#bucky barnes can’t catch a break | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nyletac · 29 days ago

Text

Toxic Heat

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Agent! Female! Reader

Summary: While waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, Bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. Accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, Smut, Cursing, Fingering, Rough Sex, Edging, Enemies to lovers, Hormone inducing plant, Vaginal sex, Multiple orgasms, Aftercare, Super Intense (my god this is so dirty.)

Word Count: 6.4k

The mission had been straightforward at first: infiltrate the abandoned research outpost, gather intel, and get out before anyone noticed.

But when the team’s extraction was delayed, you and Bucky found yourselves trapped inside the building’s dusty corridors, waiting for backup.

After the constant, usual bickering and insults, he left and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall as he scouted ahead, his metal arm clanking softly with each step. You stayed close to the cracked wall, nervously fingering the strap of your gear. Wishing there were windows to bring in any source of light throughout the creepy dim building.

Suddenly, Bucky’s footsteps stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway. Slight worry grew over you, as you take a look down the hallway, however, no sight or sound of him to be found.

When you finally heard footsteps again, you quickly peaked your head past the doorway down the hallway. Seeing Bucky approach, his movements were slower, heavier. His dark eyes held something unreadable — a flicker of distraction mixed with a strange heat.

You noticed the sweat beading at his temple, the way his breath came a little too fast, a little too shallow.

“Bucky?” Your voice curious, concern knitting your brows.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, jaw clenched tight, hand pressing over his mouth as if trying to catch his breath.

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t just stand there.

Carefully, you took a few steps closer, eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. “Are you hurt? You don’t look well.”

Your fingers hovered uncertainly near his arm before gently laying it on the flushed skin.

The contact made him flinch, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, and his whole body tensed under your touch.

He looked at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes before darting his eyes away. “I… I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted quietly, voice strained. “I can’t… focus.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a mix of worry and something else you couldn’t name.

Despite your hesitation, your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw slowly.

His heavy breathing filled the tight space between you.

He wasn’t the bold, direct, and frankly asshole of a man you’d expected to come back— he was confused, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

And yet, beneath that confusion simmered something primal, waiting to break free.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back as Bucky’s gaze locked with yours—dark, confused, and somehow raw in a way you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching like he was struggling to steady it.

“Do you need to sit down?” you offered softly, voice barely above a whisper. You hated how your own hands trembled, but you couldn’t just leave him like this.

Bucky shook his head slowly, jaw still tight. “No,” he said, voice rough, “I just… need a moment.”

You edged closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle tremor running through his muscles. Your fingers brushed again against his skin—this time along the softer flesh of the inside of his wrist, inspecting his seemingly pulsing veins.

He flinched again, that sharp intake of breath turning deeper, ragged. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, turning his face away from you as if trying to contain something he didn’t understand.

“Bucky…” Your voice softened, uncertainty threading through every word. “What’s going on?”

He opened his eyes, dark pools swirling with confusion and frustration. “I don’t know,” he said roughly, voice breaking just slightly. “I feel… wrong. Hot. Like I’m… burning up from the inside.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. The man who is feared, who’s a deadly super soldier, was now trembling under your touch, vulnerable and raw.

Without thinking, your hand moved to rest flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

His breathing hitched, eyes darkening as if the simple contact overwhelmed him. “Don’t…” he growled out, voice hoarse.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, heavy with unspoken tension. You wanted to pull away, to respect his boundaries, but your body betrayed you—drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your palm pressed against his chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of his heart. Bucky’s breath was ragged, uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His dark eyes flicked toward you, filled with confusion—and something raw, unfiltered.

He growled softly, a frustrated sound. “I ran into some kind of room in the west wing with a bunch of plants. They were releasing some kind of gas. I don’t know what it’s doing to me, but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “—it’s making me feel things. Things I don’t like.”

You raised an eyebrow, and try to lighten the mood. “Oh great. Just what I needed: Barnes, the grumpy tin man, suddenly turned into a hot mess.” You say softly, rolling your eyes with a slight smile

He scowled but didn’t deny it. “Keep it up, and I might just knock that smug smile off your face.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not like this you won’t” you teased, voice light despite the tension.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t tempt me. Besides, this isn’t a joke. I don’t know how to control it, and I don’t want you getting involved.”

You stepped closer, still wary but unable to look away. “Since when did you care what I think?”

His eyes darkened, and he took a half-step towards the other side of the room, like you might be contagious. “Since this gas has me all messed up and I’m not sure I’m still me.” He growls out

You bit your lip, trying not to let your cheeks betray how much the sight of him like this was affecting you.

“Look,” he said, voice low and rough, “I understand that we’re partnered up for this mission, but—” His voice cracked slightly, “right now… I need you to just stay out of it. Or maybe just don’t make it worse.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what’ll happen next.” Not sliding in the tid-bit that you’re still extremely worried for him no matter how aggravating he may be or how many times he’s insulted you back at the avengers tower.

Bucky’s glare was sharp, but something softer flickered beneath it before he turned away, trying to hide the vulnerability that scared him.

Bucky’s back was stiff as a board as he leaned against an abandoned table in the room, jaw clenched tight, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. The gas wasn’t just messing with his head—it was twisting something deeper, something primal he clearly didn’t want to admit.

Without a word, he suddenly stepped closer, the heat radiating off him intense and raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.

Then, almost abruptly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—his grip firm but not cruel.

His voice came low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel. “You don’t get it. This gas… it’s messing with me. Making me feel things I shouldn’t.”

You blinked, caught off guard, heart pounding.

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening as if fighting to hold himself back. “I don’t want you involved. Hell, I don’t want anyone involved. Especially not you.”

You stepped back slightly, wary but steady. “Just cut deeper why don’t you.” You say dripping with sarcasm.

Bucky’s jaw tightened even more. Standing in silence very clearly thinking something through despite the haze he’s under. “I feel like I’m starting to lose control—and you’re the one thing that’s driving me crazy.”

His breath hitched. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to want you.”

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t pull away.

He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

“Don’t make me lose it,” he warned, voice rough and low.

The closeness of his face, feeling the hotness of his breath fanning over your skin, the tone of his voice. You can’t help but to begin breathing heavily. Despite you and Bucky’s mockery, insults, and arguing, you can’t help but be affected by how he’s acting towards you right now. Your eyes scan over him as you fail to resist the squeezing of your thighs and the feeling of molten heat pool in your stomach.

You notice his nostrils flare and his eyes close, inhaling deeply as he lets out a low groan. His eyes open and burned into yours, fierce and unyielding, but underneath there was a raw vulnerability that made your chest tighten. He walks closer towards you, making you back up until your back hits the cold concrete wall. The tension between you wasn’t just the usual snark or competition anymore—it was something sharper, hotter, dangerous.

Bucky closed the last few inches and pressed his palm flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you gently but firmly. His metal fingers brushed lightly against your temple, and a flicker of something desperate crossed his face.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and something darker. “I’m not… me right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, nerves sparking but your gaze steady. “You won’t.”

He swallowed again, chest rising and falling faster now, like every breath was a fight.

Then, almost reluctantly, his hand found yours—fingers curling around yours, cool against your skin but firm, possessive.

“I’m warning you,” he breathed, his voice dropping lower, “if you let me, I might not going to be able stop.”

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, caught between fear and the undeniable pull drawing you closer to him.

Bucky’s grip tightened around your fingers, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. His dark eyes searched your face like he was looking for permission—and maybe begging for it too, though his pride wouldn’t let him say so.

“I don’t want this,” he snarled softly, voice rough and raw, “but I’m losing the fight.”

His breath hitched, hot and ragged against your skin. The heat radiating off him was suffocating—an almost tangible force pulling you closer, burning away the space between.

You wanted to pull back, wanted to remind him that you weren’t sure what this was either, that this was the opposite of professional, opposite of what you two were—but something in his expression held you fast, unsteady and trembling.

His metal hand slid from your fingers to your wrist, then higher, tracing the delicate skin of your forearm. Every inch was electric under his touch, like you were both alive on a knife’s edge.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with frustration, “and I will. But if you don’t…”

He closed the distance suddenly, lips brushing a harsh, breathless kiss against yours—rough and demanding, like he was trying to ground himself through the contact.

Your breath caught, shyness warred with a fierce, blooming heat deep inside you.

Bucky’s hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every trembling breath.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low and vulnerable beneath the roughness. “Scared I won’t be able to pull back.” You feel him physically trying to restrain himself from pulling himself closer to you.

You swallowed, heart pounding louder than your thoughts.

“No,” you whispered, voice soft but sure. “Don’t pull back.”

His lips instantly found yours, crashing into your lips, with a wild insatiable hunger. There was no gentleness in it, just raw need and the taste of restraint shattering. He gripped your waist, his hands big and calloused, roughly pulling you flush against his body like he needed you to stay anchored to the ground.

You gasped into him, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of him—every line of muscle, every tremble in his body that betrayed how hard he was fighting to stay in control.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he growled, voice rough against your lips, “not with you… not like this.”

But his hands didn’t stop. One slid up under your shirt, skimming over your ribs, fingertips dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch was desperate, reverent, like he needed to memorize your body just to keep from coming undone.

“I didn’t even like you,” he muttered hoarsely, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “You always ran your mouth, always got under my skin…”

Your hands clutched at the front of his tactical shirt, heart pounding against your ribs. “You didn’t like me?” you managed, breathless.

“I hated how much I noticed you,” he growled. “How I couldn’t stop watching the way you moved… how you looked at me like you saw past the metal and my history.”

You whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing the skin just above your underwear. His touch wasn’t tentative—it was firm, claiming. Possessive. But there was a tremble in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to worship you or ruin you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

But you couldn’t. All you could do was look up at him, seeing him, pieces of hair falling in his face, his dark eyes staring into yours and let out a soft needy whine.

That was all he needed.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting, the sting softened by the heat of his tongue. His hand slid into your pants, cupping you firmly. The gasp that tore from your throat only made him press closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he groaned. “So soft…”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing over your folds, dragging a moan from you that made his grip falter—like your voice alone was a match to dry gasoline.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his fingers slipped inside you, slow but thick and deep. “Don’t even know if this is the gas anymore… or just you.”

You could barely breathe, body melting into his as he thrust his fingers slow and deep, watching your every reaction like he was starving for it. He was so careful despite the desperation coiled in his muscles—his touches growing rougher, but still holding back that last thread of restraint.

His fingers, curling just enough to make your knees shake. You gasped, a tremor running through your thighs as you clutched at the front of his suit, but Bucky didn’t rush—not yet.

He growled under his breath, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting against your skin as his fingers dragged slick and steady inside you.

“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice broken with awe and frustration. “You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”

You whimpered, your breath shallow. “Bucky…”

His name made him shudder.

He pulled his hand away too soon, and you let out a small sound of protest. Bucky met your eyes then—completely unguarded. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, sweat shining along his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You weren’t sure if that was a plead, command or a threat.

Then, you could feel the thick bulge of him straining against his pants, grinding against your soaked core through the fabric of your clothes.

“Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, rutting against you. “That’s what you’re doing to me. And I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”

Your breath caught. His words lit a fire in your belly, made your thighs clench, made you ache.

His hand slipped down again, running two fingers over your clit.

“Fuck. You’re soaking.”

The curse slipped through his teeth like a prayer as your eyes roll back at the heavenly friction of his hand.

You whine once more as he brought his fingers up and stared at them—coated in your wetness—then met your eyes again as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.

Your legs nearly gave out. “Bucky…” you mutter.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he said, voice rough and tight like it hurt to say it. “Not until you’re begging for it.”

You whined, hips rolling instinctively toward him, chasing friction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured darkly, hand sliding between you again, rubbing slow, heavy circles over your clit. “The mouthy little agent who never shuts up… can’t even form a sentence now.”

You were panting, your body hypersensitive to every stroke, every drag of his rough voice.

“I want to ruin that attitude,” he growled. “Make you forget how to talk. Make you cry.”

His fingers dipped inside you again, thrusting slow and deep, each stroke deliberate and angled just right. You clenched around him, a soft cry leaving your lips, and he chuckled low and sharp in your ear.

“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking tight around my fingers already.”

His metal hand slid up your shirt, palming your breast through your bra, thumb flicking across your nipple with just enough pressure to make your back arch. ��You gonna fall apart just from this?” he taunted, voice husky. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“No,” he cut in, hot breath against your neck. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud, pleasure cresting inside you—too much, too slow, not enough.

Bucky’s mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, licking and biting as his fingers fucked you slow, precise, dragging you closer to the edge and pulling you back again and again.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he whispered. “Like you hate me. But underneath it? You wanted this. You wanted me.”

Your moan betrayed you.

He grinned against your throat, then sank his teeth into the delicate skin there—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp. His hand never stopped moving, never gave you what you needed all the way. He was relentless, teasing, every inch of him vibrating with tension and barely held control.

“I could keep you like this for hours,” he muttered. “Desperate. Soaking wet. Shaking.”

He dragged his fingers out of you and pressed them between your lips.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said roughly. “And tell me you don’t want me.”

Your mouth opened before you could stop yourself, and the taste of your own need sent heat rushing straight to your core.

Bucky growled. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

He pushed his hips into yours again, the thick, throbbing heat of him pressing right against your clit through the fabric.

“You ready?” he asked darkly. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping.”

You were trembling beneath him, body pinned to the wall, soaked and aching. Every nerve ending buzzed under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his voice—dragging you to the edge, over and over, without mercy.

And still… he hadn’t taken you.

Until now.

Bucky’s jaw flexed like he was still trying to fight it—but the look in his eyes told you he was past the point of no return.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he growled, lips ghosting over yours. “Told myself I could ride it out. Wait for backup. Do the right thing.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hips grinding against you in a slow, punishing circle. You felt him—thick, hard, straining inside the confines of his pants—and your breath hitched.

“But I can’t fucking think straight,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Not when you’re this wet. This soft. Looking at me like you’d let me break you open.”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. The air was thick with your shared breath, hot and humid, and your voice had long since abandoned you.

He slid your pants down, low enough for you to shimmy and step out of them. He reached down, undid his belt with shaking hands, and freed himself—thick and heavy and flushed, the head already leaking. The sight of it made your thighs clench instinctively.

Bucky groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, look at you. So shy all the time, but now…” he leaned towards you, grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed your soaked underwear to the side, lined himself up and paused, metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open, holding you still.

“Last chance,” he rasped. “You want me?”

You look up at him with pleading eyes and a whine, “please, Bucky….”

That was all it took.

He thrust forward in one deep, brutal stroke,

burying himself inside you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his arms as your body stretched to take him.

“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “So fucking tight. You feel—God—you feel unreal.”

He held still for a beat, shaking from the effort not to lose it too fast. But you clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, head falling to your shoulder.

Then he started to move.

Each thrust was deep, rough, and controlled—but just barely. He was shaking with it, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt, like every time he slammed into you it pulled a piece of him loose.

“You like it rough, sweetheart?” he growled against your ear.

But you were already gone—moaning, head back against the wall, gasping as your body met his rhythm instinctively. You give a messy nod.

“Yeah,” Bucky snarled, gripping your ass and lifting you a little higher so he could drive in deeper, your leg not wrapped around his waist barely touching the ground. “You take me so fucking good.”

The sound of skin slapping echoed off the walls, the wet slick of your arousal making each brutal thrust louder, messier.

“You think I don’t see you?” he grunted, voice ragged. “Always biting your lip around me, looking away. Playing innocent. But you’re not.”

His pace picked up, hips slamming into yours harder now, deeper. “You want this. You’ve always wanted this.”

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice cracking.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, clinging to him.

He cursed viciously, his control unraveling at the sound of your voice.

“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—” he bit out, slamming in deeper with each thrust. “You feel too good—too tight—I’ve never—”

He cut himself off with a broken groan, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder, rougher. Your body was shaking, teetering right at the edge, and he could feel it.

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice thick and guttural. “Now.”

And with one last, brutal thrust—he hit the spot that sent you spiraling.

You shattered around him, crying out, trembling as your climax tore through you, soaking him. Bucky followed instantly with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours as he gasped your name like a lifeline.

His hips slowed, but only slightly—just enough to ride out his own release as you trembled around him, body slack and twitching in his hold. But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t ease away. He stayed inside you, panting against your neck, every muscle still coiled tight like a predator that hadn’t fed nearly enough.

You whimpered softly as his cock throbbed still-hard inside you, impossibly thick, sensitive—but not softening. Not even a little.

“…You’re still hard,” you breathed, dazed.

Bucky’s shoulders shook with a low, humorless laugh. He dragged his mouth up your throat, tongue catching on the sweat at your collarbone before he murmured, “I know.”

His voice was darker now—gravel scraping over flame—and when he pulled his head back to look at you, his pupils were still blown wide, black swallowing the blue.

“That plant,” he said, panting, “it did something. I don’t feel normal, I—” He gritted his teeth and rolled his hips forward again, slow and grinding.

You moaned, sharp and overstimulated, but it only made him groan. “Still not enough.”

He pulled out just a few inches, dragging his cock against your soaked, sensitive walls—then slammed back in with a low, wrecked sound.

Your body jolted, pleasure colliding with sensitivity, making you gasp. “Bucky—”

“Can’t stop,” he growled. “Can’t. You feel too good. I need more.”

He hooked your other leg up around his waist, spreading you open and lifting you slightly off the ground. The shift in angle drove him deeper, the stretch unbearable, the pressure mounting again despite how recently you'd come. You were already growing slick around him again, your body betraying your mind as it begged for more.

“I should hate you for this,” he whispered against your lips. “You make me insane.”

“Then hate me,” you whispered back, breathless.

He snarled—and then snapped.

His mouth crashed to yours, biting and claiming, tongue dragging over your lips before plunging deep. At the same time, he started to fuck you again—harder than before, frantic and relentless, each thrust punching a moan out of you.

You had no defense anymore. No sharp quips, no witty retorts—just Bucky, inside you, growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Stuffed full of me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until everyone on comms knows what I did to you.”

His words hit you like lightning, heat pooling fast and hard in your gut again.

“You want that?” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “Want me to ruin you until all you can say is my name?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only cry out, moaning shamelessly as he started slamming into you again—rough, wild, deep. His grip bruised your thighs, his mouth never left your skin, and every thrust sent stars behind your eyes.

“You’re mine right now,” he gritted, pounding into you. “Just mine.”

Your second orgasm hit harder—sharper—your body seizing around him with a cry that echoed through the empty hall. You were pulsing around him, milking him, but this time, Bucky didn’t come.

He just groaned and kept going.

His breath was ragged now, like he was in pain from holding back.

“I’m not done,” he choked out, pressing your back tighter to the wall. “Not until I’ve wrung every fucking sound out of you.”

Then he pulled out, slowly, deliberately—and spun you around.

Your hands hit the wall just in time to catch yourself as he dragged your underwear the rest of the way off. You whimper at the cold concrete pushing against your soft chest. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your ass back toward him—and without pause, he shoved himself back in from behind with a deep, wrecked growl.

You gasped, moaning at the new angle, at how deep he felt this way.

His hand came around to your front again, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in messy circles.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he snarled. “Like you were made for me.”

The words made you clench, and he hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering.

“Say it,” he barked. “Tell me you want more.”

“More—” you choked, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. “Bucky—God—more—”

He slammed into you even harder, punishing now, wrecked with need.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice low.

Your hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trying to ground yourself—but Bucky gave you no reprieve.

His thrusts were brutal now, paced with a rhythm that shook through your entire body. Each snap of his hips pushed a cry from your lips, every inch of him stretching you open all over again, slick from your last two orgasms and still somehow burning for more.

You were soaked. Raw. Quivering.

And he was insatiable.

Behind you, Bucky was panting like a man possessed. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your sweat-slicked skin as his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I can feel you squeezing me—like you’re trying to pull me deeper.”

You moaned, unable to answer. You weren’t sure there were words anymore—just sensation.

Heat. Pressure. Him.

He slammed into you harder, and your knees buckled, but he caught you—one arm locking around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. Moaning, feeling your body pressed flushed against his. His other hand was still between your legs, fingers working your clit with ruthless precision, flicking and circling until your legs were trembling, your cries coming faster.

“Gonna come again,” he rasped in your ear. “I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. Give it to me.”

His metal hand gripped your throat—slightly tight, just enough to tilt your head, to control you—and he sank his teeth into the curve of your neck as he fucked you harder, faster.

You cried out, your body tipping toward the edge again with dizzying speed, your back arching at the intense pleasure.

“Say it,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Say you want to come on my cock.”

“Please—Bucky—want it—fuck—I want it, I want it—”

“That’s it,” he hissed. “God, that’s it—gonna make you come so fucking hard—”

You clenched around him, your whole body going taut—and then snapped.

Your climax tore through you like fire, a scream ripping from your throat as your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing, slick, drenching him.

Bucky groaned like it broke him, thrusting deep one last time before he came with a roar—slamming into you to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you to overflowing.

He held you tight, shuddering, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out—still pulsing, still deep inside you.

For a moment, everything was quiet—just your panting, the wet sounds of your bodies, and his heart hammering against your back.

Then he finally spoke—voice low, hoarse, almost reverent.

“…Still hate me, sweetheart?”

You let out a breathless, broken laugh against the wall.

“Only when you’re not fucking me like that.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nuzzling your neck, still buried inside you. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”

Bucky’s breathing was still ragged behind you, his broad chest rising and falling against your back. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle now, as if afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You both stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, skin flushed and slick with sweat, the heavy sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you, hissing softly at the overstimulation. You whimpered, sensitive and sore and still trembling, and he caught you as your knees buckled, guiding you gently to the floor.

