, with Johnny slamming his hands on the table. You are still half hugging Reed, slowly pulling away, watching Johnny lift his sister in the air, and telling her how great of a mother she would be. When he grabs Reed, he tells him how he’s going to be out of his depth. He’s always one to pull something mean out of the depths of his mind to lay into Reed. You pat Reed’s shoulder, whispering to him to ignore his jab. 

You hug Sue and tell her congratulations. She gives you a squeeze, thanking you. Johnny grabs onto Ben as you pull away, “We are going to be the best uncles ever!”

You giggle, enjoying the excited look on Johnny’s face. He may be more thrilled than anyone else here. 

-

After Johnny got his powers, you two decided it was probably best not to have children. With every scientist you know telling you it would be fine to have a mutant’s baby, you were still unsure. Even Reed had brought up the possibility, and that’s why he and Sue had given up on it for a while.

You did not know that they never really wanted to give up trying. 

But you had done some semi-permanent things to ensure you would not get pregnant by your needy, insatiable boyfriend. Birth control. A small little pill you would take every morning with some orange juice and toast. 

It had worked for the year that you two had been together, and you were confident that you would not have to carry his child until you knew 100% what you wanted to do. 

But now a baby would be directly in your lives, and you had heard what baby fever can do to people. You were still sure you did not want a child, but the way Johnny is just blissful on the idea of having a nephew, you knew he would bring it up again. 

And you were right. Seeing his sister and brother-in-law beaming over the prospect of their future child made him envious. He always wanted a little Johnny, a little you, but he understood your hesitancy. He respected it, of course, but there was now a nagging voice in his head that said if he didn’t do it now, it would never happen. 

Dinner is finished in less than an hour, and you and Johnny take up the responsibility of cleaning up with H.E.R.B.I.E. Mainly, it was you cleaning off the table and stacking dishes while the robot did the rest. You still liked to busy yourself with tasks, making yourself seem useful to the team due to your lack of superhero abilities. You were essentially just their publicist and managed their daily lives at home while they went off to save the world. 

You begin to wipe up the dinner table. Johnny creeps behind you, his hands shifting over your waist. He loved seeing you doing domestic activities. You were so pretty in your blue half-sleeved top, tucked into some high-waisted black trousers.

“You do not need to be cleaning, beautiful,” He hums into your neck, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. 

“Let me finish what I’m doing,” You demand, scrubbing off some sauce he had spilled off his plate. By the way his warm hands rested where your shirt rode up slightly, you knew what he was trying to do. 

He could sense some tension off of you, but refused to move away from you, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Nothing,” You lie, your mind still settling with the exciting news, “I am just tired, is all.”

“I think you’re lying, sweet cheeks.” He pulls your hips closer to him, his back against your shoulder blades, “Tell me what’s on your mind, hm?”

You could not lie much longer, “I’m more worried about what’s on your mind.”

He halts any more movements, using his grip on your hips to turn you around. He was not expecting such a response. You knew he would never pressure you to do something you did not want to do. So you must be referring to something else. “What do you mean?”

You shrug, your eyes shifting towards the floor over his shoulder before reluctantly returning to his piercing gaze, “You seem excited about the baby.”

He furrows his brows. You always thought he was always so painfully clueless when it mattered most. But the truth was, he did not understand why your response would be so bitter about his excitement.

His head shifts down towards you, “Of course, I am. I know how much Sue wanted it.”

You groan, throwing your head back. “Yeah, I know.”

You were starting to feel a bit dumb and dramatic about the whole thing. At the end of the day, you are excited for them. You like children for the most part, and it will keep the public off you and Johnny’s ass for 9 months. They won’t bother you about the timeline of your future child. Truthfully, you just hated the questions. There is almost a demand to produce the next generation of the Fantastic Four.

“Then what’s the big deal, beautiful? Why are you being weird about it?” His hands press into your hips in a possessive and needy way. You brush those thoughts off, knowing Johnny is doing it without even thinking twice.

But then the look he gave you during dinner started to enter your mind.

The longing.

“'Cause it’s only a matter of time before you start asking again.”

His hands still, “Asking for what? A baby?”

You slap his shoulders in frustration, “Yes!”

H.E.R.B.I.E takes his leave, knowing this could get heated quickly. He beeps his goodbye, heading down the hallway to the charging port that is set up for him. You grit your teeth, looking at Johnny’s silly expression, watching the robot roll away. 

Johnny cannot help but play oblivious, now. After you clarified for him, his mind was now plotting the ways he could sidetrack the conversation. He knew exactly what you were saying, but it’s so much sweeter when you lay it all out for him, your bubbling frustration only gets him off. And you knew that, which only annoyed you more. You usually fought spelling it out for him, but with a conversation like this, you wanted to be explicitly clear.

He sighs, shaking his head dramatically. “Of course I want a family with you, baby.”

“Well, we can’t. Not right now.”

Johnny smiles knowingly, slowly slipping into that cheeky smirk he gives you when he lets you win an argument. “Well, yeah, I know that.”

“Okay, good.”

Hands slip down your hips, reaching back to your rear and palming the flesh, “I would never put that responsibility on you. You know that?”

He drags out his fondling, his fingers rubbing closer and closer to your crack. His hands are wandering to places he only touched you in private. You want to smack him away, but he feels so good, you refuse to bother to reprimand him.

“Yes, I know,” You squeak, your hands now wrapping around the nape of his neck to almost pull him closer. After rejecting him this morning, you spent most of the day regretting not lazing in bed with him until noon. That option was always on the table, but today you were adamant about getting work done. What an idiot you were.

“Good…”

His head dips down to trail kisses on your jaw, down to your pulse point on your neck. Your fingers rake through his blond locks, holding his face close to you. His hands do not stop moving, tracing the line where your ass meets the top of your thighs. 

“You know what, though?” He ponders, his lips cresting the edge of your ear. He returns you to your previous position with a quick pull of your hips. Your ass is now pressed against him as your front half is practically folded over the white countertop. “It’s not stoppin’ me from acting like I can put one in you.”

“Johnny,” you warn, eyes fluttering close at the thought.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss right below your ear on your already sensitive neck, “Come on, baby. We can do it in a hypothetical sense.”

You breathe out a long sigh, knowing this was a terrible idea. You give Johnny an inch and he runs a mile. Even pretending he could get you pregnant felt like manifesting it. “Why, though?”

“Cause it’s hot to imagine,” He states, his hands traveling slowly between your thighs. You can feel him growing in his pants with the way his hips are practically melted into your backside, “Just thinking about fucking you full until you are dripping and full of my seed.”

“Johnny, please.”

“Oh, now you’re begging for it?” His hands warm up, like a reflex to get the truth out of you. Fingers spreading over your lower tummy as he lifts your top. You cannot stop the moans that leave your lips. 

“No,” you try to say with an ounce of confidence. He just giggles, his teeth starting to toy with your earlobe.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” His hand dips under your pants, not even bothering with the button. “I’ll give you that baby I want so badly.”

His words are so filthy. They always were. But these ones held an odd amount of weight. 

“Oh my god,” you gasp, feeling his fingers go past your panties and seeking out your soaked slit. Once his fingers slide between your lips, a choked-out gasp leaves his lips. His words were enough to get you this wet. It fuels his ego every time.

Your body jolts, hands finding a spot on the counter to grip onto. There’s nothing to grab onto, so you let Johnny take control. 

“You would be so fucking beautiful pregnant, you know?” His fingers dip further into you, and you surrender, laying your upper body on the freezing marble. He fucks you slowly, dragging his fingers in and out of your wet center with precision, “God, I’m so fuckin’ hard imagining it. All round with my baby.”

His other hand pulls you upward, resting right where your womb is. You know how effective your birth control is, so you know his words are just words. But god, are those words making you a mess. 

“Shit,” You gasp, practically out of breath as he toys with your hole, “I can actually see the appeal of these hypotheticals.”

“Yeah?” His nose bumps the shell of your ear, “You like imagining making me a daddy?”

“Jesus, Johnny,” You sigh, as his fingers pull out of you, the wetness of your core dragging up to your tummy. He finally pops the button on your pants and shoves them down around your ankles. Your pants were quite tight, so you decided a seamless thong would suit the outfit. Johnny thanks his lucky stars for your usually-dragging-morning-brain for being so brilliant. 

“We are going to get caught-”

“Everyone is in bed,” He replies quickly, not letting you finish your thought. He’s already shoving his pants down with one hand still resting on your body. “Just let me do what you deprived me of this morning.”

“Deprived you?” you quip, turning to face him. He does not take kindly to your movement, grabbing your hips and pressing them into the edge of the counter again. 

You hated to admit that you loved it when he dominated you in this way. He was such a playful presence in day-to-day life, but when the switch flipped inside him, you were like sand between his fingers.

His palm comes down, slapping your ass. “Behave.”

You bite your lip and nod, smiling at his actions. 

“You would be such a good momma, you know?” He ponders, his right hand reaching down between you two. You feel his tip swipe against the skin of your asscheek, his precum trickling slowly down your flesh. His words send your brain into a tizzy. You wiggle in his grip, wanting him to sink into you already. “I’d get to see your tits even more than usual.”

You stop your movements, peering over your shoulder at him. The statement is almost so comically funny that you cannot take it seriously. “How does that even correlate?”

His face is deadly serious before that familiar grin creeps across his lips. He moves your thong out of his way, rubbing his cock between your sopping pussy lips, “Gotta feed the kid somehow.”

You close your eyes, letting out a depraved sigh. You can feel the smile on his face as he sinks into you, his length taking up every inch of your pussy. You squeeze him briefly, trying to adjust to his size.

“So tight. Relax a bit, honey.”

Johnny is always warm, so in turn, so are you. Especially when you fuck. The moment his hips shift inside you and he drags his cock in and out of you, you break a sweat. Even the coldness of the counter could not cool you down as his body hangs over you and completely overtakes your space. 

Johnny may be hot, but your cunt was even warmer. It was like his own personal drug. He would spend the rest of his days buried inside you, listening to your desperate whimpers as his hips snapped into you.

“Faster,” You urge, wanting to feel that familiar build-up in your tummy grow. He presses one hand into your waist, the other holding that spot that he’s now hyper-focused on. 

He speeds up his motions, his waist slapping against the fat of your ass, “Greedy momma, huh? You just want my babies so bad, huh?”

The pressure builds up only intensifies when the hand from your waist pushes your thong out of the way. His pointer and ring finger spread you wider as his middle finger swipes across your swollen clit. The mixture of meticulous work on your clit on top of the swiftness of his thrusts makes your ears ring. 

You are being loud, and you both know it. Usually, soundproof bedroom walls protect your pretty sounds from being exposed to the rest of the family, but you are in the middle of the condo, bent over the kitchen counter. 

Johnny takes the initiative to quiet you by slapping his hand over your mouth, leaving a warm spot on your tummy. His other hand does not let up on your clit, chasing that familiar feeling of you spasming around his sensitive cock. 

He jerks your head back, curling your back up into an arch, “I want you to cum for me, momma. I’m close, wanna feel you first. Then I’ll give you what we both want.”

Fingers speed up as his hips falter in speed a bit, but it’s still enough for you. Your eyes roll back the moment the burning spreads across your nerve endings. You moan into his hand, his name falling from your lips over and over. His hips go flush with your ass the moment his cock twitches, emptying every last drop deep inside you. His face is pressed into the side of yours, his words a jumble of “fuck” and “yes, take it all, baby”.

You stand there on wobbly legs as Johnny recovers and moves his hand away from your mouth. He kisses your cheek a couple of times before his hands go back to your lower tummy again.

“I’m in no rush,” He mumbles, drawing circles into your skin. You know exactly what he’s talking about, and hearing him reassure you again makes your heart grow a million sizes, “I'd rather have you all to myself anyway.”

The giggle that escapes your throat is clouded by some phlegm. You clear your throat, “I like that it’s just us. Especially right now.”

“I’m not ready to share you.”

He slips out of you as he says it, making it sound so casual. His cum literally drips down your thigh as he removes himself. “Sorry, honey.”

You run your fingers between your hips and thong to straighten it back out over your ass. When you slap it against your own skin, you hear Johnny chuckle at the obscenity. He bends down, grabbing the waistband of your pants, shimmying it up your leg, effectively wiping away the white liquid he left on your skin. To him, it’s a job well done. All clean!

To you, it means you have to ensure you run the pants through the laundry twice.

“Johnny-”

“Sorry,” He beams as you spin to scold him, “Again.”

There he is. Embedding himself so deep into your skin like a lovesick leech. You want to smack him for annoying you so quickly after getting you blissed out on his dick, but instead, you just grit your teeth and pinch his cheek.

“Daddy is going to sleep on the hard couch if he keeps it up.”

His eyes light up at your words, completely disregarding the latter half of the sentence. 

“So you did like that little fake scenario I mocked up, huh?”

You shake your head, buttoning your pants. He is a menace and he knows it. “Oh, you read me so well, honey. You’re on fire tonight!”

You don’t mean it to have a double meaning, but of course it does with Johnny. The expression he makes is so painful to your pride that you scrunch your nose in disgust. 

“I’m always on fire, Momma.”

-

[purebarnes]

johnny is funny and I’d fold IMMEDIATELY.

⭑.ᐟ when johnny falls in love

johnny storm x reader

summary: johnny storm is a hopeless romantic struggling to find someone he actually likes. until he meets you.

warnings: no spoilers for f4 first steps – this fic is set on my pb&jj universe, but it can be read as it's own series too. fem!reader. tried my best to avoid any specific descriptions. it’s my first time writing reader fic, so please be gracious. english is not my first language. please don't copy or repost anywhere.

One thing about Johnny Storm? He’s a serial hopeless romantic.

He loves meeting new people, and finds it so easy to feel head over heels for them. And when things eventually go downhill – because they always do –, he’s never one to be disinvested in the trials of love. He’ll gladly put himself through it all over again.

Another thing about Johnny Storm, though? It's so difficult for him to actually be in love with someone.

He likes getting to know the people he meets, and he swears he wants to actually be invested in someone. But truth be told, he has very specific standards for what love’s supposed to feel like and has a very, very heartfelt hope that it will happen to him. That love will one day finally show up at his door, and he’ll just know.

He wasn’t expecting his hopes to be taken so literally.

And especially not during a Sunday night dinner with his family.

“We have a guest coming over with aunt Mary.” Sue says carelessly, while fixing the salad.

Johnny is right in front of the oven, his red button-up shirt long discarded due to the heat, carefully mixing the bolognese sauce for the lasagna so it won’t spill in his white t-shirt. “Hm? Who’s coming with her?”

“She has a new boarder. A girl, just moved in this past week.”

Johnny truly didn’t think much of it. Didn’t even acknowledge it enough to have an afterthought. Looking back, he thinks it’s silly of him to be so unaware of Sue’s malicious tone when she brought it up.

Reed notices, of course. Coming up from behind them, he wraps his arms around Sue, who tilts her head to the side, allowing her husband to give her a kiss on her cheek and rest his chin on her shoulder. Johnny fakes a gag, only for them to ignore him completely.

“What are you up to, hm?” Reed whispers to Sue, and she only shushes him, as if to say “don’t get involved”. Or even better, “I’ll tell you all about it later”.

When the doorbell rings later, Johnny promptly gets up from the couch.

“I’ll get it!” He runs to the door, snatching it open with a quick motion.

He sees Ben first, in all his tall, composed glory. He pats Johnny’s shoulders with his heavy hand before walking past him, going straight to Sue to say hi.

He hears his aunt before he sees her. “My god, dear. Did you get taller?”

Johnny smiles at her. Aunt Mary is a short, older woman. Her frayed figure and white streaks on her hair makes her look smaller. “I’m afraid I stopped growing a few years ago, Aunt Mary.”

“That can’t be true. You’re definitely taller.” She hugs him quickly, one arm wrapping around his waist and her head resting on his arm. “Good to see you, my boy.”

When she steps into the apartment, Johnny looks up. And then he sees you.

You’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something first. He wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know what words are anymore. You decide to break the silence then.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” He answers simply, looking at you dumbfounded. You have a beaming smile on your face, and he thinks you couldn’t look more beautiful if you tried. When you don’t follow up with anything and your smile falters a little, he clears his throat. “H-Hi! I’m Johnny. Johnny Storm, I’m- Um, I’m Mary’s nephew.”

Awkwardly, he lifts his right hand, offering a nervous handshake. You take his hand without reading too much into the way he wipes his hands on his jeans before offering it to you, then you offer your name back to him.

“It’s nice to meet you. Your sister and aunt mentioned you, it’s good to put a face to the name.”

“You know my sister?” He blurts out, his face turning a sharp left and scanning the room to find Susan, only to find her by the kitchen counter, already looking at him. He sees the malicious look now, and watches as Reed raises his hands up like he’s stating his innocence in whatever his wife did now.

“Um, can I come in?” You break him from his trance, and he can feel himself straightening up involuntarily.

“Yeah! Yes, sorry, please come in.” He opens his left arm and gestures to the apartment, ushering you in. As you offer him a small, questioning smile, his hands fly to his face. “Please stop acting like an idiot.” He murmurs to himself.

He walks back to the kitchen, his head hung as he hears you greeting Sue and being introduced to Reed. Ben shuffles closer: “Johnny, why are you acting like an idiot?”

Johnny pushes him by his shoulder as he sees Sue approaching with you by his side.

“This is Ben, Reed’s best friend and part of the household.” You shake Ben’s hand and smile at him, and Johnny feels like he might die a little.

“And you know my brother, Johnny?”

You looked at him again, “Yeah, we already met.”

Sue looked at him, obviously expecting him to say something. Her eyes widened slightly, her head tilting your way as if she’s urging him to do something, say something.

“Uh, yeah. I opened the door for her.”

Sue’s face went blank. “Okaaay. Franklin is upstairs, let’s check if he’s awake.” She pulls you by your shoulders, moving you to the staircase.

“Why are you not being obnoxiously flirty right now?” Ben says once you get a little more distant. “It’s not like you to be so respectful.”

“I can be respectful.”

“Can you?”

“Ben, I’m in love.”

“Of course you are.”

“I’m serious! It’s real love this time!”

“Oh, god. Johnny…”

“No, I know, I know. I know I have a bit of… history.”

“You have a tragedy, that’s what you have.”

“Not anymore, Ben. It’s for real this time, I can feel it.”

Ben stares at him, his blue eyes squinting.

“Fine, I believe you. You gonna ask her out?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“What?” Ben yelps, making both Reed and Aunt Mary look his way. He apologises by covering his mouth and whispering-yelling, “Sorry, what? Of course you can ask her out!”

“No, I can’t! I can’t even form coherent sentences when she’s looking my way.”

“Jonathan Lowell Storm.” Ben puts a hand on Johnny’s shoulders, forcing him to look his way.

“Spencer.”

“Huh?”

“There’s a Spencer too. Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm.”

“You’re a Spencer?” Ben looks genuinely confused, “What, like Princess Diana?”

“Yeah, dude. Did you not know that?”

“No, I didn’t know t—” Ben shakes his head, like he’s trying to forget something. “You know what, nevermind. Johnny, you are good at this.”

“I am?”

“You are a romantic, my man.”

“I’m a romantic.” Johnny repeats what Ben says like it’s a mantra.

“You are a handsome, nice young man.”

“I am a handsome, nice young man!”

“And you’re gonna sweep her off her feet.”

“And I’m gonna sweep her off her feet!”

“Who are you sweeping off their feet?” Sue appears out of nowhere, with you trailing by her side. Johnny actually squeals.

“Nothing! I mean, no one!”

—

Johnny doesn’t even touch most of his dinner, which Ben complains about at least fifteen times. He doesn’t even listen half the time, his mind completely somewhere else.

When the night ends and Aunt Mary is finishing saying her goodbyes to Sue and Franklin, he sneaks out into the corridor where you’re waiting, talking to Ben. As soon as he sees, Ben is ready to give him some proper space.

“It was real nice meeting you, you’re welcome every time!” Ben shakes your hand one last time, which you seem to appreciate. “And welcome to New York!”

“Thank you!” You chipper, and wave at him. When you look at Johnny, your face still smiley, but more stoic. “It was nice meeting you too, Johnny.”

Johnny sees it as the perfect opportunity. “We could meet again some other day.” He says, with his head tilting down a little. “What do you think of going for a coffee? Like Tuesday at 5.30?”

Johnny sees your polite smile and he thinks it’s a win. He’s already imagining the high five he’ll get from Ben once he goes inside again.

That is until you say:

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to say no.”

“No?” You shake your head, emphasising. “I- Um. Why not?”

You switch the weight from one foot to the other, “Johnny, you’re nice, you really are. But I don’t think I want what you have to offer me, so thank you.”

Johnny’s confused now. “I’m sorry?”

“You, going out with tons of people only to reject them later.” You smile politely, “I have friends from MIT, you know?”

“B-But we could get to know each other better!” He forces a smile and hopes it comes off as charming, but he wonders if ultimately he just seems a little desperate.

His Aunt Mary shows up at the doorframe. “Shall we go home, darling?”

“Yes, Mary. Of course.” You look at his Aunt, then back at him. “Good night, Johnny.”

He watches you walk into the elevator, ready to say goodbye to what he thought was his One Big Chance in love.

Then he sees it. Right before the door closes, he sees you turn around to face him. A hint of a smile graces your lips. You offer him a tiny wave.

A sliver of hope.

And one last think about Johnny?

He’s not one to give up on the heartfelt hopes of finding real love.

notes: this is by far the longest thing I’ve written – I’m so excited!! thank you so much for reading! if you’re interested in joining a johnny x reader taglist, let me know <3

[purebarnes]

JOHNNY I LOVE YOU

── NIGHT LIGHT ⟢

( SYNOPSIS ) ── after another one of reed’s infamous power outages, your boyfriend johnny comes with the solution to all your problems.

( WARNINGS ) ── no spoilers!! being scared of the dark. nothing else!

It had happened again.

Another one of Reed Richards’ late night experiments had blown the power grid, leaving your apartment in pitch black silence. Living just a few blocks from the Baxter Building had its perks, proximity to your superhero boyfriend being the main one, but moments like this made you question whether it was all worth it.

The bad part? Losing power twice a week, like clockwork, thanks to Reed tinkering with things the city’s infrastructure was clearly not built to handle. The worse part? You were still, to this day, hopelessly afraid of the dark. A childhood thing. Unresolved, unimportant. At least that’s what you always told yourself.

But the good part? Johnny always came.

The second the lights flickered out, he was already on his way, like muscle memory. Hovering outside your window, flames crackling gently across his body, casting warm light across your bedroom walls.

You were curled up in bed, flashlight wedged under the blankets like some makeshift bunker, when you heard a soft tap at the glass. That familiar quiet hum of fire accompanied it, comforting, warm, familiar.

You peeked your head out from under the comforter, already smiling. And there he was, floating a few feet from your window, his face illuminated by a soft amber glow, brows raised, that charmingly smug smile already in place.

You climbed out of bed and crossed the room, opening the window just enough for him to slip inside. He extinguished the flames across most of his body the second he landed, except for the steady flame burning on his right hand, casting gentle light across your room like a makeshift lantern.

“I heard someone was in desperate need of a hero,” he teased, his voice soft but playful. “Lucky for you, I happen to know one.”

You rolled your eyes as he stepped closer, his hand finding your hip like it always did when you needed grounding. He bent down and kissed your forehead, lingering for just a second longer than usual.

“I came as soon as the lights went out,” he said more gently now, his voice dropping to something quieter, more gentle.

You hummed softly, leaning into him without a word, because you didn’t need to say anything. Johnny already knew what came next.

The two of you made your way back to bed, you already dressed in your favorite pajamas while Johnny stripped down to his boxers, climbing in behind you. He settled in with the back of his head resting against your headboard, one scorching arm stretched out across the nightstand, casting a warm, amber light across the room.

With a quiet laugh, you climbed over him, nestling between his legs. Your hips rested comfortably against his and your head found its place on his bare chest, your arms curling around his waist. You nuzzled your nose against his skin, the heat of him grounding you.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in my nightstand,” you murmured against him with a sleepy smile.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “I did all the shopping for your apartment, remember? Fireproof nightstand, babe.”

Your laugh was muffled against his chest, eyes already fluttering shut. And just like that, you drifted off in his arms, soft snores slipping from your lips, your face relaxed and peaceful against his warmth.

Johnny brought his free hand to your hair, gently brushing it back from your face. He watched you for a moment, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Only when he was sure you were completely asleep did he dim his glowing hand, sighing softly as he shifted to get comfortable beneath you.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a final kiss to your head. Both arms wrapped around you tightly, like he could anchor you to this exact moment. “’Night.”

It was always like this. He’d come over and stay up just long enough to see you safely asleep before turning off his ‘night light’. And every morning, without fail, you’d wake up in the same place, wrapped in the arms of the boy who swore your nightstand was fireproof… even if the scorch marks told a slightly different story.

( TAGS ) ── @jclolz22 @pittsick [to be added]

[purebarnes]

Alpine the All-Knowing

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Content: fluff, Alpine knows best, yearning, some suggestive comments

Synopsis: Bucky tries to get over his crush on a fellow teammate by taking a girl out, but Alpine has spoken.

A/N: I know we've yapped about this for a while, so thanks again for always listening @buckybarnes82 / also, we ignore the SamBucky divorce in this house.

Looking over yourself once more in the mirror, you’re satisfied with your hair and walk out to the common area. Sam and Bucky are playing chess while random music videos play on the TV.

“Did you guys get through Marvin Gaye? What’s next?” You ask, smoothing your hands over your blouse. Bucky eyes you warily.

“Yep. We’re on to some 90’s stuff,” Sam says, not looking up from the chessboard. Alpine waltzes over and zigzags slowly between your feet, nuzzling her tiny face against your calf. You reach down to pet her and she purrs. 

“Check,” Sam says, moving his hand from a bishop. Bucky’s eyes snap back to the game board. How did that happen? He almost always beats Sam at chess. He considers his options as you sit down cross-legged on the floor and cradle the white cat like a baby. Her tail flits back and forth and she continues purring deeply.

“You gonna rock her to sleep?” Sam asks with a laugh. “She looks awfully comfortable.” Bucky rubs his chin in concentration, but can’t keep his focus. He keeps peeking up at you and Alpine.

“She adores me,” you say with a proud smile. “She loves my feminine energy. Being around her grumpy dad all the time probably drains her.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Yeah, okay, sure,” he mutters. You giggle and stand up, still cradling Alpine like a sleeping newborn, and walk over to the chessboard. 

“Yikes, Barnes. Looks like Sam outplayed you this time,” you tease. Bucky tries to think of a move to get him out of check but is instead enveloped by the smell of your perfume - something slightly fruity with vanilla undertones. 

“Where are you headed tonight?” Sam asks. “You look fancier than normal.”

“Why thank you, Samuel,” you say with a mock curtsy. “A gentleman caller is on his way to pick me up soon.”

Bucky suddenly knocks a few pawns to the ground. “Shit, sorry,” he mutters, bending over to pick them up. Alpine lunges out of your arms at the clatter and runs out of the room.

“I guess you win,” he says, looking at Sam as he sets the pieces back on the board with an expression of defeat.

“What? C‘mon, Bucky, you could have gotten out of that!” Sam exclaims. “You’re off your game.” Bucky just shrugs and stands up, clicking off the TV.

“That’s enough of The Cranberries for tonight,” he grunts. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket and you take it out, checking the new text.

“He’s here,” you say quietly. “Do I look okay?” You present yourself to Sam and Bucky and spin around slowly. You figured jeans and a nice top were good enough for a casual first date. 

Bucky swallows as you turn around, trying not to ogle your ass in denim for too long. He leans his arm on the table, and misses completely, flipping the chessboard and pieces all over the room.

“Oh my God - sorry!” He yelps, immediately bending over to start picking up the pieces. Sam starts to help him, trying not to bust out in laughter.

“You look great,” Sam assures you, handing Bucky a stray knight. “Go get ‘em tiger! Is this with the fireman?”

“Yeah,” you say with a shy smile.

“What fireman?” Bucky asks curiously. 

“One of the guys from our mission last week - from the team that put out that electrical fire. He’s the captain.”

“Ooh, the captain,” Sam teases. Bucky takes a swig of water as he tries to recall the man that’s about to take you out.

“Maybe he’ll show me his fire hose tonight,” you joke, waggling your eyebrows. Bucky chokes on his water at your comment, spraying Sam with his spit. Sam looks down at his now-wet shirt. “You good, man?”

“Sorry - went down the wrong pipe,” he explains, trying to keep his composure, or what’s left of it. 

“Speaking of pipe, I gotta go! He’s waiting downstairs!” 

Bucky’s eyes widen again and a pit forms in his stomach. Captain Fireman better not show you anything tonight. As soon as the door shuts behind you, Bucky lets out a frustrated groan.

“C’mon, what the hell was that? You lose all sense of coordination when she’s around!” Sam chuckles. 

“She’s just - she… she… the jeans… the innuendos. I need to lie down,” Bucky whines.

“Lie down, huh? You’re going to research her date?” Sam prods, crossing his arms.

“Sam, I would never!” 

“That’s what you said last time, and that poor sucker ended up with four flat tires.”

“He wouldn’t have been good for her anyway,” Bucky grumbles, trying to defend his actions. 

“Yeah? And who would? You?” Sam asks.

“She’s not interested in me, Sam,” he says quietly. “I need to get over it, but I don’t know how. I’m miserable, man.”

Sam looks at Bucky with a soft expression. “Hey, why don’t you ask out that barista down the road? She’s always making eyes at you when we go in there. You don’t have to marry her, but maybe a date or a lil sumthin sumthin might get your mind off her.”

Bucky scoffs and plops down on the couch. “I don’t want a little something from anyone.”

“Yeah, anyone but your teammate,” Sam quips, sitting down opposite him. “Your teammate that’s out with another man right now. Probably getting her fire extinguished.”

“Enough!” Bucky yells, running a hand down his face. “I can’t think about her… with another person like that.”

“Let’s go get coffee. C’mon,” Sam says, standing up. “You gotta get over this chick. You’re gonna mess up the whole dynamic if we’re out on a mission and you’re all soft and not paying attention to the serious shit. Let’s go!”

“Fuck. Fine,” Bucky relents.

—

Sam and Bucky walk through the coffee shop doors and he can see the barista perk up instantly. It isn’t very busy, but that could also be because it’s nearly closing time. Sam nudges Bucky discreetly and whispers, “See? Told you.”

“Stop,” Bucky pleads. 

“Welcome in!” The barista says with a bright grin. Bucky approaches the counter and smiles, glancing down at her nametag.

“Hi Autumn,” he says quietly. “Can I get two decaf coffees to-go please?” She visibly shivers as Bucky calls her by her first name.

“Sure thing, Mr. Barnes.”

“Just Bucky,” he says quickly, stepping back from the counter after paying. 

“That’s it?” Sam whispers to him. “You’re not gonna chat her up?”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Bucky grumbles quietly, taking a hand through his hair. Autumn puts the lids on both drinks and scribbles on them before setting them on the counter.

“There you go, gentleman,” she says, gesturing to the coffee, leaning over the countertop a bit suggestively. 

Bucky takes both drinks and thanks her, handing the one that says “Captain America” to Sam and bringing the one that reads “Winter Soldier” to his lips, trying not to cringe at his old identity. Anyone that knows him never calls him that anymore. Sam has his phone out, clearly trying to give Bucky a chance to shoot his shot. He opens Instagram and shows Bucky a story you posted 12 minutes ago: a blurry photo of two cocktails at a bar with a man’s hand wrapped around one. 

“Fuck that,” Bucky whispers under his breath as he walks back to the counter with purpose. “What are you doing tonight?” He asks.

“Me?” She asks, clearly taken aback by his brashness.

“Well, yeah.”

“Um, I work for another hour. Then I don’t have plans. Why?” She’s wary and he can hear her heartbeat racing in her chest. 

“We should get a drink… not coffee. Like alcohol. Um, like a bar?” 

Sam snickers and continues scrolling on his phone.

“Are you asking me out?” Autumn asks with a light squeal. 

“Uh, yeah, I guess so?” Bucky says, shrugging. “Would you like to go out with me when you finish your shift?”

“Yes!” She says with too much enthusiasm. “I’d love to!”

“Great. Why don’t you swing by the Tower when you’re off? I’ll buzz you up - the whole building is intuitive. It’ll know that you’re not a threat when you come in.”

“The Tower?” She clarifies with excitement in her eyes. “Will Yelena be there? Will John Walker be there?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says with a shrug. “We all live there, so…”

“Wow,” she sighs, leaning on the counter. Sam clears his throat. 

“Right, well, see you in a bit,” Bucky says, turning on his heel and heading out the door. Sam follows him out and starts laughing as the door swings shut behind them. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

“I wasn’t going to say a word,” Sam says, choking back a chuckle. “You did just fine, man.” He claps Bucky on the back. 

—

When Bucky and Sam get back to the Tower, you’re sitting on the couch in shorts and a t-shirt, your makeup from earlier washed off.

“Uh, hey,” Bucky starts, walking over to you and sitting down. “What happened to your date? It’s still early.” He watches you roll your eyes and shrug, but notices the faint traces of tearstains on your cheeks. “Did he do something?” His voice deepens with concern. "Did he hurt you?"

“Oh, no, nothing like that. He just lied about being married,” you spit. “He wasn’t wearing the ring, but the tan line was evident.” You wrap a blanket around you and pull it up under your chin. 

“Oh, shit,” Sam mutters. “You okay?” Bucky looks at you with a furrowed brow. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. He got pretty pissed when I confronted him about it. He said they’re “on the rocks” and I said I don’t date married men. He paid for his drink and left. I guess that’s that.”

“It’s for the best,” Bucky says, uttering your name. “You don’t deserve some asshole like that.” Alpine saunters into the common area and curls into your lap, sensing your irritation and sadness. You pet the cat, finding comfort in her rhythmic purring and soft fur. “Alpy agrees, don’t you, girl?” He murmurs, scratching behind her head. Alpine closes her eyes and leans into Bucky’s touch.

“Yeah. Anyway, I was just about to watch Bachelor in Paradise with Yelena. She’s making popcorn if you guys wanna hang,” you offer. “I just want to forget about it, honestly.”

“Tempting,” Sam says sarcastically, “but I think I’m going to hit the bag for a bit. Buck, you coming?” 

Bucky looks at Sam then back at you and Alpine. “Nah, I’ll stay here and hang with the girls.” Sam’s eyes narrow and a tiny smirk flits across his face. “Alright, man.”

Yelena walks in as Sam walks out. “Popcorn is hot and ready!” 

“Just how I like it!” You exclaim. “I think Bucky is going to watch with us. Do we have extra rosters?” You ask Yelena. “We like to bet on who is going to end up with each other and who is going to go home. You want in?” You ask Bucky. He smiles sweetly at your offer, but declines, sinking back into the couch cushions, halfheartedly watching the show, but mostly watching you and Alpine.

“You are like an overprotective dad,” Yelena quips during a commercial break. “Always watching over your kitten.” 

“Excuse me?” Bucky says, sitting up straight. “Alpine. You are watching her,” Yelena explains, offering the bowl of popcorn to him. 

“Oh… yeah, she’s just so cute,” Bucky says, taking a handful of popcorn and shoving it in his mouth to discourage further conversation. Bucky’s phone buzzes with an alert: Autumn has arrived. Before he can stand up from the couch, she’s waltzing into the common area. 

“Hi guys!” She exclaims, looking from Yelena to you to Bucky. Alpine’s eyes flick open and she scrunches back into your arms. 

“Hey,” Bucky says softly, standing up and walking to her. “Guys, this is Autumn. We’re going to get a drink. Autumn, this is everyone.” He introduces you all by name.

You watch Autumn look at Bucky with stars in her eyes and feel a small tug in your chest. When did him going out with someone ever bother you before? You were clearly feeling burned from the date earlier and weren’t in the mood to see other people going on ones that would probably end up better than yours. 

Yelena waves and offers her the popcorn bowl. She shakes her head. “No thanks. I don’t want popcorn breath!” Bucky’s mouth twitches at her comment, wondering just what she expects from the evening. You see his miniscule reaction and the small tug in your chest rages into a fire. No - no no no. Oh fuck. How long have you had these feelings and not realized it? 

John and Bob walk in, sweaty from their evening workouts and look over at Bucky’s guest. She’s practically salivating, her jaw unhinged at the sight of Walker in gym clothes. It makes you want to shake her. Why would anyone have eyes for Walker with Bucky right there?

“Hi, I’m Autumn,” she says, walking past Bucky and extending her hand to John. He shakes it and introduces himself. “Yeah, I know who you are. I can’t believe I’m meeting you right now.” She’s like a fangirl, not hiding her obsession.

You roll your eyes and Alpine arches her back, her hair standing on end. “Alp, what’s wrong?” You whisper, trying to calm her down, but she jumps off of you and tiptoes to Bucky’s date before letting out a hiss. Her ears turn downward. You bite your lip and try to hide a smile, watching as Alpine circles around Autumn blatantly flirting with Walker. 

“Alpine!” Bucky groans, trying to pick her up. “What’s wrong with you? What’s the matter girl?” 

“I think she hates your date,” Yelena says with a laugh, watching Bucky run after the spooked cat.

“Me?” Autumn asks innocently. “I’m more of a dog person anyway.” 

You watch Bucky roll his shoulders at her comment and try not to smile.

“So, Autumn, didn’t you come here to go out for a drink with Bucky? Or is it Walker? I’m confused,” you say, crossing your arms. “Or are you just Avenger hopping? What is it that they call those girls that hookup with cowboys? Buckle bunnies? We need to workshop a name like that for these situations.” 

Yelena gasps and giggles. “Maybe she prefers blondes,” she offers.

“Her loss,” you say without thinking. Bucky stops chasing Alpine and turns around, locking eyes with you. You swallow, not sure how that slipped out so easily - like you’ve been thinking about it for ages. “I’m just saying, like, Bucky has a nice head of hair.” 

“You know, you’re kind of a bitch,” Autumn says, one hand on her hip. Alpine lunges at her, claws out, but Bucky intercepts her before she can latch on. 

“Okay, I think that’s enough for tonight! Autumn, I don’t think drinks are going to happen. Walker, why don’t you show her out?” Bucky says, fighting for his life to keep Alpine in his arms. Walker escorts Autumn out. You and Bucky look at each other but don’t say anything. Yelena looks between the two of you. 

“I think I heard Sam yell for help,” she fibs, practically running out of the room. It’s just you, Bucky,  and your new favorite wingwoman, Alpine. Bucky rakes a hand through his hair and walks toward you, setting Alpine down. 

“Her loss, huh?” He asks, sitting down across from you. Your cheeks turn pink.

“Maybe,” you answer, sitting up straighter. Taller. 

“Could be someone else’s gain,” he mutters, looking at you suggestively.

“Yeah, like who?” You press, scooting to the edge of the couch. 

“I think you know who.”

“I think Alpine knows who, too,” you say softly as the cat curls up once again in your lap. 

“I thought you thought I was invisible,” Bucky whispers. 

“And I thought you weren’t interested. That’s why I said yes to the damn fireman, Bucky!” 

He blushes and laughs before coming to sit next to you. “You thought I wasn’t interested? I can’t keep my cool around you. I’m like a damn kid every time I see you. The chess pieces were everywhere! I choked on water seeing you in those jeans!”

You giggle. “I got so jealous seeing you with another girl.” 

“Are you feeling okay now?” He asks, relaxing into the couch.

“I think so. I mean, Alpine made her choice clear. I guess we just have to get her dad on board,” you tease, stroking her fur.

“Her dad’s been on board since the moment he met you,” Bucky says softly, not breaking eye contact with you. Alpine meows as Bucky leans in and brushes his lips against yours, and damn, did it feel like a long time coming. 

“Checkmate, Bucky!” Sam exclaims, walking around the corner and seeing the two of you locking lips. Bucky flips him off and keeps kissing you, feeling you smile against his lips. “About damn time!”

[purebarnes]

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 7.7k words

summary | bucky’s really not the club type, but one night of teasing and grinding leads to him worshipping you in an alley and begging to fuck you full the second you’re home. you make him plead for it—hard—before finally letting your needy, subby Sargeant get what he wants.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), unprotected sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (f!recieving), submissive!bucky barnes, breeding kink, praise kink, desperate sex, begging, reader has bucky on a leash (metaphorically…for now), dirty talk, bucky barnes loses all dignity and loves it

a/n | these two are my pookies, based on these three requests, 1 , 2 & 3

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

you don't need to read the previous parts to read this one

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs ᴘᴀʀᴛ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

“Do we have to go?”

His voice came from behind you, low and already sulky, as you leaned over the vanity applying your lip liner with practiced ease.

You didn’t even flinch. Just kept going, eyes locked on your reflection, the tiny smile tugging at your freshly glossed lips betraying you.

“No,” you said casually, popping the cap back onto your pencil. “I have to go. You, my dear, decided to martyr yourself for the cause.”

Bucky groaned—loudly—from where he was sprawled on the edge of the bed, already dressed but looking like he was one minor inconvenience away from peeling his black button-up off and sinking back under the covers.

“You said it was just drinks.”

You turned, finally facing him, one hand propped on your hip. “It is just drinks. For her birthday. At a club. With music. And people. You know—civilization?”

He gave you a flat look, but it dropped the moment his eyes swept over your dress.

Sequins.

Black.

Tight in all the right places.

And short. So short he could see the edges of your sheer lingerie underneath when you turned back around.

“You’re gonna cause an international incident in that thing,” he muttered.

You caught his reflection in the mirror—jaw tight, eyes dark—and smiled slowly as you spritzed perfume behind your ears.

“I haven’t even worn heels yet, Sarge. You haven’t seen the full offense.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “This is torture.”

You snorted. “You could’ve stayed home.”

“I tried to. You guilted me.”

You turned to him again, walking over slowly—deliberately—until you were standing between his knees. He looked up at you like you were something dangerous. Something divine.

You leaned down just enough for your cleavage to barely brush his cheek.

“I said, I was going. I never asked you to come.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. I know.”

You ran your nails through his hair, teasing. “But you just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“Couldn’t let you out in this alone,” he murmured, hands sliding up your thighs. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

You watched his fingers twitch where they rested on your thighs—like he wanted to grab you, drag you down onto his lap, keep you there. But he didn’t. Not yet.

So you leaned down instead, just enough for your lips to brush his.

Soft.

Gentle.

Barely there.

And Bucky? The man preened under it. That low grumble of irritation in his chest softened into something else entirely—something warm and needy, his hands trailing slowly up the backs of your thighs as he angled up to chase more.

You kissed him again. A little firmer. A little longer.

“Just an hour,” you whispered against his mouth.

He groaned, forehead tipping against yours.

“And then,” you added, letting your fingers slide through his hair again, “you get your reward.”

His eyes fluttered open. “What kind of reward?”

You peppered kisses across his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“The very good kind,” you murmured.

He leaned in, trying to catch your lips in a deeper kiss—hungry now, desperate to steal more—but you pulled back at the last second with a wicked little smile.

“Hold that thought,” you said, turning toward the closet. “I need my heels.”

Bucky let out an honest-to-god whimper as you walked away, that tiny black dress riding high on your thighs.

────────────────────────

The bass throbbed through the floor, through your heels, up your spine. Bodies pressed together on the dancefloor, all glitter and sweat and perfume—but you were the main event.

You and your two girlfriends owned the center like it was a spotlight.

Arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, drinks in hand, hips swaying in perfect sync as you danced, laughed, twirled like the music was playing just for you.

Your black dress caught the strobe lights like a mirrorball—sparkling every time your hips rolled to the beat, the sequins clinging to your curves in a way that made even strangers pause mid-step.

And from the shadows, Bucky watched.

Sat at the edge of a booth, drink in hand, jaw tight, legs spread wide and metal fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass. He didn’t blink often. Didn't move.

Just sat there like a statue, half in shadow, tracking every motion you made with the eyes of a sniper and the patience of a wolf.

Someone bumped into his table.

He didn’t look away from you.

Another guy brushed past you and your friends, maybe a little too close.

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

His grip on the glass tightened.

And you? You felt it.

You turned just slightly, gave him a smirk over your shoulder as your hips rolled in a slow, mocking figure eight—your friends hyping you up as you dropped low between them and came back up laughing.

You winked at him.

He looked like he was going to combust.

Eventually you wove your way back through the crowd, hips still swaying to the beat, the hem of your dress riding dangerously high with every step. The heat of the club clung to your skin, and your smile—lazy, knowing—was aimed straight at him.

Bucky barely moved when you stopped in front of him.

Just tracked your every step like a laser. That unreadable expression carved into his face.

But his drink?

Untouched.

“Drink break,” you said sweetly, plucking the glass from his hand without asking. You took a slow sip, then bent slightly, placing your free hand on his chest as you leaned in close. “Why’re you sulking, Sargeant?”

“I’m not sulking,” he muttered, deadpan.

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he amended, “I’m just not… into this kind of thing.”

“The alcohol or the dancing?”

“The… everything.”

You laughed, soft and low, before casually sliding into his lap like it was your throne. One arm hooked around his neck, your body warm against his, glittering and flushed from the heat of the dancefloor. He tensed beneath you—his hands hovering, not quite touching, not yet.

“C’mon,” you whispered in his ear. “Just one dance. I’ll be good.”

He snorted. “You’ve never been good.”

You grinned, kissing the corner of his jaw. “You love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Just groaned softly as your hips shifted on his lap, as you leaned in like you were about to kiss him—then pulled back just before your lips touched.

“I’m going back out,” you said, slipping off his lap. “But don’t worry.”

You met his eyes again, that familiar heat flaring between you.

“You’ll know where to find me. Since you’ve been staring like a stalker all night.”

And with that, you turned and sauntered away—back into the lights, the music, your friends. Your hips swaying with every step.

You didn’t need to look back to know his eyes were still locked on you.

Like they always were.

And Bucky tried.

He really fucking tried.

He stayed glued to the booth like it was the only safe zone in this sensory-overloaded club. Kept his eyes on you and his drink in hand, willing himself to just breathe.

But then—he showed up.

Some guy in a too-tight shirt and too-slick smile, sliding up behind you like he had a right to. Too close. Too casual. His hand brushed your lower back as he leaned in to say something, and you didn’t even notice—still laughing, still dancing with your friends, too caught up in the song.

Bucky’s glass cracked in his hand.

He was on his feet before it even hit the table.

It took him two seconds to cross the floor.

He shoved through the crowd like it didn’t exist, tunnel vision locked on that asshole brushing too close to you.

And then—contact.

Bucky’s hand shoved the guy back with a sharp, practiced force that was just shy of breaking ribs. The stranger stumbled, eyes wide, hands up in defense.

“Back. Off.” Bucky’s voice was low, deadly.

The guy didn’t argue. Just disappeared into the crowd.

You blinked, spinning around at the sudden shift in energy, music still pounding in your ears.

Your eyes lit up.

“Hey!” you beamed, throwing your arms around his neck like you’d summoned him with pure willpower. “Look who finally came to dance.”

He was still fuming. Still buzzing with adrenaline.

But your smile—your soft, clueless smile—hit him like a bucket of cold water and a blowtorch at the same time.

You pressed against him, still moving to the beat, your hands sliding into his hair.

And he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

His hands found your waist like he needed something to anchor him.

The music pulsed around you, deep and filthy. A rhythm you knew in your bones. And Bucky?

He stood still.

Tense.

Hands resting on your hips like he was afraid to move. Like if he touched you wrong, he’d wake up from this.

You leaned into him, letting your back press flush to his chest as you rolled your hips to the beat. His breath caught—sharp and quiet—right next to your ear.

“I don’t…” he began, his voice rough, uncertain. “I don’t know what to do here.”

You smiled, wicked and soft all at once.

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmured, pressing back harder against him. “Just follow my lead.”

You reached behind you, grabbing his wrists and guiding his hands lower—over your hips, across your waist, until they were resting right over your thighs, right where that tiny scrap of dress ended.

“There,” you whispered, “isn’t that better?”

He groaned under his breath, fingers tightening just slightly.

You kept moving, grinding slowly against him, the curve of your ass brushing the growing bulge in his pants with every roll of your hips.

“You feel that?” you murmured, turning your head just enough for your lips to brush the shell of his ear. “That’s how much you want me right now. In the middle of a fucking club.”

He exhaled hard.

You smiled.

“Still don’t know what to do?”

His hands trembled on your body. You could feel how hard he was behind you. How desperate.

And he was letting you lead. Letting you take him apart.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter now—desperate, barely restrained, fingers pressing into the bare skin exposed by your dress. You kept dancing, rolling your hips slow and smooth, rubbing back against his cock like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Bucky? He was dying.

You felt the shudder run through him. Heard the ragged inhale as his forehead dropped to your shoulder, his mouth right by your ear.

“Baby…” he murmured, his voice cracked and low. “Please. Let’s go. I need—fuck—I need to get you alone.”

You hummed, soft and nonchalant, like he’d asked what song was playing.

“Mm? In a bit,” you replied, still swaying with the beat, still teasing him with every curve of your body against his. “It’s my girl’s birthday.”

“I don’t care,” he groaned, pressing closer, his cock hard and throbbing against your ass. “You’ve been driving me fucking insane all night.”

You turned your head just enough to glance back at him, lashes low, lips curved.

“Oh? You poor baby.”

“Please,” he whispered, hands sliding back up your waist, gripping your sides like he might lose it if you didn’t say yes. “I’ll do anything. Just—just please.”

You looked ahead again, letting the music wash over you, pretending not to notice how close he was to snapping.

And god, you glowed under his begging.

You kept moving, kept teasing, kept dancing—until he finally growled low in your ear, a sound full of warning and surrender.

“I swear to God—if you don’t come with me now…”

You smiled.