The moment your back hit the cold wall, you shivered.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, voice thick and gravelly. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I think so…”

He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, eyes scanning your face—not with lust now, but something softer. Something real. His pupils weren’t as blown out anymore. The sharp edge of heat in them was starting to fade.

And for the first time since all this started, you realized… the gas was wearing off.

You could see it in his body—the subtle way his muscles unclenched, the way his breathing evened, like his senses were slowly coming back under control.

“…Bucky,” you murmured, still catching your breath, “what was that stuff?”

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand back through his damp hair.

“Like I said earlier, there was a room. Down the hall. Some kind of overgrown greenhouse or lab, I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, more grounded. “I barely stepped inside before I started sweating. My head got light, and then everything started to burn. My skin, my blood… my cock.”

You flushed, throat bobbing as your eyes flicked down between you.

He noticed. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone. “Didn’t understand why I was reacting like that until I saw you again and I just—”

He broke off, shaking his head like he was angry at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you. Not like that. Not when I wasn’t thinking straight.”

But you reached out and curled your fingers around his vibranium wrist, grounding him.

“You didn’t force me,” you said softly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

His eyes met yours—sharp, guarded, like he was still waiting for the punchline.

“You sure?” he asked. Not a tease. Just a whisper of vulnerability cracking through the armor.

You gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure the three orgasms confirm that.”

That pulled a small, crooked smirk from him—but it didn’t last. His gaze drifted back to where your bare thighs were still spread, slick and flushed, your pants still tangled around one ankle. You were raw, used, full of him.

And still… somehow… the tension wasn’t gone.

“You didn’t hate it,” he murmured, like he was testing the waters.

“No,” you admitted. “And… maybe I don’t hate you as much as I pretend to.”

That surprised him.

He tilted his head, lips parting like he had something to say—but instead, he leaned forward, slowly, giving you the chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours, soft this time. Nothing like the devouring heat from earlier. Just a quiet, aching thing. A kiss that said we’re not done—but maybe not just in a physical way.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket. And when he finally pulled away, his forehead leaned against yours, breath warm across your face.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, voice husky again, but this time with gentleness rather than hunger.

You nodded, legs still shaky. “Yeah. I… don’t think I can stand yet.”

That made him chuckle, low and rough.

“You won’t be walking straight for a while.”

You smacked his chest weakly, and he grinned. It was the first time you’d ever really seen him smile—not that tight, sarcastic twist, but something real.

And just like that… something had shifted.

The lines that used to keep you on opposite sides of every room were gone—burned away by sweat, heat, and the way his hands had held you like he was afraid of losing something he didn’t know he wanted.

As he helped you pull your clothes back on, slow and careful, your fingers brushed. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

⊹ ��⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

By the time the extraction team touched down, the gas was well out of Bucky’s system—but the aftermath lingered on both of you like a second skin.

He still walked close to you. His arm still brushed yours whenever the hallway narrowed. His jacket, slung loosely around your shoulders, smelled like him—warm leather and sweat and something darker, primal, something you’d felt grinding deep inside you less than an hour ago.

Neither of you had said much since.

Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the weight of everything that had happened still hummed like a live wire between you.

And when the door to the building finally slammed open and Sam’s voice came over the comms—dry, impatient, and absolutely oblivious—you nearly jumped.

“There you two are,” he said, stepping into view in full gear, eyes flicking from you to Bucky. “Took your sweet time, huh? We were about to call it and let you rot in there.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just grunted. “We managed.”

Sam looked at the both of you suspiciously.

Your hair was a mess. Your pants were definitely on inside out, despite your frantic fumbling earlier. Bucky’s shirt clung to him with dried sweat, and his belt was still hanging open under his tactical vest.

And when Sam’s eyes narrowed and slid down to the distinct bite mark blooming just beneath your collarbone, visible even beneath the edge of Bucky’s jacket—

He froze.

Blinked.

And looked back at Bucky. Slowly.

“…Did you fight each other?”

You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat.

But Bucky—smug bastard—beat you to it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said coolly, leading the way past Sam without missing a beat. “I won.”

Sam gawked after him. “You won what? An STD?!”

You groaned and followed quickly, cheeks flaming. “Shut up, Wilson.”

“You shut up!” Sam called after you. “I’m gonna have to Lysol the entire jet, aren’t I?!”

Bucky didn’t even blink as he climbed aboard.

You shot him a glare as you slid into the seat across from him, keeping your arms crossed even though his jacket still hung around your shoulders like some ridiculous trophy.

The second Sam stepped in behind you, eyeing the both of you like a disgruntled parent, you tried to school your expression into something neutral.

You failed.

Bucky smirked.

“So,” Sam said, dropping into the pilot’s chair with a sigh. “Either of you wanna tell me why your vitals were going crazy on the monitors for thirty minutes straight?”

“Must’ve been a glitch,” Bucky replied smoothly.

Sam turned, staring at him.

You were biting your lip. Hard.

“A glitch,” Sam repeated flatly.

Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Must’ve been the plant gas. Messed with my sensors.”

“Oh, I bet it did,” Sam muttered, spinning back to the controls. “God, I’m too old for this.”

The Quinjet engines flared to life.

You glanced at Bucky. He was watching you from under his lashes, jaw tight, one corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was this close to smiling.

You leaned closer, voice just low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.

“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s smile turned wicked.

“You’re the one still wearing my jacket, sweetheart.”

You flushed—and hated how much it thrilled you.

As the jet lifted into the sky, the tension didn’t fade.

It simply shifted.

No longer the tension of enemies circling each other like knives waiting to clash—but the quieter, heavier kind. The kind that simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over again the second you're alone.

And something told you…

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

#bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #winter soldier #winter solider x reader #winter solider fanfiction #winter solider x y/n #winter solider imagine #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader

3K notes · View notes

venusheartsyou2 · 1 month ago

Text

me and my husband | bucky barnes

summary: bucky asks a lot of you. like that time he asked you to marry him, no-strings-attached, of course.

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: explicit. 18+ only, MDNI. afab!reader. marriage of convenience. many mentions of alcohol and drinking! yearn city over here, reader is a chronic people pleaser, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, tad bit of angst. flashbacks to endgame, mention of steve and nat death & grieving. mention of benjamin poindexter. vague timeline. oral (female receiving), piv sex, unsafe sex, no use of y/n.

wc: 10.6K (FUUUCK)

a/n: oh my holy guaca-freaking-mole. this. took. fucking FOREVER to write. i hope yall like it, i really do. anyways.. self-indulgent! yippee!!

EDIT: i forgot bucky cant get drunk. please pretend he can for my sake.

heavily inspired by love me more by byexbyez (aka the better written version of this trope, lol)

The soup you made earlier in the day had gone cold. Chicken noodle. It wasn’t your favorite, but your husband usually asks for it when you offer to cook. Your husband’s late again, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. He was busy. He always is. Life as a congressman isn’t easy. It’s monotonous, boring, and soul-sucking. As much as the empty yet somewhat grand house bothered you, you learned to get over its suffocating hallways.

The sound of keys jingling in the door knob breaks you out of your little trance. The key sounds act as a little warning that someone’s coming in. Bucky enters quietly and he knocks off his shoes and removes his worn out tuxedo jacket and leaves on the coat hanger next to the door.

“Long day?” You ask. Bucky didn’t expect you to be up still, proven by the little jump he does when he hears your voice. He sighs, it’s just you.

“Yeah, when isn’t it?” He responds. You let out a light breath disguised as a laugh.

“Made soup. It’s a bit cold now, but I can go warm it up if you’d like.” You say as you start heading to the kitchen.

“I’m not that hungry.” Bucky replies. Bucky’s reluctance to eat made you bitter, however there was no use. Behind closed doors, there was no need for pretending. Bucky had asked you to sign that marriage license, however long ago, but there was no sentiment tied to it. It was simply a means to an end.

“You should eat Bucky. I’ll leave it out.” You respond, trying not to push too much. Bucky simply nods, a sign he’s not too interested in continuing chatting. At least when the topic is about him. Stage fright, maybe.

Bucky nervously fidgets with the cuff of his shirt. After a moment, Bucky lets out a deep breath and breaks his silence. “You’re gonna hate me.”

Your immediate reaction is anxiety. “What did you do?” You say, cocking your head slightly.

“There’s a charity event tomorrow.. ”

“Yeah, and?”

“I made a promise I would come.” Bucky says. What Bucky means to say is, ‘we would come’, but he thinks laying you into the news slowly will make your reaction easier to handle.

You would be fine with it, usually. You knew that these superficial galas and events came with Bucky’s profession. The only problem was that your mother was visiting the city for the day, and you had full-day plans for dinner and catching up. Bucky knew about them, as you told him the moment it was planned.

Your lack of a response was enough for Bucky. “I’m sorry. I know you have plans with your mother.” He says, apologetic enough to seem genuine.

“And I have to go?” You ask.

“It would look weird if you didn’t.” He responds. It’s always about looks, isn’t it?

“Right.” You reply, already planning out a long apology text to your mother, who would definitely understand. Can’t help but feel bad. You whip out your phone to start texting your mother.

“I’m buying a dress for you to wear tomorrow.” Bucky says, hoping that works as an incentive.

“Did you choose the dress, or did your secretary? You know I like her taste in fashion better.” You grin at Bucky for a second, then you look back down at your phone to begin typing your large paragraph of an apology.

“She helped.” Bucky laughs weakly. He can’t help but look at you frantically typing.

“Well, I’ll leave the soup out if you want it. You should eat something. ‘Gonna be a long day tomorrow too.” You say, finally, after you send your apology.

Bucky purses his lips and nods. “Okay. Thanks.” He says, so casually.

If anyone had seen how the two of you talk, they would assume you were roommates. Which you essentially were. The two of you weren’t very romantic, at least when the both of you were sober, or while you weren’t in the public eye, of course. Any non-public romantic passes were swiftly ignored the next day. It’s not that you didn’t find Bucky attractive, because you most certainly did, it was mainly the fact that Bucky made it clear from the beginning this relationship was strictly for political gain. Nothing really so hot and heavy about that.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning then, Bucky.” You yawn as you head to your bedroom, which was a guest bedroom that Bucky randomly assigned you.

“See you. Be ready by 6PM.” Bucky tells you off-handedly. You give him a thumbs up as you walk to your room.

It’s hard for you to go to sleep, usually. It’s partially your fault. You know that being on your phone before bed isn’t best for getting the optimum amount of sleep. However, you find yourself researching your husband’s political moves every night. Bucky hasn't been able to pass a single bill since he joined Congress, so you note to yourself to avoid talking about that while at the event tomorrow. You hated studying in school, but yet you find yourself studying every night. You have to present yourself as a good wife, or at least a believable one.

You sigh, shutting off your phone after reading a large amount of hate comments on Bucky’s surprising political career. People don’t like change, or at least the fact that an ex-assassin somehow got into office. You shrug it off. Weirder stuff has happened, anyway.

You groan as you get out of bed. You accepted the fact you just weren’t going to get your desired hours of sleep tonight. Maybe it’ll be easier to go to bed after a glass of water?

You walk downstairs into the kitchen to get your glass of water. You enter to see Bucky, sitting with his laptop, with a bunch of paperwork splayed all over the kitchen island. Bucky hears the sounds of your footsteps, and he smiles at you weakly when he sees you. He’s tired, it’s clear by the look on his face.

You walk over next to Bucky, looking at all of his work. Just a bunch of political mumbo-jumbo; nothing of interest to you. You rub Bucky’s shoulder and neck, trying to massage what you can without seeming too touchy. Bucky groans a little, and he’s broken out of his little trance. He realizes just how tired he really is.

Bucky pats your hand on his shoulder and gently takes your hand off him. You’re not sure if that gesture was too affectionate. It shouldn’t be, but you can’t risk making anything awkward. “Thanks.” Bucky mumbles, his voice almost at a whisper. He rubs his eyes and yawns.

“You should go to sleep. You’ll work better after sleeping.” You tell Bucky, as you always do. You see an empty, used bowl. Bucky ate your food. You find yourself smiling.

“You like it?” You ask, heading towards the pot of soup that was sitting on the stove. You mix the soup around.

“It was perfect, thank you.” Bucky grins.

You grab a spoon and taste the soup you had made.

What the hell was Bucky talking about? It was the most watery, unflavorful soup you had made yet. And the soup you usually make is nowhere near gourmet. “What the hell are you talking about? This is ass.” You grimace at the taste.

Bucky grins and shrugs. “Tasted good to me.”

“HYDRA must’ve fucked you up bad.” You joke. Were HYDRA jokes too far? You were about to find out.

To your relief, Bucky let out a light laugh. “Guess they did. I’m just lucky that someone is willing to cook for me at all.”

You smile at Bucky, while continuing to stir the pot of soup. “It’s not a big deal. I’m glad you’re willing to eat it.” You say, while adding copious amounts of salt and herbs to make up for the lackluster taste.

After a moment, Bucky reveals, “I called your mom.”

You turn around. “You did?” You ask, looking a little concerned. Your mother didn’t know the true nature of you and Bucky’s real relationship. When you had told her the news, she was excited that her only daughter was getting married, but she was furious about the fact that she had never known about him before. Which is understandable. However, it wasn’t like you had much time before the fake marriage ceremony to introduce him.

You had asked for a wedding. With a nice dress. As a kid, you had always dreamed of having a perfect wedding, where most of the focus was just on you and your future partner. Bucky tried to deliver, but the wedding just didn’t feel complete. Probably from the lack of true feelings on either party, or the fact that you had to prepare for a new life under spotlight and public scrutiny soon.

The wedding you had was small, mainly just family and select friends. The only proof of the wedding’s existence was a photo you had taken with Bucky at the altar, along with the grotesque amount of photos your mother insisted on taking. You told her to keep the photos private, to which she begrudgingly agreed. All that, and yet the wedding also didn’t feel complete without Natasha there, as she was the woman who had introduced the two of you to one another many years ago.

It’s still weird Nat’s gone. You thank her for a lot of things. She provided you with your first job in the city. She convinced Tony that the Avengers needed a manager to handle all of their public appearances. She then convinced Tony that it should be you, and even with Tony’s unbearable stubbornness, she got you that job. It was there when you met Bucky, or the Winter Soldier, as he was named at the time.

“She wasn’t too mad about you canceling.” Bucky says about your mother, which knocks you out of your trance.

“She wasn’t? That’s a relief.” You respond.

“I’m still sorry that you had to cancel. I’ll make it up to you one day.” Bucky promises. While you’re sure Bucky means to keep the promise, he’s always so busy with work, so you wonder how long you’ll have to wait for Bucky to make it up to you — with whatever he plans to do.

“It’s fine, Bucky.” You shrug off as an instinct.

Bucky looks remorseful, but he doesn’t say anything more about it. “Good night then.”

“Night.”

In the morning, you wake up to an empty house. Bucky leaves for work early in the morning. You work from home – something you had wished for a while – but you have to admit, it gets pretty lonely. After a long day of pointless powerpoints and spreadsheets, you get a text from Bucky’s secretary.

“Mr. Barnes will be bringing your dress for tonight in 30 minutes.” She texts you, overly formal. You’ve told her that there’s no need to be formal, but she insists as she’s on the clock.

Bucky gently knocks on your door. You turn to see him with a box in his hands. “Surprise.”

You grin. “Wow, a present for me?” You say as you open the box. It’s a gorgeous white dress with gold accents. What a surprise – there’s no way Bucky picked this out himself.

“Mia.” Bucky mentions his secretary, notioning that it was her idea. You look up at him and nod. “Makes sense.”

You check your watch. 4:30PM. “I should start getting ready soon.”

“You’ll look good either way.” Bucky compliments, seeming more affectionate than it should. You clear your throat. “That’s kind of you, Bucky.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Bucky says, leaving the box on your bed.

You say bye, as you start unfolding the dress. How the hell do you put this thing on? The dress had two strips of loose fabric, which were meant to be tied together in the back, similar to that of a halter top. At least you think they’re meant to be tied. You brace yourself to fit into this dress. You squeeze in a little, as the dress is a little tight in the back.

The dress was cute, from what you could see. The dress still needed to be tied, and there wasn’t a way for you to reach the back of the dress. You sigh a little as you try your best to make a knot. “Bucky?” You shout out.

“Yeah?” He calls out from downstairs.

“Can you come up?” You ask.

You can hear Bucky’s footsteps slowly come closer to your room. You turn around. The top of the dress folds over the waist of the dress. You turn around, your back facing the door, as your chest is exposed, and you’re not so keen on giving Bucky an unwanted surprise when he enters your room.

Bucky enters your room, surprised to see your torso exposed. He clears his throat and asks you what you need. You tell him to tie the back, instructing him on how to assemble the knot.

“Tie it tight.”

Bucky hums a little ‘mm-hm’. As he finishes the knot, you turn back around to show off the dress. “How does it look?”

Bucky grins a little. “Perfect.”

–

Later, you and Bucky enter the fancy ballroom. Charity events were a bore to you, as bad as that sounds. It always surprised you how much money people had to just give so freely, as you had grown up with so little. Perhaps it was best not to focus on that. It’s good that these people are donating so much for good causes.

Bucky had cleaned up, his hair was slicked back and he was in his best suit. Your hair was tied up and curled neatly. It had taken forever to do, so at least it turned out nicely. You accessorized with gold jewelry, to match with the gold accents of the dress, of course.

Bucky’s arm lays on the small of your back. Servers pass by with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, to which you pick up naturally.

Small talk between politicians killed you. You could not think of a bigger waste of time. You could feel the venom in each of the politicians' voices, but it’s hidden by smiles and charming personalities. You know what you have to do. Smile big, and only speak when spoken to. Best to avoid any slip-ups.

“You’re doing great, just focus on me.” Bucky whispers into your ear. You cough off the warm feeling in your chest.

“Congratulations on the wedding. Still in the honeymoon phase, are you?” A wife of a congressman asked.

“Very much so.” Bucky responded, looking at you with love in his eyes. He’s a good actor. You smile back as you place a hand on his chest.

“She gets me through my day.” Bucky adds, and a flurry of ‘aww’s’ follow suit. You swiftly push down the growing lump in your throat. Gotta act natural.

As you and Bucky break away from the group of people, you find yourself by the sidelines, people-watching. Bucky had left to go network, or whatever it is that he does. You had him in your line of sight, which comforted you in this large crowd.

You drink your champagne, unassuming.

“Mrs. Barnes?” A man asks out to you, seemingly out of nowhere. You jump a little at the surprise.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” The man laughs as he slowly inches up to you. Your neck cranes upward to look at the man’s face, as he’s much taller than you.

“Of course not,” You grin, “You just caught me off guard.”

The man rubs the back of his neck. “My apologies.” You shrug it off.

“I was trying to reach Mr. Barnes, but he seems to be occupied.” The man sighs as he shoots a glance at Bucky.

“Am I just your next best option, then?” You ask, smiling.

The man turns back to you. “Of course not.” He insists with a charming smile. You’re quick to brush it off and assure him it’s alright.

“Benjamin Poindexter. Most people call me Dex.” He reaches his hand out with a grin. You tell him your name and shake his hand, his grip steady and firm.

“Am I allowed to call you Dex?”

“Call me whatever you like.” He says with a wink. You laugh. As your eyes wander back into the crowd, you see Bucky stare from across the ballroom. You notice that he isn’t paying full attention to the man he’s talking to. You pay no mind and go back to your conversation with Dex.

You invite Dex to people-watch with you, and it’s easy to convince him.

“These events are such a drag.” He mentions off-handedly. You let out a sigh of relief. “Aren’t they?” You respond, more enthusiastically than you have been this entire time at this gala.

“Just a huge flaunt of money.” Dex notes.

“It is. At least it’s for a good cause.” You try to reason.

“I’m sure they could do that without all the pointless attractions.” Dex sighs. You laugh as you stare at all the grand decor, live music, and grand meals. It’s true, this entire thing was just so obnoxious to you. “You get me.” You say.

Dex grins at you as he lightly places his hand on your shoulder. “At least you look lovely tonight.”

“Are you flirting with me, Dex? You know I’m a married woman.” You roll your eyes and grin, your eyes pointed towards the ground.

“Of course not,” Dex responds, “Unless you’d like me to.”

Your eyes widen at his boldness and laugh Dex’s advances off. “You’re funny.”

Dex doesn’t respond, his only response being the faint upward curling of his lips. Before you get to speak again, Bucky appears by your side.

“I’m sorry, could I steal my wife from you for a second?” Bucky says with a tight-lipped grin.

“Oh, of course-” Dex starts to say, only to be cut off by Bucky swiftly grabbing your hand and dragging you out of there.

“Oh, Bucky, Dex — or Benjamin — wanted to speak with you-” You try to say to your husband.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get to that later.” Bucky says, not paying attention.

“Are you okay? What are you doing?” You whisper to Bucky once he fully removes you from Dex’s presence.

“How do you think I look when my wife’s too busy giggling with another man?” Bucky mutters into your ear. You pull back.

“It wasn’t like that-” You say, naively.

“Course it wasn’t,” He spits out, and a brief silence follows.

After taking a deep breath, Bucky says, “Just stick by me for the rest of the night, okay?”

You frown slightly, your face turning sour. “Right, okay.”