Victory, sweet and slow, dripping off your lips.

You finally turned in his arms, cupping his flushed face, and kissed him once—deeply—before murmuring against his mouth:

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He didn’t wait. Didn’t speak.

Just grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd like a man possessed.

You expected him to drag you to the car.

To fumble for keys with shaking hands, speed through traffic like a man on fire, and toss you onto the bed the second the front door clicked shut.

What you didn’t expect?

Was for him to yank you down a side alley the second you stepped outside the club.

“Bucky—what the fuck—?”

The night air hit your skin, sharp and cool, your laughter bubbling out from your lips as your heels clicked on the pavement, stumbling a little as he hauled you behind him with single-minded purpose.

“Hold on,” you laughed, “are we not going home—?”

But he didn’t answer.

Didn’t speak.

Just turned the corner into the shadows between two brick walls, pressed you against one of them like a secret, and dropped to his knees in front of you.

Your eyes widened.

“Wait—are you serious—? Bucky—get up—”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to tug him upright, but he wasn’t budging.

Not even a little.

He looked up at you like he was seeing the sun for the first time—flushed, pupils blown wide, hair wild from the walk, lips parted in reverence and desperation.

“I’ve waited all night,” he said, voice rough and raw. “You—you were dancing like that, touching me like that. Whispering in my ear like I’m yours to tease.”

He slipped his hands up your thighs, his palms hot, steady.

“I need to taste you.”

You blinked, speechless.

And then—he lifted one of your legs and gently, so gently—hooked it over his shoulder.

Your dress rode up in the process, barely hiding anything anymore.

“Bucky,” you breathed, eyes wide, “we’re literally outside—”

“No one’s here,” he said, almost pleading. “I’ll be quick.”

He kissed your thigh, slow and reverent, just above the edge of your panties.

“Please,” he murmured, voice trembling. “Let me have you.”

And god help you—

You didn’t have it in you to say no.

He started slow.

Mouth pressing against your soaked panties, breathing you in like he’d finally found air. The wet heat of his tongue licked right over the thin fabric, and you shuddered, one hand flying to the brick behind you for balance, the other curling in his hair.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re really doing this…”

He hummed against you, a sound that vibrated through your core and made your legs go weak.

His hands were locked tight around your thighs, holding you open, steady, as he mouthed through the lace—licking broad, heavy strokes from bottom to top, pausing to suck gently over your clit even through the fabric.

“You taste—” he groaned, voice muffled. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

You bit your lip, hips bucking just slightly toward his face. “Yeah? That what you wanted, Sarge? Wanted me dripping while you knelt like this?”

He growled. A sound that came from somewhere low.

Then his fingers found the edge of your panties and tugged them aside—no patience, no preamble—just that same determined hunger in every move.

And then?

Skin to skin.

His mouth latched onto you—hot, wet, perfect—tongue dragging slowly up your folds, circling your clit with maddening precision. He was thorough, like he was mapping you with every lick, every flick, every groan.

Your head tipped back against the wall, breath hitching hard.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you gasped, “yes—yes—”

He moaned against you, and that was the end of your self-control.

Your hips started moving, slow at first, grinding softly against his face as his hands spread you wider, anchoring you down. His tongue fucked into you, deep and greedy, then came back up to suck hard on your clit—and it was too much, too good.

“Good boy,” you whispered breathlessly, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him right there. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

He didn’t stop.

He feasted like you were his last meal.

Like he’d go down praying between your thighs if it meant dying with your taste on his tongue.

And you let him.

Your breath came in broken little gasps, legs trembling as you leaned harder into the wall for balance, your hips rolling forward, chasing his tongue.

He groaned into you again—louder this time—as if he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted, the way you melted for him.

His tongue thrust into you again and again, slow and deep, then faster, like he wanted to fuck you with it alone. He alternated between that and lapping up everything you gave him—soaked, messy, dripping all over his mouth and chin.

And you just… let go.

“Fuck—Bucky—fuck, that’s it—baby, just like that…”

Your praise spilled from you in shaky moans, every word making him groan again, his mouth sucking harder, tongue circling your clit with more pressure, more purpose.

“Such a good boy,” you gasped, voice breaking. “So hungry for me—fuck, look at you—”

He moaned, louder, like the words pushed him closer to the edge right along with you.

Then you felt it.

The cold press of metal fingers sliding along your folds.

You barely had time to brace before two slipped inside—deep, smooth, and slick from your arousal. The stretch made you cry out, head snapping forward to stare down at him.

He looked wrecked.

Mouth glistening, jaw working, eyes wild with need as he watched his fingers sink into you.

He thrust them deep once, twice—then curled them just right, tongue flicking over your clit as he built a rhythm.

You nearly screamed.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, clutching his hair. “Fuck, Bucky—yes—your fingers—so deep—don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

You were everything. Right here, above him, dripping down his wrist, moaning his name like it meant salvation.

And he was going to make you come apart for him.

Right here in the alley.

Where anyone could hear. Where you were already too far gone to care.

You were trembling now—your thighs shaking where he held them, your body arching off the wall as your moans got higher, faster, more desperate.

“Bucky—fuck—baby, I’m gonna—I’m close—”

His fingers didn’t stop.

That metal hand, cool and slick, thrusting in and out of you with precision. His tongue—hot and greedy—worked your clit in tight, perfect circles, and all you could do was hang on, your hand fisting in his hair as your body spiraled toward release.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” you gasped, hips bucking. “So good—fuck, baby, just like that—don’t stop—you’re making me come—you’re making me—”

And then it hit.

Hard.

Your whole body locked up, then shattered—waves of pleasure crashing over you so sharp it left you breathless, crying out his name as your walls clamped around his fingers, your thighs squeezing tight around his head.

But Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t even slow down.

He moaned into you like he was the one coming, like your orgasm turned him on more than anything else in the world.

He kept licking. Kept devouring.

His fingers slowed inside you, easing through your spasms as his mouth dragged through every drop of your release, his tongue lapping you clean like he couldn’t stand to waste a single drop.

When you finally opened your eyes, chest heaving, he was still there between your thighs—his mouth swollen, chin wet, eyes dark with hunger and reverence and something that looked like worship.

You reached down, cupped his face, breathless and wrecked.

“You are…” you gasped, voice hoarse, “so fucking dangerous, Sarge.”

He grinned. Didn’t disagree.

────────────────────────

The ride to Bucky’s apartment was a blur.

You were still reeling—floaty, lightheaded, drunk off your orgasm and vodka and the way he’d looked at you after licking you clean like you were dessert. Slumped in the passenger seat, one heel kicked off, legs parted, dress ruined and crooked.

And Bucky?

White-knuckling the steering wheel.

Silent.

Focused.

His jaw clenched like the only thing keeping him from pulling over and fucking you in the backseat was his last shred of sanity.

He didn’t even wait for the car to fully stop before he was out, coming around to your side, opening the door like a man possessed.

“C’mon,” he muttered, reaching for you.

You blinked at him, dazed.

Then giggled. “I can’t run in these heels, Sarge.”

He sighed. One of those long-suffering, deeply unamused sighs that came from the soul.

And then?

“Up.”

“What?”

“Up. Jump on.”

You blinked again.

And then started laughing—delighted, drunken, giddy.

“Wait, are you—are you giving me a piggyback ride right now—?”

He didn’t respond.

Just turned around, crouched down a little.

“Get your ass on my back or I swear to god I’ll throw you over my shoulder and deal with the neighbors staring.”

You snorted, heels finally coming off as you clumsily clambered up, arms around his neck, thighs around his waist. He stood like you weighed nothing, started walking fast, muttering under his breath the entire way.

“You get me hard enough to explode and now I’m a goddamn Uber.”

“You love me,” you murmured, nuzzling his neck.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

The stairwell echoed with the soft thump of Bucky’s boots, your breathy laughter, and his increasingly frustrated muttering.

He had one arm locked under your thighs, the other gripping your leg where it wrapped around his waist. Your chest pressed tight to his back, your lips everywhere.

“God, you’re heavy when you’re smug,” he grumbled, voice tight.

You bit down softly on his earlobe.

He groaned, staggered slightly.

“You love it,” you whispered, voice hot against his skin. “I’m your smug little problem.”

His breath hitched.

“I should’ve left you in that alley,” he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time now. “Should’ve walked away the second you climbed into my lap in that damn club.”

But his hand squeezed your thigh as he said it. His pulse was pounding.

You laughed, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “Yeah, but you didn’t. You followed. You always follow.”

He reached the landing of his floor, adjusting your grip with a grunt as you started kissing down the side of his neck.

“Keep doing that,” he warned, “and I’m gonna fuck you right here in the hallway.”

You smiled against his skin.

“And that would be a punishment for who, exactly?”

He growled, low and dangerous, and finally reached his door—slammed his key into the lock with barely-restrained aggression, the door clicking open just in time to keep him from putting a hole through it.

He set you down just past the doorway, and the second your feet hit the floor, you laughed.

Bright. Teasing. Unapologetic.

And then you ran.

Not far—just a few steps down the hall, barefoot now, your ruined dress swinging with every step, giddy and high off the power humming between you.

You heard him groan behind you. That low, broken sound of a man barely holding it together.

“C’mon, baby,” he growled, already following. “Don’t play with me.”

You looked back over your shoulder, flashing him a grin so smug it could start a war.

“Who’s playing?” you called, half-laughing. “You looked like you needed a little cardio.”

“Oh my god,” he groaned again, but there was that glint in his eye—wild, hungry, so in love with you it almost hurt.

He picked up speed.

You squealed, turning into the bedroom just as he lunged and caught you—arms wrapping around your waist, dragging you back against his chest with a growl.

You were still laughing when his mouth found your neck.

Still grinning as his hands roamed your body like he was claiming it from memory.

Bucky wasn’t smiling. He was starving.

“Enough games,” he murmured into your skin. “I’ve waited.”

He held you from behind, arms locked around your waist, lips brushing your neck as you caught your breath, still laughing, still high off the chase.

“You promised me a reward,” he murmured, his voice low and wrecked, his hips pressing flush to your ass. “For getting through the night.”

You arched a brow, smirking over your shoulder. “Did you really get through the night, though?”

He groaned, full of mock betrayal and pent-up need.

“I chased you. I carried you. I knelt for you in an alley.”

“Mm,” you hummed, feigning thought. “Yeah, okay, you almost earned it.”

He sighed.

You didn’t have time to blink before his hand slid down your front—gripped the front of your dress at the seam—and ripped it in half.

The fabric tore with a loud, satisfying rip, split clean down the middle, falling off your shoulders like it’d offended him personally.

You gasped, spinning in his arms, eyes wide. “Bucky—this was new!”

He just looked at you—lips parted, breathing heavy, pupils black.

“Oops.”

You smacked the back of his head.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smirked, hands already smoothing over your now-exposed body like you were his favorite secret.

“You look better without it anyway,” he said, voice a rasp.

He didn't toss you—didn't throw you down with brute strength.

No.

Bucky guided you.

Hands on your waist, eyes wide and desperate, he backed you toward the bed like it was a shrine and you were the altar.

When your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he gently pushed—and you let yourself fall back, grinning up at him, lingerie still clinging to your body in scraps, skin glowing, mouth parted.

He stood there, looming and wrecked, chest rising fast.

“Please,” he whispered, voice thick. “Can I… Can I have you now?”

Your brows lifted, lips curling into something warm and hungry.

“Oh, baby,” you said softly, sweetly, fingers tracing down your own stomach. “That depends. Are you gonna be good for me?”

He nodded, breath hitching. "Yes. Yes. Anything.”

You tilted your head. “Then take your clothes off.”

He obeyed immediately.

Button after button, dragging his shirt off like it burned, revealing scarred skin, that muscled chest, arms flexing with every frantic movement. His belt came undone next, pants shoved low on his hips, breath ragged as he kicked them away—desperate to be bare for you.

And you?

You stayed exactly where you were—lounging back on your elbows, legs slightly parted, eyes dragging slowly over every inch of him.

“Look at you,” you murmured, voice syrupy, teasing. “So eager. So pretty.”

He flushed—full body flush, from chest to cheeks—but didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

He crawled up the bed with a kind of reverence—his hands on either side of your thighs, his mouth parted, eyes locked on you like he couldn’t believe you were real. His cock hung heavy between his legs, flushed and leaking, brushing your inner thigh with every slow, deliberate movement.

You just grinned.

Waiting for him.

Arms out, legs open, back arched just slightly—every inch of you a welcome.

When he reached you, you reached up and curled your fingers into his hair, gently pulling him down until his lips met yours.

Soft at first. Sweet.

Then deeper. Hungrier.

He groaned into your mouth, one long, low sound that vibrated against your tongue—and you felt it, the heat of his cock pressing into the thin barrier of your panties, grinding instinctively as his hips rocked forward.

You gasped into him, but didn’t pull back.

Didn’t stop.

Your lips brushed his as you whispered against his mouth, your voice low and sultry:

“You feel that? That’s how much I want you too, baby.”

He moaned again—nearly broke, shuddering above you like the sound of your voice alone could make him come.

“Please,” he whispered, hips twitching against you. “Please let me—please—”

You kissed him again.

Tugged your panties to the side.

And whispered, “Now.”

He lined himself up, hands shaking where they held your thighs, forehead resting against yours as he breathed—slow, ragged, trying to hold on.

“Go on, baby,” you whispered, fingers brushing his cheek. “I want you in me.”

His hips rocked forward.

Just the tip.

And the sound that tore from his throat—broken, raw—made your body clench.

He sank deeper.

Inch by inch.

His eyes fluttered shut, his mouth falling open as he finally filled you—completely.

“Ohh, fuck,” he gasped, barely able to speak. “You’re—shit, you’re so warm—so tight—God—”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, your voice like velvet.

“You feel that, baby? That’s your reward. You earned this.”

He nodded, forehead still pressed to yours, utterly wrecked.

“You make me feel—fuck,” he choked. “You make me feel so good, you—shit, you’re squeezing me—”

“Because you fit perfect,” you whispered, hips rolling up to meet him. “This pussy’s yours, Sarge. It’s been waiting for you.”

He whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

And when you whispered, “You gonna fill me up, huh? Gonna come in me nice and deep like you want to?”—

His entire body shuddered.

“Yeah,” he panted. “I want—I want to make you mine. I wanna see you dripping with me, I wanna—fuck, I wanna keep it there.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied.

“Then start moving, baby,” you murmured. “Make me take it.”

And he did. Shaky. Overwhelmed.

But desperate to please.

He started moving slowly at first—so slow, like he didn’t want to break you. Like every inch of your body was something he needed to savor, to remember by heart.

The drag of his cock inside you was maddening, thick and perfect, your walls fluttering around him with every pull and push.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his voice wrecked, forehead pressing harder to yours. “You—God, you’re so wet, you’re pulling me in, I can’t—fuck.”

You rocked up to meet him, hands on his back, fingers dragging down the muscles there as you cooed softly in his ear.

“You were made for this, baby,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin. “Made to fuck me slow like this. Fill me up ‘til I’m leaking.”

He whimpered again—and his hips stuttered.

Your praise drove him forward, made him lose that tentative rhythm and thrust deeper, a little harder, burying himself to the hilt with a strangled groan.

“That’s it,” you murmured, breath catching. “Just like that. You feel that stretch? Feel how full I am?”

His arms trembled.

“Yes.”

“You’re gonna fill me with your cum, huh? Make sure it takes?”

“Yes. God, yes. I want—” he swallowed, voice cracking, “—wanna see you all fucked out and messy. Want it dripping out of you, baby, wanna push it back in.”

You clenched around him, hard.

And he shuddered.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered, nipping his jaw. “My sweet little mess. You’re gonna come so deep, aren’t you?”

His breath hitched. His thrusts grew sloppier, more frantic.

“Yes. Please—please let me—fuck, I need to, I can’t—”

You squeezed him tighter with your legs, your cunt gripping him greedily as he kept thrusting, faster now, hips slapping against yours with sticky, wet heat.

He was close.

You could feel it—every tense muscle, every desperate sound from his lips, every trembling push of his cock into your soaking heat.

But you weren’t letting him finish yet.

Not until he begged. And he would.

His rhythm had unraveled.

What started as controlled, careful thrusts had turned into something messy, frantic—his hips slamming into yours with that wet, sinful sound, cock driving deep like he needed to be as far inside you as possible.

You took every inch, every needy push, eyes rolling back as you moaned for him—louder now, no longer teasing, but genuine, wrecked, completely overtaken by the stretch and the heat and the desperate sound of his voice.

“You feel so fucking good,” he panted against your throat, his voice cracked and pleading. “I can’t—I’m so close—please, I can’t hold it—please—”

You tightened your legs around his waist, gripping him closer.

“You wanna come, baby?” you gasped, mouth brushing his ear. “You wanna fill me up?”

“Fuck, baby—please,” Bucky gasped, panting against your shoulder as his pace faltered, cock twitching inside you. “I’m gonna—I need to—please let me come in you, I want it so bad, I need to—”

You cupped his face with both hands, guiding his forehead to yours as your hips bucked up to meet every desperate thrust.

“Yes,” you moaned, breathless and wrecked. “I want it. I want all of it. Fill me up, James—fucking give it to me.”

He groaned, a deep, strangled sound that vibrated through your entire body.

His thrusts picked up again—rougher, deeper, slamming into you over and over, the head of his cock grinding against your most sensitive spot until your vision blurred.

You clawed at his back, your legs shaking, voice breaking with every ragged gasp.

“That’s it, baby,” you cried. “Fuck—Bucky—I’m gonna—I’m coming—”

Your body seized around him, orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave—tight, intense, devastating. Your walls clamped down on his cock, pulsing, gripping him so tight it knocked the breath from his lungs.

That was it.

The final push.

His whole body shuddered.

“I need to, please, I need to—fuck, I need to come inside you, I wanna fill you so bad, please—please—”

You cradled the back of his head, pulled his face down to yours until your mouths were almost touching.

“I want it, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice passionate and tender all at once. “I want all of it. Fill me up, baby. Give it to me.”

And that was it.

He let out a broken, devastated sound—deep from his chest—and his hips stuttered, slammed into you one last time as he came hard, pulsing deep inside, buried to the hilt.

You felt it.

Hot, thick spurts pulsing into you, over and over, as he moaned your name like it was the only word he remembered. His arms wrapped tight around you, holding you flush to him as he pumped every last drop deep inside you.

You clenched around him on purpose.

He shuddered, crying out again, grinding into you even after he’d emptied himself—like he didn’t want a single drop to escape.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just collapsed on top of you with a shaky breath, his face tucked into the crook of your neck, arms still tight around your waist like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.

His cock still nestled deep inside you.

Still pulsing, softening slowly, but not leaving.

You stroked your fingers gently down his back, feeling every tremor still rolling through him, every heartbeat pounding fast beneath his skin.

He was warm. Heavy. Completely undone in your arms.

And you held him like he was something precious.

He nuzzled into your neck, breath hot and uneven as he whispered, finally, “God. That was… fuck.”

You smiled against his hair, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on his spine.

“You earned it, baby,” you murmured. “Took your time, was so patient for me…”

“Barely,” he said with a breathless laugh, his lips brushing your throat. “I almost came the second I got in.”

“I know,” you teased, grinning. “I could feel it.”

He groaned again, embarrassed, and you kissed the side of his head.

You could feel his come already starting to slip out around him, warm and messy between your thighs—but neither of you moved to change that. You just stayed tangled, his body heavy over yours, his breathing slowly evening out as he melted against you.

After a few long, quiet moments of breathing each other in, Bucky finally lifted his head.

His eyes were still hazy, blue and heavy with something soft—something loving. He looked down at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

Slow.

Deep.

His mouth moved over yours with no rush, no heat this time—just something tender, raw and honest. You held the back of his head, fingers carding through damp hair as he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was grateful for you.

For every second. It went on for minutes. No words.

Just lips brushing, tongues tangling lazily, the sound of your breaths mixing in the dark.

And when you finally pulled back, lips swollen, still catching your breath, you blinked up at him and murmured—

“…I need to get this fucking bra off me.”

Bucky huffed a soft laugh, forehead dropping to yours, his voice rough with affection.

“Let me,” he whispered, fingers already moving.

His fingers were warm and careful as he unhooked your bra, sliding the straps down your arms slowly like he was undressing a painting.

You let out a long, relieved sigh the second it came off, tossing your head back against the pillows.

“God, finally,” you muttered, stretching beneath him. “That thing was threatening my circulation.”

Bucky chuckled, soft and low, kissing your shoulder as he tossed it somewhere over his shoulder.

And then—reluctantly—he shifted.

You felt the drag of his cock as he slowly pulled out, a quiet groan rumbling from his chest at the sensation. Your body clenched at the loss, already slick and messy from everything he’d left inside you.

“Shit,” he murmured, still breathless, running a hand through his hair as he sat back. “I’ll get something—hang on.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and warm, watching as he padded out of the room ass naked—every muscle in his back moving with purpose.

He came back a minute later with a warm, damp cloth and knelt between your legs like it was routine, like he’d done it a hundred times. Which to be fair, he did.

He was quiet, careful—his touch gentle as he cleaned you up, wiping away the slick mess he’d left behind like you were something fragile.

You watched him with a lazy grin, your body heavy, boneless, your hair a wild halo against the pillows.

“God,” you murmured, one hand flopping over your stomach, “look at you.”

He glanced up, brow furrowed. “What?”

You smiled wider, all teasing affection. “Subby Bucky, kneeling at my altar after trying to breed me in half.”

He flushed instantly.

“Don’t—” he started, already flustered.

“Oh, no, it’s too late,” you purred, wiggling your hips a little just to see him twitch. “You were begging, baby. On your knees in an alley. And then what—filling me up like it was your life’s purpose?”

He groaned, dragging the cloth down your thigh with exaggerated care, not meeting your eyes.

“You’re gonna make me hard again.”

You snorted. “I’m gonna make you embarrassed, Sergeant Breeder.”

He gave you a look—half shame, half smitten.

Then leaned up and muttered against your inner thigh, “Keep talking like that and I’ll show you what round two looks like.”

You arched a brow, still grinning. “Is that a threat, Barnes?”

He kissed your thigh again, soft and slow.

“It’s a promise.”

You watched him finish cleaning you, tossing the cloth aside and crawling back up beside you on the bed, still flushed, still naked, still… so soft.

And you? Still grinning.

“Jesus,” you muttered, eyes flicking over him. “You really are the most obedient little breeding bitch I’ve ever seen.”

He groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.

You snatched it away.

“I mean it,” you teased, leaning on your elbow to poke at his chest. “You beg so sweet. You come like it’s your life’s mission. I swear, if I told you to knock me up, you’d probably salute.”

“Would not,” he mumbled—but it was weak.

You raised a brow. “Would too,” you shot back. “You’d be like, ‘Yes ma’am, anything to serve the cause—’”

“Stop.”

“And you know what’s next, right?”

He blinked. “What’s next?”

You shrugged casually. “Pegging.”

He frowned, sitting up slightly. “…Pegging?”

You stared at him for a beat—deadpan.

Then burst out laughing, flopping back onto the bed as your shoulders shook.

“Oh, baby,” you wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“I’m a hundred and six.”

“Exactly.”

He scowled, but it only made you laugh harder, dragging him down into your arms as you nuzzled into his neck, smug and stupidly in love.

He shifted beside you, still grumbling under his breath, and rolled off the bed, stretching that broad, bare chest in the soft moonlight.

“I’m gonna go clean up,” he muttered.

You rolled to your back, arm flopping over your face. “Cool. While you’re up—make me something. I’m starving.”

He paused in the doorway, turning just enough to give you that squinty little look of disbelief.

“You just called me a ‘breeding bitch’ and now you want me to cook for you?”

You didn’t even lift your arm. “I’ll let you fuck me again after.”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

────────────────────────

Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared.

Hair damp. Shirtless. In boxers.

With a plate of perfectly arranged avocado toast in one hand, a glass of ice water in the other, and his laptop tucked under his arm.

You blinked up at him from the bed, instantly suspicious. “Why the laptop?”

He handed you the toast first.

“Because,” he said, settling next to you, “I wanna know what pegging is.”

You barked a laugh, nearly choking on your toast. “No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“No, seriously—you don’t. Your 40s brain will combust.”

He looked at you, dead serious, already flipping the screen open. “You said you’d tell me when I was older.”

You reached out to slap the laptop closed, but he dodged, brows furrowed in focus as he typed.

“I’m begging you,” you said through another wave of laughter, “don’t press play. Just read the definition.”

But it was too late.

He clicked the first link.

The sound kicked in immediately—moaning, skin slapping, a woman's voice cooing praise—and Bucky froze.

You took a casual bite of your avocado toast, eyes never leaving his face.

He was staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

Brows drawn.

Lips parted.

A single line of tension in his jaw as he watched a woman, in full control, pegging a man who was practically melting beneath her.

You chewed.

He blinked.

Still watching. Still furrowed.

You took another bite.

And that’s when your eyes drifted down—beneath the covers. To the very obvious tent in the blanket over his lap.

You choked.

“Oh my god,” you cackled. “You’re hard?”

His head whipped toward you, horrified. “No—”

You laughed harder, mouth full. “Don’t you dare lie, Sargeant Submissive.”

“I didn’t mean to—” He fumbled, slamming the laptop shut so fast it made the toast on your plate jump. “It’s not—that’s not what I—”

You collapsed sideways into the pillows, crying from laughter, still holding your toast.

He sank back with a groan, covering his face with both hands.

“…I hate you,” he muttered.

You leaned in, kissed his cheek.

“No you don’t.”

“…Unfortunately.”

You settled back into the pillows, plate on your lap, watching him with that lazy, shit-eating grin still plastered across your face. Bucky sat rigid beside you, eyes slightly glazed, still red from embarrassment, the laptop now firmly closed and shoved off to the side like it might bite him.

Then—

“Why do guys… like that?” he asked, cautiously, eyes flicking to you.

You shrugged, nonchalant. “Because it feels good?”

He blinked.

You licked some avocado from your thumb, casually adding, “Men have their G-spot in their asshole, babe.”

Bucky just stared.

And you, without missing a beat, muttered under your breath, “Honestly, just more proof that all men should be gay.”

“What?”

You looked up, blinking innocently. “Hm?”

He narrowed his eyes. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” you said, biting into another piece of toast.

After a moment, he turned to you again—still clearly thinking about everything you’d just said. His brows were pulled together, eyes searching yours, voice quiet.

“…Do you like that kind of stuff?”

You shrugged, totally unbothered. “I wouldn’t say no.”

He blinked.

You smirked, chewing on your last piece of toast like you hadn’t just dropped that casually.

“It’s a real turn-on,” you added. “That’s why girls like gay porn.”

His confusion deepened. “Wait—what?”

You rolled your eyes, clearly about to educate him. “It’s more real, Buck. Guys in gay porn actually look like they’re into it. Normal straight porn? It’s usually made for the camera. Half the time the girls are just faking it.”

He looked horrified.

“…Faking it?”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Yes. You think every pornstar comes just from two minutes of jackhammering and zero foreplay? Please.”

He sat back like you’d just shattered an entire belief system.

“That’s… really depressing.”

You nodded solemnly. “Welcome to womanhood, Sergeant.”

You watched him sit there, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted, eyes darting from the closed laptop to your plate to anywhere but your face.

He looked like a man staring into the void.

So naturally, you leaned in, pressed a slow kiss to his cheek, and murmured right at his ear—

“Do you want me to peg you, Bucky?”

His entire body went still.

Like you’d just dropped a live grenade in his lap.

He didn’t answer immediately—but he also didn’t pull away.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t sputter out a denial.

You tilted your head, amused. “Not a no.”

Still, silence.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you grinned, nosing at the sharp line of his jaw.

“You’re thinking about it,” you sang softly, placing a soft, teasing kiss right beneath his ear.

“No, I’m not,” he muttered—but it was way too quick, too defensive, and you could feel the way his body tensed under your touch.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered with a smirk, lips brushing his neck, “we really need to talk about your kinks.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

You were still snickering softly against his jaw, your hands trailing lazy patterns over his chest, ready to land one more teasing blow—

Until Bucky suddenly grabbed you.

With a groan of pure defeat, he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist and physically turned you to face away from him, spooning you like it was a tactical maneuver.

“Okay,” he grumbled against the back of your neck. “You’ve had your fun. Sleep now.”

You barely bit back a laugh, your body shaking with it.

“Is that an order, Sergeant?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned, already burying his face in your shoulder. “And no more pegging talk before bed.”

You grinned, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fine,” you whispered. “But tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow, I pretend none of this ever happened.”

Your smile only widened.

“Sure you do.”

And his only reply?

A long, exhausted sigh—followed by the quietest kiss pressed to your shoulder as he finally, finally, relaxed around you.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

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those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[purebarnes]

Walls

Summary : You never ask for help, even when your boyfriend wants to help you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Ex-Widow!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Watchtower fic. Reversal of the 'who hurt you?' trope. New Avenger!bucky and New!Avenger reader. Angst, Hurt/Comfort, reader was raised in the red room. trauma, injury, Cursing, non-sexual nudity and intimacy. bit of fluff!!!! Inspired by the song Walls by Kings of Leon.

Word count : 4.6k

Note : Bucky x red room!reader has been very heavily requested, so here it is! Taglist has not been updated but will be soon. Sorry, just been busy!!! Enjoy!

You never learned how to ask for help.

Not in the Red Room, where weakness was punished and silence was the only means of survival. Not when you were eight years old and pulled your own dislocated shoulder back into place. Not when you were fifteen and learned to kill without hesitation, or when Dreykov told you pain was just a minefield you had to run through.

By the time you escaped the Red Room and you were finally free—if anyone ever really was—some things were too late to unlearn.

You didn’t bleed in front of people. You didn’t cry. You didn’t ask for help, because help never came.

Then came Valentina. Then came the new Avengers. Then came him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

He was a soldier like you, a spy like you. The was broken once, too, then built again from whatever pieces were left. You understood each other before either of you spoke a word. The bond was instant but slow to surface, like fossils buried under frost.

You loved him before you ever admitted it.

Bucky loved you like it hurt him. He loved fiercely, tenderly, constantly. But where you were quiet in your pain, he noticed it. Every bruise you didn’t mention, every limp you masked, every silence you brushed off with a dry joke—he saw it all.

Bucky wanted to protect you.

But you never asked to be protected.

So, of course, it naturally took you six months to even admit to yourself that you might have feelings for him.

It happened after a mission gone wrong.

Not fatally wrong — no one died, no one got captured — but wrong enough that your teeth were clenched so hard that your gums ached, your gloves were soaked in an enemy's blood, and the extraction window had nearly closed because someone didn’t cover the flank.

And that someone was Bucky.

You stormed off the jet the second it touched down at the compound, slamming your knives onto the bench in the gear room and with restrained rage.

Of course, Bucky followed.

“What the hell was that out there?” you snapped, spinning around before he could speak. “You were supposed to take the left corridor. Instead you—what? Decided to go solo because you saw a better opportunity?”

“I did what needed to be done,” he said way too calmly. “If I hadn’t looped around, John would’ve gotten pinned. You think I wanted to split off?”

“You left me exposed,” you accused. “I almost took a round to the head because I thought I had someone on my six.”

“But you didn’t,” Bucky snapped. “Because I took that into account.”

The two of you were standing way too close now. Whatever the hell had been simmering between you for months started boiling over.

You shoved him.

He didn’t budge.

“This is so fucking stupid,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “You’re so—so smug. You walk around like no one can question you. Stupid, righteous ass, annoying fucker who’s too good at his job and too cocky because he knows he’s right.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “That what you think of me?”

“I think—” You stopped, chest rising and falling, fists clenched. “Fuck. Fuck, this is so stupid. It’s childish.”

He waited.

You looked at him — at the way he stood there. He was always watching you. Always catching the things no one else noticed.

Your voice cracked, “I think I have a crush on you.”

Oh.

You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. 

Your heart thundered in your chest. You were ready for rejection, or laughter, or a dismissive shake of his head.

But all he said was, “How is that childish?”

You blinked. “What?”

“How is having feelings for me childish?” he said, stepping closer. His voice was low, and it lacked the heat, the sarcasm. 

You looked away. “You don’t get it—”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “I do. Because I’ve been trying not to say anything for months because I thought maybe you didn’t feel the same.”

You scoffed. “You what?”

He let out a sweet yet frustrated laugh, as if he didn’t believe you never noticed. “What gave me away? The way I dive in front of bullets for you, or the way I bring you coffee every morning and pretend it’s just convenient?”

That made your lips curve up ever so slightly, despite the heat still in your chest.

“You still piss me off,” you said, softer now.

“Sure,” he replied, stepping close enough that your breath hitched.

Then he kissed you.

It was hard, desperate. His hands were rough, holding your face, pinching your chin gently and tilting your head up. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, and the rest of the world just… dropped away.

When you finally pulled back, forehead to forehead, you muttered, “This is a bad idea.”

“Probably,” he smiled. “Still want to try?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Still, it frustrated him—how your walls stayed up even after you'd let him into your bed, your trust, your life. You were his partner, but still you held most things alone.

You kept surviving on instinct.

Bucky wanted to be your safe place. And it maddened him that you wouldn’t let let him, even the part of you that loved him still didn’t know how to let him love you back.

Bucky had a lot of demons. You never scared him. But watching you flinch away from his concern terrified him.

—

Three months later…

You knew the mission was off the moment you stepped into the alley.

It was too quiet, like someone had already told them you were coming.

Still, you moved forward.

Two minutes later, it was chaos.

The intel carrier was a decoy, and you were ambushed by three mercs with military-grade weapons and more training than you were led to expect. Before you knew it, one pushed a knife just under your arm, driving up and in through the soft tissue of your side.

You didn’t scream. You bit down hard and twisted the blade out of your own skin with a grunt, turned the motion into an attack, and dropped him where he stood.

The other two didn’t last long.

But neither did your composure.

By the time you stumbled back to the jet, blood had soaked through your suit, and every breath was jagged.

You didn’t call for backup.

You didn’t radio Bucky or ping mission control, even when your hands started shaking.

You just activated autopilot, ripped open the med kit, and stitched yourself up with trembling fingers and an awkward angle.

No anaesthetic or mirror, just you and a needle. 

You bit down on the fabric of your glove, sweat beading along your hairline as you worked the needle through skin. Too shallow and it would tear. Too deep and it would scar. Not that you gave a shit about scars. 

You wrapped the wound tight, when you were done, when you sat back against the cold jet wall and stared at the ceiling, teeth clenched so hard your jaw ached.

It was fine.

You were fine.

Just like always.

When the jet landed back at the tower hours later, you pulled your jacket tight over the bandage and strode down the ramp like nothing had happened. You smiled at Bob in the common room and nodded at Ava in passing.

When Bucky caught your arm, eyes narrowing at the way your hand twitched at your side, you brushed him off with a look. “You okay?”

“Just jet lag,” you said, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth meant to calm him down. “Nothing serious, babe.”

He didn’t buy it. You knew he didn’t. But you kept walking before locking yourself in your room. 

—

There was a knock on your door thirty minutes later. 

You knew it was him.

You didn’t answer.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice came from the other side of the door after a beat, casual on the surface—but you could hear the tightening underneath. “Can I come in?”

You stared at the door for a moment, then turned back toward your bed.

“Later.”

There was a pause, before you heard the urgency in his tone. “Now, please.”

It was the kind of tone that didn’t push, but didn’t budge either.

You exhaled through your nose. “Fine.”

The door opened, but not fully— just enough for him to step in.

His eyes found you instantly, standing stiffly by the dresser, arms crossed, face taut with frustration.

“Hi,” he said, like he might still salvage this. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”

“I said not now.”

“I heard you,” he replied, shutting the door behind him. “But I’m here anyway. So.”

You turned around, pain flaring at your ribs. “What do you want?”

He noticed, gaze dipping. “Who hurt you?”

For you — an injured animal caged into a corner — it landed like a punch and tasted like an accusation.

You stiffened. “Don’t do this.”

He tilted his head. “Please—“

“I’m fine.”

“Your side—”

“How do you even know that?” you snapped, flinching when you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself.

“You walked to one side,” he said. “And I saw the blood on the jet. You cleaned it up fast, but you missed some. You also used two syringes from the med kit and didn’t log it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You keeping tabs on me now?” you asked, retaliating. 

“I’m not keeping tabs, I live here—and I pay attention to you,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s what people do when they care.”

“Care?” You let out a bitter laugh, trying to deflect. “Is that what this is? Or are you just trying to babysit your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s eyes flashed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” you challenged. “Don’t say the thing we’re both thinking?”

“I’m not infantilizing you.”

“You’re not? Because this—” you gestured to the space between you “—feels like you don’t trust me to handle myself.”

He was quiet for a beat, he was trying to find words that wouldn’t make you pull further away.

“I trust you,” he said, voice low. “But I saw you come back hurt, and instead of asking anyone for help— or go to the infirmary, you hid it.”

You clenched your fists. “I didn’t want to deal with you treating me like I’m fragile.”

“I don’t think you’re fragile,” he said, exasperated. “I think you’re hurt and you’re acting like you don’t want me to care.”

“That’s not your job.”

The metal plates of his vibranium arm shifted, and for the first time, his voice raised. It was not loud, just… pained. “I’m not here because it’s my job, I’m here because I love you.”

That stopped you cold in your tracks.

Bucky stared at you, breathing hard. “So when I saw blood and you shutting me out, yeah—I panicked. Not because I think you’re weak, but because I want to help.”

Your chest tightened, but pride was louder than pain. “I don’t need saving.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is?” you bit out.

He let a deep breath through his nose, and for the first time, his voice broke a little. “I’m not mad you got hurt,” he said. “I’m mad you didn’t trust me enough to help. You didn’t even want me in here.”

You folded your arms across your chest and regretted it instantly when pain bloomed under your bandage.

“Maybe I wanted to deal with it myself,” you snapped. “Maybe I don’t want to tell you every goddamn thing!”

His eyes shifted. He didn’t argue.

“You don’t,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You both just stood there for a moment, locked in a kind of stalemate that didn’t quite feel like winning.

Bucky turned toward the door. “I care about you,” he said. 

You didn’t answer or move.

And when he stepped out, you said, “I just need space.”

He paused—just for a second—but didn’t turn back.

And you pushed the door shut behind him.

—

The punching bag groaned under Bucky’s metal fist. He wasn’t pulling his punches—not tonight.

Thud. Thud. CRACK.

The chain creaked, and the bag swung violently to one side. Soon, he heard a slow clap echoing from behind him.

“Feel better?” Yelena teased.

He didn’t turn. “Not even close.”

She strolled in, wearing sweats and a sarcastic smile, and a half-eaten

 protein bar in one hand. Typical Yelena—casual as hell, like the world couldn’t touch her. But Bucky knew better. They both had ghosts—just different corners.

“You’re going to break that thing,” she added, nodding to the bag. “And you should be careful with the way you ask that question.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What question?”

“‘Who hurt you?’” she said, voice half-mocking, half-sincere. “Big mistake, Barnes. You ask that to a Red Room girl and you better be ready to duck.”

He sighed. “You heard us.”

“I think even Ava heard the argument, and she is three floors up.”

Bucky let out a bitter breath. “Do you think I screwed up?”

“She kicked you out of her room, yes?”

He nodded.

“Then yes,” she hummed. “You screwed up. Or she did. Or both. Probably both.”

“I was just trying to help. She was hurt, and she didn’t tell anyone. She lied about it.”

“She didn’t lie,” she corrected, “She withheld. There’s a difference.”

“She didn’t have to go it alone,” Bucky shook his head. “I was right there.”

“Yes,” Yelena’s voice softened. “But alone is what we’re good at.”

He sighed, not wanting to hear what he already knew to be true.

Yelena leaned forward, taking a bite of her snack. “By Red Room standards, I got lucky. Fake family, borderline functional spy-parents, annoying sister. I had… a taste of a family. people to remind me what kindness looked like, even if it was bullshit half the time.”

She shrugged. “But her? She didn’t get sent to Ohio. No fake American pie. No pretend bedtime stories. She had the real Red Room. Just… handlers.”

Bucky closed his eyes. “I just wanted her to let me in.”

Yelena stood and stretched, then nudged his shoulder with hers. “I know. You were trying to love her. That’s not the problem.” She turned toward the door, then paused. “You just forgot something.”

He looked up. “What?”

“You’re not here to fix her, Bucky. She has to do that herself.’ Her voice was kinder now — not condescending, not sarcastic. “You’re her partner. She doesn’t need you to ask who hurt her.”

Bucky tilted his head.

Yelena didn’t even look over her shoulder as she walked away. “She needs to trust that you wouldn’t.”

—

The morning after, you woke up sore.

Not just your side—though the wound throbbed like it was pissed at you—but in your chest. 

You’d barely slept, and the silence in your room was louder than ever before.

You weren’t proud of how last night ended.

But you also weren’t ready to admit it out loud.

You sat on the edge of the bed in yesterday’s clothes, staring at the door like it might offer answers if you glared hard enough. It didn’t.

What did come, though, was the sweet scent of breakfast. 

You opened your door and almost tripped over it.

There laid a covered tray, still hot.

You opened it and saw your favourite breakfast— toast with way too much butter and maple syrup, a few slices of crispy bacon, and even coffee—just the way you drank it.

You blinked.

A small folded note sat beneath the mug, written in neat block letters. 

“Thought you might still be mad. But you still gotta eat.

 — JBB”

There was no lecture or apology. Just… care.

Your first instinct was to leave it. To prove a point or maintain a boundary or whatever. 

So you closed the door paced for a few minutes.

But the smell.

God, the toast was warm and golden and perfectly ruined in that way you liked.

You stared at the door from the inside of your room.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Fuck, you were hungry— you didn’t have dinner last night. 

You muttered under your breath like a gremlin. “Stupid stubborn super soldier.”

You opened the door again and very cautiously pulled the tray inside like it might explode. You sat down on your bed and your arms. Then you uncrossed them. You picked up a piece of bacon, sniffed it, and ate it.

It was perfect.

You didn’t want to smile. But you did. Just a little.

You whispered to no one, “Thanks, Buck.”

—

Down the hall, Bucky leaned quietly against the wall just out of view.

When he heard the faint scrape of the tray being pulled inside, he let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding.

—

The shower was supposed to help.

You stood under the spray with your forehead against the tile, letting the heat soak into your muscles. Steam curled around you, thick and humid. The kind that fogged the mirror and made your breath feel heavier. You watched a droplet trace its way down your wrist, vanishing into the edge of the drain. 

You hadn’t washed since you got back from the mission—barely slept, barely spoken. Just bandaged yourself up in the jet and buried the pain like you always did.

It was stupid. You knew it. You just didn’t want to see the worry in their faces. In his face.

You squeezed your eyes shut, let the water run over your body, then grabbed the loofah.

It was muscle memory— Scrub, rinse, repeat. So you weren’t even thinking when you dragged it over your ribs—just moving on instinct, wanting to be clean. Scrub the blood. Scrub the tension. Scrub everything off.

And then—

You felt white-hot pain.

You hissed, froze, and looked down.

The wound was red— bright and fresh across the gauze, soaking into the water swirling down the drain— the loofah had latched on to a thread and tore it out. 

The stitches were completely pulled out.

“Shit.”

You staggered out of the shower, dripping and trembling, gripping the sink for balance as steam spilled into the room. The mirror was a smeared blur, your reflection hidden behind a ghostly mask of condensation as a trail of red followed you.

You grabbed the towel with shaking fingers and wrapped it tight around your chest, pressing your palm against the fresh bleed at your side. The warmth of the water was already turning cold against your skin, and the throb in your ribs had gone from dull to searing.

You dropped to the floor with a grunt, pulling the first-aid kit from beneath the sink. Your knees hit the tile hard. You didn’t flinch as you opened the case and pulled the supplies into your lap: needle, thread, gauze, antiseptic.

The blood made your hands slick.

You tried to thread the needle. Twice. Missed. On the third attempt, it slipped from your grip and clattered against the tile. You cursed under your breath, picked it up again, finally got the thread through the eye.

You pinched the skin along the gash.

Just a few stitches. You could do this. 

But when you tried to push the needle in, your hand shook too hard. It missed the edge of the skin and dragged instead, scratching you. You tried again, gritting your teeth, but your vision blurred with the steam and the sweat and the water still dripping from your hair.

The third time, the needle went in—then tore the skin when you pulled too fast.

“Fuck!”

Your chest rose and fell. Your heart thudded behind your ribs, against your wound. You looked down at the mess of gauze and blood, the trembling in your fingers, the way your breath caught in your throat.

This was nothing.

You’d been shot before. Tortured. Conditioned.

But right now—sitting half-naked on the bathroom floor, wet and cold and bleeding again—you weren’t fine.

For the first time in a long time, you thought, I don’t want to be alone for this. 

So you got up, pressed the towel tighter, and walked barefoot down the hall toward Bucky’s room.

—

You didn’t knock right away.

You stood outside his door barefoot, one hand clutching the towel, the other pressed to the wound at your side, now throbbing with a hot ache. You hated how unsteady your legs felt, how your heartbeat was rattling inside your chest.

Finally, you raised your knuckles and knocked twice.

The door opened almost instantly, like he’d been standing just on the other side, waiting.

And maybe he had been.

Bucky stood there in a dark long-sleeved henley and sweatpants, barefoot, his hair damp like he’d showered recently. The second he saw you, his expression changed—not shocked. Not angry.

Just worried.

His eyes flicked down to the blood seeping through the towel. Then back up to your face. You expected a million probing questions, like how did this happen? Why didn’t you come to me sooner? How could you do this to yourself? 

He asked none.

You started to speak—“I—”—but your voice cracked, and the word never made it out.

Instead, you just looked at him, hand tightened over your side.

Bucky stepped aside without a word.

And that was it. No demand. No scolding. No what were you thinking?

You stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind you with a click.

You stood in the middle of the room you were very familiar with— you’ve spent most of your nights here, after all— and tried your best to stay up. 

He strode by you, looking at you like you hadn’t pushed him away last night.

His voice, when it came, was gentle. “Let me help.”

You nodded, just once, your chin trembling.

And finally, you like it hurt you to admit, you whispered, “I couldn’t do it on my own.”

“I got you,” he said simply.

Not I’ll fix you.

Not You should’ve come sooner.

His hands rose to take the edge of the towel from you. He waited—watched your eyes—for permission.

You gave it.

And as he peeled the fabric away from your ribs, his touch never faltered. 

He studied the red gashing wound before helping you down to sit on his bed. He grabbed his first air kit from his bedside. 

“I ripped the stitches,” you admitted the obvious.

He knelt in front of you without a word. The reopened gash was deep, but clean. No sign of infection, but it needed fixing.

“You scrubbed it open?” he murmured.

You groaned. “With a loofah. Like a genius.”

He gave a tiny huff of amusement. “A dangerous weapon.”

“I think it’s actually stronger than Walker.”

“Definitely smarter.”

You smiled despite yourself. Your arm dropped slightly, and Bucky reached for a clean towel and laid it gently across your lap before reaching for the antiseptic. You watched him work—his metal hand deft and practiced, his human one in a support capacity. 

“This is gonna sting,” he warned. “But I’ll go slow.”

You nodded.

He cleaned the wound gently, pressing gauze against it in soft, rhythmic motions. It hurt, but not like before. 

He threaded the needle and began stitching. The pull of the thread through your skin made you flinch, but his hand was there—resting gently on your thigh.

You let out a shaky breath and leaned back on your hands, letting him finish.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

When he tied the last knot, he set the needle aside and wiped the blood away with a damp cloth.

He looked up at you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”

You blinked at him—then dropped your eyes.

And for the first time, you didn’t say “fine.”

Your voice cracked when you said, “No,” followed with a quieter, “No, I’m not.”

Your lip trembled, and suddenly your face folded in on itself, hands rising to cover your eyes too little too late—too slow to hide the tears that came all at once.

You tried to stop it.

You tried to breathe through it, tried to hold yourself together because that’s what you’d always done.

But Bucky was already moving. He didn’t say anything and opened his arms.

And that was all it took.

You leaned in like gravity pulled you there, and you felt his arms close. Your shoulders shook and soaked his shirt through your tears. 

He didn’t flinch, didn’t let go.

His hand moved across your back in long, rhythmic strokes. He rested his chin gently on your head, his metal arm gently circled your waist, holding you without trapping you. His other hand moved to your hair, fingers sliding through the strands in calming patterns.

Your knees tucked up against his and your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. You breathed in his scent, faint soap and aftershave and something familiar that made you fall in love all over again.

He adjusted you without a word, easing you down so your cheek rested against his chest. His thumb brushed your temple once, then again.

He held you until your breathing slowed. Until your hands unclenched. Until your shoulders stopped rising, until you were still.

And when the last of the tears had soaked into his shirt, you stayed like that for a long time.

—

That night, he found you one of his shirts—worn and too big. You slipped it over your head in the bathroom, careful not to pull your stitches, and returned to the room with bare legs and clean skin.

Bucky opened the covers and moved aside.

You climbed into the bed beside him.

And after a long stretch of silence, you finally found the courage to say, “Thank you.”

Bucky turned his head toward you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Anytime.”

“And in case you were still wondering who did this,” you sniffled, “The guy who was supposed to be my informant got lucky.”

Bucky wrapped his arm around you, though not too tight. “You take his knife?”

“Left it in his thigh,” you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, finding a comfortable spot. “His wound is definitely deeper than mine.”

"That's my girl," he whispered proudly, his hand still gently stroking up and down your back.

The room had gone quiet, save for the occasional creak of old pipes and the hum of the heater kicking in. Bucky didn't move, enjoying your weight pressed into his chest, your cheek warm against the curve of his shoulder. His fingers trailed through your hair absently — like muscle memory.