The rest of the night killed you. Every boring conversation felt even longer than it had before. It wasn’t helping that Bucky kept his grip on your waist tighter than usual. You counted down the seconds until this stupid gala was over, all with a big smile on your face.

You couldn’t ignore the looks Dex would shoot at you occasionally, but you didn’t let your gaze linger.

The car ride back home was quiet. You couldn’t tell if Bucky was still angry, his face was unreadable.

You two finally get back home, and the door shuts with a click. Bucky immediately lets out a deep sigh. You take that as a sign to initiate your go-to unwind routine, which usually consists of ordering Chinese and drinking. Hopefully Bucky will warm up to you again with some food in his stomach.

“Chinese?” You ask, waiting for Bucky’s go-ahead.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Bucky says, his voice void of any emotion.

You fight the urge to ask Bucky if he’s still mad at you, best not to disturb the lion.

The ring of the doorbell notifies you that the takeout was finally here.

“So, talk to anyone interesting tonight?” You ask as you and Bucky sit down next to each other at your small dinner table.

“Never.” Bucky lets out a light breath of amusement. He watches you as you crack open wooden chopsticks for the both of you. You frown slightly at the uneven crack of the chopsticks.

As you hand over better separated chopsticks to Bucky, you stand up to grab drinks from the kitchen. “Beer?” You ask.

“Always.” He says as he chews on his noodles.

You grab a beer from the fridge, opening it up for Bucky. You grab a wine glass for yourself, pouring your favorite red wine into it.

As you hand over the beer to Bucky, he nods his head as a way of thanking you.

The dinner between the two of you is silent. Not that that’s necessarily weird, as you and Bucky have grown accustomed to uncomfortable silences.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize mindlessly. “For Dex.”

Bucky sighs as he finishes chewing his greasy noodles. “It’s fine. Just.. I don’t want anyone to suspect anything.” Bucky admits.

“Right.” You say, not putting up a fight. The idea of making Bucky angry makes your stomach bubble up in anxiety. You don’t want Bucky to smell your worry, so you bite your cheek to stifle it down.

— 13 YEARS EARLIER (POST CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER)

“He doesn’t talk a lot, but I think he just needs some time to readjust.” Natasha says as the both of you walk past the room of the new addition to the Avengers Tower. HYDRA had called him the Winter Soldier, but Steve calls him Bucky. Steve’s very adamant the rest of the Avengers (and also you) call him Bucky too.

It was your first week at your new job of being the Avenger’s manager. You’re still not sure how Natasha managed to snag this job for you, but it was better to not to question anything. You just couldn’t believe your luck.

Tony seemed apprehensive towards letting you in, but whether he liked it or not, the Avengers were becoming public figures, and they needed someone to manage their schedules. The rest of the Avengers didn’t seem to mind your presence; you were sure they had bigger things to worry about — like the state of the universe, for example.

Natasha had known you for at least a year prior to you moving to New York. She had saved you in an attack in your small hometown. You had no idea what she was doing in a small town like yours, but she had many secrets. You were just thankful she was in the right place and the right time.

As you and Natasha mindlessly tour the tower, you bump into a man much taller than you. It was Bucky.

“Oh— sorry about that.” You apologize instinctively.

Bucky looks at you bewildered. Well, you note that he kind of just always looks that way. It must be hard for him. You knew he was still fighting off the last bits of HYDRA’s brainwashing. It was best to just let him do his own thing, even if his hard stares felt like they were burning holes into your skin.

— PRESENT

You and Bucky finish eating the take-out noodles. They never get any less greasier. There’s spots of grease along Bucky’s mouth. You laugh and gesture to his mouth. “Got something on your face, Bucky.”

“Ah, shit—” Bucky groans as he tries to wipe it off with his hand. It’s unsuccessful, he’s just spread it around instead of getting rid of it.

“Here.” You say as you grab a napkin and start wiping his mouth for him. Bucky tilts his head up towards you as you hold his face. You wipe his lips, cheeks, and chin. You’re too focused on cleaning Bucky’s face that you don’t realize how flustered Bucky looks. “Done.”

You go to wash the oil off your hands in the kitchen sink. Bucky clears his throat to regain composure.

Little moments of soft domesticity like this make this makeshift marriage feel more real. Sometimes, it’s hard reminding yourself that it’s not.

“I should go to bed soon.” You note. You don’t want to end the night early, but you don’t want to seem too desperate for Bucky’s presence.

“Course. Right.” Bucky says. His lack of willingness to keep you around makes you frown. But you know there wasn’t anything to expect. At least it’s a guarantee that you’ll keep seeing him around.

The next morning, you wake up earlier than Bucky. It’s quite rare, knowing your sleep schedule. There’s sounds coming from Bucky’s bedroom. Muttered curses and frantic scribbling. You knock on his door. “Can I come in?”

Bucky looks at the door, his eyes tired. “Oh, yes, come in.”

He looked like a mess. He had fallen asleep at his desk. He was still wearing his suit from last night. That must’ve been uncomfortable, not to mention dirty. “Bucky— are you okay?” You ask, your eyebrows furrowing.

“Mmm, yeah. Perfect.” Bucky says as he stares at his endless pile of paperwork. You sigh as you turn Bucky towards you in his spinny-chair. “I have to go to work soon.” He yawns.

“Yeah, you do.” You respond. He wasn’t close to ready. “Come on, get up.”

Bucky doesn’t protest. He lets you drag him into his walk-in closet. There were a plethora of suits that all looked the same. You pick the first one you see, and shove it into Bucky’s hands. “Put those on.” You tell him as you turn around, to give him privacy.

Bucky does as you say, yawning as he does it. He would usually resist your attempts to help him, especially with tasks so mundane as this, but he was too tired to think. You grab a random necktie and wrap it around Bucky’s neck. Luckily for you, you had spent many hours studying on how to tie a necktie for the day of your wedding. You tie the necktie with swiftness. It’s a little lopsided, but it’ll do. You adjust his tie one last time, patting your hand on his chest as you finish. “Good.”

Bucky smiles weakly. “Thank you, I don’t think I could get anything done without you.”

You let out an amused breath. “I’m barely any help.” You say, as you pick up from stray clothes from off the floor.

Bucky softly smiles and shakes his head, while looking at the large mirror. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“When’s your next day off?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Good. You need the rest, Bucky.” You say. Bucky grins weakly, looking at the ground.

A pause.

“You know, I’m not sure what the hell I’m even doing.” He admits.

It sure was weird seeing Bucky open up. In the grander scheme of things, Bucky wasn’t being vulnerable at all. However, Bucky isn’t one to talk about himself — at all, really. Emotions made him feel antsy. Especially his own.

“Politics isn’t easy, Bucky. I’m sure you’ll grow into it.” You attempt to say some comforting words. You rub one of his shoulders to ground him, or something.

“No.” Bucky laughs lightly as he shakes his head. “I don’t know the first thing about this shit.” Bucky couldn’t admit that his whole sham of a political career was just a ploy to ethically inch himself towards Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Val was hiding something, and Bucky was going to figure it out. That didn’t mean his wife had to be dragged into this.

You purse your lips, unsure of what to say.

“Steve would know what to do.” Bucky sighs. Nowadays, Bucky hasn’t mentioned Steve as much as he used to, but that didn’t mean he never stopped thinking about him.

— 4 YEARS AGO (POST ENDGAME)

There wasn’t much noise from the Avengers anymore. Everyone had gone their own way, feeling lost after the loss of Tony, Natasha, and Steve. You feel sick to your stomach whenever you think about Natasha. Your friend, gone just like that — all for some stupid orange stone. You couldn’t bear to see Clint, his grief clouded him and invaded the space to those around him. You wish you could help him, but you couldn’t even help yourself. You're just grateful Clint at least has his loving family around him.

As you walk around Central Park, you see a familiar face. Bucky. His metal arm stuck out like a sore thumb. The two of you had become acquaintances, and maybe even friends? You could never read him. You also hadn’t talked to him in a while, as he was too busy helping save the fate of the universe. You know, the usual. As you walk up to him, you tap his shoulder and ask, “This spot open?”

Bucky looks up at you and grins weakly. He says your name and scoots on the bench to invite you in.

“How are you holding up?” You ask a dumb question. Everyone was grieving.

“Fine.” Bucky lies. You lean back on the bench.

“Wish I could say the same. I don’t really know what to do with myself.” You laugh, awkwardly.

“Yeah. Same.” Bucky says, seemingly distant.

You and Bucky sit in the silence for a second. “Talked to anyone recently?” You ask.

“Saw Sam a couple of days ago. He’s really busy right now.” Bucky sighs.

“How’s he?”

“Stressed. Steve giving him the shield really put a lot of pressure on him.”

“Can’t imagine what he’s feeling right now.”

There’s another awkward silence as your topic of discussion runs its course.

That’s when you had an idea. You two shouldn’t have to continue living in limbo. You were gonna ask Bucky to hang out, so the both of you guys could be less alone together. Innocent and easy, yeah?

“Let’s get drinks, Bucky.” You ask. He seems confused, but anything sounds better than rocking himself to sleep.

“Really?”

“Why not? I’ve been sitting around for weeks. Steve and Nat would want us to keep living, don’t you think?” You reason.

“I think you’re right. That sounds good.” He says as he gives a small grin.

You get up from the bench and give a hand to Bucky, “C’mon, I know a place.”

Hours passed by, and the night didn’t go quite as well as you planned. You heavily underestimated how much alcohol you could tolerate, as you hadn’t drank in quite some time, and Bucky got carried away trying to drown out his sorrows. Luckily, you could still control yourself, at least when you really focus.

You managed to call an Uber to your apartment. Bucky wraps his arm around you as the two of you stumble into your house. Bucky was sure to regret everything tomorrow morning. But for now, he took his chance to let down his inhibitions and connect with someone else. Bucky hadn’t stopped talking about Steve, which was fine, since you just replied with your own grief about Natasha. The two of you flop on your couch.

“Can’t believe he’s really gone.” He hiccups. “Me neither.”

“He was the greatest.” Bucky mumbles as he lays his head on your couch.

“Natasha was so kind.” You mumble.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Bucky says.

You look at Bucky, his eyes low and fluttery. His lashes look beautiful as Bucky blinks. You sigh as you continue to peer into Bucky’s soul. Bucky would normally feel exposed, but he feels a sense of company he hasn’t felt in a long time. “Me neither.” You say.

There’s a lingering silence. Steve and Nat wouldn’t want the both of you guys drinking yourselves to death over them. The two of you knew that, but it was easier said than done.

“I just feel so alone.” Bucky says as he looks at you. You grab Bucky’s hand, squeezing it tight. You’re unsure of what to say. You should say something comforting, but you feel the same. You feel the same agonizing isolation he feels. You muster up something somewhat comforting to say. “I’m here, you’re not alone.” You say. You wish emotional maturity didn’t feel and sound as corny as it did.

Bucky looks at you. It’s softer than the gaze he would look at you with when the two of you met first at the Avengers Tower. He breathes slowly before he says, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky cups your jaw, and inches himself closer to you. He places a kiss on your mouth. You back away from him a second. He curses to himself, did he mess it up? Maybe he misread the bonding experience the two of you both shared. Maybe you didn’t feel as alone as him, or maybe you didn’t need this as much as he did.

You lean back in, kissing Bucky roughly. Your mouths morphed into one. Quick breaths are taken in between kisses. It was as if kissing was your life-line, and if either one of you were to break it, you would die. Your nose was pressed so hard against Bucky’s face, it felt as though it could break. Your hands were clasped around Bucky’s jaw, your fingers spilling onto his neck. You could feel his heartbeat thunder against his throat. His face was scruffy from his stubble. He felt rough in your hands.

As you break away from the kiss, the both of you take deep gasps of air. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, as he pins his focus on your cheek and jaw. He peppers kisses all along your cheekbones, nose, jaw, and neck.

“Jesus, Bucky..” You whisper out.

The night continues, and you wake up the next morning with you and Bucky’s clothes scattered all over your bedroom floor. Your head felt like it could pop. You felt nauseous as you propped yourself up in your bed. Your twin XL bed wasn’t enough space for you and Bucky. He was nearly falling off the side. You still had enough memories from last night, thankfully. You weren’t sure how Bucky was going to react to it. Shit, maybe this was a bad idea.

— PRESENT

You and your mother had re-planned your previous plans. Your mother was a kind break from the rest of the things on your mind. As you and your mother sat at an outside table outside a quaint little cafe, she let out a little sigh as she looked at you.

“You know, the rest of the family still wants to meet him.” She mentions Bucky.

You loved your mother, but you didn’t love her nagging. “Yeah. Yeah. They’ll meet him soon.”

“You always say that.” Your mother says, as she takes a sip of her coffee. You sigh as you ignore your mother.

After a moment, you finally respond. “I sent them our wedding photos. Surely that’ll hold them over for now.”

“They’re all so nosy. They want to meet him in person.”

You frown. “Bucky’s shy. It’ll happen eventually, mom — trust me.”

“Whatever you say.”

Your apprehension for having Bucky meet your family was understandable. Your family was a lot to deal with, as with every family, you assume. You were scared that Bucky would get scared. You’re not worried about Bucky leaving you over anything, as you were safe as long as Bucky was still a congressman with a ‘family-man’ reputation to uphold. The possibility of Bucky leaving after his term ended made you feel uneasy. Hopefully he likes you enough to keep you around.

— A YEAR AGO (PRE THUNDERBOLTS*)

Bucky had called you to meet him at a nearby bar where he was at the moment. Bucky and you had become proper friends. Friends who don’t really talk about that time they hooked up approximately 3 years ago. You had heard whispers from people of Bucky’s potential political career. Of course, it didn’t make sense to you. But you weren’t one to discourage one from their goals.

You walk into the dingy bar, and wave to Bucky. “How are you, Bucky?” You say as you sit in the seat next to him, making small talk.

“Fine. As good as I can be.” Bucky shrugs, his beer hanging loosely in his hands. You order your usual drink, and Bucky tells the bartender to put it on his tab. Always the gentleman.

“So, what’d you call me for?” You ask.

“Good company. I don’t need an excuse to see you, do I?”

“Course not, Buck — Just didn’t expect it.” You say. You’re always the one who asks Bucky to hangout. The bartender hands you your drink. You thank them swiftly and look back to Bucky.

“It’s good seeing you, really.” Bucky says.

“Is it?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Bucky laughs lightly. “You’re a good break from politics.”

“What are you even doing in politics, anyway?”

Bucky groans. “It’s all for public image, really,” He admits. “Wanna do some good out there, you know. It’ll help the public like me after my whole ‘Winter Soldier’ thing. You know.”

“I think you helping to save the universe did enough for your public perception.”

“People don’t like to forget the past.”

“Fair.”

Of course, Bucky didn’t mention Val. No reason to drag his friend into his ploy. The night went on, and you and Bucky continued catching up. You made sure not to overdrink, only feeling a little looser now than when you walked through the bar doors.

“People don’t really believe my whole campaign. My manager has been saying I need to make my reputation look better.” Bucky mumbles to you.

“How?”

“Well, he suggested I make myself look more family-oriented. Married with kids, and all that.”

You smile as you laugh into your drink. “Good luck with that.” You turn to Bucky silently observing you. His gaze makes you feel exposed. “Something on my face?”

“No, sorry. Just thinking.”

“Whatever you say, Bucky.”

You and Bucky walk out the bar; quite put together, thankfully. You tighten your grip around the handle of your shoulder purse. “Well, it was nice seeing you.”

“Course, you too.” Bucky says as you tap your phone, trying to find yourself an Uber.

“Wait.”

“Hm?”

Bucky cleared his throat, looking nervous and antsy. “You can say no. This is going to sound crazy.”

You furrowed your brows and smiled, timid. “What? Just say it, Bucky, you’re making me nervous.”

“You can say no.”

“Just fucking say it, Bucky.”

“Fine.” Bucky says. He still takes a moment to collect himself, his heartbeat beating out of his chest.

“Would you consider marrying me?” Bucky finally musters the courage to ask.

You stared at Bucky, your anxious grin still not leaving your face. He’s right, he does sound crazy.

“What are you talking about, Bucky?” You laugh as you shake your head.

“If I asked you, would you marry me?” Bucky repeats himself.

“You’re drunk.” You laugh off his question, awkwardly.

“You know how I am when I’m drunk.”

“You being sober doesn’t normally include you proposing.”

“You can say no.”

“Why are you even asking me that?”

Bucky flicks his fingers in anxiety. He asked out of desperation, the pressures of appearing family-oriented to the public weighed on him. Also, the fact you were previously the manager for the Avengers could also help with his public perception bullshit. You being attractive also helped. He wouldn’t say that out loud though, he had class.

“Doesn’t have to be real. Just has to look it.” Bucky says. “You can do your own thing, I can do mine.”

“This for your politics?” You guess correctly, rubbing your forehead.

Bucky sighs. “Yeah.”

“I’m not sure, Bucky.. This is a lot to ask—” You say, before getting cut off by Bucky.

“Just think about it. You can say no.“

You bite your bottom lip. “I’ll think about it.”

It’s been a few days since Bucky asked you to marry him. You hadn’t texted him since, being too scared to do so. Bucky beats himself over it. He was sure he messed up a good friendship for something so stupid; of course you’d say no. What was he thinking?

You walk back into your dark, empty apartment. The dishes you had refused to wash piled in your sink. It’s eerily silent. And cold. Your landlord was neglectful, proven by your heater that had been broken for weeks. You made up for the cold by buying more blankets. You couldn’t buy another portable heater just yet, you were late on last month’s rent. You were trying to find work after being blipped and after the Avenger’s disbanded.

You groan, your head laying back on the edge of the couch. Bucky’s offer didn’t sound so crazy. You’ve been to Bucky’s house a couple of times. A proper heater and A/C sounded more and more appealing. Not worrying about how you’re going to pay rent sounded more and more appealing. Not being so alone sounded appealing as well.

In your moment of desperation, you text Bucky back. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

— A WEEK AGO FROM PRESENT DAY

You were busy wiping the countertops as Bucky came back home. Bucky didn’t drink as much as he used to. You were surprised to smell alcohol off of Bucky’s clothes.

“I’m home.” Bucky calls out as he drops his bag down on the floor.

“Bucky.” You grin. You were happy that the house wasn’t going to feel as daunting as it did when you were alone. Bucky’s good company, whether or not you liked to admit it.

Bucky smiles at you. The smell of alcohol invaded your nostrils. “You drank?”

“Only a few drinks. One or two. Maybe three.” Bucky says. You roll your eyes, smiling softly.

“Jesus, Buck.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

“Not.” Bucky says as he sits on the couch.

“Need anything? We got some leftovers, if you’d like.” You offer. Bucky looks back at you, tempted. You heat up food for him, and hand it to him carefully. “It’s hot, be careful.”

“What would I do without you?” Bucky says with his mouth stuffed with food.

“Probably die.” You say, as you pick off food from his face. Bucky giggles. “Yeah. Probably.”

Bucky brings his plate to the sink and starts to wash it. You attempted to do it for him, but Bucky insisted. He wanted to prove he didn’t need your help with everything — not that he really minded the help.

Bucky comes back to the couch. Later, he’s mindlessly watching TV as you’re attempting to read the book you promised to finish about 3 months earlier. His hot body lays on top of you. Like a custom heated, weighted blanket. Bucky’s hot body clashes with his abnormally cold metal arm. You’ve usually found yourself placing your hands on top of Bucky’s arm, as to cool your hands that are always hot. You and Bucky have formed your own mutualistic relationship. In terms of body heat.

The walls Bucky usually has up are lowered, thanks to the alcohol. He gently inches closer to you, resting his head on you. You smile softly. He’s usually like this when he’s a little tipsy. You can’t blame him, you know a lot of touchy drunks. You gently play with the ends of his long hair. Bucky nearly purrs from the soft sensation. He’s like a cat in your touch.

You lay on the couch, to which Bucky adapts and lays on your stomach, his arms wrapped around you. How silly. You continue brushing your hands through his scalp. The soft companionship makes you feel warm inside.

You had finished about 30 pages of your book when you realized that Bucky hadn’t spoken or moved much in a while. He had fallen asleep on you. You laugh as you look at the large man on you. It was a funny sight, for sure. You go back to reading your book. Reading usually makes you sleepy, though. It’s not a surprise that you fall asleep not too soon after.

— PRESENT

You fidget with the ring on your finger. It was a plain, gold band. You didn’t want to run through Bucky’s pockets when trying to pick out a ring. It would be nice to have a pretty ring, though. Bucky was going to come back home anytime now. He texted you that he was going to pick up food on the way back. You had nothing to do, no more work for the day and no food to cook for someone. It felt weird, but you tuned out the little itch in your head to be useful by mindlessly doom scrolling.

Bucky opens the door with his keys. He groans as he knocks off his shoes and takes off his jacket.

“What’d you get us?” You ask, from the couch.

“Thai.” Bucky mumbles as he lifts up the large bag to show you. He sounds tired.

“Oh, my favorite.” You say as you grab the large takeout bag from Bucky’s hands. You place the bag on the dinner table, and rush to grab cutlery for the two of you.

“Actually.. I think I’m gonna eat alone.” Bucky says as he grabs his food and laptop to bring to his room.

“Oh. Okay.” You say, disappointed. You don’t want to shove your company onto Bucky, so you just agree. Compliant wife, or whatever. Bucky didn’t stay long, he immediately headed towards his room. Did you do something wrong? Why was being like this?