"You know," he murmured after a while, his breath brushing against your hairline, "I still don't understand how you do it. Take down someone three times your size."

He smiled a little, one of those soft, private ones meant just for you, even though your breathing had deepened into a slower rhythm.

"Yelena and Ava, do it, too, sure," he went on, lips barely moving. "But with you… It’s so much brute force." He chuckled a low rumble in his chest. "It even scares me sometimes."

No response. Not a shift, not a twitch from you. He tilted his head, finally noticing the way your breathing had slipped and steadied.

Bucky glanced down at you, as realization settled in. "You fell asleep on me, didn’t you?" he said, barely above a whisper. "Jesus, doll, you were that tired?"

One tiny, unmistakable snore answered him — high-pitched and fleeting, almost like a hiccup, and then another.

He couldn't help it — he laughed, delighted. "God, your snores are adorable."

He pulled the blanket up a little higher over your shoulder and pressed a kiss to your temple.

"Sleep, baby. I got you," he whispered. "Always got you."

And then, with you curled against him, still snoring softly into his neck, Bucky closed his eyes, too.

-end.

I have an idea for a part two that might never get written: Bucky genuine cannot believe it when you ask him if you could permanently move into his room.

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[purebarnes]

boyfriend!joaquin torres x reader text messages

i love you joaquin torres

i need someone who matches my freak/yap/chronically online-ness

if there are repeated messages… please just ignore it 😝

[purebarnes]

THIS IS SUPER CUTEEE

IM LIKE OBSESSED!!!!

winning streak 𐙚 b.b

pairing: hockey captain!bucky barnes x fem!reader (modern au)

warnings: just teeth rotting fluff, some sports trash talk,

summary: the national title on the line. one last goal. and bucky doesn’t skate to the trophy — he runs to you.

word count: 2.8k

author's note: hi my loves! i couldn't stop thinking about this idea! and because i am a swiftie, this is heavily inspired by the alchemy (one of my many favourite songs) i hope you enjoy this fic as much as i do, love you guys and stay safe!

i love soft!bucky so freaking much

The crowd was thundering.

Not the kind that rumbled in the distance no, this was the kind that cracked the sky open. The kind that rose and crashed in waves, relentless and hungry. 

The stands shook with boots stomping on aluminum bleachers. Painted signs bounced in the air, words blurring from the motion—GO THUNDERBOLTS, CAPTAIN BARNES #91, KISS FOR LUCK scrawled in lipstick. 

Faces flushed red with cold beer and high hopes. Flags waved, foam fingers pointed, and a hundred thousand hearts pounded in time with the bass of the pre-game anthem pulsing through the speakers.

This wasn’t just a game. It was the game of the year.

Finals night. National Hockey League Championship. 

The Thunderbolts vs The Avengers.

Two rival teams, two captains with so much history and one trophy gleaming behind the glass.

The anthem had barely ended before the roar kicked up again, raw and ravenous.

Spotlights danced across the crowd like searchlights over a battlefield, and the overheads dimmed just enough to make the ice glow—pristine, perfect, untouched, a fresh battlefield waiting to be claimed.

Cameras swung in wide arcs across the arena, cutting from row to row, finding the faces that made up the frenzy.

Fans in war paint, faces streaked with glitter and ink, jerseys layered over hoodies, fingers locked around hotdogs and cardboard trays of fries, beer sloshing over gloved hands. 

Everyone yelling. Everyone watching.

And then—the camera landed on you.

Dead center. First row behind the Thunderbolts’ bench.

Wearing his jersey.

“Barnes” stitched in clean bold letters across your shoulders. The deep navy fabric pulled snug where it was tucked into the waistband of your jeans. Sleeves rolled just past your elbows. The Thunderbolts logo—a silver lightning bolt spearing through a black-and-blue shield shimmered faintly beneath the lights.

Your grin bloomed instantly when you saw yourself on the jumbotron—sharp and nervous and entirely unfiltered.

One hand flew up to your cheek, laughing in surprise. The other still held tight to the paper soda cup you hadn’t touched in ten minutes.

And then the commentators pounced.

“Ooooh, and look who we’ve got in the front row tonight!” one of them crowed, amusement crackling in his voice. “That’s Barnes’ girlfriend, she’s already wearing the number 91 like a badge of honor!”

The other chuckled, already rolling with it. “You’ve gotta love it, Bill. Young love, big stakes. She’s all in tonight. And the question on everyone’s mind—will Barnes bring home the trophy tonight? Or will Rogers shut him down one last time?”

You flushed hard, heat flooding your cheeks, but your smile only widened. Your fingers twisted nervously in your lap, the cup long forgotten.

The spotlight swept on—and the thunder swelled again.

The Thunderbolts were being called onto the ice.

First came Ava. Sharp, and fast. She cut across the blue line like a blade, sleek in her uniform, her form low and agile as she glided across the rink. Her braid flicked behind her helmet like a threat, chin high, eyes locked forward.

Then Bob. Wild grin beneath his helmet, that familiar bounce in his stride like he was skating into a bar fight instead of a championship. He gave a ridiculous salute to the crowd, winked at someone in the third row, and pumped his stick once in the air.

John followed, big and loud, throwing a fist into the sky like a gladiator entering the ring.

Yelena came next. Practically vibrating with excitement, her grin so wide it looked dangerous. She skated backward just for the hell of it, flashed a peace sign at the Avenger’s bench, and flipped off Tony Stark when he yelled something back.

And then —

“Number ninety-one…BUCKY BARNES!”

The arena exploded.

The glass walls behind the benches vibrated with the noise. The rafters groaned. People were screaming his name—BARNES, BARNES, BUCKY, BUCKY—the rhythm of it echoing like a chant across the rink.

You shot out of your seat without thinking, hands flying to your mouth, heart stuttering in your chest like it couldn’t keep up.

And then he appeared.

Skating out from the tunnel like he owned the damn world.

No waving. No showboating. 

He skated clean, hard, powerful—straight across the rink like the ice had parted just for him. His strides were controlled, each one cutting smooth into the surface, blades singing. He stopped short of the bench, stick tapping once against the ice with a heavy clack.

Then, he turned. Just enough to find you.

His helmet was tucked low, shadowing his eyes, but it didn’t matter. You could feel him find you. See you. That weightless flicker of connection when two people find each other in a crowd of thousands.

And then—

That grin.

God, that grin, that same grin that made you fall hopelessly in love with him back in college.

Crooked. Boyish. And ever so infuriatingly sure of itself.

He didn’t wave, didn’t mouth a word.

Just gave you the faintest nod, like a promise. Like watch this, baby.

And then—

The puck dropped.

“Thunderbolts coming in fast from the left side, Ava’s on the edge with the puck, she’s got Bob tailing her for backup—”

The announcer’s voice rang loud over the speakers, almost drowned out by the buzz of the arena. 

Ava skated hard, slicing across the ice like a bullet fired from a gun, body low and focused. Her stick tapped the puck forward with quick, lethal flicks, weaving past one defender, then another.

Bob was on her tail, his form bulkier but no less agile, cutting in wide to draw a second Avenger off the line.

The Thunderbolts were moving as one, quick and ruthless, barely blinking.

“Wait for it—OH! Big interception by Wilson for the Avengers, clean take on the boards, he’s flying down center ice—”

The collective gasp was instant. 

Sam was fast. Too fast.

He pivoted so tightly off the wall it looked impossible, scooping the puck on his blade mid-turn and blasting down center ice. The Thunderbolts scrambled to recover, boots hitting the ice in frantic scrapes, blades cutting through the frozen surface like razors.

Yelena cursed under her breath—you saw it from the bench cam, the sharp twist of her mouth unmistakable as she shot back toward the neutral zone in a blur of motion. 

You knew that look. Knew it well. You’d been friends since high school, back when she used to play pickup games with the boys just for fun.

She hated being outrun, hated it like it offended her personally. And judging by the speed she was moving now, someone was damn sure about to pay for it.

Bucky fell in behind her.

Unlike the rest, he didn’t panic.

He skated backward, cool and calculated, reading the play like he’d seen it a hundred times before. His knees bent, balance low, eyes flicking between Wilson streaking down the middle and Rogers gliding up the opposite wing, already sizing up his angle just outside the blue line.

And then, Steve entered the zone.

The crowd went feral. The commentators lost their minds.

“Rogers, himself folks, lining up for the slapshot—!”

Steve adjusted his grip with deadly precision, dragging the puck across the line and winding up like a spring. The stadium held its breath. Cameras clicked. Flashbulbs lit the glass.

And then —

CLANG.

Stick on stick.

Bucky didn’t just block the shot—he rejected it.

The blade of his stick met Steve’s with a metallic crack that echoed across the ice, the force of it spinning the puck up and off course like it had hit a steel wall.

The puck arced high, spiralling toward the boards as both captains skated through the impact. Steve’s blade skidded empty.

The crowd howled.

Steve turned slowly, arching a brow beneath his helmet. The half-smile that played across his face was all teeth. 

Familiar.

Bucky skated past with ice in his veins and zero hesitation. He didn’t look back. Just kept gliding, chin raised, mouth curling.

“Try again, punk,” he smirked, eyes locked with Steve’s as the puck spun away.

Steve chuckled. “Make me.” And peeled off.

Your heart was racing.

No, not just racing. Hammering.

You couldn’t stop bouncing in your seat. The coke you held in both hands had gone warm long ago, the paper cup soft with condensation, but you hadn’t taken a sip. Your eyes were locked on the rink like your life depended on it.

Every pass was a lightning bolt. Every movement a blur.

The game was brutal, but brilliant. A war fought in blades and bruises. This wasn’t teammates having fun. This wasn’t friendly competition.

This was rivalry.

Hits against the boards came hard and fast. Elbows tucked sharp. Shoulders thrown into chests with unapologetic force. You flinched each time someone slammed into the wall, the crack echoing up into your ribs.

Still, through the chaos, Bucky led.

He was everywhere. Every line. Every pivot.

You watched him bark something to Bob, nod once to Yelena, then slash down the rink with the kind of clean, perfect control that only came from years of skating like the ice was his home.

He skated like fire. Moved like smoke.

His stick kissed the puck and made it sing.

“BUCKY! HERE!”

Yelena’s voice split through the noise, loud and sure. She tore up the right side like she’d stolen something, and Bucky didn’t even look.

He passed blind.

A perfect no-look cross-zone—sharp, clean, so instinctual it looked choreographed. The puck streaked across the ice, too fast to track.

Crack.

Bob’s blade met it in motion, and the sound was surgical.

And then—

SLAM.

Straight into the Avengers’ net.

The red light flared. The buzzer screamed.

Thunderbolts: 1. Avengers: 0.

The arena exploded.

“WE’RE ON THE BOARD, BABY!” the commentator bellowed, practically lifting out of his seat. “What a setup—Barnes to Belova, Belova to Bob, and in she goes!”

Fans surged to their feet, foam fingers punched the air, and you clapped both hands to your mouth in shock, laughing, beaming, glowing.

On the bench, Alexei looked like he was going to combust.

“THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT, BARNES! I TEACH HIM THAT!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, pounding the plexiglass like a drum. “YOU SEE THAT PASS? HE LEARN FROM ME!”

Stark, meanwhile, was livid.

On the Avenger’s bench, he was a one-man storm—clipboard flailing, tie half-undone.

“Rogers! Wilson! You gonna let him dance around you like that? I swear to god, this isn’t fucking disney on Ice!”

The camera caught John laughing so hard he nearly fell off the bench.

You could even see Yelena, skating backward toward center, roll her eyes from behind her visor, muttering something that made Ava snort.

And Bucky—

Bucky just skated to the bench like he hadn’t even tried.

Stick low. Jaw sharp. Eyes already on the next play.

Second period. Tie game.

The ice glistened with sweat and melted friction, grooves carved deep from blades and fury.

Both teams were breathing hard, skating harder, the weight of the scoreboard pressing down like a vice.

Every hit sounded louder now. Every pass carried desperation.

The Avengers had clawed one back.

It wasn’t a clean goal, not by Thunderbolts standards, anyway. It was sneaky. Wanda had slipped it in off a deflection, the kind of tip-in that no one even saw coming until the red light flashed behind the net.

Bob turned, confused, and smacked the post with his stick.

The crowd gasped, half in awe, half in protest.

The commentators were already on it.

“Oooh! Maximoff sneaks one past the line—unbelievable angle on that tip-in.”

“Barnes is not happy about that one, Bill. Look at that expression.”

“Stone cold. But if there’s one thing we know about number 91…it’s that he plays best when he’s pissed.”

You saw it too. Felt it. That flicker shift in the entire energy of the game. 

Like a match had been struck.

On the ice, Bucky reset.

His jaw was locked tight, the muscles ticking beneath his cheekbone. His knuckles curled around his stick like it was a lifeline. He muttered something sharp to John as they lined up for the next faceoff—you couldn’t hear it, but whatever he said made John nod immediately, all humor gone.

And then—

Breakaway.

John slingshot the puck out of the circle with brutal precision, snapping it straight to Ava as she darted up the ice.

Her skates cut the surface like blades through water, a clean, slicing motion that made her look more like a dancer than a forward. She passed to Yelena, who caught it mid-stride and bolted down the left wing like her skates were on fire.

The Avengers defence scrambled.

You leaned forward in your seat, one hand gripping the railing, eyes wide.

Yelena ducked her shoulder just before a check, spun out of the hit like she’d rehearsed it in a dream, and—with barely a glance—

“BUCKY!”

The shout rang through the air.

He was already there.

No hesitation. No delay. 

He’d read the play like a book with his name written in the ending.

The puck hit his blade like fate.

Three strides.

A shift in weight.

The low sweep of his stick.

Snap.

Like a bullet fired from center ice—the puck screamed into the net.

GOAL.

Red light. Horn blast. Thunder in the stands.

Thunderbolts: 2. Avengers: 1.

The stadium erupted. Fans on their feet. Flags waving. Voices cracking. Someone a few rows behind you screamed “MARRY ME, BUCKY!” and you couldn’t stop laughing, even as tears prickled the backs of your eyes.

Ava was pounding her stick against the wall. Bob leapt over the boards to tackle John in celebration. Yelena blew kisses to the camera and Alexei was hoarse from screaming.

But Bucky —

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t raise his arms or pump his fists or even look at the scoreboard.

There were thirty seconds left. Thirty brutal, breathless seconds. But the goal had done its job. The Thunderbolts were ahead. Now it was all defense.

And Bucky... he was locked in.

The final clock ticked down like a heartbeat.

Twenty seconds.

Ten.

Five—

BUZZZZZZZZZ.

The horn went off like an explosion. Final whistle.

The Thunderbolts bench emptied, skates clattering across the ice as the team poured toward center.

Players collided, hollering, helmets flying into the air. Ava jumped straight into Yelena’s arms. Bob tried to slide across the rink on his belly and crashed into the boards.

And behind it all—

The trophy waited. Gleaming, glorious and beautiful.

Spotlights swiveled. Cameras focused.

The announcers were already yelling.

“Thunderbolts take the championship! What a finish, what a goal—and Barnes with the game winner, folks! That’s number 91 doing what he does best!”

You stood with the rest of the crowd, clapping, screaming, face flushed with adrenaline and awe.

Your hands were over your mouth again, eyes sweeping the chaos for him—where was he?

And then —

You found him.

Or rather—he found you.

Bucky skated past the goal without slowing.

Past the glittering silver trophy being lifted onto its pedestal. Past the thunder of his teammates’ cheers. Past Alexei’s open arms and the blinding camera flashes.

His stick dropped to the ice.

Then his helmet.

And he skated straight to you.

There was no hesitation. No calculation. He ran.

Skates to the boards, gloves off, his hands catching the edge with one clean, practiced grip. Security blinked, caught off-guard—but he was already climbing over, lifting himself into the front row like it was nothing.

You gasped—half-laughing, half-stunned—arms instinctively reaching for him.

And he caught you.

His hands wrapped around your waist, and without a word, he lifted you straight into the air like you weighed nothing at all. 

You squeaked—breath catching—legs curling around his hips as he spun you, holding you there in the middle of screaming fans and cameras and flying confetti.

His mouth crashed into yours.

And everything else disappeared.

The noise, the lights, the rink, the pressure, it all dropped away like a curtain falling. All you could feel was him. His hands gripping your back, his lips against yours, rough and breathless. His chest shaking with laughter.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered, breaking the kiss only long enough to murmur it into your cheek.

Your laugh was pure joy. You buried your hands in his sweaty hair and kissed him again, not caring that you were in front of thousands of people, not caring that your face was probably all over the jumbotron.

“I told you you’d win,” you breathed.

“And I told you,” he grinned, eyes bright and unbearably soft as he pressed his forehead to yours, “you’re all I was playing for.”

Your heart melted.

Somewhere in the chaos, John’s voice rang out: “Go get her, Bucky!”

From the loudspeakers, the announcers cracked up.

“Well, there’s your answer, folks,” one of them laughed, his voice barely audible over the thunderous cheer. “Who needs the trophy… when she’s right there waiting?”

And Bucky—still holding you—only kissed you deeper.

Because he already had everything he wanted.

a/n: this fic was really just indulgence for me, i love this idea so much i typed half the fic on my phone during my train ride home 🥹 i am not the best at describing hockey and i'm sorry if i got anything wrong 😭. if you enjoyed the fic, please leave a comment of reblog!

[purebarnes]

Loved it!! 😌

The Flaming Hearts Fan Club

johnny storm x fem!reader

word count: 2.2k+

summary: Something falls out of your pocket with the most unfortunate timing anyone could’ve asked for.

warnings: reader’s gonna be embarrassed, johnny’s gonna be a funny little son-of-a-bitch and i love him

notes: One of my friends, @prettycalla, and I decided to write this idea that our other friend, @getaapologist, had given us! (I was on fire for three hours, I hope you enjoy lmao). So here’s my version (and you should check out hers!) and the kickstart to my johnnyverse! Big thank you to @robinbuckleywife for reading this over and as always, big thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing, couldn’t do this without you!

It’s a sweltering July afternoon. You’re unfortunately standing in line at Burger Tower— it was of those space-age-styled fast food joints with chrome countertops, a glowing neon menu board shaped like a rocket ship, and booths upholstered in shiny red vinyl. The overhead speakers are playing The Supremes a little too loud for you to hear anything else, the smell of frying oil wafts around you, and the sun outside practically melts the linoleum floor tiles. It’s hot enough to make a person sweat through their shirt… and their pants…. really any article of fabric strewn on their bodies.

You’re one person away from the counter and you’re mentally running through your order— double cheeseburger, a strawberry shake, fries large enough to make you regret getting 'em— when you reach into your pocket to pull out your cash. Except you grab way more than you mean to. Something slips out and floats to the ground right at your feet. It’s face-down, but you already know what it is before it even touches the ground. Your stomach drops straight out your ass and to the floor. 

It’s one of your photos from the Flaming Hearts Fan Club. The official one, glossy and embarrassingly well-loved. And now stepping up right next to it? The most unfortunate pair of shoes you could hope to see. Black boots. Sleek. Attached to legs in jeans that you woefully would recognize anywhere. A voice chuckles behind you, smug and too amused for your comfort, says, “Whoa, now that’s a handsome guy.”

You freeze right in your tracks. You know that voice. Everyone knows that stupid voice. It’s been broadcast on radio interviews, on late-night variety shows, and shouted from the skies when the Fantastic Four saved Midtown last month.

You turn on your heel.

Johnny Storm is standing there. His blonde hair windswept and looked too picture perfect, his sunglasses are perched in his head, and he’s holding your fan club photo between two fingers like it might catch fire if he grips it too tight. And he’s grinning. “Real dedicated fan, huh?” he says, flipping the photo around to show the front. It’s the one where he’s in his blue suit, smirking with his arms crossed like he knows exactly how good he looks— which, clearly, he does. “Where’d you get this? You know they make me sign those after three hours of PR torture every Tuesday?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out except a breath that sounds vaguely like a question mark. You hurriedly grab the photo back, flustered and looking anywhere but at him, trying not to sweat through your blouse. “I— I’m not, like, obsessed or anything. My friend gave it to me. You know… as a joke.”

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, then steps around you to the counter, calling over his shoulder. 

You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Instead, you just shove the photo back into your pocket cursing yourself for even tucking it in the pocket of these jeans however many weeks ago. You order as fast as you can, duck your head to avoid him, and flee to the farthest booth in the restaurant. You’re definitely trying to hide behind your stupid milkshake and lick your wounds in peace. You make it halfway through a crinkle fry when a red tray drops on the table across from you, and Johnny plops down into the seat like he had been invited. He’s got two burgers on his tray, a large soda, and one of those dumb, charming milkshakes with whipped cream stacked a mile high.

You almost choke on your fries. “Are you… Are you seriously sitting here?”

“Sure am.” His eyes are twinkling as he peels the paper back on his burger. “You looked lonely. Or maybe mortified. Either way, sitting here felt like a public service.”

You groan and drop your forehead into your hand, elbow propped against the table. “You are the worst.”

“Incorrect. I’m the hottest. Literally.” He bites into his burger and shrugs. “Flaming Hearts, huh? That’s the fan club with the pins, right? Do you have the pin?”

You glare at him between spread fingers.

He leans forward, his eyes wide with mock innocence. “What? I wanna see it. Let me guess— it’s hidden in your purse next to the embroidered handkerchief with my initials, huh?”

“I do not have—” you stop yourself with a sigh. It doesn’t really matter what you say now. He’s already smiling like he’s won something.

He munches on a fry, then points one at you. “You know, most people pretend not to recognize me. They do that whole thing where they squint and go, ‘Hey, aren’t you that flying guy?’ and I say something modest, like ‘Only on days that end with Y.’ But you? You dropped the merchandise. You might as well have left a trail of rose petals to this very booth.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s almost impossible for you to stop smiling now. “If I buy you another burger and slide it across the table, will you try and forget this ever happened?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he grins through a mouthful of fries, “This has been the best part of my day. I’m literally going to remember this forever.”

You laugh despite yourself and shake your head. He’s magnetic in the kind of way you wish you were immune to, that’s how this crush started, after all. All lazy charm and a ridiculous aura of confidence. But it really wasn’t in the sleazy, plastic way you’d expect from a tabloid cover boy. It’s like he actually likes being liked, in a deeper way— nothing surface level. “Why are you here?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a lab to go blow up or something?”

“Nah.” He waves his hand in dismissal, smiling. “Reed banned me for the afternoon.” Then, he leans back in the booth, one arm draping over the back of the seat. “I figured I’d get some lunch and see how many people pretended not to notice me. You win, by the way. Dropping the photo? That was pretty good.”

You groan and hide your face in your hands again. And then you shake your head, starting to laugh as you say, “I am never living this down.”

“Sure you will,” he hums, holding his shake toward you like a peace offering. “Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Want a sip?”

You squint at him. “That’s how you get cooties.”

“Oh my god, you are in the fan club.”

“Shut up.”

He kicks your foot lightly under the table and sing-songs between laughs. “You didn’t say no.”

You shoot him a mock-annoyed look over the top of your milkshake. “You kicking me under the table now? Real smooth.”

Johnny shrugs. “Subtlety’s never been my strong suit. I mean… Come on. I light on fire for a living.”

You laugh again. It bubbles out of you before you can even realize it, and suddenly you’re smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt. He notices and he gives you this big, satisfied grin like he just won a bet with himself.

“What?” you say, narrowing your eyes at him, your heart beating so hard in your chest you think it may try to escape through your ears.

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “It’s just… really nice when people laugh around me instead of screaming and running for the nearest fire extinguisher.”

“Oh, is that a thing?”

“You’d be surprised.” He nudges the last of his fries into his mouth, chews lazily, then adds, “Actually, wait, no you wouldn’t. You’re the one with my picture in your pocket.”

You groan dramatically and drop your head down against the table for what? the third time now? “Will you please stop bringing that up?”

“Not a chance.”

You hear the squeak of the vinyl as he shifts in the seat, then there’s a rustle of paper as he crumples up his burger wrapper. He’s looking at you a little differently now— clearly still very amused, but he’s softened at the edges. Like maybe he’s not here just to tease you. Like maybe he kind of likes the way you look at him while he flirts or how you groan when he pokes a little fun at you. He tosses his trash onto his tray, wipes his hands on his jeans, then he looks back at you with a tilt of his head. “So. You headed anywhere after this? Or was lunch your big plan for the afternoon?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why? Are you about to recommend I spend the rest of it being harassed by superheroes?”

“First of all, celebrity superhero. Get it right,” he says with another one of those signature grins, jerking his thumb back at himself as he points. “Second, I was gonna offer to walk you home. Unless you’d rather let the photo in your pocket be enough.”

You pause at his words, a fry halfway to your mouth. “You want to walk me home?”

He shrugs, like the suggestion is no big deal. Like he’s just a normal guy asking a normal girl to let him walk her home. But he was not a normal guy, he was fucking Johnny Storm, of the Fantastic Four. And you, you, were a member of his damn fan club. “Sure. It’s hot out. You might melt. I’d feel bad if I left you out there to fry like an egg on the concrete.”