After Bucky had got up and left for his room, you grabbed your portion of the food and brought it towards the coffee table in front of the TV. Eating alone while watching TV reminded you too much of your life before you decided to “marry” Bucky.

After approximately 30 minutes, Bucky walks out his bedroom, with his takeout trash in his hands. You get up, walking towards Bucky. “I can get that!” You say, desperately trying to help out.

“Oh—” Bucky says, surprised.

“You need anything, Buck? I can go fill up the tub, or clean your room. Ugh, I’m sorry I didn’t clean before, I really should’ve, that’s on me—” You ramble. Bucky cuts you off by saying your name.

“Stop. It’s.. it’s fine.” Bucky says, looking overwhelmed and overstimulated. You bite back a whimper as you nod your head. You so desperately want to be a helping hand, and yet now, you just feel like an overwhelming burden. “Sorry.”

Bucky purses his lips. “I’m just going to go to bed.” He says, as he throws his trash away by himself.

“Right. Okay. Goodnight.”

The next day, you stay at your friend’s place. You had the day off, and you thought it was best to spend the day with someone that wasn’t Bucky. Or your mom. During the day, you think back to how Bucky was last night. He has a lot on his plate. Maybe you really were being too much. As much as you didn’t wish for it to happen, you couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky.

The idea that you had planted into your own brain, the idea that Bucky might leave you after his term ends, haunted you. It seemed silly. He wouldn’t just leave, right? Well... there’s been no signs that Bucky would necessarily stay. He wasn’t obligated to, and neither were you. You wouldn’t leave, though. You’ve grown accustomed to your new life with Bucky. Bucky on the other hand, might want to return to his life of peace and quiet he had before he married you. God, this whole thing made you feel sick.

Your friend had seemed worried about you, but you were adamant you were fine. You didn’t allow her to worry about you. Nothing for her to worry about, after all.

It was late at night when you returned home. Using the keys Bucky gave you, you tried to enter as quietly as you could.

Bucky’s at the dinner table, looking concerned. He eases once he sees you.

“Where have you been?” He asks, standing from his chair.

“At a friend’s place.” You tell him. The conversation sends you flashbacks to your teenage years; when your parents would be worried sick about your whereabouts. Is this what your relationship with Bucky has amounted to? Some kind of parental relationship?

“You should’ve texted me.”

“Right.”

“I’m being serious.”

You feel uneasy, and also annoyed. Why the hell did Bucky care? You two weren’t actually together. Roommates don’t have to always know where the other one is. That doesn’t change with Bucky — who’s basically your glorified roommate.

“Sure.” You mumble.

Bucky glares at you. “What the hell’s your problem?” He asks. You don’t get into fights with Bucky often. Fighting also makes you anxious. Perfect combo for you.

“Nothing, Bucky.” You say, as you hang your bag and outdoor clothes on the nearby hangers.

“Obviously there’s something bothering you. Just spit it out.”

You roll your eyes, which makes Bucky’s jaw clench. Bucky doesn’t need to pretend he cares. “Let’s just leave this alone.” You say, as you try to head to the bathroom, to freshen up before going to bed.

“No. What’s going on with you?” Bucky says, as he grabs your arm, holding you back.

You stare at Bucky, taken back by his audacity. “Fine.”

Bucky drags you to the couch. The place where a week ago, you were sure Bucky and you had a proper, domestic moment. Maybe he didn’t think much of it. He was tipsy, after all. Would Bucky still want to be tender with you if he didn’t have a couple drinks in him? Did you sicken him that much?

“Why have you been avoiding me? Did I do something? Please— just tell me.” Bucky pleads, hints of worry speckled in his soft, blue eyes.

Being vulnerable never came easy to you. The feeling of burdening others with your mundane emotions made you feel sick. Feelings of anxiety bubbled from your stomach to your chest.

“I.. haven’t been avoiding you—” You say, before you’re swiftly cut off.

“You have been. I’ve texted you multiple times today.” Bucky says, matter-of-factly. You clear your throat, feeling too exposed.

“Okay, well..” You find yourself trailing off again.

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky says, while also saying your name, distressed. “Just fucking say it.”

Bucky’s attitude was out of control. You scoff with your eyebrows furrowed, staring holes into Bucky.

“Stop fucking doing that.” You say, biting your bottom lip in uneasiness.

“I will if you just fucking let me know what’s been up with you.”

“Fine! Fine.” You say, trying to sort your thoughts. How much are you willing to expose to Bucky? Are you really willing to spill to him that you actually do like him? Well, not that you’re like, in love with him or anything, but the idea you’ve planted in your head that Bucky might choose to leave you after he leaves his failing career in politics lingered in your brain. Shit, who were you kidding. You were in love with Bucky. You were in love with Bucky and it was eating you up alive. You’re not used to being so open. It feels so invasive.

“You can tell me anything.” Bucky attempts to be comforting, but he’s unsure of its effectiveness. He grabs your hands, and rubs loving circles with his thumbs. How unfair.

“You know, it’s stupid..” You say.

“Not stupid.” Bucky responds.

“I was just mad.. That you seemed distant. Last night.” You let out.

Bucky lets out a deep breath. “Right.”

“It’s stupid. It’s not like you always have to be around me.” You try to explain, but Bucky cuts you off short.

“No. It makes sense. I’ve been really stressed out recently.”

“No, no, right, right. That makes sense. I told you, it’s stupid.” You find yourself rambling over Bucky again. Bucky cuts you off by saying your name yet again.

“Stop. Breathe. It’s fine, really.”

You take a deep breath in. It makes you feel less like you’re about to pass out, but the antsiness never leaves your chest. Bucky places a hand on your knee that had been bouncing like crazy. You didn’t even realize it was shaking.

“Well, that can’t be it, right?” Bucky urges you to continue. You pick at your ring, a tic you’ve picked up on during the last couple of months.

“I just.. feel-like-a-burden-to-you.” You say quickly, hoping the faster you say it, the faster this whole conversation will end.

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. He looks almost.. hurt? “Why would you think that?” He says, almost too lovingly. What a considerate asshole.

“I just.. I know I overwhelm you. I just want to feel useful. Make you feel like you didn’t make a mistake in choosing me as your fake wife.”

“I fully knew what I was doing when I asked you.”

“I can’t help it.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.” Bucky says, quietly.

You fight back the urge to say, ‘You’re just saying that.’ He was just being nice. God, you hate that he managed to fish all this out of you. You felt so bare. Bucky knocks you out of your trance by saying your name.

“Look at me, okay? You don’t have to prove anything to me.” He says, with a face too genuine it makes your stomach churn. You spin your ring around your finger. How easy would it be to just give it back to him? He’s just gonna leave you anyway when he decides to leave politics.

“You should have this back.” You say, gesturing to the ring. You didn’t mean to be so dramatic in the way you decided to hand back Bucky his ring. Just fell out that way.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, looking bewildered.

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to keep being with me even after your term ends. This whole thing was to appear family-oriented to the public, right? So, when you’re done, you should be able to do your own thing. I don’t want to hold you back.” You let the words flow out your mouth. While it did make you feel like a burden had been lifted off your shoulders, with the way Bucky looked at you, it didn’t do much for making you feel any better.

“What?”

You sigh, biting your lip. Little droplets of blood bead at your lip from where you bit. You wipe it away, hoping Bucky doesn’t overanalyze how you’re acting.

“You should be able to meet someone else, you know. Someone you actually want to spend the rest of your life with. You don’t have to do this whole charity thing, you know.”

“Charity?” Bucky repeats, baffled. “Is that what you think?”

“You know, I’m surprised you hadn’t seen anyone during the time we were together. Missed opportunity, I think.”

“Jesus,” Bucky says, his words tinged with a slight tone of disappointment. You hate the way it makes you feel.

Bucky’s quiet for a moment, but you could tell small bits of anger was boiling inside him.

“That why you were so close and personal with that fucking guy— what was his name.. Dex? You thought I was out here, doing the same shit?” Bucky says, his jealousy reaching his throat, choking on his own words.

“I..” You struggle to find the words. “I wasn’t doing anything with that guy.”

“You know, the way you looked at him made me feel fucking sick. Jesus, I’d never want anyone to feel the way I felt then.”

“Jesus— Bucky, you’re making me sound like some kind of monster.” You scoff.

“And you’re making me sound any better?” Bucky retorts. Bucky’s words make you choke up on your own. “You make it seem I was just trying to use you.. Like I don’t appreciate you, at all.”

“Which isn’t true.” Bucky adds, at the last second.

You groan, sinking into the couch. It would be convenient if the couch swallowed you whole, right about now. It would save you the trouble.

“Talk to me.” Bucky pleaded, again. His eyes were glued onto you. His fleshy hand felt clammy.

“You’re going to hate me.” You mumble. “I could never.”

You take a deep breath in, trying to compose yourself the best you can. You’re so anxious, you can barely find the words you want to use.

“God.” You say.

“I fucking love you, okay? As if it’s not glaringly obvious. Fuck.” You say, to Bucky’s surprise. “I want to feel helpful, I want you to want me around you, and I want you to want me the way I want you.” You say, truthful, for once.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. Well, he’s happy, of course. Thrilled, one could say. He didn’t want to jump at his chance to be with you so fast, out of fear of looking starved and desperate. But life was too short to worry about how he was perceived. His grin spread from cheek to cheek. You didn’t know if that was necessarily a good thing or a bad thing. His stupid, beautiful fucking face shone at you.

“Say something. I feel like I’m gonna vomit.” You say quietly.

“Jesus Christ. You know how long I’ve been waiting to hear that shit?” Bucky says before he clasps your face, bringing you towards his face with a clash. Bucky kisses you like he did that one night many years ago. But yet, now, it’s more caring. More careful. You melt like a puddle in his hands. This is everything you wanted, but your fear of underperforming haunts you.

“Just let me guide you.” Bucky breathes out, saying the perfect thing. It’s like he could read you. He knew you through and through. Bucky’s tongue slips into your mouth with ease. He lovingly kisses your top and bottom lip. He did exactly what you needed. He guided you through it.

Bucky grabs you by your thighs, lifting you up and taking you to his bedroom. He mindlessly opens the door. He’s too busy being engrossed by your presence. It’s intoxicating. Bucky feels his way through his room. He lays you gently on the side of his bed.

“Fuck.” He whispers out, as he grabs the side of your face, lifting your gaze up to reach his. You looked so beautiful under his touch, and he was dedicated to making you never doubt how much you mean to him again.

Bucky sits beside you, shoving his mouth on yours again. His tongue follows down the path of your throat. His hands slowly graze the sides of your thighs. You felt soft in his hands. It made him feel insane. Bucky let out small praises, whispers of ‘So gorgeous’ and, ‘I needed this’ exit his mouth. You took your hand, the hand that wasn’t clasped around Bucky’s face, and palmed at Bucky’s unmistakable boner. Bucky lets out a deep groan. “Jesus.”

Bucky reacts by swiftly removing your top, still kissing you. He was desperate to see you. You unbuckled Bucky’s belt, and unbuttoned his pants. “Tell me what you need.” Bucky says.

You laughed into the kiss. You felt the growing knot in your stomach expand. You needed Bucky as much as he wanted you. “I want to sit on your face, Bucky.”

“Course you do.” Bucky responds, as he pulls off your clothes. Bucky lifts you over him, so you’re straddling his chest. It was embarrassing, having Bucky feel the growing wet spot from your core on his skin. You couldn’t really think much of it though, you had bigger things to think about right now.

Bucky adjusts himself just perfectly under you, his eyes looking at you, filled with lust and care. You fall forward on the headboard of the bed; the first touch from Bucky’s tongue on your pussy making you reel forward.

Bucky was an animal. His tongue drove into you like a machine. He would spend time easing you into it, but he was selfish. He needed you, and guessing from the sounds you’re making, you needed him too.

“Fuck— Oh my god!” You moan out.

You rest your arms over top of the headboard for support. You leaned your head on top of your arms, only making the bottom of your face visible to Bucky. He reaches his hand towards your chest and pushes you back, notioning that he wants the full view.

“Fuck. Fuck, Bucky— I…” You whisper out as you lean your arms back to support yourself on Bucky’s torso. Your boobs jiggle over Bucky’s face in a mesmerizing way. Bucky wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking on it. You’re so wet already, it’s proven by the ridiculous sounds Bucky’s mouth is making while eating you up.

As you inch closer and closer to your high, you’re cut off by Bucky’s frantic slapping on your thigh. You get up from off of him immediately, to which he gasps in a big breath of air. He was nearly drowning in your pussy. Which, honestly, Bucky wouldn’t mind it if that’s how he was going to go. His mouth is filled with remnants of your arousal, to which he swallows easily. There’s even some in his nostrils. Jesus. How fucking grotesque.

“You’re gonna kill me, darling.” Bucky laughs out. “You’re gonna kill me first.” You breathe out.

Bucky grins as he grabs you and flips you on your stomach with ease. He takes off his boxers as quickly as he can, eager to feel you. The cold feel of the blankets and pillows is a nice contrast to how hot your body feels against Bucky. Bucky grabs your ass, lifting it up as his erection springs out his boxers.

The first thrust into you feels like heaven. Bucky fills you up, and your pussy stretches around him. Bucky swears this is heaven. Bucky pounds into you with ease, the bed shakes under the two of you.

“So good. Oh my god—” You manage to say out loud. Bucky leans over you, reaching his fingers to your sensitive clit. The sensation is nearly too much. Your eyes roll back into your head, and you’re only a little glad that Bucky can’t see just how much of a mess he’s making you.

“Jesus, baby. You’re being so good for me.” Bucky mumbles lazily. He’s becoming nearly undone. He feels as though he could cum any moment now. “Taking it so well, yeah?” Bucky asks.

The only answer you could give him was a nearly inaudible, “Mm-hm.”

Bucky laughs. He slowly envelops his hands with fistfuls of your hair. He pulls your head back to look at him. You have one hand on the bed, one hand on the headboard. Your eyes peered all the way back at Bucky. “Tell me, tell me how good you’re being for me.”

“I’m.. fuck, I’m being good for you, Bucky.” You mumble out, mindlessly. Bucky loved seeing you come undone by him. Made him feel good. You feel tears prick up in your eyes from the overwhelming sensation. You can’t keep holding on for much longer, your high was near. Pathetic moans exit your mouth repeatedly. You were gasping for air, and you bit on your bottom lip to help you deal with the pleasure consuming you. Bucky thrusts get sloppier and more inconsistent, the closer he gets to his own release.

Bucky continued pounding into you. “Do you even remember that fucking loser’s name?” He groans out, mentioning Dex. To be fair, you weren’t far from forgetting your own name. You shake your head no rapidly. “I don’t— I don’t remember his name.” You babble out.

“Good. God, you’re so good under me.”

“Oh my— gonna, gonna cum, Bucky.”

“Cum, please— oh my god.” Bucky begs you, his mind getting too clouded by his own pleasure.

You do what he asks of you. You cum around his cock, and he revels in the sensation. He fucks you through the high, which nearly makes you scream out. Bucky had already planned on leaving this stupid politician shit behind him. But seeing you like this, all fucked out for him, was the icing on the cake. He could have you like this all the time, with no shitty and pointless job to hold him back.

“Cum inside of me.” You beg, desperate. Bucky bites back a guttural moan from that. His thrusts are becoming incredibly sloppy. He does as you ask of him, and cums inside of you. The feeling drives you insane. Bucky falls on top of you, the weight of him crushing you. Bucky rolls off of you, his breath shaky and uneven. Bucky presses hot kisses on your back and neck.

After a moment of recovery, you turn to Bucky, giggling. You felt safe with Bucky. Bucky wrapped his arms around you, kissing your head softly.

“Still think I’m gonna leave you?” Bucky asks, his tone light.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky— Shut the fuck up.”

4K notes · View notes

marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

Text

I Would Let the World Burn

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Non-superhero!Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: You attend a public Avengers event as Bucky’s girlfriend for the first time, but things spiral from nerves to chaos in a matter of seconds. And when you’re caught in the crossfire, Bucky unleashes.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: violence; injury; PTSD elements; emotional distress; explosions; mass panic; allusions to death; protective!Bucky; nobody hurts his girl; seriously, he’s a little feral here

Author’s Note: I need protective Bucky all day and all night omg. Thank you so much, my love, for this absolutely amazing request!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The lights are everywhere.

Glinting off skyscraper windows and camera lenses, bouncing off metallic armor and too-white smiles.

The voices are everywhere. They swarm like bees - the press, the fans, the murmuring of people watching people.

The flash of the cameras is a strobe light stinging the back of your eyes. Reporters shout questions like bullets, flinging them past your ears and into your chest.

You feel your lungs shrinking in your ribcage as if they’ve decided you’ve seen enough. Felt enough. Been too much.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in this crowd, not in this dress, not in front of a hundred reporters and their glittering cameras. Not in the spotlight. Not on the arm of the Bucky Barnes.

You tug at the hem of your dress, fingers nervous, breath catching on a sigh you don’t release. Everyone here looks like they belong - as if they were born to walk red carpets and sip sparkling drinks under light that only blinds you. You feel like an ink smudge on a page of golden script.

It’s the first time you’re out in the public with him. The first time the press will capture who’s been speculated to be the former Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

Bucky spent the night whispering reassurances into your skin, but it seems you should have listened to his words rather than the feeling of his plump lips all over your body.

Your hand is in his, and his thumb traces slow circles against you, metal fingers warm from your skin. His other hand rests lightly on your back. He hasn’t let go of you once.

You look up at him.

And he’s already looking at you.

He looks perfect, tailored, controlled, dangerous in a way that makes people stare too long and then look away even faster.

His hair is swept back tonight, save for one defiant strand that keeps falling across his brow. You keep watching that strand as if it’s a lifeline. Like if you can count how many times it falls, maybe your nerves will shut the hell up.

You know he feels how tense you are.

He frowns, and it’s so soft it nearly breaks your heart. That Bucky Barnes can frown like that. As if you just told him you were fading into dust.

“Hey,” Bucky coos, voice soft, voice low, the world dissolving for a second into nothing but him and you. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You try to nod. But you can’t lie to him. Words jam in your throat, caught somewhere between the beat of your heart and the reality of who he is and who you are not.

“I just-” you manage, but it’s a little shaky, you look around. “I feel out of place.”

Bucky tilts his head, brow still furrowed tightly. “Why?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Try to explain how it feels to be ordinary in a sea of extraordinary. How it feels to be his, but not one of them. How terrifying it is to not have armor, or training, or anything more than love for a man who could kill with his pinky finger and kindness in his eyes just for you.

Bucky steps in close, crowding the noise out with the breadth of his body, his warmth, the familiarity of his scent - cedar and cold and something quietly him. His nose brushes yours, and it’s stupid how it grounds you.

“I’d rather be anywhere else,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “I’d rather be nowhere. Just me and you. On a rooftop. Under the sheets. In the woods. I don’t care. Just not here. No noise. No cameras. No Stark in a tuxedo with a martini making bad decisions.”

You laugh, and it trembles out of you.

His smile is all softness and secret promises. His eyes are glinting. “But if I have to be here - then I'm glad it’s with you.”

The way he says it - quiet, low, as if it’s something he only ever told the wind - freezes everything inside you and sets it on fire all at once.

You blink, and the fear stutters. Collapses a little. Because it’s not you and the Avengers. It’s you and Bucky.

His lips graze your ear, then your temple, taking his time. He’s not bothered at all by the cameras flashing around you, capturing this moment, capturing the Winter Soldier going soft on his girlfriend.

You want to fall into him. You want to crawl into his chest and live there.

You let out a breath. It’s just beginning to feel okay. The world quiets just for a second.

Then it explodes.

There’s a metallic whine, a rumble like thunder swallowed by stone. The ground jerks beneath your feet as though it’s trying to shake you off. Screams tear through the air. A plume of smoke mushrooms in the sky as fire roars from the far end of the pavilion. People scatter. Glass shatters. Concrete buckles.

You don’t even have time to be shocked when Bucky already reacts.

He pushes you behind him so fast your teeth snap together. He doesn’t look back. His body shields yours, metal arm braced outward, flesh hand pressing you into his back, eyes scanning for threats.

Another explosion cracks through the sky, rips through the atmosphere like an angry god. And right after, the next explosion follows, punched through the sky like a fist made of fire.

You cough, eyes watering. There’s debris. Someone’s car door skitters across the ground like a dead insect. Tony’s suit whirs to life across the square. Natasha’s already sprinting. Sam is in the air.

Bucky is moving, dragging you behind a line of armored cars, his body is coiled with tension, his expression is deadly serious.

“Stay here!” he orders. It’s his soldier voice. Cold steel and no argument. He’s never used this voice on you before.

“Bucky-”

“Y/n, stay down,” he barks sharply, and you nearly flinch. But his tone is not filled with anger. It’s filled with fear. “Do not move until I come back for you.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might break your ribs. Your head is shaking from side to side so fast, you can’t do anything. “No- Bucky-”

He cups your face, his hands stiff, his hold almost rough. He leans in. “Stay. Here,” he growls. “I can’t do this if I’m worried about you.”

His eyes tell you he already is. He will be. But he doesn’t tell you.

He waits for you to nod, although he doesn’t have the time. An almost aggressive kiss is pressed to your mouth, then to your forehead, and he is gone. Thrown into chaos, lost in the smoke and fury and shouts.

You barely register the space he leaves behind. The smoke moves like a creature through the crowd, making people disappear wholly. Somewhere nearby, there’s another explosion. The screams rise again, louder.