“And you’re just… offering? Out of the goodness of your very flammable heart.”

“That, and you’re cute when you’re mortified.” He winks at you, like he hasn’t just said the sort of thing that might send your pulse into a thumping tailspin. “So what do you say? You live nearby?”

You hesitate, shifting in your seat, but it’s not because you don’t want him to. It’s because it still feels a little unreal that the Johnny Storm wants to walk you home like this is some normal, Saturday matinee kind of world. You nod at him slowly, your eyes still on him and a fry still clutched between your fingertips. “Just a few blocks.”

“Perfect.” He hops up, grabbing both of your trays. He dumps them in the bin in one graceful swoop. “Let’s go before I change my mind and fly off dramatically into the sunset.” 

He holds the door open for you as you exit, the same stupid hot air you were trying to escape, slaps you both in the face like a slightly damp towel straight from the dryer. You step out into the sun together, and he falls into step beside you. You’re walking as if you’re old friends. Like this isn’t bizarre and slightly incredible. “So…” he says after a few minutes of walking in silence. “Do I get to know your name? Or do I have to keep calling you ‘Flaming Heart Number 247’?”

You tell him your name. His lips tug up at the corners as he repeats it, and then he nods as he decides in his own head that it suits you.

“I’ve gotta admit, I didn’t really think my Thursday was gonna include teasing a girl about my own face in a burger joint, but you’ve made the experience. You, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “You doing anything this weekend?”

You glance sideways at him, hand curling tightly around the strap of your bag. “Why?”

“Just wondering if you’d want to… I don’t know. Get a soda or catch a movie or something. We could go somewhere I promise not to spontaneously combust on you.”

You almost gape at him, “You’re asking me out?”

“Yeah, well, it’s either that or I keep circling this block every day hoping you drop another photo of me so we have something to talk about.”

You try to play it cool, really you do, but your smile slips out before you can stop it. “Alright, Mr. Celebrity Superhero. You’ve got a date. You set it up.”

Johnny beams at you, almost boyish, entirely smitten. “You won’t regret that.”

“I probably will.”

He waits a moment and then agrees with a teasing sigh, “You definitely will, but you’ll also probably have a pretty great time.”

He walks you the rest of the way home, his hands stuffed in his front pockets. He’s telling you some absurd story about Ben trying to cook dinner and him nearly setting off the building’s sprinklers. You’re halfway to your door before you realize— he’s not just funny, or cute, or famous.

He’s fun.

And when he leans against your front gate and smirks down at you like he’s waiting for a green light, you give it to him without even thinking. He doesn’t kiss you— it’s too soon for that, you’ve just met— but he does tap the back of your hand lightly and say, “Don’t lose that photo. It might be worth something someday.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Goodnight, Johnny.”

“Night, doll” And then, with one last wink, he steps back, salutes you— all teeth and dimples, and then takes off into the sky like he was always born to fly.

You stand there, watching him go, grinning like an idiot.

And it flashes through your brain, you’re definitely gonna need a new photo.

Maybe one with you in it next time.

tags ;; No one is on the taglist for Johnny yet— so if you’d like to join, fill this form out here!

[purebarnes]

peter: what were your thoughts on johnny when you first started dating him?

you: that he's hot headed, boastful, restless, an idiot who dives head first into things before thinking them through and a royal pain in my ass.

joaquin: then why are you with johnny if you think that way?

bob: yeah, shouldn't you be with someone who makes you happy and stress free?

you: he makes me laugh, is warm but that's a given, and even bought me raspberry and white chocolate chip cookies when i was made at him becuase he knew i liked them from a passing conversation, and he's overly sweet when you least expect it but it's a welcoming surpise nonetheless.

johnny: I LOVE YOU TOO BABY!

you: you're still in the time out corner for eating my precious cookies! and i don't see you being remorseful about it either.

johnny: They were good cookies.

you: JOHNNY!

peter: they definitly deserve each other.

bob and joaquin: *hums in agreement as they watched you and johnny squabble about cookies*

[purebarnes]

im always ready for johnny fics!!!

Sparks Fly

summary: It seems thath Johnny was only send to this earth to piss u ofl.

note: Im just gonna say, Joe Quinn blonde, slayyy. If u want me to write anything you have in mind my inbox is opennn. xoxo

The elevator at the Baxter Tower stopped with a metallic thud on the training floor, and you could already sense disaster.

“Careful, princess,” Johnny Storm’s voice was the first thing you heard before a fireball zipped past your shoulder, melting part of the door.

You turned with a sharp glare. There he was, floating slightly above the ground, wearing that crooked, annoyingly charming smile—as if nearly setting you on fire was somehow cute.

“Do you have something against the word ‘caution,’ or does your ego just tickle every time someone screams your name to put out a fire?”

“People don’t scream my name because of fires,” he replied, landing slowly to stand at your level. “They scream it because I’m unforgettable.”

“No, Johnny. They scream because you’re insufferable.”

From the back of the lab, Reed looked up with a tired expression. “You two again? Have you considered settling your differences without sarcasm and fire?”

Ben, who was polishing his rocky arm, let out a deep laugh. “Or maybe with a date. Though I’d bet that’d end in flames—literally.”

“Never!” you and Johnny yelled in unison, turning to look at each other in horror… and something else. Something neither of you would dare name.

Of course, Sue had to ruin it all with a sweet little smirk.

“You two deny it so hard it’s basically confirmation.”

—

The park was buzzing with light laughter and soft spring sunshine. It was one of those rare peaceful afternoons, and the team had decided to spend it outside—celebrating Sue’s growing baby bump with a well-deserved picnic.

Ben had set up a few blankets under a wide, shady tree. Reed unpacked a perfectly organized lunch basket while Sue smiled at you all like a proud queen in her new maternal glow.

Everything felt… strangely warm. Safe.

At least until Johnny showed up.

You were trying to enjoy your sandwich, sitting at the edge of the blanket, when he casually flopped down next to you—too close—and propped his elbow behind you.

“So,” he started, biting into an apple with a loud crunch, “did you do something different with your face today, or are you just trying to impress me now?”

You sighed. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Only when you’re not around. My muse, my flame, my... most hostile critic.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“Still not denying you’re impressed, though,” he said, winking.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. And for a moment, you decided to focus on your drink instead of setting him on fire.

The others were chatting about names for the baby. You crumpled up a napkin, got to your feet, and walked over to a nearby trash can.

That’s when he appeared.

Tall. Bright eyes. Movie-star smile. He looked your age, confident but not arrogant. His voice had a soft edge when he spoke.

“Sorry—random, I know—but I saw you from over there and… you’re honestly stunning. Would you maybe wanna grab coffee sometime?”

You blinked, caught completely off guard.

“Wow. Uh… thanks.” You laughed softly, flattered. “That’s not the worst pickup line I’ve heard today.”

“Oh good,” he grinned. “Because I had like three more planned.”

You laughed again. He was charming. Funny. Normal. And for the first time in forever, not wearing a superhero suit or throwing fireballs.

But just as you opened your mouth to answer—

“Wow,” came a voice behind you, thick with sarcasm. “This is… precious.”

Johnny.

He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, an infuriating smirk on his lips and just a hint of fire flickering in his hands.

The guy blinked, confused. “Uh… sorry, do you two—?”

“Oh no,” Johnny said. “We’re not together. But I do have excellent bullshit radar, and it’s going off pretty loud right now.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Romeo. Time to go.”

The guy looked from you to Johnny, visibly uncomfortable. “Right. Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

And just like that, he walked off.

You spun toward Johnny, fury bubbling.

“Seriously? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Relax,” he said, backing up a step with his hands raised like he was innocent. “I just saved you from getting asked out by a discount Chris Evans.”

“He was being nice!”

“He was being cheesy, and you were buying it!”

You shook your head and turned to walk away—but Johnny stepped in front of you.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Move, Johnny, or I swear—”

He grabbed your waist.

Your breath hitched.

And before you could say another word—he kissed you.

Hot. Urgent. Frustrated. His hands warm at your sides, his lips pressing into yours like he’d been holding back for too long.

You should’ve pushed him.

You didn’t.

You kissed him back.

Until someone—not that far away—coughed awkwardly. Probably Reed.

You both broke apart instantly.

You slapped his chest, hard. “Don’t ever do that again.”

He grinned. “Sure you don’t want me to?”

You turned, flustered and furious… but your heart was racing, and your lips still tingled.

Damn him.

—

The rest of the picnic passed in an awkward haze.

Sue kept exchanging meaningful glances with Reed. Ben whispered something like “called it” for the hundredth time. But the only thing louder than Johnny’s ego was the silence that fell between the two of you.

Because after that kiss — that stupid, mind-shattering kiss — you didn’t say another word to him.

You just… sat down. Ate half a cookie. Pretended everything was fine.

And when he tried to nudge your foot with his like always? You moved away.

When he tossed you a grape from across the blanket and winked? You didn’t even look at him.

That’s when Johnny knew something was wrong.

—

That evening back at the Tower, he was everywhere.

In the hallway, leaning against your doorframe like a rom-com disaster. In the kitchen, offering you a spoonful of his cereal. At the elevator, fake-sighing: “We gonna talk or should I just set the whole floor on fire until you do?”

But you said nothing. Not a glare. Not a shove. Just… nothing.

And that? That scared him more than any villain ever had.

—

Later that night, you were in the gym. Alone. Trying to clear your head with punching drills and distraction. The sound of your gloves hitting the training pads echoed in the space.

You didn’t hear him come in — but of course, he made his presence known.

“Wow,” Johnny said from the doorway, voice light, but unsure. “If those punches were aimed at me, I’m both flattered and terrified.”

You didn’t turn around.

He walked in anyway.

“Okay,” he said, arms folded. “I let you ignore me all afternoon, which honestly? A new kind of torture. But now I need you to say something. Anything. Even if it’s to tell me I’m an idiot. Which, fair.”

You sighed, finally turning to face him. Your eyes met his, tired and guarded.

“I just…” You shook your head. “I didn’t want things to get weird.”

Johnny blinked. “Weird? That was the best weird thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I mean it, Johnny. We fight all the time. We’re on a team. We live together. What if—what if we screw this up?”

He stepped closer.

“What if we don’t?”

You looked up at him, breathing uneven.

“I don’t do halfway, Y/N,” he said, suddenly serious. “Not with you. I’ve been flirting because it’s the only way I could stand being this close to you and not say how badly I wanted more.”

“Johnny…”

He reached for you—slowly, giving you time to move.

But you didn’t.

You leaned into him, hands sliding up his chest, and this time the kiss wasn’t frustrated or impulsive. It was deep. Deliberate. Like everything both of you had been holding back came crashing down in a single breath.

His arms wrapped around your waist, strong and warm, pulling you flush against him. He groaned softly against your lips when you tugged on his hair. You felt like your skin was melting under his touch, but you didn’t care.

You wanted all of it.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

You nodded.

His room was warm — not surprisingly — but the air between you burned even hotter.

Johnny pulled you in like he’d waited forever for this moment. His mouth met yours again, hands on your hips, moving like he already knew every inch of you. Your shirt was gone before you even noticed it slip away, and he was murmuring your name like a prayer between kisses.

It was intense, but it wasn’t rushed.

He kissed your collarbone, your shoulder, the curve of your jaw like he needed to memorize you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re not just some fling,” he breathed against your skin. “I mean it.”

You kissed him again — harder.

“I know.”

And then words didn’t matter anymore.

Only heat. Only him. Only you.

And the fire that had always burned between you two… finally lit the whole damn room.

[purebarnes]

this the script to doomsday cause IM SAT

and if i am undone, let it be by you [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: with bob still missing and doom's arrival drawing near, the new avengers begin to fracture under the weight of uncertainty. as the team struggles to hold together, you delve deeper into the secrets of the multiverse… and sam calls in a favour from an old ally.

word count: 8000

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, fingering, intimate moment in the bath 🛁, bucky uses the shower head on you, biting, praise kink, lots of filth and dirty talk, yours and bucky’s first time (finally!), bucky shows a little insecurity, nightmares, more steve angst, canon typical action & jargon re the multiverse, cursing, avengers tower fic, the new avengers are breaking.

masterlist

previous part | current | next part [coming soon!]

The doors hissed open, and John Walker stepped in like a storm in boots. “Please tell me someone’s got eyes on Bob.”

Silence.

Yelena didn’t even look up from the holomap. “If someone did, you’d have heard it already.”

“I’ve been out there for six hours,” John growled, tossing his taco shaped shield onto the table with a clang. “And I’ve seen nothing. Where the hell could he have gone?”

“I told you already,” Ava snapped, arms folded. “He’s not gone. He slipped into the void again. Or it slipped into him. Same difference.”

Alexei let out a low growl from across the room. “You speak of him like he is some… dark entity. He is a boy. A scared one.”

“He’s a threat!” Ava fired back, stepping toward him. “You didn’t see his eyes in that last fight. Something inside him is changing. He said so himself.”

“Something inside all of us is changing!” Alexei roared. “We went from fighting people, to fighting gods and monsters! You think we walk out the same as we walked in?”

“Hey, hey—” John stepped between them. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Yelena snorted. “Oh please, don’t act like you’re the stable one here. I’ve watched you throw chairs for less.”

“I am stable,” John said, jabbing a finger at her. “I’m just tired of chasing ghosts while our strongest asset is out there, probably going nuclear.”

“Asset?” Yelena scoffed. “You call Bob an asset, like he’s some military experiment? No wonder you can’t connect with anyone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you’re the queen of emotional stability now,” John snapped. “Wasn’t it you who shoved a blade through a drone last week just because it beeped at you?”

“It startled me!” Yelena shouted.

“It was an espresso machine.” Ava sighed quietly,

“Enough!” Alexei bellowed, slamming his fists down on the edge of the table. The entire platform rattled. “We are wasting time. My son is out there!”

The room fell silent.

Even Ava flinched. “You think of him like he’s yours?”

Alexei turned, voice suddenly quiet and broken. “He looks at me like I’m his father. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t earn it. But I feel it. Every time he calls me by my name. Not ‘Red Guardian’, but Alexei. Every time he asks me if I’m proud of him.”

Yelena’s mouth tightened.

Ava said nothing.

John looked away.

And then, Ava phased—literally. Her molecules flickered, and she sank into the floor, escaping before emotion could expose her.

The silence was loud now, hanging heavy in the air.

And then Bucky finally spoke. He’d been leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching them all unravel. “Ava, get back here. Now.”

The dark haired girl immediately reappeared, guilt and shame etched on her face. 

His voice cut like a wire snapping. “This is exactly what Doom wants.”

Eyes turned.

“You think he’s coming for Bob?” Bucky asked. “For Reed? For revenge? No. He’s coming because we’re fractured. Because he knows if he pushes hard enough, this team breaks.”

He stood tall now, stepping into the centre of the room. “We’ve all lost people. We’ve all watched universes end. The Blip. The Void. But that kid—Bob? He believed in us. Every single one of us. He saw something good here.”

He looked at John. “You saved his life. Remember that.”

Then at Ava. “You protected him like a sister, even when you pretended not to care.”

He met Yelena’s eyes. “You were the first to train him when he got here.”

And finally Alexei. “And you… you gave him something none of us could. A family.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “We don’t give up on our family.”

There was a long pause.

“…So what do we do?” Yelena asked quietly.

“We plan,” Bucky said. “We get smart. We go back to his last steps, track every anomaly, every void echo. Ava’s gonna help me pull system scans. John, I want you on street patrol. Check every safehouse, every contact. Yelena—dig up anything Reed might’ve missed. Alexei, take the sublevels and tunnels.”

He took one final glance around the room.

“We’ve got three cycles before Doom shows up. We find Bob before then. No excuses. No egos. Just the mission.”

John stepped forward and grabbed his shield.

“…Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”

Yelena nodded, brushing a hand under her eyes.

Alexei cracked his knuckles. “Let’s bring him home.”

────✪────

The elevator ride to the sublevels was silent, save for the low drone of machinery humming beneath your feet. Down here, time felt warped—like every second stretched a little longer, wore a little heavier. It was colder, too. The kind of sterile cold that seeped into your bones and reminded you that this was the edge of something unnatural.

The whir of fluorescent lights overhead barely masked the buzz in your head as you stepped back into the lab.

Reed Richards stood alone in front of a levitating schematic, the blue light washing over his gaunt features. He didn’t even glance up when you stepped inside.

“Tell me you’ve got something,” you said.

He blinked slowly. “Define ‘something.’”

You walked closer, peering over the layers of holographic data. “Doom’s location?”

“Gone.”

Your pulse skipped. “What do you mean gone? Gone like our Johnny is gone?” Your patience was wearing thin. 

“I had a trace,” he said, voice clipped. “Three cycles out, stable and predictable. But sometime around 7pm, the energy signature dissipated. Phased out of spectrum or slipped through something I can’t yet detect. The signature we were monitoring—it blinked out. Cloaked. Or maybe moved dimensions. Or he’s… I don’t know. I’ve rerun every model. He’s vanished.”

You frowned. “So he’s still coming… we just don’t know how or where.”

“Correct. Best estimate still remains: three cycles. But I feel like I’m navigating the end of the world with a paper map and a flashlight.”

You let that hang in the air. The number tasted sour in your mouth. “We… really appreciate your help. Is there anything I can do for you? Maybe you need a break.”

“Doom is coming, I can’t make time for a break,” Reed scoffed, like your suggestion was crazy. 

“But I think that maybe—“ you started but Reed cut you off.

“I’m fine.” Reed finally looked at you, a flash of annoyance on his face. “Why are you here?”

You nodded. “Thought I should check in.”

“With Johnny?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “How’s he doing?”

He rubbed the back of his neck—nervously, which was rare for him. “Worse today. He doesn’t like confinement. Keeps igniting himself just to set off the sensors. I’m worried he’s going to fry the shielding.”

“Fuck,” you squeezed your eyes shut, wishing away all of this. What you’d give for things to go back to normal…

But then, you’d never have met Bucky.

Reed moved aside, allowing you to access the containment room console. “He’s starting to feel like a caged animal. I won’t be able to hold him here forever.”

You didn’t answer. Just keyed in the security code.

The door hissed open.

Johnny Storm sat cross-legged on the metal cot inside, tossing a ball of fire from palm to palm. He didn’t look at you when you entered.

“Ah, the babysitter returns! You should start charging me rent,” he muttered.

“You’ve been here less than 24 hours,” you sighed at his dramatics before approaching cautiously. “Wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

“Oh, I tried leaving,” he said, still not looking. “Some pretty aggressive energy shielding kept me from burning through the wall. Not bad for a toaster scientist.”

You fought a smile. “Reed’s doing his best.”

“That makes one of us,” he snapped.

Silence hung between you.

Then he glanced up, expression unreadable. “So. You gonna tell me what’s really going on?”

You sat on the edge of the metal bench opposite him. “That depends. You ready to cooperate?”

“I’m not the one holding you in a room.”

You took a breath. “Fine. Doom’s arrival is accelerating. Reed says three cycles left. Maybe less.”

Johnny’s expression changed. “Doom? He’s back?”

“Back? He was never here in the first place,” you narrowed your eyes. 

“No but…” Johnny froze up.

“Wait, Johnny, do you know him?”

He laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Know him? I’ve fought him. Victor Von Doom—industrialist-turned-magic-wielding-megalomaniac? Yeah. We go way back.”

You stepped closer. “Then tell me everything.”

Johnny paused, watching you.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. The Doom in your universe—did he ever talk about crossing dimensions?”

“He talked about dominating them. Said this world was soft. Idealistic. He always wanted to burn it down and start over.” He frowned. “Wait… you think it’s my Doom?”

“We don’t know. But this variant has Tony Stark’s face, and he’s already leveling cities off-world. We need any edge we can get.”

Johnny blinked. “Who the hell is Tony Stark?”

You stared.

“Wait—Iron Man? Genius, billionaire—?”

“Never heard of him,” Johnny said, brow furrowed. “That a comic book character?”

Your skin prickled and you figured you’d try your luck. “Okay. What about Captain America?”

Johnny shook his head. “Is that, like, a propaganda mascot?”

You inhaled sharply.

He noticed your expression shift. “Hey, what?”

“It’s nothing. Just… we’ve been assuming some shared universal constants. Clearly, that was naive. Do you have the Avengers?”

“I’m not even going to even ask what the Avengers is,” he said, “my universe has four overworked, underpaid cosmic disaster magnets trying to keep Doom from melting entire cities.”

“And you… you were one of them.”

“Yes!The Human Torch. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” He gave a cocky little smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You gave him a look. “You’re aware you’re currently stuck in a universe that thinks you’re a ghost.”

“Yeah, and apparently I look like your dead best friend or whatever?”

“He wasn’t mine,” you said quietly. “I didn’t know him. My brother idolised him when we were kids, but… I only ever saw him on a screen or in magazines or action figures.”

Johnny’s demeanour shifted.

“Still. That’s gotta be weird. Seeing me.”

“It’s… disorienting,” you admitted. “It’s like staring at a memory I never actually lived.”

He nodded slowly. “Well, for what it’s worth… I’m not him.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s everyone else I’m worried about.”

He tilted his head. “You mean Barnes… I overheard your conversation with Richards.”

You tensed. “You don’t need to say his name.”

“But that’s the real problem, isn’t it?” Johnny leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re scared he’ll see me and unravel.”

“He’s been through enough.”

“So have I.”

That made you pause.

You studied him—closely, quietly. There was still heat radiating off him, but not like before. This was grief, frustration, confusion. The raw edges of someone pulled from his world and dropped into a foreign body. His aura.

“Do you miss your world?” you asked.

“Every minute,” he said. “But I miss my sister more.”

You blinked. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah. Sue. And Reed, Ben—my team.” He glanced at the door. “Even Doom, in some twisted way. At least he made sense.”

You swallowed. “We’ll get you home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You promise?”

You tried to smile. “I’ll do my best.”

He stood then, walking toward you slowly. Not threatening—just steady.

“I’m sorry I lashed out before,” he said. “It’s been a mindfuck.”

“I get it.”

He stopped just inches away.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. Or remind you of someone you lost.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s not your fault.”

Something in the air between you went still. He smelled faintly like ozone, like charged air after a storm.

“Three cycles,” you said. “That’s what we’ve got before Doom makes landfall. And Reed can’t track him anymore.”

Johnny let that sink in. “So we fight. Together.”

You nodded. “But for now… you stay here.”

He sighed, resigned but not bitter. “Fine. But someone better bring me food that doesn’t taste like chalk.”

You smirked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As the door sealed behind you, your heart pounded.

Steve Rogers was long gone.

But his face was standing in a room behind you, glowing with cosmic fire.

────✪────

The rooftop was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic below and the rhythmic pulse of helicopter blades somewhere far off. The wind tugged gently at your clothes, lifting your hair as you stepped out onto the open concrete. You found Sam sitting on the edge of the helipad, legs dangling over the side like he didn’t have a care in the world, though you knew better.

You walked over and sat beside him without saying a word. For a while, neither of you did.

The city stretched out endlessly below, lit like it was trying to mimic the stars above. It smelled faintly of ozone and jet fuel, familiar and oddly comforting.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” you said softly.

Sam didn’t look at you at first. He just sipped from the cup in his hands—probably black coffee, lukewarm by now—and tilted his head toward the skyline. “It’s the only place I can breathe lately.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You sat in silence for a moment longer. Then he turned to you, studying you like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough.

“You look like hell.”

You laughed—quiet, tired. “Thanks.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged. “There’s too much to say. Not enough time.”

Sam leaned back on his hands, the movement casual, but his voice was anything but. “You know you don’t have to carry all this alone, right? You got people.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s just hard to know what parts I can share.”

He gave you a side-eye. “Try me.”

You smiled softly. “Let’s just say… I’m learning there are more versions of this world than I ever imagined. And some of them? They bleed through. Even when you’re not ready.”

Sam was quiet a moment. “Multiverse.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. God. It would be so nice if there were someone who… specialised in that kind of thing. You know, someone who didn’t blink when the fabric of reality tore open in front of him.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “I might know a guy.”

You blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “Nope. He’s eccentric. Kinda dramatic. Has a goatee that makes him look like he just stepped out of a Victorian funeral home.”

You laughed. “What does he do?”

“Magic,” Sam said simply. “Or… something that looks like it.”

You turned to face him. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

You blinked. “Wait. You’re telling me you know a wizard?”

Sam grinned. “Yeah. A real one. Flies without wings. Opens portals with his hands. He lives in this big haunted-looking place in Greenwich Village.”

You squinted. “You’re not messing with me?”

“Not even a little.” Sam shifted his weight and nudged your shoulder gently. “He helped us during the Infinity mess. And again with… everything after. He doesn’t always pick up his magic phone, but when he does, he tends to solve problems the rest of us can’t even pronounce.”

You exhaled slowly. “Sounds like exactly who we need.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll reach out. Might take a little time, but I’ll do what I can.”