You crouch lower, press yourself against the cold steel of the car, try to breathe through the hammer in your chest. You want to do what he said. You try to do what he said.

But the panic moves toward you.

You don’t see where it starts. Just feel it. A shove. A push. Someone collides with your hiding place, someone is behind you and suddenly you’re on the ground. White-hot pain at your side. You fall hard enough to see stars. A sharp ache slices down your shoulder where debris must have caught you. Blood runs hot and slick beneath your dress.

Disoriented, you try to push up on trembling arms but they shake too much, and everything is spinning.

You don’t see the soldier until you turn your head and there’s a flash of metal in his hand. A knife.

“Y/n!”

It’s your name. It’s Bucky’s voice. It’s not a shout. It’s a roar. As if it was ripped out of his chest. As if he’s afraid of what he’ll find when he gets to you.

From fifty yards away, across smoke and bodies and fire, he sees the blood blooming on your sleeve. Sees your fingers twitch as you try to sit up. Sees the man with the knife coming too close.

And he is barreling through the smoke like something unholy, eyes wild, teeth clenched, hands balled to fists. The light behind his eyes just snaps.

He moves as though he’s been set free. No hesitation. No fear. No softness left in him. His face is stone, is fury, is death, is Winter Soldier. His arm gleams under the flames, a ghost of his past resurrected in defense of his present.

Bucky hits the guy with bone-crushing force, enough to send teeth skittering across pavement. A scream echoes once before it’s cut off. Another blow. Another. Fist to face. Elbow to jaw. A crunch that sounds like death and rage all rolled into one. His vibranium hand wraps around the man’s throat, and you swear you see something flash in his eyes - something ancient and broken - before Bucky picks him up and slams him against a crumbling wall. Again. And again.

It’s not strategy. It’s not mercy. It’s pure rage.

Somewhere, Steve yells his name like a warning.

Bucky doesn’t stop.

“Bucky-” you croak, blood warm down your arm. You try to sit up.

In an instant, he turns back to you, easing up on his brutal hold and the soldier crumples to the ground. Bucky’s whole body is tight with adrenaline, his breath sawing in and out as though he ran through a warzone - which he kind of did. For you. His eyes find yours and shatter.

He’s at your side in half a breath.

“Baby,” he whispers, hands on your face, on your shoulder, trembling now. “No, no, no. You weren’t supposed to be- I told you to stay-”

“I tried,” you defend weakly, dizzy. “I didn’t- I’m okay. I think. Just- grazed me, maybe-”

But he’s not hearing you. Not through the panic tearing holes in his composure. His hands flutter, unsure where to land without hurting you more. His voice drops, gravelly and hushed. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. Shit, I should’ve known-”

“Hey.” You grab his wrists. “Bucky.”

He stills, but he won’t meet your eyes. Your thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. “I’m okay.”

But he’s too far in his head.

He wraps you in his arms in seconds, cradles you as if you’re made of moonlight and scripture, as if you’re hallowed and half-broken and held together by threads only he can see.

His metal hand supports your back, curved protectively around your spine. His other hand is pressing your legs into his chest.

The darkening sky is still full of smoke and sirens.

Colors smear across the sky like blood in water. Reds and blues. Shouting and static. Flashing lights and fractured ground. Somewhere nearby, someone is screaming. Somewhere farther, something explodes.

But not for him anymore. He doesn’t seem to hear anything. Doesn’t seem to listen to anything other than your breathing, your pulse.

He walks fast, but carefully. Erratic feet cut through rubble, his jaw is locked so hard, his body so rigid, he surely is in pain from holding all that tension. His eyes are storm-dark and unblinking. No one stops him. Not Steve. Not Tony. Not even the medics who see the look on his face and take a cautious step back as though maybe the devil borrowed his bones tonight.

He never trusted any random medic to look you over. It has to be someone he knows.

You whisper his name.

Soft. Breathless. Almost an apology.

And he almost drops to his knees.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, hoarse and urgent. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You know you are. But he doesn’t.

Your fingers curl in the collar of his suit jacket. His real name - James - lives on your tongue but never quite makes it out because he’s holding you too close, and perhaps saying his name might crush him completely.

He smells like smoke and ash and steel and blood. Your temple is tucked against the curve of his neck, where his pulse thunders beneath the surface. He’s warm and shaking.

He bursts into the quinjet that brought you here like a man on fire, like a man trying to outpace grief, and he yells something sharp. He lays you down - reluctantly, tenderly, surrendering - onto a stretcher, but his hands don’t stop touching you.

He’s a storm with a purpose, and that purpose is you.

You, safe.

You, whole.

You, alive.

“Bucky,” you try to ease, blinking up at him, face pale under flickering emergency lights. “I told you, baby. It’s not that bad.” Your voice is soft. Slow.

“You were on the ground.” His voice cracks.

“I was on the ground for like two seconds-”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It stopped, baby. Okay? There’s no fresh blood.” You are close to whispering.

Bucky doesn’t seem eased, though. He sits beside you. Big body bent in half, elbows on knees, one trembling hand reaching to gently - so, so gently - brush your hair from your forehead.

And then he says it.

“I would’ve burned the whole goddamn city to get to you.” Quiet. Like a vow. Like a confession. Like faith. Like a truth, he doesn’t know how to carry anymore. “I would’ve torn down buildings with my bare hands if I didn’t see your breathing. I don’t care who saw. I don’t care what they think-” his voice breaks, his breaths spill all over his words. “I can’t be okay without you.”

You stare up at him. Your throat is tight, eyes are stinging. Because he doesn’t say things like that. Not often. Not out loud. You see it in his eyes every day, in the way he looks at you, in the way he treats you. But it’s something else entirely to hear him form those words and let his tongue roll them out.

He presses his forehead to yours. His breath ghosts over your lips. His eyes are closed. His hand cups the back of your head.

He’s holding you so close to him, as if he’s never intending to let go ever again.

#2k drabble challenge request #2k drabble challenge #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #avengers bucky #bucky x reader angst #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky imagine #mcu bucky barnes #bucky x reader fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine

4K notes · View notes

mynameismckenziemae · 4 months ago

Text

Poor Bucky 😂

sam’s emergency contact everyone:

thunderbolts exclusive look

#he just can’t catch a break #bucky barnes

3K notes · View notes

buckyseternaldoll · 25 days ago

Text

Vaulted

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When a mission turns sideways and you’re sealed in a lightless HYDRA vault with Bucky Barnes, buried trauma resurfaces fast. But vulnerability cracks open truth, and the quiet intimacy that follows reveals something deeper than either of you expected. What starts in darkness might just become something real.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), depictions of PTSD (reader and Bucky), mentions of past traumas involving captivity and torture (non-explicit), emotional vulnerability, consent-focused smut (not in established relationship), smut with emotional fluff, somewhat hurt/comfort, soft!Bucky

Word Count: 6,108

Author's Note: I can't find any gif with the exact outfit but I am having this image of him when writing this

The hum of the door seals with a final hiss, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You’re already mid-step toward the exit when you hear Bucky curse under his breath—low, sharp, controlled. You whip around. The vault door is shut. Fully. Seamless. Like it was never there.

No lights. No comms. No air circulation except for the faintest draft somewhere behind the walls.

“Shit,” you mutter, reaching for the control panel embedded beside the door. You’re already digging into your tactical belt for the pulse override chip, fingers shaking just slightly as you slot it in.

Nothing. Dead. As if the tech was rotting from the inside out.

You step back, breathing through your nose. Focus. Don’t let it crawl in.

Behind you, you can feel Bucky’s presence—steady, solid, watchful in the dark. His gear creaks slightly as he moves. You don’t have to look to know he’s wearing his mission fit: that fitted, dark combat jacket molded to his frame, straps crossing his chest, vibranium arm matte and silent at his side. You know how he moves by now—how he blends into the quiet, how he always stands between you and the threat.

Except there’s no enemy now. Just this silence. This dark.

This enclosure.

Your voice comes out tighter than expected. “If I had fifteen minutes and my portable terminal, I could brute-force a recursive decrypt.”

Bucky grunts. “Too bad your portable terminal’s in the jet.”

You don’t laugh. Neither does he.

You try the panel again, but the minute your fingers brush the cold edge of the steel frame, your throat tightens. Your mind flashes—not forward, but back.

To the old metal walls that boxed you in when you were barely more than a child. The bitter stench of mold and sweat. Cold porridge. Water so stale it tasted like metal filings. The clank of boots. The door opening—only ever to bring pain.

You swallow hard. Try again.

“You okay?” Bucky asks softly.

His voice breaks the air like a blade through cotton. Gentle, but sharp. You know he hears it—the shift in your breath, the sound your boots made when you stepped just a little too fast, too frantic.

“I’m fine,” you lie. But your voice catches, and he hears that too.

You press your palm to the steel wall, trying to ground yourself, but your body betrays you.

Sweat beads along your spine, cold despite the stifling warmth trapped in the airless vault. Your breath sticks in your throat. The darkness feels thicker now—dense, like it’s pushing in from every angle, like it’s alive and watching. Your fingers curl into your palms. You tell yourself this isn’t the same, this isn’t then—but your body doesn’t listen.

Behind you, Bucky shifts.

You don’t see him move, but you feel it—hear it. The creak of his tactical gear. The faint scratch of fabric against concrete. And then, the sharp stillness.

He smells it before anything else—your sweat. Not the heat-of-battle kind. This is cold, anxious. Your scent hits the air like an unspoken alarm, sharp and sudden beneath the usual steel and dust of the vault.

Then he hears it.

Your heartbeat.

Fast. Erratic. Like boots on tile, sprinting in panic.

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the dark—gentler now. Controlled. “What’s happening?”

You don’t answer at first. You can’t. You’re trembling before the words even reach your mouth. Your knees wobble beneath your weight, pulse roaring in your ears like a tide coming in.

“It’s—just the dark,” you manage, your voice too tight, too high. “And the quiet. The space. It’s not you. I just—”

You cut yourself off. Try to breathe. Try to swallow the clawing thing in your throat.

“I need to sit.”

You hear Bucky move. His boots scuff the concrete, just once. Hesitation.

You don’t look at him. You lower yourself to the cold ground, back to the wall, and stare into the dark. The walls feel closer now.

Your voice comes out in a whisper.

“Can I… sit next to you? I mean—I need to hold something. I just—” You stop. You don’t want to beg.

There’s silence. For a second, you think he’s going to say no. You wouldn’t blame him. He’s already carried enough broken things in his life.

But then you hear the quiet shuffle of movement, the whisper of leather and gear. He steps closer. Kneels. Doesn’t say a word.

And then—he offers it.

His flesh hand.

Glove off. Palm open.

You hesitate only for a second before you take it. Your fingers wrap around his—warm, solid, real—and your shoulders fall like something just slipped off them. Your other hand reaches for the warmth of his arm, and slowly, inch by inch, you lean into him. Not all at once—just enough for him to feel your weight and decide if he’ll take it.

He doesn’t move away.

Instead, he shifts slightly to brace himself—and lets you rest your head against his chest.

You breathe in.

He smells like leather, faint sweat, and that clean, woody scent you can never quite place—like trees in winter and something spiced beneath it. You imagine it’s what peace might smell like, if it ever existed.

It takes you a long moment before you speak again.

“I was taken when I was seven.”

Bucky stiffens under you. Just barely.

“They locked me in a cell. No windows. No lights. They taught me how to code between beatings. How to pick locks after they broke my fingers. Said if I was going to be their tool, I had to be the best damn one.”

Your breath stutters. You feel his thumb brush over the back of your hand.

You go on.

“They’d come in drunk sometimes. Just to hit something. I was that something. But I learned. Learned how to look useful. How to smile so they wouldn’t think I was planning anything.”

You swallow hard. “Guess I never unlearned that. The smiling.”

There’s a long, aching pause.

When Bucky speaks, his voice is rougher. Barely above a whisper.

“I always wondered… how you do it. How you’re so kind. So… whole. But I see it now.”

He exhales, and his hand tightens just slightly around yours.

“You glued yourself back together. Piece by piece. And maybe that glue still shows… but you never tried to hide it.”

You lift your eyes—only barely—and even in the dark, you feel the weight of his gaze.

“I used to think people like you were untouched by darkness,” he says, voice low. “But you’re not. You just walk through it with your chin up. Meanwhile I’m still trying to bury mine like it’s not part of me.”

You shake your head, resting your cheek against him again.

“You’re not the Winter Soldier,” you murmur. “You’re not that name they gave you.”

He swallows.

Bucky’s hand lingers at your cheek, his touch barely grazing the skin. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard.

And maybe you would’ve—once. But not now. Not here. Not with him.

“I like working with you,” you whisper again, softer this time. Your breath fans over the fabric of his jacket. He’s so close now, his body a wall of heat and breath and solidity. “Always felt safe around you.”

He huffs quietly—almost a laugh. Almost. “You’re the first person to ever say that to me.”

Your fingertips trace the lines of his bare hand—the one you’re still holding tight. Your thumb brushes over the rough pads of his knuckles, warm and calloused. Scarred in places, but steady. Human.

“I don’t see a killer when I look at you, Bucky.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can feel his heart pounding through the chest of his combat jacket, steady beneath the heavy materials. The dark fabric shifts slightly as his breathing deepens, and your cheek sinks into the padded texture over his ribs—high-quality, reinforced, warm from his body heat. The structure of his combat harness digs faintly into your shoulder as you curl into him.

“I don’t think I ever knew who I was,” he says finally. “Not really. It was always something someone else wanted me to be.”

You turn your face toward his voice. Your nose grazes the hard curve of his chest. Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. You just breathe him in.

He smells like cool leather, like burnt cedarwood and warm metal. A trace of sweat clings to the collar of his undershirt, the faintest salt cutting through that earthy, masculine warmth. It clings to the inside of his jacket—black tactical leather, armored across the chest and shoulders—and you can feel the subtle rise and fall of each breath beneath it.

He shifts again, adjusting. His vibranium arm stays at his side—still, unreadable—but his flesh hand squeezes yours gently.

You raise your head, finally meeting his eyes in the dim. The darkness in the vault has softened everything around him. His steel-blue gaze shines faintly beneath his brow, eyes scanning your face like he’s still memorizing it.

“You’re still Bucky,” you murmur, barely louder than the air between you.

He freezes.

“Still the man who puts everyone else before yourself, even when you’re barely holding it together.”

Your voice trembles now, because the words carry more truth than you expected.

“That kind of heart doesn’t just vanish… no matter what they tried to do to you.”

Bucky blinks hard. His breath catches in his throat. You feel it—how the moment lands. How the wound inside him recognizes the salve in your voice.

Something inside him shifts. Something melts.

His jaw clenches. You feel the way his chest tightens, like he’s holding something back. His free hand rises—slow, deliberate—and this time, it’s not just a touch to your cheek.

He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering at your jaw. His glove is off now—both hands bare. Raw. Unarmored.

You shift slightly, no longer curled at his side. Instead, you move to face him—pulling your knees beneath you, then over, settling gently into his lap.

Your thighs slide around his hips, bracketing his body with yours. Hands plant themselves on either side of his chest for balance as your breath mingles with his.

His hands remain steady—one at your jaw, the other cradling your fingers—but he’s looking at you now like he can’t believe you chose this closeness. This trust.

You lean into his touch instinctively, and when your lips part on a quiet exhale, his gaze flicks down to them. Lingers.

“Can I…?”

His voice is low. Uncertain. Vulnerable.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

His lips meet yours with ache. Like he’s wanted to do this for years but never thought he was allowed. There’s no rush—only reverence. His mouth is warm, soft, tentative at first.

You kiss him back slowly, cupping the side of his neck where the stubble meets the sharp angle of his jaw.

You feel it then—his body shifting beneath yours, his breath hitching when your hand slides down the structured collar of his combat jacket, fingers grazing the leather between the buckles of his harness.

He groans softly into your mouth when your palm presses against the center of his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles beneath the dense fabric.

His vibranium hand comes to life now—bold where his flesh hand was tender. He traces the back of your thigh, up to your hip, then the curve of your waist, gliding with reverent pressure.

You shiver at the contrast—metal smooth and cool, his flesh hand warm and grounded as it follows just behind.

You tilt into him, mouth parting wider as his tongue grazes yours—gentle, searching. He tastes like heat and tension and restraint. Still, he pauses.

“You sure?” he whispers, breath warm at your mouth. His voice is rough—strained with everything he’s holding back. “We don’t have to—”

“I want this,” you whisper back. “I want you.”

A moment passes. And then he exhales—like you just unlocked something inside him.

His hands slide lower—one metal, one flesh—finding your thighs again. Guiding. Holding. Worshiping.

You rock into him slowly, feeling the tension flood through his body, feeling how tightly coiled he is beneath the tactical armor.

His combat jacket creaks as you push it open—just enough to feel the radiant heat of him beneath it. The black leather parts at his chest, revealing his high-collar undershirt now dark with sweat and body heat.

Your fingers skate down over the thick ridges of his chest—tactile, solid, powerful. His body is a weapon, but right now it feels like it was built for worship.

He shudders beneath you. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just kisses you harder.

Your breath hitches as Bucky kisses you again—deeper this time, like he’s finally letting himself feel everything. His hands spread wide at your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles where your shirt lifts from the motion. The contrast between his vibranium fingers and the warmth of his skin makes your stomach tighten.

He pulls back just slightly, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“Tell me if anything feels too much,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “If you need to stop, if you need a break—just say it, doll.”

Your heart stutters at the tenderness in his voice. The man who could kill a dozen enemies without breaking a sweat is shaking for you—asking permission like you’re sacred.

You nod, but it’s not enough.

So you take his face in both your hands—cradling him, grounding him.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “Buck… shhh. You already have my full consent.”

His eyes close for a breath. You feel him swallow hard, like he’s absorbing every word.

“I want you,” you continue, soft but firm. “Do me, Bucky. Do me so well I forget the dark—forget what they did to me. I want to be lost in the pleasure of you… not my past.”

Something snaps loose in him then—not wild or greedy, but pure. Focused.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he exhales, like the words physically affect him.

Then he’s kissing you again—only now it’s like he’s claiming you. His tongue slides past your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he rocks your hips forward into the thick ridge beneath his tactical pants. You gasp when you feel him—already hard, already aching.

“Been holding back for so fucking long,” he mutters against your throat, kissing down to your collarbone. “Didn’t know if I’d ever get this… get you.”

“You have me,” you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “All of me.”

His mouth crashes back to yours, but his hands are patient—undoing your shirt slowly, pulling it over your head. He gazes at you like you’re something holy as you sit there in your bra, flushed and panting.

His metal hand glides up your side, cool against your skin. His thumb brushes the underside of your breast with aching care.

“Can I?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He peels your bra off with the reverence of someone unwrapping a gift, then lowers his mouth to your chest—trailing kisses, nipping softly until you arch for more.

“Oh my god, Bucky…”

He growls low at that—real and visceral—pulling your nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping them as he starts to grind up against you.

You can feel him now—hard beneath layers of mission gear—and you can tell it’s driving him mad.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, one hand fumbling with his belt. “Wanna feel you—skin to skin.”

“Let me,” you say, breathless, sliding back to help him. You undo the buckle of his belt, tugging at the fastenings of his combat pants. It’s hot watching him unravel like this—powerful, restrained, but desperate just for you.

When he’s finally freed, you settle back over him—your soaked panties the only barrier now.

He groans deep in his chest when he feels how wet you are for him.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I’m not scared,” you say. “Just… overwhelmed. In a good way.”

He nods slowly. “Me too.”

Then his hands slide beneath your waistband—pulling your panties aside. He cups you, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and his mouth drops open.

“Oh, baby… you’re so wet,” he murmurs. “So soft. So fucking ready for me.”

You whimper, grinding into his hand.

“Need you, Bucky. Please.”

“Not until you’re ready,” he says, even though he’s visibly trembling now. “Let me make sure you’re ready.”

He slips a finger inside you—slowly, gently. Then two. You gasp, rocking down, and he curls them just right, finding that spot that makes you cry out.

“There you go,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder, the hollow of your neck. “Just like that. You sound so good, baby. So goddamn good.”

You bite down on his name again and again, body shivering in his lap.

And when you’re practically dripping, panting, begging—he finally slides his fingers out and aligns himself at your entrance.

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Reverent.

“Tell me again, doll.”

You smile, even as your thighs tremble.

“I want you inside me, Bucky. All of you. Fill me up. Make me forget everything else but this.”

His eyes go wild.

And then he pushes in—slowly, thickly, stretching you until your head falls back and your nails dig into the harness at his shoulders.

You both groan at once—like something inside you finally clicks into place.

His thick length pushes into you inch by inch, and you both gasp—your nails digging into the fabric where his harness used to cling.

It’s like being filled and comforted and devoured all at once.

“God, you feel…” he groans, eyes shut tight. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

But even then, you feel it—the way he’s holding back. Like he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

“Too much?” he asks, voice wrecked, but gentle. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, sweetheart.”

You slide your hands to his face again, kissing him softly. “You’re not hurting me, Bucky. You’re making me feel whole.”

He lets out a shaky breath, burying his face in your neck. His chest is slick with heat, the cotton of his undershirt soaked beneath the open frame of his tactical jacket. You slip your hands between the panels of leather and slowly begin to push it off his shoulders, one inch at a time.

“Off,” you whisper, “let me see you.”

He lets you strip him down—harness unclipped, jacket peeled away with care. You don’t rush it. His shoulders are strong, gleaming with sweat, the thin black undershirt clinging to every hard ridge of muscle.