You turned your head toward him, touched. “Sam…”

He gave you a look—soft, protective. “You didn’t ask. I’m offering. Whatever this is? You’re not in it alone.”

You smiled, swallowing past the knot in your throat. “Thank you.”

The two of you sat there a little longer, letting the silence stretch again, not awkward this time but full of something warm and unspoken. The city below, the sky above, and a million unknowns in between.

Finally, just as he stood to leave, you asked, “What’s his name?”

Sam paused, looked back over his shoulder with a small smirk, and said—

“Stephen Strange.”

Then he was gone, leaving the night colder but your hope a little warmer.

────✪────

You closed the door to your bedroom behind you with a soft click, leaning your forehead against it for a second longer than necessary. The conversation with Sam replayed in your head—his promise, his quiet strength, the name Stephen Strange echoing through your thoughts like a bell rung too close to your ears. Your body was buzzing with exhaustion and tension all at once. The kind of pressure that lived in your chest and shoulders and wouldn’t let go.

You didn’t even notice Bucky at first.

He was sitting on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, head turned toward the window where the city lights poured in like liquid gold. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, dog tags glinting in the glow.

His eyes met yours the moment you moved. He read you instantly—because of course he did.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, standing. “What happened?”

You forced a small smile, voice hoarse. “Just… was out on the rooftop. It was cold.” It was only a half-lie.

He crossed the room in three strides and was in front of you, his hands cupping your face before you could think. The way he looked at you—searching, tender, that quiet kind of worry he wore like armour—you nearly crumbled.

“You’re stressed,” he said, low and steady. He saw straight through you. “Let me take care of you tonight. Please.”

You blinked up at him. “Bucky, I don’t need—”

“I’m not talking about fixing the world,” he cut in gently. “I just want to help you breathe again.”

You swallowed hard.

“Come with me,” he said.

He took your hand and led you into the bathroom. You hadn’t even noticed him running the water, but the tub was nearly full, steam curling into the air like a warm fog. Candles flickered from the sink and windowsill. The scent of eucalyptus filled the room—soothing, clean.

“I figured…” he began, then paused. “You take care of everyone else. Let me do this for you.”

You stared at the water, at the candlelight reflecting off his eyes, and suddenly, something inside you cracked open.

You nodded.

“I’ll wait outside if you want privacy,” he offered.

But your fingers were already slipping into the hem of your shirt. “Stay.”

His throat bobbed. “Yeah?”

You met his gaze. “Join me.”

The water lapped softly against the porcelain as you leaned back, steam curling around your shoulders, calming the tension in your chest.

But when you looked up and saw him watching you from the doorway — jaw set, eyes unreadable — something inside you twisted tight with nervous anticipation.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and almost hoarse. “You want me in there with you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t move right away. Just let his gaze linger on you for a second longer, as if committing the sight of you in the bath to memory. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

But when the fabric lifted and his chest came into view — all lean muscle, old scars, and the quiet strength of a man who’d survived more than anyone should — your breath hitched in your throat.

He stripped slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to rush. As if he were giving you a chance to look away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His metal arm glinted faintly in the soft, golden light, catching on the rivulets of steam that curled through the room. You followed the line of his torso with your eyes, past the faint trail of hair down his stomach to the waistband of his boxers.

Bucky paused when he caught your stare.

“I’m not exactly… a pretty sight,” he muttered, eyes dipping to the water like he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze.

“Bucky,” you said softly, and he looked at you again — wary, like he was bracing for something that never came. “You’re beautiful.”

The words spilled out before you could second-guess them. And once they were out, you didn’t want to take them back.

He huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a scoff, and finally stepped out of the last layer between him and you. You caught the faint tremble in his hands as he did, the unspoken weight of vulnerability in every movement.

And then he was climbing in beside you, the water shifting and rising with his presence.

You made room for him, settling against the opposite side of the tub. Your knees brushed under the surface.

It was quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, but thick with something unspoken. Reverent. He didn’t look at you right away. Just leaned back and exhaled, the heat loosening the muscles in his shoulders, in his jaw. Like it was the first time in days — maybe years — he’d let himself relax.

And then his eyes found yours again, dark and unsure.

Then you reached for him — gently, slowly — and he came without hesitation, shifting so you could rest your back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle beneath the water. His lips brushed your temple.

You leaned back into his chest, your head resting beneath his chin, the heat from the water soaking into your bones — but it was him that made you feel warm. His presence, his arms around your waist, his breathing slowly falling in sync with yours.

Then, without a word, Bucky reached for the bath oil on the rim. Unscrewed the lid, poured a small pool into his hand. The floral scent mixed with steam, soft and soothing.

He brought his palms to your shoulders, slow and steady, and began to knead.

A sigh slipped out of you before you could catch it.

“Yeah?” he murmured near your ear, voice low and fond.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His thumbs worked into the tension at the base of your neck, careful and steady, tracing the edges of your shoulder blades and easing the tightness you didn’t realise you’d been carrying. His metal hand stayed at your side, warm from the water, anchoring you there — holding you like you were something precious.

You melted under his touch, sinking further into him, into the way he treated your body like it deserved to be cherished.

“You’ve been holding the world on your back,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder. “Let me carry it for a while.”

You didn’t say anything. Just turned your face into his neck and let yourself breathe.

His fingers drifted upward, threading gently through your hair.

“You mind?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Please.”

He reached for the shampoo with one hand while the other gently gathered your hair behind you. He was so careful — so tender — massaging your scalp in slow, circular motions, working the lather through each strand as if this moment were the only one that mattered. He cradled your head like it was the most natural thing in the world, rinsing the suds away with soft strokes and whispered reassurances.

“Feels nice,” you murmured.

His voice came next to your ear, low and warm. “Good. You deserve nice.”

You turned in his arms just enough to see his face — calm, almost bashful — and gently reached for the bottle yourself.

“My turn,” you said with a small smile.

He raised a brow. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Sit back.”

And to your quiet amazement, he did — just like that. Trusting you with something so small, but so vulnerable.

You poured the shampoo into your hand and moved in close, brushing your fingers through his dark, damp hair. His eyes fluttered shut as your nails scratched lightly against his scalp, his head tipping back slightly into your touch.

It struck you, then — how often did he get to be taken care of? To let his guard down?

You weren’t sure. But you were damn sure going to make this count.

“Feels good,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Good. You deserve nice too, y’know.”

He opened one eye at that, and the look he gave you — equal parts grateful, adoring, and stunned — made your chest ache.

The bathwater shifted gently between you as you rinsed the soap from his hair, your hands lingering at the nape of his neck. Your noses brushed. His breath hitched.

And for one suspended moment, it felt like the world outside the bathroom simply... stopped.

The bathwater sloshed gently around you both, warmed by the glow of candlelight and the low hum of Bucky’s breathing behind you. His strong thighs bracketed yours, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist as you leaned back against his chest. It was quiet—soothing. His fingers trailed idle patterns on your stomach, up along your ribs, barely ghosting the underswell of your breasts.

“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured, voice thick with warmth and something else—something heavier, molten.

You turned your head slightly, catching the corner of his mouth with yours. He kissed you slow, tender. Lips parting like it was the first time all over again. When you gasped softly into his mouth, his hand drifted lower. Curious. Careful. He cupped your heat beneath the water, the gesture instinctual but full of restraint.

“Can I…?” he asked against your lips, his voice low, rough, reverent.

Your breath caught. You nodded. “Please.”

He kissed your neck as his fingers slipped between your thighs, parting you gently beneath the water. His other arm tightened around you, grounding you as he slowly slid one finger inside you. You gasped, your body tensing from the sudden stretch and the feel of him—so intimate, so close.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips brushing behind your ear. “Let me make you feel good.”

And he did.

Every movement was patient, controlled, worshipful. He curled his finger inside you just right, watching your face tilt up toward the ceiling, your mouth falling open in a soft moan. The bathwater rippled with each slow thrust of his hand, the tension building, his palm pressing against your clit in smooth, gentle circles that made your thighs twitch.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your hips rocking involuntarily, pushing back against him, chasing the edge.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered. “So goddamn perfect.”

A second finger slid inside and your breath hitched. His metal hand cradled your hip as you writhed against him, water sloshing softly with each shift. He kissed the side of your throat, your shoulder, murmuring low praise into your skin.

“I’ve got you,” he promised. “You don’t have to do anything. Just feel.”

And you did. You fell apart in his arms with your hand clenched in his hair and your mouth on his shoulder, moaning his name like it meant salvation. He held you through it, rocked you through every tremble.

And even as the waves of pleasure faded, he didn’t let go.

He just whispered, “That’s my girl.”

You were still trembling in his arms when you felt the soft brush of his lips on your shoulder, lingering like a promise. Bucky cradled you tighter, one hand gently splayed across your stomach, his other still between your thighs, not moving—just resting there, keeping you open and warm in the aftermath.

"Still with me?" he murmured against your ear.

You nodded, eyes fluttering open. “Barely.”

He chuckled low, kissed your cheek. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how good this can feel.”

You blinked at him, heart skipping.

He shifted behind you, the water sloshing softly as he reached for the detachable shower head hooked to the wall. You looked at him, wide-eyed.

“Trust me?” he asked, voice quiet but full of that same molten heat he always kept hidden behind a steel jaw.

You nodded again. “Always.”

He smiled—a soft, dark smile—and turned the dial. The shower head vibrated gently to life, the narrow stream of water hissing softly as he adjusted the setting. A low, teasing spray pulsed in rhythmic beats from the nozzle, and Bucky tested it against his palm before bringing it down between your thighs.

Your breath caught—your entire body going taut.

“Relax,” he whispered, letting your head rest against his shoulder again. “I’ve got you, doll.”

The first pass of the water was a gentle caress—just enough to make you gasp, your thighs instinctively pressing together. But Bucky’s hand was there again, metal and sure, keeping you open.

The second pass made you moan.

You felt your hips twitch forward, a low whimper falling from your lips as the spray focused directly on your clit. The pulsing rhythm from the nozzle hit your nerve endings like lightning. Bucky’s mouth was at your neck again, teeth grazing your skin, one hand stroking your stomach as the other expertly guided the water over your most sensitive spot.

"That's it," he murmured. "Look at you… fuck, you’re perfect like this.”

You whimpered his name and felt his arm tighten around your waist.

“Please,” you whispered, breathless.

“I know, baby. I know.”

You relaxed into him as the stream found your clit, and a soft moan spilled from your lips—unexpected, delicious, embarrassingly needy. He angled the water again and fuck, your hips jolted forward.

“That’s it,” he growled, his lips grazing your ear. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You like when I do that to you?”

You whimpered in response, legs trembling in the water.

“You ever touch yourself like this?” he asked, voice a little darker now—deeper. “In the bath? In the shower?”

Your lips parted, heart pounding. “…Back at the safe house,” you admitted softly. “That night we had to share the bed… I couldn’t stop thinking about you, in the other room, undressing. Had to pretend like— like I didn’t want you right there and then.”

Bucky groaned in your ear, the sound low and guttural. The water pulsed against you again, and he held you tighter, guiding your hips just slightly to ride the rhythm.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped. “If I had known that… things would have went a lot differently.”

You let out a shaky moan at his implication, your head falling back onto his shoulder.

“You wanna know what I did?” he whispered, mouth brushing your temple. “Every time I was alone in the shower… hand wrapped around my cock, water beating down on me… I was thinking about you. Your mouth. Your thighs. Your pretty little noises. Even when you hated me, I wanted you.”

You whimpered helplessly, pressing back against him.

“I’d picture you dripping for me,” he murmured. “Begging for me. Just like this.”

The confession was too much. Too vivid. Too filthy.

Your thighs tightened, a cry stuck in your throat.

“You gonna come for me again, baby?” he whispered, rotating the angle of the spray just right. “Come knowing I used to fuck my fist just thinking about making you fall apart?”

Your mouth dropped open in a breathless gasp as your entire body went taut, every nerve ending alight. The pleasure hit hard, slamming into you like a wave—your muscles tensing, water splashing over the edge of the tub as you cried out, hips grinding helplessly into the rhythm of the spray.

Bucky held you through it, his hand firm across your stomach, mouth on your shoulder.

“Good girl,” he breathed against your skin. “That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

You collapsed back into his chest, boneless and dazed, barely able to catch your breath. He pressed kisses along your shoulder, your jaw, your temple, grounding you through the aftershocks.

You let out a shaky laugh, your voice hoarse. “Jesus, Bucky…”

He chuckled, kissing your cheek again. “You’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

Your heart still thundered as he turned off the water and cradled you against him, both of you wrapped in warmth and silence for a long moment.

Your limbs felt boneless, melted from the pleasure still echoing through you like waves lapping the shore. The soft slosh of the bathwater was the only sound, save for your shallow breaths. You blinked slowly, dazed and spent, leaning into Bucky’s chest as the warm water began to cool.

“Hey,” he murmured against your temple, brushing your damp hair back. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get you dried off now.”

His voice was so gentle, reverent. You barely managed a nod.

With slow, practiced strength, Bucky slipped his arms under your legs and back. You squeaked softly as he lifted you, and he chuckled—low, fond. Water dripped down your bodies, your skin slipping against his chest, your pulse skipping as you felt his heartbeat against your shoulder.

“Still with me?” he whispered, grinning as he held you tighter.

“Barely,” you murmured. “But I like it here.”

“Me too,” he said, and then he kissed your forehead.

He carried you effortlessly from the bathroom, cradling you like you were something precious, something breakable. The cool air kissed your wet skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Bucky noticed instantly.

“Hold on,” he said, setting you down gently at the edge of the bed. He grabbed one of the thick towels hanging near the bathroom and wrapped it around your frame with the utmost care, tucking the corners around your body like you were a gift he never thought he’d get to unwrap.

“You’re trembling,” he said, crouching before you. “Was it too much?”

You smiled softly, eyes glazed. “No. It was perfect. I just… I can’t believe you did that.”

His gaze flicked down briefly, watching the water drip from your collarbone down into the towel. His jaw clenched like he was holding something back.

You reached for him.

“Your turn,” you whispered.

Bucky rose slowly, water still glistening on his skin, and let the towel slip from your shoulders so he could wrap a new one around his own waist. As he stood, you caught sight of the unmistakable ridge straining against the terrycloth—hard and thick, barely contained.

Your breath hitched.

He followed your eyes and gave a lopsided, bashful smile. “Yeah,” he rasped. “That’s what happens when I watch you come like that.”

You stared. “You’re—”

“Hard as hell,” he finished for you, stepping close between your knees. “For you. Always for you.”

You reached up with both hands, dragging your fingers slowly down the plane of his abdomen, over the curve of his hips, the towel damp and warm beneath your touch. You looked up at him, wide-eyed and awestruck.

“I want you,” you whispered.

Bucky swallowed hard, chest rising.

“Then you have me,” he said, and bent down to scoop you up once more.

This time, he didn’t bother asking permission—he laid you down across the bed with something close to reverence, kissing your bare shoulder as he adjusted the towel around you again.

His hands roamed your body like he was learning scripture—slow, reverent, almost trembling with how much he needed to memorise the way your skin felt under his palms. He wasn’t just touching you; he was worshipping you. Like you were holy. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Bucky murmured as his lips trailed down your neck, voice hoarse with wonder. “Every inch of you… you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”

You gasped when his hand slid between your thighs, his eyes drinking in your reaction like it was his only salvation. Your back arched instinctively, your body begging for more.

“I want you to feel good,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the curve of your breast, then another just below your ribs. “Wanna take my time. Wanna taste you everywhere. Let me?”

“Please,” you breathed, and he smiled like a man ruined.

He kissed down your stomach with reverence, pulling your towel off your body slowly, like he was unwrapping the last good thing in his life. When he spread your legs and settled between them, the heat of his breath made you shudder.

But when he looked up at you, eyes dark and blown wide with hunger, he froze.

“You sure?” he asked, voice breaking just a little.

“I want you, Bucky. I want all of you,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “I always have.”

He groaned like the words hurt—like they healed something too.

When he finally pushed inside you, thick and aching and perfect, you bit down on his shoulder—just hard enough to make him hiss, just enough to leave your mark. His body jolted at the sting, a deep growl ripping from his throat, and he held you tighter.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “You’re so tight. So warm. I can feel you everywhere, baby. You feel like heaven.”

You barely had time to respond—your mind was already gone, lost in the way he filled you so perfectly, in how he whispered your name like it was a sacred thing. His metal hand held your hip like he was grounding himself, but the other caressed your face, thumbing over your cheek like you were fragile, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

“Gonna take care of you,” he promised between kisses. “Gonna fuck you slow so you feel it for days. Gonna make sure you know what you mean to me.”

You whimpered something unintelligible, overwhelmed with sensation and the way he made you feel so seen, so wanted. Your nails scratched down his back. Your teeth found his neck again.

“Mine,” you whispered against his skin.

That sent him over the edge—his rhythm faltered, his breath catching as he groaned your name again and again, buried so deep inside you it felt like the world disappeared around you.

And still he moved.

Slow, sweet thrusts. Words of worship between panting breaths. He kissed your temple. He kissed the corner of your mouth. He kissed you like you were the last good thing in the world.

“Oh my God, Bucky…”

“Shh… I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

His movements were deep, and steady thrusts that made you feel every part of him. His pace built gradually, like he was savouring every second, watching your face twist in pleasure, whispering how beautiful you looked, how good you felt, how long he’d waited for this.

Then it turned feral.

His hand locked under your knee, hitching your leg higher. His hips slammed into yours, faster now, rougher, but still full of so much feeling. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes never leaving you, every breath a moan.

“You’re mine,” he groaned. “Mine. You feel that?”

“Yes—Bucky—I—fuck, I feel you—”

“Come for me again, baby. I wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”

His words undid you. You shattered again, legs quaking, crying out his name as he fucked you through it—his own release close behind, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a deep, broken growl.

He collapsed over you, panting, trembling, pressing kisses along your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

You held each other in silence, sweat cooling, hearts slowing, the smell of candle wax and sex thick in the air.

He looked at you like you were the stars.

Outside, the city buzzed with life.

But in here, wrapped in Bucky’s arms, with his warmth still inside you—you finally felt safe.

Your legs were still tangled with his when the silence settled. A soft, reverent kind of silence. Not the awkward kind that follows something rushed or uncertain — this was the kind that came after something real.

Your body was still buzzing from the aftershocks, but your heart… your heart felt raw and full all at once.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his hand drawing slow, grounding circles over your back. You felt his lips brush the crown of your head like a vow. Like he didn’t quite know how to say what he was feeling yet — only that it mattered. That you mattered.

“You okay?” he murmured against your hair.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Are you?”

His arm tightened around you. “Yeah. Just… overwhelmed.”

You lifted your head to look at him. “In a bad way?”

“No.” His eyes were so soft, so open, so bare. “In the best way.”

You smiled. Sleepy. Full of warmth. But you still noticed the faint furrow between his brows.

“Buck?” you asked gently, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “What is it?”

He exhaled through his nose, like he’d been holding something in. “Just didn’t expect that to feel like… that.”

You leaned forward and kissed his jaw. “Me neither.”

He sat up a little, just enough to shift beside you on the bed, pulling the sheets up to cover your body. He took his time — tucking them around you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before he stood.

“Don’t go far,” you mumbled.

His chuckle was soft. “Just grabbing a clean towel, sweetheart.”

When he came back, he knelt beside the bed and gently started wiping between your legs — slow, careful, with more tenderness than you ever expected from a man with hands like his. You winced slightly, and he immediately stilled.

“Too much?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No. Just a little sore.”

His jaw flexed. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, Bucky.” You reached down, touching his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “You were perfect.”

He nodded once, like he didn’t quite believe you — but he wanted to. Then he cleaned himself off, tossed the towel in the hamper, and crawled back into bed beside you. Not just beside you — into you. Curled around your back like he was built for it.

You felt his hand slide under the blanket, finding yours beneath the pillow, threading your fingers together.

“Don’t wanna let go of you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to.”

The room was dark, but not cold. The covers were heavy but comforting. The sheets still smelled like him. Like you. Like this.

“Are you okay?” you asked after a minute.

He hummed. “I keep thinkin’ about how you looked. When I was inside you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you twisted just enough to glance at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You looked like… mine.”

A pause stretched between you.

“Do you want me to be?” you asked softly.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

You swallowed thickly and turned to face him fully, pressing your forehead against his. Your legs tangled again. Your hand found his chest.

“Then I’m yours.”

You felt him smile — and you knew, in that moment, that for all the chaos waiting beyond these walls, you had built something real here. Something that wouldn’t break.

Not easily.

Not ever.

────✪────

The room was still. Just the quiet hum of the city outside, the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

You lay curled in the sheets, your breathing slow and even against Bucky’s chest, your hand tangled with his beneath the blanket.

But Bucky was elsewhere.

His mind had drifted, tugged down by exhaustion and emotion, and when his eyes closed, the world around him changed.

The bed was gone. The warmth. The flickering candlelight.

Now it was dusk, and the Brooklyn pier stretched out before him—old wood creaking underfoot, the water lapping gently against rusted metal pylons.

He heard footsteps.

Turned.

And there he was.

Steve Rogers. Cap tilted back, blond hair catching the dying sunlight. He looked just like Bucky remembered him before the war: young, alive, untouched by the centuries of loss that followed.

Except his eyes weren’t soft.

They were steady. Knowing. Sad.

“You’re late,” Steve said, hands in his pockets.

Bucky froze. “Steve.”

“You haven’t talked to me in a while.”

“Maybe i’ve moved on,” Bucky said, a little sharper than he meant it.

Steve didn’t flinch. “And yet you’ve been burying yourself in guilt for it.”

Bucky exhaled shakily and looked away, out at the water. “I didn’t mean to dream about you.”

“You always do,” Steve said quietly. “Usually when something’s eating at you.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed. “You left.”

“I had to.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bucky snapped, rounding on him. “You chose to. You handed off the shield, said goodbye like it was nothing, and you left me to clean it all up. Again.”

Steve took it. He didn’t argue. Just looked at Bucky with the weight of someone who had known him longer than anyone ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And somehow, that hurt worse than if he’d said nothing at all.

“I didn’t know what to do without you,” Bucky whispered. “I still don’t.”

Steve stepped closer. “Then why are you trying so hard to pretend like you’re fine?”

Bucky shook his head. “I’m not pretending. I’m just… trying to get over it.”

“With her?”

That stopped him.

Steve’s gaze softened. “You love her.”

Bucky’s throat worked around the words. “I… I don’t know.”

“Buck,” Steve said gently, “when you love someone, you should tell them. Because sometimes the chance doesn’t come again.”

“I’m scared,” Bucky admitted. “What if she wakes up one day and sees me for what I really am? Not just the parts I try to show her, but the broken stuff. The old war dog with blood on his hands. What then?”

Steve stepped up until they were face to face. His voice was low.

“She already sees you, Buck. And she’s still there.”

Bucky looked down, breathing hard. “I don’t know if I deserve her.”

“You’ve always deserved to be loved.”

Steve reached up, placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’m proud of you.”

The pier began to dissolve, light washing it all away in a slow blur.

“Don’t waste it,” Steve said, his voice distant now. “Let yourself be happy.”

Bucky gasped awake, chest rising fast, eyes wet.

The room was warm. Quiet. You were asleep against him, peaceful and soft, your cheek resting on his arm.

He looked down at you like you were the answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask.

She already sees you. And she’s still there.

He gently brushed your hair back and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I think I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

And you didn’t stir—but somehow, a tiny smile curled on your lips.

────✪────

It started with a faint vibration.

Subtle, at first—like the kind you’d feel when the subway rumbled deep beneath Manhattan, gentle and distant enough to be ignored.

But it didn’t stop.

Somewhere deep in Avengers Tower, a low hum began to build—power surging through reinforced circuits, cascading red alerts lighting up control panels, one by one.

Reed Richards was already awake when the tremors began. He hadn’t slept in days.

He stood over his lab’s main console, eyes glued to a flickering monitor, its screen flooded with lines of alien code, dimensional pulse readings, and quantum flux trails.

Then a single alert cut through all of it:

MULTIVERSAL SIGNATURE DETECTED DOOM // EARTH-9211 // COORDINATES LOCKED STATUS: BREACHED ATMOSPHERE

ESTIMATED IMPACT: INCOMING.

Reed's breath caught in his throat.

"No. No, no, no, no—he was three cycles out, he was—"

He spun around, fingers flying over the keyboard, scanning the waveforms, matching the signature.

But it wasn’t on the outer rim of the multiverse anymore.

It was here. Earth. Now.

The data didn't lie.

Victor Von Doom had just broken through the upper atmosphere.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

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[purebarnes]

hehe ☺️

manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

[purebarnes]

Early Mornings And Farmers Markets - Joaquin Torres X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Joaquin Torres X Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff

Summary: Last night when you told your boyfriend you wanted to go to the farmers market you didn't think he'd take the request seriously. Well, now it's 8am and your boyfriend is up, ready, and determined to get you out of bed.