Once bare from the waist up, he lets you look.

And you do.

His flesh arm is trembling with restraint. His vibranium arm flexes as he braces it behind you for balance. Every scar, every contour of his torso feels like a story you want to read with your hands and mouth.

But Bucky’s still searching your eyes.

“Is this okay?” he asks again, whisper-quiet. “Do I feel good inside you?”

You can barely speak through the pleasure.

“Bucky… baby, yes. You feel incredible.” You cup his cheek, run your thumb over the stubble there. “Don’t hold back so much. I want this. I want you to feel good too.”

He nods slowly, but the doubt still flickers behind his eyes.

So you lean in, your lips brushing his ear.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Bucky. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be here with me.”

Something breaks in him then—a quiet surrender.

He kisses you with renewed purpose, one hand on your lower back guiding the motion of your hips, the other clutching your thigh like he’s trying to anchor himself to the moment. You ride him slowly, your wet heat grinding against the base of his cock, and he’s moaning freely now.

Still, you feel him pull back.

“I… can’t stop thinking about how good you taste,” he admits, voice shaking. “Can I…? I want my mouth on you.”

You blink, breath catching in your throat. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Bucky.”

He helps lift you off his lap slowly, reverently, hands firm and supportive. Once you’re laid back against the cool floor of the vault, your clothes already half-peeled away, he settles between your legs—kneeling, broad shoulders framed by the black of his tactical pants, sweat glistening along his chest.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, placing a kiss to your inner thigh.

“Start slow, Bucky… build me up. Use your fingers too, honey.”

He groans—low and deep, like you’ve just given him the most intimate gift.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, and lowers his head.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, deliberate. He tastes you like he’s learning you—mapping you with the flat of his tongue, pressing in and pulling back, watching every reaction.

You moan, head tipping back, hips already rising into him.

He hums softly, as if to say I’ve got you.

Then he slips one thick finger inside, curling it just right.

“Oh—there, Bucky… just like that, baby…”

“Yeah?” he whispers, glancing up, his chin already wet with you. “That's your spot, baby?”

You nod frantically, thighs trembling around his head.

He keeps going—tongue flicking, finger stroking, his vibranium hand pinning your hips down with perfect pressure. He’s moaning against you now, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, grounding yourself in the soft strands and the gentle scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs.

“Fuck, Bucky… you’re so good at this. So good for me, baby…”

He groans like praise is gasoline and you just poured it on his fire.

“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmurs against your slick folds, then sucks gently on your clit. “You’re everything.”

Your orgasm slams into you so fast it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You cry out his name—“Bucky, Bucky—Bucky!”—as your back arches, thighs shaking, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave.

He doesn’t stop until you’re too sensitive to take it, until your fingers tug gently at his hair. Then he presses a kiss to your thigh, then your stomach, then your lips—bringing you back piece by piece.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, holding you close. “I’ll always have you.”

You’re still panting against his chest, your cheek against the heat of his skin, his pants still halfway undone.

And you’re not done yet.

Your body is still humming, your thighs shaking from the aftershocks of his mouth, his hands, his worship.

And yet, something inside you still burns—not from need, but from ache. From how much you want him. Not just his hands, not just his tongue. You want the whole of him inside you again—bare, deep, as close as humanly possible.

You reach for him, voice breathless. “Bucky…”

He’s already halfway leaning over you, brushing your hair off your forehead, looking at you like you hung the damn stars.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I promise, I’m okay. But I need you now. I need you to feel me. To lose yourself in me.”

His jaw flexes. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, sweat dotting his brow. “You sure?”

You nod, more urgently this time. “I want you inside. All the way. Bare. Please, Bucky…”

He curses under his breath—something raw and aching. His hand slides down your stomach, thumb brushing your hip. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You lift your hips, brushing against him again—his cock hard and hot, leaking against the waistband of his still-partially fastened tactical pants.

“I want to feel everything,” you whisper, cupping the side of his face. “Please. Just for tonight… let it be everything.”

He hesitates. He leans down and kisses you again—slow, deep, tender. Like it’s a goodbye and a homecoming in one breath.

“I’ll give you everything,” he murmurs against your lips. “Except one thing.”

You blink up at him. He hovers just above, arms braced on either side of you. His vibranium forearm is tense, grounding. His flesh hand cups your cheek.

“I’ll fuck you slow. Deep. As long as you want. But I can’t finish inside you. Not yet.”

Your breath catches.

“Why?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He swallows hard. “Because that’s… not just sex for me. That’s something I only give someone who’s mine. And I don’t know what we are yet.”

You stare up at him, your heart clenching—but not from pain. From something deeper.

He wants you. He respects you. He wants to mean something to you, not just in the dark.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then give me everything but that.”

His eyes darken. “Gladly.”

—

He shifts his weight, letting his pants slide lower around his hips, just enough. Then he lines himself up, the tip of his cock brushing your folds—slick and ready.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, guiding the head against your entrance. “So soft. So warm.”

You moan as he slides in again—slow, controlled. Inch by inch until he bottoms out, and both of you are panting.

“Fuck, honey… you take me so well,” he growls, kissing your neck. “Like you were made for me.”

You wrap your legs around him, heels hooking into the waistband of his pants.

“More,” you beg, voice cracking. “Please, Bucky… move. I need to feel you.”

He starts slow—long strokes, deep and deliberate. The friction is intense, overwhelming. You feel every ridge of him, every flex of muscle as his hips roll into yours.

He watches your face with every thrust.

“You feel good, baby?” he whispers, his voice low and reverent. “Is this what you needed?”

“Yes,” you gasp, fingers clawing into his sweat-slicked back. “God, yes.”

His pace builds—still steady, still controlled—but deeper now, the rhythm perfect. Your moans echo against the vault’s steel walls, your hands scrambling for purchase on his arms, his shoulders, anything you can hold onto.

Every time he pulls out and pushes back in, it knocks a cry from your throat. And Bucky watches you—drinks you in—like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him sane.

“You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful when you fall apart.”

And you do—again.

You sob his name, body trembling, core clenching around him as a second orgasm rips through you. He holds you through it, whispering filth and comfort in equal measure.

“That’s it, baby… give it to me. You’re perfect. So goddamn perfect.”

He starts to stutter inside you. You can feel the tension in his body—how close he is.

But true to his word, he pulls out at the last second, groaning low and deep as he fists his cock and spills over your lower stomach. Hot, thick, his breath shuddering against your mouth as he curses softly into your skin.

You cradle his face, even as he’s coming undone.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, echoing his words. “Always.”

He collapses gently beside you, pulling you against his bare chest, both of you panting. The vault is still cold. Still dark.

But in the quiet afterward, there’s no fear. No past. Just the sound of your breath syncing with his.

Just you and Bucky. Raw. Uncovered. Real.

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles after something seismic.

Bucky lies beside you, the sweat cooling on his chest, his vibranium fingers slowly tracing the edge of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you in silence.

He hasn’t said much since. Just the occasional kiss to your shoulder. A sigh. A swallow. A glance that flickers away too quickly.

You shift toward him, your cheek against the firm warmth of his bare chest, the soft thud of his heartbeat loud beneath your ear.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He stiffens—just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. Too fast. Too practiced.

You lift your head just enough to see him.

His eyes are fixed somewhere far away. That distant look—the one you’ve seen in briefings, in bunkers, in quiet hotel rooms between missions. Like he’s back somewhere else entirely.

“Bucky.”

He blinks. Turns toward you.

And then, quietly: “I’m sorry.”

Your brows pull together.

“For what?”

“I…” He swallows. “I shouldn’t have let it happen like that. I should’ve had better control. You were vulnerable. Scared. I should’ve restrained myself more. Waited. Been better.”

He won’t meet your eyes now. His hand is still on your waist, but his fingers falter—like he’s bracing for you to pull away.

“You think you took advantage of me?” you ask, your voice calm. Steady.

His jaw clenches. His silence speaks for him.

You sit up just enough to cradle his face in both hands. He flinches at first—but doesn’t pull away.

“Bucky. Look at me.”

His eyes lift, slow and uncertain.

“I gave you everything tonight. Every touch, every breath, every piece of me was freely yours. Do you hear me?”

He exhales, the guilt still simmering in his throat. “You were shaking. You asked for help. And I…”

“You didn’t use me,” you say firmly. “You saw me. And I saw you. I’ve never felt safer letting someone touch me than I did with you.”

His shoulders sag like he’s been holding up an entire wall of shame. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“I’ve wanted this,” you whisper. “Not just the sex. You. The man under the armor, behind the walls. You didn’t take anything from me—I gave it. Happily.”

His breath stutters, and he nods—just once—but you feel the emotion welling in him, deep and quiet.

“This changes things, doesn’t it?” he says after a long pause.

“It does,” you reply softly. “Because now I know for sure.”

He searches your face. “Know what?”

You smile, small but sure.

“That I want more with you. Something real. Something personal.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles like you’re something sacred.

“I want that too,” he murmurs. “But I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

“Then we’ll take it slow,” you say, leaning into his touch. “And if you stumble… I’ll still be here.”

He pulls you into his chest and wraps both arms around you—one flesh, one vibranium—and buries his face in your hair.

You lie there like that, tangled in warmth, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. The vault walls are still around you, but they no longer feel like a prison. Just a place where something true began.

Minutes pass.

Then—

CLANK.

The door seal hisses. Metal shifts.

You both blink, adjusting to the sudden flood of white-blue light spilling in through the widening crack.

“Yo!” Sam’s voice echoes into the space, half relieved, half exasperated. “Took us a damn hour to override the outer security.”

“I told you it was a dual-layered code protocol,” Joaquin mutters behind him. “No one listens to the tech guy.”

You scramble to pull your shirt over your shoulders, tugging it down hastily as your bra remains somewhere behind you. Your hands are shaking, but not from shame. Just adrenaline. Bucky reaches for his gear without a word, dragging his sweat-damp undershirt straight and grabbing for his discarded combat jacket, slipping one arm through, then the other. His chest is still bare, the zipper only halfway up. His tactical pants are back in place, loosely refastened.

You catch the flicker of his eyes—darting to you, then away. Not panicked. Not guilty. Just private. Guarded in the way only someone who just handed over their soul could be.

You reach for his hand before he can tug the glove back on. Your fingers catch his—bare, steady—and hold. Warm. Sure.

As the door creaks open and footsteps echo inside, Bucky helps you to your feet—tactical gear still halfway undone, but shoulders squared. Like he’s ready to face the light, even if it blinds him a little.

Sam steps in, blinking at the scene. “You two good?”

Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah.”

You glance up at him, smiling.

“We’re good,” you say, reaching for his hand again. “Better than good.”

He gives your fingers a squeeze. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes smiles—not the forced kind. The real kind.

The kind that says something new has started.

—Epilogue:

The hum of the jet was soothing. After the chaos of the HYDRA vault and the long extraction, the warm, low-light interior felt almost indulgent.

You were curled into your seat, wrapped in a mission blanket, legs tucked under you. Across the aisle, Bucky sat in his usual brooding posture—but something was different now.

He wasn’t scowling.

He was… smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. But every time you looked up, his mouth quirked at the corner, like he couldn’t help himself.

You gave him a slow, knowing wink.

He tilted his head just slightly, one brow lifting. That little look he gave you now wasn’t Winter Soldier. It wasn’t even mission-serious Bucky.

It was something warmer. Something just for you.

You stifled a smile and looked back down at your hands, the ghost of his fingertips still lingering there.

From the cockpit, Sam’s voice carried:

“Okay. No offense, but what the hell happened in that vault?”

You and Bucky both froze.

Joaquin didn’t even look up from his tablet. “What makes you ask that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam called, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe because Bucky Barnes hasn’t stopped doing that smug little post-makeout lip twitch for the last thirty minutes.”

You shot Bucky a look. Bucky buried his face in his glove for a second, fighting the urge to visibly react.

Sam walked into the cabin a moment later, narrowed eyes flicking between you and Bucky like he was connecting red strings in his mind.

“You two didn’t die in there,” Sam said, “but someone sure as hell came back… reborn.”

You choked on your water. Bucky turned pink immediately.

“I’m just saying,” Sam added, settling into his seat, “next time you get stuck in a vault, give me a heads-up. I’ll bring candles. Maybe some background jazz.”

Joaquin muttered without looking up: “Let them have their trauma bonding, man.”

You and Bucky locked eyes again.

And this time, the smile broke through on both your faces—quiet, real, and a little reckless. Like two people who just learned they could still feel something soft in the middle of all the noise.

Soon after, your phone buzzes in your palm.

You okay, doll?

You looked up across the narrow aisle. Bucky was slouched in his seat—jacket halfway zipped, his glove still hanging from one hand. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but you could tell from the way his thumb hovered near his screen that he was waiting.

You smiled faintly and typed back.

better than okay. but also very distracted 😏🤭

You peek up from under your lashes.

He tilts his head just slightly, brow lifting—not cocky, just curious. That cautiously hopeful kind of curious.

Distracted how?

You glance around—Sam’s still up front, muttering about fuel efficiency. Joaquin has earbuds in, totally checked out.

Safe.

You lean into your seat, thumbs flying.

pretty sure i’ve been half-wet since you suited up in that whole lethal-sexy vibe 🫦🖤 trying so hard not to stare

You hit send. Bucky reads it instantly—and something in his body shifts. His posture straightens, then tenses. One hand lifts toward his face like he’s trying to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

You serious?

You watch the way he doesn’t quite look at you now. Like if he does, he’ll forget the jet has other people on board.

You’re grinning as you type your next reply.

dead serious. pretty sure i’ve been soaking on every mission with you lately 💦 you and that jacket?? literal war crime.

This time, he looks.

Just for a second—but it’s sharp, fast. His eyes cut to you and then he’s dragging his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to wipe off the heat rising up his neck. His jaw flexes hard.

He types back slowly.

You're killing me, doll

You bite your lip, sliding your phone just out of Sam’s line of sight.

Then you fire back the final blow.

too late, soldier 🤭 game’s already on 😌

Across the aisle, Bucky shifts again—this time slower, almost like he’s trying to physically will his body to behave. His jaw twitches. His fingers flex. And for the first time in what feels like years, you watch him lose the fight to suppress a smile.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagine #જ⁀➴ by elle #bucky barnes emotional fluff #hurt/comfort

1K notes · View notes

tfatwsbarnes · 25 days ago

Text

we can’t be friends | bob reynolds

read pt. 2 here!

summary: bob always wondered why you didn’t favour him over the rest of your team. until he learned that you had unsettled the bones of the tva.

pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k

content: just a silly fic! heaaaavy amount of dialogue. bob is a yearner for readers attention, yelena being a menace, tva mentioned (not entirely accurate for the sake of the plot), a little bit of angst between two lost soulmates. finding nemo mcu crossover if u look into it

a/n: inspo taken from the we can’t be friends mv! i love a good invisible string soulmate trope. i have an idea for a pt 2 but idk if this is a good read to start off with

Bob didn’t understand.

There he was, swaddled in self-conscious agony, hands wrung when he stammered out to you to ‘break a leg’ for the upcoming mission that he and — on this occasion — Yelena Belova had been benched for. The widow sat at the alcove in the Living Quarters with her eyes glued to the New York City skyline when Bob queried if she would wave the rest of the team off.

She did not.

Courageous enough, Bob waited on the sidelines for you to finish the prep of your tactical gear, a faint smile on his features when you returned his gaze. It was on the cold side, your fleeting glance, that is, and Bob swallowed the lump of shyness in his throat to just talk to you.

The conversation concluded how it always had. You thanked Bob for his well wishes, a strained smile that never met your eyes and Bob couldn’t quite pinpoint what your problem with him was. You were never inherently mean to the guy, relatively polite in minimal conversation before scarpering off to the other end of the room before Bob could finish his sentence. He started to joke that you were his own version of an Irish Goodbye.

He awkwardly waved at your back, quick to make it look as if he was catching a fleck of dust when he noticed you didn’t spare him a look over your shoulder.

There was something niggling in the bones of his body about you. A magnetic force that kept drawing him to you, and yet, you would repel in the opposite direction and Bob was left gluttonous, the need to around you was much greater than any embarrassment he momentarily felt when you stepped away to leave him high and dry.

Of course, Bob wasn’t harassing you. In fact, you had your own little quirks that explained to him that you were happy to be situated in proximity to him; just not long enough to delve deeper into each other’s personal lives.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had recruited you out of the blue, and the Thunderbolts* — now reclaimed as the New Avengers — were left scratching their heads at the newest addition after New York Times had printed the heroes cemented in the group in black and white. She had hinted that you were potentially a temp, community service if you read between the lines.

Nobody had heard of another vigilante scouring the streets of New York. Yelena, naturally, wanted to peek at the cards close to your chest. Albeit a fond friendship that blossomed between Yelena and you, she hadn’t quite cracked the code to opening Pandora’s Box.

Whilst the perplexity of you weighed heavy on Bob’s shoulders, he retreated back to the Living Quarters to spend the time benched with his nose in a book for distraction. He supposed Yelena would still be brooding in the alcove, the injury sustained caused her to be seen as a liability when Bucky Barnes discussed tactics for their mission. Either way, Bob encouraged quiet time, even if he was in the same room as his friend.

“I’m bored.” Yelena spoke freely after thirty minutes of silence. Bob pinched the sentence he had read up to and looked up to the blonde. She exhaled deeply, knife twirled in her hand, “Can we do something fun?”

He’d bookmark the page for now.

Bob closed the book, “Are—Is this not fun?”

“No.” Yelena was truthful, he’d give her that. Her temple pressed against the glass of the window, “I want to move my limbs, Bob. You should to.”

“I did. I washed the dishes.” Bob said obliviously and Yelena scoffed. He added quickly, “What, uh, what do you wanna do then?”

Yelena sat up, “A little birdie told me there are a stack of confidential files in Valentina’s office. She’s not here. I say, let’s go have a look.” Bob shook his head and Yelena threw her hands up, “Come on, Bob. This is exposure therapy to adrenaline. Minimal chance of us getting caught but if we do, I’ll take the hit.”

The peer pressure was all too soul consuming and that led to Bob jittering behind Yelena whilst she picked the lock to Valentina’s office. He bounced on the balls of his feet, head almost turning 360 degrees at any sudden noises that alerted him of being caught red-handed. Yelena seemed to be taking her sweet time for being a trained assassin, although Bob knew it was partly to make him squirm.

Just as he began to form a sentence to usher Yelena along, he looked back to see the door click and the handle go down with ease — Yelena quick to throw a smug look over her shoulder. They crept in, Bob bumping into the back of Yelena with a mutter of an apology for not paying attention.

“Stop being so twitchy.” Yelena whispered, “It’s OK.”

“Sorry.” He apologised again and his eyes scanned the office for any obvious sign of stacked files that screamed confidential.

Yelena spotted it first. Manilla folders atop of the glass table she would occasionally sit at if genuinely required within the Watchtower, — much to John Walker’s dismay — Yelena pounced at the opportunity to have them in her grasp, fingers smoothed over the red stamp: CONFIDENTIAL.

Quick to open, she handed a random one carelessly to Bob as she flipped the first file in her hand open, eyes dropped down the page before scoffing and throwing it to the side.

“Boring.” She muttered continuously.

Bob stared down at the manilla file in his hand, hesitant to open it. There was something about a breach of privacy that made Bob’s skin crawl. Whoever, and whatever was within these files weren’t meant to be seen for his eyes. His sense of anxiety washed up to the feet of Yelena who halted her actions to stare up at him.

“You only have the one file, Bob.” Yelena explained the obvious, “You’re practically innocent with just one file. Read it and we can go.” Bob went to argue his case and Yelena held up a finger, “Uh-uh. Exposure therapy.”

“Right. . .” Bob heeded instruction and delicately opened to the front page. His throat constricting to see an image of you — no — a mugshot of you brandished in a beige jumpsuit with the letters TVA stamped across the right-side of the clothing. Your face struck with confusion in the photo, eyes wide with a collar round your neck. His brows pinched, “Yelena, what is the TVA?”

Yelena repeated, “The TVA? No idea.”

He went to look at your file again, your name typewritten along with other details of your being, your arrest ID and ultimately, your charge. It read: sequence violation and that meant nothing to Bob. Suddenly, he felt rather protective of your file, lifting his gaze to where Yelena sat with her feet up on the desk, invested in whomever it was in the sixth file she had picked up.

He went back to scanning the thick wad of pages in your file, counting his lucky stars that he was an avid reader and could retain information without dwelling on the page for too long at any given time.

Turns out, you had been arrested four times. For the same reason, a sequence violation. Page flipped, Bob felt his mouth run dry at what he could presume was a recitation of your words from the moment you had arrived at the facility where you had been arrested. It started off with questions, you were worried coated with confusion as to where you were. Then, like a sucker punch into his chest, the wind was knocked out of Bob when he read over the sentence in which you asked to be returned to him.

“Have you got anything good?” Bob slammed the file shut when Yelena snapped him back to reality.

A vigorous shake of his head, he stammered, “Uh, no. No I don’t. Just a low level criminal.” The file slowly went behind his back as he talked, “Why do you think Valentina has all these files?”

“I don’t know. I was kind of hoping I’d find something on you know who.” Yelena wiggled her brows and stood, the files slapped against the desk carelessly. Bob gulped as she rounded the desk, “Oh well. I’m going to go eat. . . You coming?”

“Sure.” Bob followed the blonde out, his eyes drifted back to the office as he fidgeted with your file tucked into the back of his pants.