Masterlist

Word Count: 700

Warnings: Joaquin does pick reader up. No use of Y/N. No description of reader. Joaquin uses nicknames like Cariño, Baby and Pretty girl for reader. Reader is not a morning person and is snippy in the mornings.

The first thing you registered when you woke up was the sound of the birds chirping outside. The birds were loudly chattering away and you knew one thing, that it was annoying.

It filtered in through the window like, the birds had a personal vendetta out for you. Like they knew how little sleep you’d gotten and how comfortable you had been asleep.

The second thing you registered was your boyfriend's voice. Your normally sweet, amazing, a bit annoying at times boyfriend, who currently you wanted nothing to do with at eight in the morning.

“Alright Cariño. Rise and shine, the sun's fully up, the birds are chirping and your coffee is sitting on the counter.” Joaquin said in a joyful tone having been up for a few hours.

You groaned and buried your face further into your pillow whining out a quick “Tell the birds and the sun to shut up, Quin. It’s too early.” 

“Tempting, Baby. But I don’t think I've got the ranks to boss around nature yet.” he says, amusement evident in his tone. 

“Mmm, try harder Torres and get back to me on that. Better yet get back into bed and cuddle with me." You mumble out, your voice muffled by your pillow.

Joaquin chuckled, the bed dipping slightly as he sat near your legs. “You said we were gonna go to the farmer’s market this morning Baby. You seemed real excited about it last night and told me to wake you up and everything.”

“Well, I've decided that I've changed my mind and all I want is to stay in our warm bed and for these stupid birds to shut up.” you mumble out rolling onto your side. He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. “We could get that stupidly expensive honey you like for your tea if you get up right now, Pretty Girl.”

You lift your head as you look up at him. “The one with the pretty packaging, with the bees all over it?” you ask sleepily, your tired eyes blinking open to look at him.

“The one with the pretty packaging.” Joaquin replies, a soft smirk quirked up on his lips. You flopped back down dramatically. “Five more minutes”

“You’ve already said that three times, pretty girl. ‘Five more minutes’ is just a fancy way of lying to yourself at this point.” he said, tapping your hip softly.

“I'm an eternal optimist, Torres.” You mumble out, trying to roll away from your boyfriend's pestering and back into your warm cocoon of blankets. Then there was a long pause, an almost suspicious pause at that, as you closed your eyes and nestled back into your blankets. After a few more moments you hear, “Alright. You asked for it, Baby.”

“What? Hey! Joaquin!” you squealed as strong arms suddenly slid under you and lifted you straight out of the bed. “Joaquin! I swear to god if you drop me, I'm breaking up with you and your stupid pretty face.”

Joaquin snorts loudly as he adjusts you in his arms as he begins to carry you towards the kitchen “I would never drop something precious as you, Pretty Girl.” he said smugly.

“You’re an asshole Quin!” You groan, unable to get out of your boyfriends hold despite your stuggling.

He chuckled before countering “And you're extremely grumpy, yet I still love you. It's time to get out of bed and start the day, Baby."

“This has to be unconstitutional, there were amendments made for moments like this. No quartering in my house and no making me get out of bed at ungodly hours.”

Joaquin snorted loudly, his laughter jostling you in his arms “You can argue with me after we get breakfast and that honey you like, Baby.”

You sighed, finally slumping against his chest in surrender, as he finishes carrying you to the kitchen and puts you in one of the chairs next to the counter where a coffee is waiting for you.

You yawn dramatically, already reaching towards the cup of coffee “No promises that If someone tries to talk to me before this cup is finished, you may have to end up translating grunts, Quin.”

He kissed your forehead, hands sliding around your waist as he held you for a moment longer than necessary, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You smile sleepily, your first smile of the morning. “Have I told you how much I love you lately, Torres?”

Joaquin smiles with a shake of his head and a soft eye roll, pressing another kiss to your head. 

“I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”

[purebarnes]

AHHH CUTE CUTE IM DEAD

THIS IS SO HIM WTH 😭

ok ok but established relationship joaquin x stark!reader who’s got a sassy little attitude and whenever she’s in a mood (which is often) joaquin always messes with her in a cute and flirty way and sam is always scared like “she’s gonna kill you man”

imagine the little “stooopppp quino”

grumpy x sunshine core i love them

Birds Of A Feather

summary: just a glimpse into the very lovey and chaotic relationship of y/n and joaquin!

pairings: Stark!reader x joaquin torres

warnings: mentions of death sprinkled here and there but nothing serious! y/n constantly threatening joaquin LOL, f!reader, i think that's it!

word count: 3.1k

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Joaquin Torres loves his girlfriend. He’d do anything for her—no hesitation, no questions asked, no matter how dramatic or unreasonable. He’s obsessed. Helpless. Completely whipped.

But with that love comes the deep, primal urge to annoy her to the ends of the world and back.

And lucky for him?

 Y/N Stark makes it so, so easy.

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Y/N slid into the passenger seat of Joaquin’s truck with a huff, slamming the door shut and buckling her seatbelt without so much as a glance in his direction.

Joaquin paused, glancing over at her with an amused lift of his brow. “Hello to you too, sunshine.”

He reached over and poked her arm gently, trying to coax even the tiniest smile out of her.

Y/N didn’t move. Just side eyed him and mumbled, “Whatever. Hi.”

Joaquin bit back a grin. Yep. She was in a mood. He’d seen that look before—usually when someone at work had pissed her off, or her tech wasn’t cooperating, or someone had the audacity to ask her a stupid question in the elevator.

Tonight, apparently, he was the one in the line of fire. Unlucky him. Or lucky, depending on how much he wanted to test her.

“You had one of those days, huh?” he asked lightly, starting the engine.

She didn’t answer. Just crossed her arms and turned to face the window with a sigh.

Joaquin glanced over, still smiling. “Aww, come on. Give me some sugar, sugar.”

He leaned over to kiss her, one arm snaking toward her shoulder to pull her in.

Y/N jerked away instantly, twisting her body toward the door like she was about to open it and jump out mid drive. “I’m so overstimulated right now, get away from me, Joaquin Torres.”

He blinked, hand still suspended mid air. “Damn. Full name and everything.”

“Do not touch me. I mean it. If one more person tries to breathe in my direction, I’m gonna explode.”

He bit his lip to hide a laugh. “Okay, okay. Hands to myself. Got it.” He settled back into his seat, throwing her a sideways glance. “But just for the record, you’re still really hot when you’re grumpy.”

She sighed again, dramatic and sharp. “I know. It’s exhausting.”

Joaquin chuckled, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the driveway. “Want me to cancel the dinner res and just drive around until you’re slightly less homicidal?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering it. “Maybe. Only if you promise to shut up for five minutes.”

“Deal. But I reserve the right to poke you again when I feel like it.”

“Try it and I’ll bite your finger off.”

He grinned wide. “You flirt so weird.”

Y/N turned slowly to look at him, unimpressed. “You are so lucky you’re cute, Quino.”

He beamed. “You say that like it’s not my entire strategy.”

They’d been driving for ten minutes now, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the evening breeze in. Y/N hadn’t said much, but the tension in her shoulders was slowly easing. Her head leaned against the window, eyes closed, fingers tapping gently against her thigh to the beat of whatever lo-fi playlist Joaquin had put on as a peace offering.

Joaquin glanced over at her at the next red light, content to let her decompress.

Which is exactly when she spoke.

“Wow,” she muttered, voice thick with fake betrayal. “You’re not even gonna hold my hand?”

He blinked. “What?”

She turned to him slowly, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Did you stop loving me or something?”

Joaquin snorted. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to touch you, you cannibalist.”

“That was ten minutes ago,” she said, wiggling her fingers toward him like bait. “Things have changed. Keep up, Torres.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“And yet, you’re obsessed with me.”

He rolled his eyes but reached across the console anyway, threading their fingers together. She immediately curled into it, squeezing his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the planet.

He gave her a sideways glance. “So dramatic.”

“Mm. You like it.”

He kissed the back of her hand at the next red light, then refused to let go for the rest of the drive.

They got back to Joaquin’s place a little later, and by then Y/N’s bad mood had mostly fizzled out, leaving her comfortably tired and… just a little clingy. She kicked off her shoes by the front door and flopped face down onto the couch like she was done existing.

Joaquin laughed as he locked the door behind them. “You okay?”

“No,” came the muffled reply from the cushions. “I want chocolate and a heating pad and maybe to be held like a small, misunderstood Victorian orphan.”

He grinned. “So… a regular night in.”

She lifted one hand and flipped him off without lifting her head.

He crouched down and gently brushed her hair from her face. “You’re gonna knock out here like this?”

“Maybe,” she mumbled. “Couch has less betrayal than the world.”

He smiled, leaned in, and without another word, slid one arm under her legs and the other around her back — lifting her in one smooth, practiced motion.

Y/N blinked, startled. “What are you—?”

“Carrying you to bed, princess-style,” he said matter of factly, already heading down the hall. “Can’t let my misunderstood Victorian orphan sleep in the drawing room.”

She buried her face in his neck with a dramatic sigh. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “here you are. In my arms. As foretold.”

“You’re lucky I’m weak.”

“You’re lucky I’m strong.”

She smiled against his skin. “Shut up and tuck me in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He returned a few minutes later with a heating pad, and a bar of chocolate he had absolutely bought just in case. He laid everything out beside her, then sat next to her and gently coaxed her to roll onto him.

She crawled into his lap like a sleepy cat, settling against his chest with a little sigh as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

“See?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All bark, no bite.”

“I bit you last week,” she mumbled.

“And it was hot.”

She snorted against his chest, letting him stroke her hair as she started to melt into the warmth and quiet.

“…Thanks, Quino,” she said softly after a beat.

He smiled against her forehead. “Always, mi amor.”

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It started innocently. It always started innocently.

They were supposed to be cleaning the kitchen. Keyword: supposed to. Y/N was wiping down the counter. Joaquin was in charge of dishes. Everything was fine. Peaceful, even.

Until he started singing.

Off-key.

Loudly.

And with zero knowledge of the actual lyrics.

“You. Belong. With me—YEAH! You BELONG with meeeeeee,” he howled, doing a little spin with a dirty plate in hand like it was a Grammy.

Y/N froze, rag in hand. “Quino.”

“What?” he asked innocently.

“That’s not even the right melody.”

He grinned. “I’m doing the remix.”

“Please don’t.”

But it was already too late. He launched into the next line, doubling the volume and somehow managing to harmonize with nothing.

“She wears short skirts I WEAR T-SHIRTS—”

“STOPPP,” Y/N shrieked, ducking her head into her hoodie, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. “Quinooo, I swear to god—”

He was cackling, absolutely thriving off her chaos, flicking soap bubbles at her now for extra effect.

“Say you like it,” he teased, chasing her around the island with a sponge. “Say I’m talented. Say I’m the people’s pop star.”

“YOU’RE A MENACE.”

She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, voice cracking as she tried to fight him off with a kitchen towel.

“Stop it,” she gasped, half laughing, half crying now, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m gonna pee. I’m gonna pee my pants. I mean it.”

“Better now than in the truck,” Joaquin said cheerfully, dancing around her like he was in a concert crowd. “This is the exclusive living room performance, babe. Be grateful.”

She collapsed onto the floor, breathless and curled in on herself, still giggling uncontrollably. “I’m going to call Sam and tell him what you’re doing to me.”

“Go ahead. He’ll side with me. He likes my performances.”

“HE DOESN’T.”

He knelt down beside her, smug and glowing with victory. “Admit it. You love me more when I’m annoying.”

“I don’t even like you right now.”

“You’re literally crying from laughter.”

“I’m crying because you’re deranged.”

He beamed. “Same thing.”

She flopped dramatically into his lap. “You’re exhausting. My brain is soup. I am soup now.”

He kissed her forehead like he hadn’t just caused a small emotional breakdown.

“I love you, my little soup.”

“Shut up.”

“Say it back.”

“Not until you promise to never sing Taylor Swift again.”

“...what if I said I have a whole playlist queued?”

“I will commit a crime.”

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Sam stepped into the apartment cautiously, already suspicious.

The music was loud. Like, walls shaking, windows rattling loud. And it wasn’t Joaquin’s usual feel good playlist—it was full on metal.  The kind of music that made Sam instinctively squint.

He followed the sound into the living room and found Y/N sitting cross legged on the floor, dressed in sweatpants and an oversized AC/DC shirt, hair wild, eyeliner smudged like she’d either had a long night or a very powerful catnap. She was tinkering with some little device in her lap that looked like an arc reactor, because of course.

Joaquin was in the kitchen, squinting dramatically at the Bluetooth speaker like it had personally offended him.

“She’s been playing this for an hour,” he called out when he noticed Sam.

Y/N didn’t look up. “You can leave. Door’s right there.”

Sam held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just here to borrow the air fryer. Don’t involve me in whatever this is.”

“It’s Iron Maiden,” Y/N said proudly. “It’s culture.”

“It’s a cry for help,” Joaquin muttered, scrolling through his phone. “We could be listening to Bad Bunny right now. We could be thriving.”

Y/N shot him a look over her shoulder. “Touch that speaker and I’ll throw this at you.”

Joaquin grinned. Touched the speaker anyway.

Instantly, the music cut off. Replaced by reggaetón.

Y/N froze. Slowly turned around like a horror movie villain.

“Joaquin.”

“Yes, mi amor?”

“What did I just say?”

“That threats of violence are foreplay?”

Before Sam could even process that, Joaquin darted out of the kitchen, sprinting across the room as Y/N launched a pillow at his head. She stood up in one fluid motion, chasing after him.

“I told you not to!”

He laughed, circling the couch. “I’m enhancing the vibe!”

She chased him halfway around the living room before he doubled back, caught her mid-lunge, and threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“Joaquin!” she screeched, fists pounding against his back. “PUT ME DOWN.”

“I will,” he said cheerfully, “once you admit my music taste is superior.”

“Never! I don’t even understand what they’re saying!”

Sam stood there frozen, holding the air fryer under one arm like a shield. “She’s gonna kill you, man. Actually kill you. Like, she’s got the Stark sass in her bloodline. You are so dead.”

Joaquin just danced around with her still on his shoulder, shaking his hips to the beat, grinning big.

“This is a normal Tuesday, relax,” he said, spinning with her as she screamed bloody murder and maybe—just maybe—was starting to laugh a little.

“I hate you,” Y/N gasped between giggles.

He smacked a kiss to her thigh. “You’re obsessed with me.”

Sam backed slowly toward the door, still holding the air fryer like it might explode. “I’m leaving. Y’all are unwell.”

Joaquin winked at him. “Tell the world our love is powerful.”

Y/N elbowed him in the back. “Tell the world he’s getting buried in the backyard if he plays 'Moscow Mule' again.”

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Y/N got in a mood when Joaquin didn’t answer her text right away.

So when he finally walked through the door with groceries like a normal person, Y/N was already curled up on the couch in his hoodie looking emotionally unstable.

“You forgot about me,” she said flatly, not even looking up from the blanket she was swaddled in.

Joaquin blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t respond for forty-three minutes,” she said, holding up her phone like it was evidence in a trial. “I timed it.”

“I was driving. For you. To get your snacks.”

She sniffed. “I thought you were dead. Or worse. Ignoring me.”

He set the bags down and walked toward her slowly. “You good?”

“No. I’m feeling very unloved and neglected and fragile.”

“You FaceTimed me from the bathroom while I was still at the store.”

“I was vulnerable.”

He grinned. Oh. Oh. So that’s the game they were playing.

“Mi vida,” he said, kneeling in front of her like she was on her deathbed. “Are you saying I emotionally wounded you by leaving you here for an hour?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re right. I’ve been so cruel.” He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. “But if I leave you again… take me out. I won’t survive the guilt.”

Y/N stared at him. “Don’t. Don’t do the soft voice thing. I’m being dramatic. Let me be dramatic.”

“You want me to be distant to fuel the bit? Okay.” He stood up abruptly. “You’re right. Maybe I have been pulling away.”

Her eyes widened. “What.”

“I just think we’ve gotten too close, you know? Too fast. Maybe we need space.”

“JOAQUIN.”

“I’m worried we’re codependent.”

“STOP. TAKE IT BACK.”

He smirked, circling the couch now, fully committing. “Do you think we lost ourselves in each other?”

She launched a throw pillow at his head. “I will cry on purpose.”

“Good. I like it when you cry. Makes me feel needed.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m yours.”

She screamed into the pillow. “This is NOT how ragebait is supposed to go!”

“You tried to ragebait the ragebait champion. Know your place, princess.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

He flopped down beside her and tugged her into his lap, arms looping around her.

“You’re obsessed with me,” he whispered.

“I am,” she hissed back. “And I hate that for me.”

“Bet you still want forehead kisses.”

“…Shut up and do it already.”

He kissed her forehead three times in a row, obnoxiously loud.

She groaned. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“And I’m only getting hotter.”

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Y/N had exactly one thing planned for the evening: an uninterrupted candlelit bath. She’d earned it—long day, annoying people. The lights were low, her bath bomb had fizzed and the water was just hot enough to sting a little.

She’d sunk in with a dramatic sigh, bubbles up to her collarbones, a glass of wine perched dangerously close to her phone.

Then, like clockwork, the bathroom door creaked open.

“I swear to god,” she muttered, not even opening her eyes. “Joaquin—”

“Heyyy,” he said cheerfully, already strolling in. “Just checking on my girl. You know. Make sure you’re alive and not drowning in your own princess foam.”

She cracked one eye open to glare at him. “I locked that door.”

He sat down fully on the closed toilet seat, grinning. “I picked it. Don’t be mad. I missed you.”

“You saw me ten minutes ago.”

“And yet—here I am. Suffering without you.”

Y/N groaned and sank lower into the water. “You’re such a pest.”

He leaned forward dramatically, elbows on knees, chin in hand. “Tell me about your day, babe.”

“No.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

“I didn’t ask for therapy. I asked for silence.”

He dipped a hand into the water and flicked it gently at her arm.

She didn’t even flinch. “Do it again and I’ll drown you.”

He flicked again. “I like my odds.”

She turned her head, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you seriously just gonna sit there the whole time?”

“I can sit in there, if you want,” he offered innocently.

“You are the worst.”

Another splash.

“I swear—Joaquin, I am so close to—”

She paused mid threat and sighed.

“…Are you gonna get in or what?”

Joaquin lit up. “God, I love you.”

He stood and peeled off his clothes in record time, stepping into the tub behind her like he’d been waiting for that moment all day. He slid into place, wrapping his arms around her waist as she shifted forward to make room.

Now she was sitting between his legs, back against his chest, his stupid heartbeat steady and warm against her spine.

For a long moment, they were both quiet. Then:

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” she muttered. “Annoy me until I invited you in just to shut you up?”

He beamed against the side of her face. “You're so easy to break, princess. I was barely getting started.”

She snorted. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She turned just enough to flick a bubble at his face.

He gasped. “Betrayal. In my bathtub?”

She grabbed the shampoo bottle and shoved it into his hands. “If you’re gonna invade, you’re doing labor. Wash my hair.”

He took it like it was a sacred task. “Gladly. You have the best hair in the world, by the way. It’s so soft and smells so good.”

“Stop talking.”

“But it’s true.”

“Quino.”

“Yes, mi amor?”

“…Scrub.”

He lathered up her hair, fingers surprisingly gentle. Y/N sighed, melting back into him despite herself. He hummed a dumb little tune while massaging her scalp.

Eventually, she opened one eye. “You do know I’m gonna finish this bath alone after this, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, kissing the back of her shoulder. “Just wanted to be annoying enough to get a cuddle in. Mission accomplished.”

She smiled, tiny and smug. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. A long, quiet one.

Then, softly: “You’re so annoying.”

He grinned against her shoulder. “I’m aware.”

“No, like, you drive me insane.”

“Only the best for my princess.”

She groaned, but it was hopeless. Her head tilted slightly, letting it rest against his. “…And I love you so much all the same.”

His arms tightened just a little, his smile stretching even wider. “I know you do.”

“Quino.”

He laughed, kissed the side of her head, then whispered against her temple, voice lower now. “I love you too, cariño. So much.”

She closed her eyes again, finally at peace—surrounded by bubbles, steam, and the most annoyingly perfect human she’d ever known.

And for once, she let him stay in the bath the whole time.

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author's note: my first joaquin imagine ahhhh!! this is so freaking cute i was giggling and kicking my feet writing it. he's so cute i loveee him.

also ugh, when y/n says she doesn't like bad bunny cause she doesn't understand what he's saying hurt my soul cause i'm latina LMAO

i need to write more for him, and lucky for me, i have another quino request that i'll be starting this week!!

[purebarnes]

oh my goshhh!! yess i need more mutuals 🥺

thank youuuu

how do you think bucky would react to shy reader asking to turn the lights off during sex because they’re insecure ??

i think bucky would want to desperately show you just how perfect you are.

hell, if he could spend the rest of his life proving it to you, he probably will.

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni

Bucky’s the kind of man who’d notice right away.

The way your eyes flick toward the lamp. The hesitation in your voice. The way your hands fidget just slightly when you reach for the hem of your shirt.

You don’t even have to say it—not at first. He knows. Feels it in the tremble of your breath and the way you pull the sheets higher, like they can protect you from his gaze.

But when you do finally whisper it—“Can we… can we turn the lights off?”—he doesn’t tease. He doesn’t mock, doesn’t even hesitate.

He just pauses. Quiet. Still.

And then he reaches for your hand.

His thumb brushes your knuckles, soft and slow. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice like silk and gravel all at once, “I’ll do anything you need. Lights off, slow down, or stop altogether. You just say the word.”

But then he leans in—closer, lower, until his mouth is at your ear.

“But I need you to know something. I need you to hear me when I say it.” His hand lifts, not to grope or grab, but to cup your face. To hold you steady. Like you’re fragile, like you’re precious.

“You’re the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. You don’t ever have to hide from me. Not your body. Not your sounds. Not the way you fall apart when I touch you.”

Because Bucky doesn’t just want to fuck you. He wants to worship you. Every inch of you, every soft curve, every scar, every place you’ve ever second-guessed. To him, your insecurities are sacred ground—the parts of you no one else has been trusted with.

And if you let him? He’ll prove it.

He kisses your stomach first. Then lower. Trails his mouth down your body with the kind of reverence most men reserve for altars.

Fingers dragging up your thighs, thumbs spreading you open, slow and unhurried. He’s not in a rush. He wants to look. Wants you to feel seen. Revered.

He’ll murmur against your skin, voice hoarse and thick with hunger—“Gonna show you how fucking perfect you are. Gonna make you feel it, baby.”

And when his mouth finds your pussy, he doesn’t hold back.

He devours you like a man possessed—deep, messy, loud. His nose presses into your clit, tongue working in long, wet strokes that have your hips jolting before you can stop them.

He moans into you, like your taste alone gets him off, like your pleasure is the thing that keeps his heart beating.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groans, licking a fat stripe up your center before sucking your clit into his mouth. “Look at this pretty pussy, princess. Don’t hide from me. Let me see how you fall apart.”

If you close your eyes, he’ll pull back. “Uh-uh, sweetheart. Eyes on me."

He grabs the mirror.

Drags it over so it’s angled just right. So you can see the way your thighs shake. The way his tongue glistens with your slick. The raw desperation in his eyes as he buries his face between your legs like it’s the only place he belongs.

“You watch yourself fall apart for me,” he rasps. “You watch what you do to me.”

And when he finally fucks you?

It’s slow at first. Deep. Intentional.

He holds your thighs open with a bruising grip, fucks into you like you’re something to be savored—like the tight heat of your cunt is a reward for being good.

He leans over you, body caging yours in, and presses kisses to your jaw, your collarbone, your tits, every breath ragged with restraint.

“Feel that?” he groans, cock dragging deep and slow inside you. “That’s how tight you are, baby. How fucking perfect. God, you’re squeezing me like you were made for this.”

And maybe you were. Because when Bucky’s inside you, when his voice is thick with need and his thrusts grow rougher, deeper, more frantic—you feel worshipped.

Not just wanted. Not just fucked. Worshipped.

He’ll have you gasping, nails digging into his back, your body singing with pleasure and heat and the kind of dizzy, stretched-out fullness that leaves you crying out his name. And he’ll still beg for more.

“Give me another, sweetheart. Come on, that’s it. Cum on my cock—let me feel it.”

And when you do? When your body clamps down and your voice breaks and you cum hard and loud despite your shy little request to keep the lights off?

He glows.

He fucks you through it, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his brow, lips at your ear as he mutters praise like a prayer—“So beautiful, baby. So good for me. I’d spend forever right here, just making you cum. Over and over. Don’t you get it? I need this. Need you.”

And afterward, when your thighs are shaking and your chest is rising too fast, he’ll wrap you in his arms like you’re breakable again. Kisses your shoulder, your cheek, your hair.

Lights off? Sure. If that’s what makes you feel safe.

But Bucky will still touch you like he’s memorizing a masterpiece in the dark.

Because to him? You are.

a/n: wrote this piece on the train and gosh, i can definitely see bucky being into body worship, especially because he wants you to feel wanted and loved by him.