Successful in not being caught, it had been hours since Yelena and Bob’s escapade with the Confidential Files which led Bob, to well, petty theft — but rightfully so — and three hours of endless reading of your script whilst contained at the so-called TVA facility. Things didn’t add up, you were talking in circles, begging to see Bob one more time before they pruned you. He didn’t know what any of it meant. It looked as if it were a knockoff time travel script for a television show.

He would have to ask you.

Once he returned the files to you.

That was also the other complication he faced. He had invaded your privacy, even if you didn’t have knowledge toward the said file. It would be a given that you wouldn’t welcome his questions with exceedingly overwhelming enthusiasm, but as Yelena Belova had boldly put it; it would be exposure therapy.

On the second last page, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. The selected team bottle-necked out with nonchalant expressions, Alexei going to greet his daughter whilst the rest of you dispersed.

Bob caught you trudging alongside Bucky Barnes, your voices low before you split. On queue, you caught Bob’s attention aimed toward you and offered a meek smile that once again didn’t meet your eyes. He stood, file still tucked into the band of his pants. He was going to do it. Bob had to do it.

Feet shuffling, his body felt aflame when it came close to you. The air thickened with a tension that only he was aware of. Bob was so concentrated on achieving a subtle beeline to you, that his brain stopped sending signals to the movement of his feet, sending him flying across the floor after he tripped over his own foot.

Hands came out to brace the impact, a lot softer than anticipated, Bob looked up to see Alexei who gripped onto the collar of his favoured blue sweater, exposing his midriff and ultimately, the files hidden beneath the fabric.

Curiosity killed the cat and Alexei plucked the folder from Bob’s waistband.

“Now, what do we have here?” Alexei boomed as he held the folder that Bob had pickpocketed from the locked room. Pinched between two fingers, it dangled in front of Bob like bait. Alexei shook it a little and one sheet of paper floated to the floor.

Chaos ensued as Walker, Yelena and Bob went to grab the paper, two for inspection, one for protection. Bob felt Yelena push on him, her teeth grit from the force it took. Walker managed to grab the paper from Yelena’s weakened grasp, his hand crumpled it slightly as he snatched it; grunting as he stood tall with pride.

Bob immediately let Yelena out of his grasp, a protest formed on his lips when Walker smoothed out the page, his brows furrowed as he drank in the contents of the paper.

Blue eyes shot up from the page and to you.

You let out a nervous laugh and set your mug down on the countertop just as Yelena snatched it from Walker and scanned it briefly; her eyes matched John’s to stare at you.

“Have I got something on my face?” Your joke was weak, unnerved by the silence that was met after reading a bit of paper. Anxiety coiled up in your stomach, “Seriously guys, you’re starting to freak me out.”

Yelena plucked the page out, her glance not missing Bob as he cowered in shame when she passed. You watched her with worry as she crossed the gap and extended her hand, the crumpled page flimsy in structure as it exposed its contents to you with ease. Brows pinched, you took the paper and read through it, a flash of realisation crossed your face before it dissolved; replaced with a confident streak.

You huffed a falsified laugh, handing the paper back to Yelena, hands clasped around your mug — Bob not missing the way it shook — as you took a large swig of scolding hot tea, not phased.

“Are you going to explain that?” Walker prodded at your nonchalance.

“There is nothing to explain.” You replied, eyes flicked to Bob for a brief millisecond, “It’s a fake document. Valentina called it some Witness Protection decoy — I don’t know.”

“It’s quite specific.” Yelena added.

“Right. Specific in nonsense.” You slipped off of the barstool, “They’ll come up with anything these days—Bob? Can I speak to you about that Monstera plant you’re taking care of for me? I found some Classical music I’d like you to play it.”

“I don’t, I don’t have a Monstera—”

You spoke with urgency, “Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony.”

Bob didn’t get your reference, but he sensed it had some underlying code word for ‘We need to talk. Now’ and he adhered, muttering about how he did in fact have a Monstera plant and followed you out of the kitchen and into the hallway, where you were quick to yank him into the Cleaners cupboard.

Door slammed shut, you tugged at the light string and Bob jumped at the rage in your face illuminated by the weakened lightbulb above.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Bob?” You seethed in a whisper, your face red hot as you tried to comprehend the implications of your exposed files.

Bob held his hands up in surrender, “I—Yelena said it was exposure therapy. Breaking into Valentina’s office and looking through files.” He watched as your eyes nearly popped out of your skull, “I didn’t know your file was in there!”

“Why did you take it?”

“I don’t know!” Bob pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I—I panicked when I saw that it was you. It felt wrong that anyone else had it aside from you. I was going to give it to you, I promise.”

You stared at him for a long minute. Eyes pinned him to the spot as you sussed his honesty. Bob, from what you had known, was a man of the incapability to lie. To you, that is. Weakened by your presence, in every Timeline, you could disarm the man with a minute long stare and he would fold easily.

Bob shifted from one foot to the other, lips pulled into a thin line as he awaited your response. Awkward under your gaze.

“OK.”

Bob repeated, “OK.”

“This is fine.” You breathed.

Bob nodded for reassurance. “Fine.” He felt himself emphasise the nod, “Could you maybe explain what it means?”

“Oh god, this is not fine!” The palm of your hand slapped to your forehead as panic weaved through your voice. You began to mutter incoherently and Bob tried to reign you back in which only flared your panic more. “You weren’t supposed to find out, Bob. I promised.”

“Promised who? Hey—That doesn’t matter.” Bob shook his head, “Hey, look at me. It’s OK. This is my fault. If you don’t want to explain it, then I can live with that.” You nodded along to Bob’s words, hanging onto every syllable. He smiled genuinely, “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Your panic soothed, “I will explain it.” That took Bob by surprise as you added, “I can explain it to you.”

“OK. Great.”

“. . . I’m not explaining it in the Cleaners Cupboard, Bob.”

Bob felt his face grow hot, “Yeah, of course. That makes sense.” He caught your eye, “In your room?”

“The kitchen, preferably. I’d rather a neutral ground when I tell you.”

Foreboding. But, Bob respected your request. Head peered out of the Cleaners Cupboard, Bob ensured that the coast was clear before he ushered you out and he watched the back of your frame scarper off to your bedroom, head down as you ignored John Walker speaking directly to you on your way.

Neither of you peeked your heads from your rooms until much later after endless pacing performed by the pair of you, in every square footage of your bedrooms.

The sky grew dark, your ear pressed against the wood of your door as you heard the rest of the team retreat to their rooms for an early night after the escapades on the mission — minus Yelena who still went to bed early in a sulk. Once you had heard Ava’s door click shut, your door swung open at the same time as Bob’s; the pair of you warmed with embarrassment.

“Tea?” You offered once you had reached the kitchen in hushed tones and tip-toes.

Bob sat at the counter, ankles crossed as he tapped his index fingers against the marbled surface.

“No. Thanks.” He declined, his head crammed full with an abundance of questions to ask you. Tea was last on his list of priorities.

Once finished with your brew, the chair scraped against the flooring next to Bob and you took your perched with a weak smile — this is the longest you had spent within close proximity of Bob Reynolds.

It felt unnatural.

“Where do I even start?” You asked rhetorically, breaking the silence and Bob was quick to respond with ‘The beginning.’ with attentive wide eyes. Chest constricted with the weight of your woes, you exhaled and began your explanation, “OK. I suppose you read a lot of the—my files?” Bob nodded, “To water it down, the TVA, Time Variance Authority, preserve what they call the Sacred Timeline. There is one designated Timeline that exists and, on the occasion that it alternates, they enforce arrests and erasure of that said branched timeline for restoration purposes.”

You continued, “Something happened to me, that was viewed as a threat to the Sacred Timeline, and the next thing I know, people armed to the teeth appeared through a portal and took me with them where I was arrested on the charge of a sequence violation.”

“Which was?” Bob encouraged.

“Which was, after the Blip, I had found a company that could wipe memories. Wonder Inc. The Blip haunted me for years after. There was this impending doom that it would happen again, and I desperately wanted to erase those five years.” You paused as Bob slid your mug of hot tea toward you, “I went in, they made me sign a waiver and next thing I knew, the Blip never happened in my head. I came home—bang—TVA were in the house and I was taken away. From my life. And, from you.”

“I have spent years in this endless cycle with the TVA. They took my life away from me and I have chased it back down to where they can’t find me.” It was tedious to explain, but you maintained for Bob’s sake more than anything.

Bob cleared his throat, his heart thumping in his chest, “When you say your life, do you mean—” He gestured between you two and you nodded with a wince. Bob hummed his attention drifting beyond the existence between the pair of you, in the kitchen of the Watchtower at two in the morning.

It was a lot to digest. Even having read the pages — front to back — within your file. It seemed more palatable to Bob when he could read it in black and white. As if it were some conjured up fantasy that stretched beyond the limitations of his own imagination. There you were, explicitly beautiful under the warmth of the candlelight, mapping out a scenario that was far fetched but Bob drank every word you spoke dry.

There had been a life. You and Bob. Intertwined in a daily life and more to the point in love from what Bob assumed. It made his head spin as the steam from the tea you had made him made his face perspire. At least, that’s what he put it down to.

He was brought back when you waved a hand in front of his face. Features expressed concern, a little regret for unfolding a complex situation on a staggering level.

“We can leave it there.” You mumbled and Bob was quick to jump to your defence, his hands reached for yours in a plea, warmth spread through your body from his touch; as if you had been shocked.

“Please.” He almost begged, “I want to hear it.”

“OK. . .” You scratched your brow bone with your thumbnail, “Cruelly, they showed me tapes of my life from the Sacred Timeline, my What If. I was told that, in every lifetime, we are thread together. Defined as soulmates in the entirety of the universe. Every Variant of me, has a Variant of you.”

“Really?”

“We were—are Clownfish in one reality.” You shrugged, “Lifelong mates, with our first batch of eggs. They pruned me, and, well I suppose you’re having to raise a bunch of kids.” You blew into your hot mug of tea with a casualness that brought wonder to Bob. Actually; you sounded insane.

A memory bubbled to the front of his thoughts, “Is that why you got me that Clownfish mug for that holiday?”

“Yes.” As if you sensed his thoughts, you added, “This can all remain hypothetical to you.”

“How many, uh, Timelines, did you—did you go through to find this one?” He ignored your remark. He didn’t want to run on hypothesis. You held five fingers up and Bob swallowed, “And, how did you know this one would work?”

You kissed your teeth, “I didn’t.”

“But, this is as far as you’ve gotten to get back to. . . Me?” Bob pulled at his earlobe.

“Yes.” You leant back in your seat, “I guess — my idea is — there’s been no physical intimacy between us and that means we haven’t branched from the Sacred Timeline. Because, from what I’ve been shown, whenever one of my Variants has kissed you, the screens of the TVA almost blow out.”

Bob could feel himself sweat.

“Oh.” Kissed. You and him. Kissing.

The delicate subject thickened the air and you tapped at the ceramic of your mug, “Which is great news for you. You don’t have to kiss me—Yay!”

“Yay.” Bob stuttered. Was it great news? A little blurred on that one.

Regret filled your chest.

“On that note. I think I’m going to turn in. You should too after that overload of information.” You dropped from the stool and took your favoured mug to the sink. Bob stared at the back of your head, unable to make himself move from his cemented spot. You turned on your heel with a brow quirked, “Bob? You OK?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m—I’m OK.” He huffed out.

The pair of you said nothing else. A comfortable silence blanketed over your shoulders as you walked in unison through the darkened halls of the Watchtower — muffled snores heard from multiple rooms. Arms bumped as you walked, you let a soft smile grace your features from the relief of being able to finally speak to someone about your precarious circumstances.

You hadn’t anticipated that said person to be the very core of your being. Longed for from a distance, perhaps more cruel now that, plagued with the knowledge of your love in every lifetime; you could never fully pledge yourself to Bob Reynolds on Earth-616.

Hand on your door handle, you heard the faintest of clicks to inform you that your bedroom door was now unlocked. Door creaked open just a crack, your actions halted when Bob’s voice cut through the silent air.

“Hey—” He spoke your name and your heart jumped. You turned to look at him, his hair disheveled and eyes bright under the moonlight tones. Just as you remembered him in every lifetime. Bob continued with your devoted attention, “What did you mean by Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony?”

You let out a laugh, “Oh. It’s a piece of music that has slight restless urgency to it. I needed to speak to you urgently. It just coincided with the whole Classical music punch I threw at you.”

“Right. Smart.” Bob was impressed. His mouth moved before his brain, “Have we ever been Classical music lovers?”

“Goodnight, Bob.”

“OK. Goodnight.”

The pair of you beamed on the other side of your closed doors.

#🔖 koolie writes #thunderbolts #thunderbolts fic #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #the new avengers #marvel fic #mcu

2K notes · View notes

mandoalorian · 1 month ago

Text

ride to you [bucky barnes x f!reader]

synopsis: seperated by miles, bucky barnes is out on a mission when he gets a late-night text message from you, and suddenly, he just can't do distance anymore.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, fem receiving oral, fingering, breast play, sexting, mutual masturbation over video call, praise kink, bucky is all rough and desperate, and he struggles a bit with tech lol, …dog tags, motorcycle this smut has it all.

w/c: 3,885

masterlist | submit a request

The glow of your phone screen is the only light in your bedroom, casting soft shadows across the empty sheets. It’s 11:47 PM, and your desire for Bucky has you restless, your body aching with the need for him. He’s been gone three weeks, on some mission with Yelena and John keeping him a whole state away, and the distance is a cruel tease. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, then type out a message, heart already picking up speed.

You: Can’t sleep, soldier. Bed feels too damn big without you.

His reply pings almost instantly, like he’s been staring at his phone, waiting.

Bucky: Doll, you’re killing me already. Missing you so bad, I can’t think straight.

You smile, warmth curling in your chest. Bucky’s always been a little slow with tech—his texts are short, sometimes autocorrect mangles them—but the effort he puts in makes it sweeter. You can picture him, brow furrowed, big fingers fumbling on the tiny keyboard in some nondescript motel room.

You: What’s keeping you up, huh? Thinking about me?

Bucky: Every damn second. You in that little tank top you wear to bed? Or… less?

Your breath catches, a flush creeping up your neck. He’s bold tonight, and you love it.

You: Just a tank top. Barely. Wish you were here to see it.

There’s a longer pause, and you can almost hear the low groan he’d make.

Bucky: Sweetheart, you’re gonna make me break this phone. Tell me what you’d do if I was there.

Heat pools low in your belly, and you shift on the bed, thighs pressing together. You type slowly, savouring the anticipation.

You: I’d climb into your lap, kiss that spot on your jaw that makes you growl. Slide my hands under your shirt, feel those muscles… you’d be begging me to keep going.

His reply takes a minute, and when it comes, it’s a little messy, like he’s typing too fast.

Bucky: Fuck, doll. I’d pin you to that bed before you could tease me. Kiss you till you’re dizzy, hands all over you. That tank top wouldn’t last five seconds.

You bite your lip, pulse racing. The image of Bucky—broad shoulders, dog tags dangling, blue eyes blazing—has you squirming.

You: Oh, you think you’d have control? I’d have you groaning my name first, Barnes. Bet I could make you lose it just by grinding against you.

Bucky: You’d feel how hard you’re makin’ me already. I’d rip those panties off, make you scream for me.

Your fingers tremble as you type, the words coming faster now, dirtier.

You: I’d let you, Buck. Want your hands on me, your mouth… want you to fuck me till I can’t walk.

His next text is a single word, raw and desperate.

Bucky: Fuck.

Then, a follow-up.

Bucky: Call me. Now. Need to see you.

You hesitate, heart pounding. A call means FaceTime, and the thought of seeing him, hearing him, sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

You: FaceTime? You sure you know how to work that, old man?

Bucky: Shut up, doll. I figured out the damn button. Answer when I call, or I’m ridin’ to you tonight.

The threat—or promise—makes you grin, your body buzzing with anticipation. You adjust your tank top, letting one strap slip off your shoulder, and wait for the call.

Your phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call, and your heart leaps into your throat. You swipe to answer, and there’s Bucky, filling the screen, looking like sin itself. He’s shirtless, sprawled on a motel bed, the dim light catching the glint of his dog tags and the sheen of sweat on his chest. His hair’s a mess, falling into his eyes, and those blue eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on you.

But there’s a flicker of frustration on his face as he fumbles with the phone, tilting it at an awkward angle.

“Damn it,” he mutters, voice gravelly. “This thing keeps—hold on, doll, I think I got it.” He props the phone against something, probably a pillow, and the view steadies, giving you a full shot of his broad shoulders and the taut muscles of his stomach. He squints at the screen, like he’s not sure it’s working. “You seein’ me okay? Or did I break this already?”

You laugh, the sound breathy with nerves and desire. “I see you, Buck. Looking like a damn dream.” You shift on your bed, letting the silky camisole slip further down your shoulder, the thin fabric barely covering you. You angle the phone to give him a teasing view of your collarbone, the curve of your chest. “Like what you see?”

His groan is instant, low and guttural. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me.” He shifts, and you catch the way his hand moves off-screen, adjusting himself. “That top’s barely holdin’ on. Show me more.”

Heat floods your body, and you oblige, sliding the camisole down to reveal the tops of your breasts, your fingers lingering there. “Better?” you tease, voice husky.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, his metal hand flexing on the bed. “You’re playin’ dirty, doll. Keep goin’. Wanna see all of you.” He’s trying to sound commanding, but there’s a plea in his tone, raw and desperate.

You bite your lip, emboldened by his reaction. “Only if you give me something too, soldier.” You nod toward his lap, where his hand is resting just out of frame. “Show me what those texts were doing to you.”

He huffs a laugh, half-embarrassed, half-turned on. “Demanding much? Alright.” He adjusts, sliding his hand into his sweatpants, and you catch a glimpse of the bulge there before he eases them down just enough. He’s hard, and the sight of him touching himself, slow and deliberate, sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Your turn, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Touch yourself for me.”

Your breath hitches, and you don’t hesitate. You slip a hand under the hem of your camisole, pushing it up to expose your stomach, then lower, dipping into your panties. The first brush of your fingers against yourself makes you gasp, and Bucky’s eyes darken, his own hand moving faster.

“Fuck, doll, look at you,” he groans, voice thick. “So damn pretty. Keep goin’. Imagine it’s me touchin’ you.”

You do, your fingers circling as you picture his hands—rough, warm, and relentless. “Bucky,” you whimper, your hips shifting on the bed. “Wish it was you. Want your fingers, your mouth…”

He curses under his breath, his strokes growing rougher. “God, I’d devour you right now. Lick every inch of you till you’re screamin’ my name. Tell me how it feels, baby.”

“It’s so good,” you moan, your free hand gripping the sheets. “But not enough. Need you here, Buck. Need you inside me.” The words spill out, unfiltered, and you see the effect they have—his head tips back, a low growl rumbling from his chest.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’m gonna lose it,” he warns, but his hand doesn’t stop, and neither does yours. You’re both chasing the same high, the phone screen a cruel barrier between you. “Tell me what you’d do if I was there. Right now.”

You’re panting now, the pleasure building fast. “I’d climb on top of you,” you say, voice shaky. “Ride you so hard you’d forget your own name. Kiss you till you can’t breathe.”

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, his eyes locked on you, intense and wild. “I’d flip you over, fuck you into the mattress. Make you come so many times you’d beg me to stop.”

The filthy promises push you closer to the edge, your fingers moving faster, chasing the release.

“Bucky, I’m—” you gasp, unable to finish the sentence as the pleasure crests.

“Me too, doll,” he grits out, his voice breaking. “Come for me. Let me see you.��

It hits you like a wave, your body arching as you cry out his name, trembling under your own touch. Bucky follows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills over his hand, his chest heaving. For a moment, you’re both silent, just breathing, the intimacy of the moment hanging heavy between you.

Then he laughs, rough and a little sheepish. “Well, damn. Never thought this phone thing could be that good.” He grabs a tissue, cleaning up, and you giggle, pulling your camisole back into place.

“Still hate technology?” you tease, your voice soft, sated.

He smirks, but his eyes are serious. “Not when it’s you on the other end. But this ain’t enough, sweetheart.” He leans closer to the screen, voice dropping. “I’m comin’ to you. Tonight.”

You blink, still hazy from the high. “Buck, you’re in—wherever you are. You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he says, and you see him grab his leather jacket, tossing it over his shoulder. “Got my bike. I’m ridin’ to you. Be there by dawn.”

Your jaw drops, but the determination in his eyes tells you he’s not kidding. “You’re insane,” you whisper, but your heart’s racing again, thrilled.

“Insane for you,” he shoots back, already moving. “Get some rest, doll. You’re gonna need it when I get there.”

The call ends, leaving you staring at the blank screen, your body buzzing with anticipation and disbelief.

Bucky’s breath is still uneven as he ends the FaceTime call, the image of you—hot, panting, whispering his name—burned into his mind. His body’s buzzing, sated but nowhere near satisfied.

The phone’s screen goes dark, but it doesn’t matter; he can still see you, feel the ghost of your voice in his ear, your words pulling him apart. “Need you inside me.” Fuck. He’s done waiting.

He’s on his feet in seconds, the motel room’s stale air doing nothing to cool the heat coursing through him. His leather jacket is slung over his shoulder, but he shrugs it on, the familiar weight grounding him. His duffel’s already packed—a habit from decades of moving fast, never settling. He grabs it, slings it across his chest, and heads for the door. The keys to his Harley jingle in his pocket, a promise of freedom, of you.

Outside, the night’s crisp, the motel’s neon sign buzzing faintly. His bike’s parked under a flickering streetlight, all black chrome and raw power, just like him. He swings a leg over, the leather seat creaking under his weight, and kicks the engine to life. The roar tears through the silence, vibrating in his chest, matching the thrum of his pulse. He’s in Pennsylvania, but you’re in New York, a good five-hour ride if he pushes it. He’s pushing it.

The highway stretches out, a dark ribbon under a sky smeared with stars. Bucky leans into the wind, the speedometer climbing as the bike eats up the miles. His mind’s a tangle of you—your teasing texts, the way you looked on that call, your body arching as you came for him. He grips the handlebars tighter, the metal of his left hand glinting in the moonlight. He’s not built for distance, not when it comes to you. Every mile feels like a taunt, every second a reminder of how bad he needs to touch you, taste you, feel you under him.

He replays the call in his head, your voice a siren song. “Ride you so hard you’d forget your own name.” His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his throat, lost in the wind. He’s half-hard again just thinking about it, the memory of your fingers slipping into your panties, the soft moans you made. He shifts on the seat, trying to focus on the road, but it’s no use. You’re in his blood, and no amount of miles or cold air can shake you out.

A gas station looms ahead, the only light for miles. He pulls in, the bike’s rumble dropping to a low purr as he cuts the engine. His boots hit the gravel, and he stretches, rolling his shoulders. The attendant, a kid barely out of his teens, eyes the metal arm warily but says nothing as Bucky fills the tank. He checks his phone—2:37 AM. A text from you, sent just after the call.

You: You’re really coming? Be safe, soldier. I’ll be waiting…

He smirks, typing back with one hand, still clumsy with the touchscreen. Bucky: Damn right I’m comin’. Don’t sleep too deep, doll. Gonna need you awake.

He sends it, pockets the phone, and swings back onto the bike. The kid mutters something about “crazy night riders,” but Bucky’s already gone, the Harley roaring back to life. The road’s emptier now, just him and the hum of the engine, the world blurring past. He thinks about what’s waiting—your apartment, your bed, you in that flimsy camisole or maybe nothing at all. His foot presses harder on the throttle, the needle pushing past 90.

Dawn’s starting to bleed into the horizon when he hits the outskirts of New York, the city’s glow a faint promise. His body aches from the ride, but it’s nothing compared to the ache for you. He weaves through early traffic, the bike’s growl turning heads, but he doesn’t care. Your address is burned into his brain, every turn taking him closer. The thought of you, warm and waiting, maybe still flushed from earlier, has his heart pounding harder than the engine.

He pulls up to your building as the sky turns pink, the Harley’s rumble echoing off the brick. He cuts the engine, the silence sudden and heavy. His boots hit the pavement, and he takes a moment, catching his breath, running a hand through his wind-messed hair. The duffel slung over his shoulder, but all he can think about is you—steps away, behind that door, real and his.

He’s here. And he’s not leaving until you’re screaming his name.

The stairwell to your apartment is a blur as Bucky bounds up, boots thudding on the creaking wood, his pulse a war drum in his ears. The five-hour ride on his Harley—wind tearing at him, miles bleeding into the night—has only sharpened his need. Your door looms at the end of the hall, and he’s there in seconds, fist hovering for a soft knock. It’s 6:13 AM; he won’t wake your neighbours. The rap is quiet but urgent, his metal hand twitching, impatient.

The door flies open, and you’re a vision that stops his heart. That silky camisole clings to you, one strap slipped off your shoulder, barely containing the curves he’s been dreaming of. Your hair’s tousled, eyes wide with shock and want, lips parted like you’re about to speak. But Bucky doesn’t give you the chance. His duffel hits the floor, and he’s on you, hands cradling your face as he crashes his mouth to yours. The kiss is raw, all-consuming, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, weeks of pent-up longing spilling out. He tastes you—mint toothpaste and something sweeter, something you—and it’s better than any fantasy.

“Bucky,” you gasp when he pulls back for air, your fingers knotting in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him growl. He kicks the door shut, the slam echoing, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist, thighs tight against his hips, and he groans as your heat presses through his jeans. The leather jacket’s cool against your bare arms, but his body’s a furnace, searing where he holds you.

“Told you I’d come, doll,” he rasps, voice rough from the road and desire.

He carries you to the bedroom, lips trailing fire down your jaw, nipping the pulse point on your neck that makes you shudder. Your nails rake his shoulders, shoving at his jacket, and he shrugs it off mid-stride, dog tags jangling as it hits the floor. You’re clawing at his shirt now, and he yanks it over his head, tossing it aside, leaving him in just those damn tags and jeans slung low on his hips.

He sets you on the bed, stepping back to drink you in. The camisole’s riding up, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, your thighs parted just enough to make his mouth water. Your eyes are dark, pupils blown, and the way you’re looking at him—like he’s everything—has his chest tight.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, voice thick with praise, the words wrapping around you like a caress. He crawls over you, caging you with his body, his flesh hand snagging both your wrists and pinning them above your head. The restraint sends a spark through you, and he feels it, sees it in the way you arch. “Gonna make you scream for me, sweetheart. You’re mine.”

The possessiveness laces his tone, and you shiver, lips curving into a defiant smirk. “Prove it, soldier.”

That’s all he needs. His mouth claims yours again, deep and filthy, tongue stroking in a way that promises what’s coming. His metal hand slides under your camisole, cold against your fevered skin, and he doesn’t bother with finesse—just rips the fabric down the middle, the tear loud in the quiet room. You gasp, but his lips are there, soothing, kissing the sting away as the scraps fall. “I’ll buy you another one,” he murmurs, but you’re too far gone to care, your hands straining against his grip, wanting to touch him.

His mouth moves lower, hot and deliberate, sucking at the swell of your breast, teeth grazing your nipple until you whine. He laves it with his tongue, then moves to the other, leaving marks you’ll feel tomorrow. “So fuckin’ responsive,” he growls, voice vibrating against your skin. He trails kisses down your stomach, each one slower, teasing, until he’s settled between your thighs. His hands—flesh and metal—grip your hips, spreading you open, and he just stares, eyes black with hunger. “Look at you, doll. So wet for me. Been like this since our call, haven’t you?”

You nod, breathless, and he chuckles, dark and dirty. “Good girl.” The praise hits like a drug, and then his mouth’s on you, no warning, just a slow, devastating lick through your folds. You cry out, hips bucking, but his metal arm pins you down, unrelenting. He groans, the sound rumbling through you, and it’s like he’s starving, tongue circling your clit, sucking hard, then dipping lower to taste you deeper. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had,” he says, voice muffled, and you’re already trembling, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming.

His flesh hand joins in, fingers teasing your entrance, circling until you’re begging, voice broken.

“Bucky, please, need you—” He doesn’t make you wait, sliding two fingers inside, thick and curling just right, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.

You moan, loud and shameless, as he pumps them slow, then faster, his tongue never stopping, sucking your clit like it’s his mission to ruin you. “That’s it, doll,” he says, lifting his head just enough to watch you writhe. “Love those sounds. Keep makin’ ‘em for me.”

You’re close, too close, the coil tightening with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue. He senses it, doubles down, sucking hard as his fingers twist, and you’re gone, screaming his name as you come, body arching off the bed. He doesn’t stop, working you through it, licking every shudder until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging at his hair to pull him up.

He crawls over you, kissing you deep, and you taste yourself on his tongue, the intimacy making you dizzy. “So damn beautiful when you come,” he whispers, and the praise sinks into you, warm and perfect. His jeans are still on, tented painfully, and you reach for him, fingers clumsy with need as you pop the button, drag the zipper down. He helps, kicking them off with his boxers, and you pause, just looking—his cock’s thick, hard, leaking at the tip, and the sight makes your mouth water.

“Need you, Bucky,” you say, voice raw, reaching for him. “Now.”

He smirks, but his eyes are soft, reverent. “Gonna give you everything, sweetheart.” He settles between your thighs, teasing your entrance with his tip, dragging it through your slick until you’re whining. “You want me to fuck you, doll? Want me to make you mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe, legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer. “Please, Bucky.”

He doesn’t tease anymore. He pushes in, slow and relentless, stretching you inch by inch, and you both groan, the feeling overwhelming. He’s big, filling you completely, and he stills, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grits out, voice strained, his dog tags dangling, brushing your chest. “Feel so damn perfect, doll. Like you were made for me.”

You clench around him, and he curses, low and filthy. “Keep doin’ that, and I won’t last,” he warns, but you just smirk, rolling your hips to take him deeper. He growls, pinning your wrists again, the restraint making you burn. “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, sweetheart.”

He starts moving, and it’s everything—deep, powerful thrusts, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking under the force. You meet him thrust for thrust, arching up, the friction perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. “Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, and he leans down, sucking a bruise into your neck, marking you as his.

“Mine,” he growls, each word punctuated by a thrust, his metal hand gripping your hip, anchoring you. “Say it, doll. Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, the word a prayer, and he rewards you, angling his hips to hit even deeper, the pleasure blinding. His pace quickens, relentless, and you’re both panting, sweat-slick and desperate.

“Love how you feel,” he groans, voice rough. “So wet, so tight, takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

The dirty talk pushes you higher, and you claw at his back, nails digging in, making him hiss.

“Harder,” you beg, and he delivers, fucking you into the mattress, the headboard rattling. His flesh hand releases your wrists, sliding between you to rub tight circles on your clit, and you cry out, the added sensation too much. “Bucky, I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he commands, possessive and fierce. “Wanna feel you, doll. Let go.”

It hits like a freight train, your body convulsing, clenching around him as you scream his name, pleasure tearing through you. He groans, thrusts growing erratic, chasing his own release. “Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he pants, and then he’s coming, spilling inside you, hot and deep, his hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt.

You’re both trembling, locked together, and he doesn’t pull out, staying close, kissing you slow and deep, tongues lazy now, sated. His weight is grounding, his tags cool against your chest, and you feel every shudder of his breath. “No more distance,” he murmurs, voice a vow, his lips brushing yours. “I’m not leavin’ you again, sweetheart.”

You smile, fingers tracing his jaw, his stubble rough under your touch. “Better not, soldier. I’m keeping you forever.”

He chuckles, soft and warm, rolling to his side and pulling you with him, still inside you, like he can’t bear to break the connection. “Forever sounds good, doll.”

────✪────

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

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! <3

#sebastian stan #bucky barnes #smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan fic #sebastian stan x reader #thunderbolts #avengers #the new avengers #marvel thunderbolts #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes

1K notes · View notes

alisonsfics · 1 month ago

Text

two to tango

pairing: bucky barnes x black widow! yelena’s sister! reader

summary: you weren’t sure what to expect when you went to visit your sister yelena at avengers tower. that’s when you run into the cocky and flirty bucky barnes. except, it’s dark and late, he doesn’t know you, and he thinks you’re an intruder.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex in avengers tower, praise kink, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, reader and bucky take turns on top, flirty bucky bc he deserves his own warning, minors DNI

You stepped out of the elevator into the hallway and headed towards Yelena’s room.

You were at Avengers Tower to visit with your sister Yelena. Your flight had gotten very delayed, so she told you to let yourself in. And that’s how you found yourself walking through Avengers Tower in the pitch black at two in the morning.

There was something eerie about how quiet and empty it was. You’d always pictured it as bursting with superheroes and energy, and now it seemed so still and deserted.

You had also trained in the Red Room, like Yelena, so you could handle yourself but the empty corridors still gave you the nervous jitters.

You walked past the kitchen and living room, noticing the giant television on the wall.

You swore you saw something in the reflection, and then as you walked around the corner, you felt a sharp kick to the back of your knees.

You fell, sliding across the marble floor. You rolled onto your back and looked behind you.

You could only barely see his silhouette, but there was a man standing above you.

You quickly wrapped your legs around one of his and pinned him to the ground.

“Who the hell are you?” You asked, lying on top of the man.

You heard him laugh under his breath, then he hooked one of his legs around your waist and flipped you over.

You tried to squirm out of his grip, but with him straddling you, there was nowhere for you to go. You landed a punch, your fist coming in contact with his cheek.

You tried to punch again, but he caught your fist in his hand. He grabbed both of your wrists and pinned your arms above your head.

“Just can’t catch a break today,” the man mumbled under his breath.

Suddenly, light filled the room. You both squinted as your eyes struggled to adjust to the light.

“Bucky? What the hell?” A voice questioned. You both looked over to see Yelena entering the room.

The name turned on a lightbulb in your head. You looked back at the man hovering above you. Then, you recognized his dark hair, beard, and oh shit— metal arm.

Bucky met your gaze, and you could see his brain connect the dots. “Oh god wait…are you—” Bucky started to ask.

Yelena walked closer to you. Her eyes widened as she saw the scene before her: Bucky straddling and pinning her sister to the floor. “What the hell, Bucky? Get off my sister.” Yelena snapped.

“She was on top of me first.” Bucky said defensively, shooting you a wink as he stood up.

“Woah woah…no no no. Do not wink at my sister.” Yelena said, noticing the way Bucky was smirking at you. You could feel a warmth flush to your cheeks. Bucky offered his hand to you.

You cautiously took ahold of his metal hand and let him pull you to your feet. “You must be Yelena’s sister. I’m Bucky.” He said, not letting go of your hand. Yelena’s gaze went between the way you and Bucky were staring into each other's eyes and Bucky's hand in yours.

“So, do you make it a priority to kick every visitor you have to the ground?” You challenged, tilting your head to the side. Bucky chuckled under his breath. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know it was you, Yelena said you were getting here tomorrow. You seemed to be able to handle yourself pretty well though.” He complimented you.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” You replied, coyly.

Yelena helplessly looked back and forth between the two of you.

“No no no no no. None of this,” Yelena interrupted, standing in between the two of you. She put her hands on your shoulders and started to steer you away from Bucky. “Thank you for keeping her company or whatever you were doing, Barnes.” Yelena said, pulling you towards her room.

“I’ll see you later.” You heard Bucky call after you. You glanced over your shoulder, and Bucky winked back at you.

“Don’t you even think about it.” Yelena whispered to you, reading your mind as quickly as the thought crossed your mind.

She brought you back to her room, and your mind couldn’t help but wander to thoughts of Bucky.

You crawled onto the bed next to your sister. “So, what’s Bucky’s deal?” You asked, leaning your head on her shoulder. She looked down at the giddy smile on your face. “I cannot begin to explain how much I forbid it.” She replied.

“Please,” you begged, clasping your fingers together and pouting.

“I’m your older sister. It’s my job to forbid it.” She repeated.

“Oh, please. You’re a year older than me. Do me this one favor. It’s not my fault he’s so charming and strong and— ughhh that arm?” You rambled.

Yelena’s face scrunched up at the thought. “Don’t talk about him like that. I work with him. And you’re my sister. No man is good enough for you.” She said, shuddering. You laughed at how protective she was being.

“Oh, Bucky is more than good enough for me.” You teased, as you laid down on the bed. Yelena pretended to gag and hit you in the face with a pillow.

You couldn’t resist the urge to annoy her a bit further. “He’s just so dreamy. I wonder what he could do with that metal arm.” You pestered her. Yelena plugged her fingers in her ears and started singing to herself.

You couldn’t help but laugh at her reaction. “I will go tell dad right now. Don’t even tempt me.” She threatened.

Your jaw dropped. You’d never get within one hundred feet of Bucky ever again if the Red Guardian knew you liked him. You pretended to zip your lips shut and rolled over to go to sleep.

When you woke up in the morning, Yelena was still asleep. You snuck out of bed and changed into some workout clothes. It was pretty early, so you assumed everyone was still asleep.

You quietly tiptoed down the hall towards the training room you’d passed last night. You swung the door open, but instead of being greeted by an empty room, you came face to face with Bucky lifting weights.

“Well, if it isn’t the infamous Bucky Barnes.” You said, smiling at him and leaning against the wall.

He stopped what he was doing to and looked up at you. As soon as his eyes met yours, that signature smirk returned to his face. “You been looking for me?” He asked, cocking his head to the side.

You walked across the room til you were standing in front of him. Your eyes lingered on his biceps before glancing back up to meet his gaze. You saw him bite his lip as he looked at you.

“Depends. Are you gonna try to tackle me to the floor again?” You joked. He dropped his weights back onto the rack. The loud metal clang almost made you jump. “Why? Do you want me to?” He teased.

You couldn’t help but notice the butterflies you felt when he looked at you.

You ignored his question, “doesn’t matter what I want, I don’t think you could beat me again” you challenged.

“You want a round two? Alright, fair enough. You’re gonna regret it. I won’t go so easy on you this time, doll.” He said.

You both walked over into the middle of the boxing ring. “It’s not too late to back out, if you’re scared to beat by a girl.” You teased. He chuckled. “Trust me, I have no problem with a girl being stronger than me.” He winked at you.

He threw the first punch, which you skillfully dodged.

Then, he tried to lunge for you, but you stepped out of the way and tripped him. He stumbled forward, catching himself on the ropes. You tried to use a side kick, but he grabbed your ankle and tugged it towards him.

You fell down on your back as he held your legs above your head. “Thought you weren’t gonna lose again,” he growled, keeping your legs straight and pulling them apart sideways. You could see the hunger in his eyes as he looked down at you and spread your legs.

You grinned to yourself as you thought of a way to beat him.

You held out your hands out, reaching for his. “Just fucking get down here and kiss me already,” you mumbled. He shuddered from the desperation in your voice.

He grasped for your hands, but when he did, you rested your feet on his stomach and flipped his body over your head, so he landed on his back. You quickly scrambled over to him and straddled his hips.

You held his wrists up above his head. “I think this means I won.” You whispered.

He groaned under you. “I don’t know. I’m feeling like I’m still winning either way.” He said, pulling his hands away from you and letting them rest on your hips. His thumbs massaged your skin.

You playfully rolled your hips against his. His eyes fluttered shut, squeezing your hips even tighter. You thought about the bruises that would be there in the morning.

“Anybody normally come in here in the mornings?” You asked softly, rolling your hips into his again. He swore under his breath. He couldn’t help but buck his hips against yours, desperate for friction. “You scared of getting caught, doll?” He teased.

“I mean, my sister and dad are in the building, and I was actually forbidden.” You told him.

“Forbidden from doing what?” He whispered, biting down on his bottom lip. You smirked down at him.

“This,” you replied simply.

You trailed your fingers across his stomach before letting them land on the hem of his shirt. You methodically pulled it off and over his head.

Bucky was practically drooling as he watched your every move eagerly. You leaned forward til your lips were millimeters away from his. He stared at your lips, longing to close the distance.

“Not yet,” you whispered. You pressed a soft kiss to his bare shoulder, and then another, and then another. Then, you softly bit his shoulder. A breathy moan escaped his lips.

His hands jumped to the small of your back. He pulled you into him, your body fitting perfectly against his like it was written in the stars.

He desperately bucked his hips up against you. “What do you need, honey?” You teasingly asked him. He tried to respond, but you rolled your hips against his again and all that came out was a string of curse words.

“Just tell me where you need me, and I can help you with your situation.” You teased, palming your hand against his erection.

“Oh, fuck,” he swore, his eyes tightly squeezed shut. You brushed his hair out of his face, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

“Oh please, just let me fuck you. I need you so bad, doll.” He begged.

“Well, you know what I was thinking about all last night?” You asked, batting your eyelashes at him. His eyes darkened. “Tell me,” he said, eagerly.

“Thinking about what you could do with this arm,” you said, running your fingers up and down the cool metal.

“Why don’t I just show you?” He said. He quickly spun over, pinning you to the ground. His metal hand grabbed your wrists and held them together above your head. “Not so cocky now that you’re not on top, are you?” He teased, noticing your silence.

You both stared at each other for a few seconds, the air in the room felt heavy. Then your lips attacked each other as you both quickly pulled at the other’s clothes. Your shirt and bra quickly ended up on the other side of the ring.

“Fuck, don’t have the patience for this.” He grunted, pulling down his shorts just enough that his cock sprung out. You swallowed as you looked at how big he was. You were so distracted, you didn’t see what Bucky was doing until you felt him tug down your leggings and rip your panties almost in half.

He firmly grabbed your hips. His cool metal hand in contrast with your burning skin made you shiver.

He slowly sunk his cock into you. His mouth hung open as he filled you up. You felt like you were seeing stars. “Fuck me, Bucky. I’m not gonna break. I need you.” You begged.

His grip tightened on your hips as he began slamming his hips into yours. You desperately reached for anything you could hold on to. Your hands landed in Bucky's hair, weaving and wrapping the strands around your fingers.

“Oh, fuck, doll. Squeezing me so well with this perfect pussy,” he groaned.

His cock rammed against you, slamming into your g-spot over and over and making you cry out. He sealed your lips with a kiss. “Gotta stay quiet for me, sweets. If you stay quiet, I promise I’ll make you feel real good.” He mumbled against your lips.

He pulled your legs to wrap around his hips. He reached even deeper inside of you. The coil building in your abdomen got tighter and tighter.

You leaned your head back against the floor as he started kissing your collarbone. Your gaze trailed down to see his cock burying itself inside of you and stretching you out. It was sinful.

The room was full of the sounds of your sweaty skin slapping against each other and breathy moans.

“Fuck, Bucky. I think I’m gonna—” you mumbled, scratching your nails down his back.

“You want to cum for me, doll? You gonna cum all over my cock and make me yours.” He coaxed you. His words went straight to your core, turning you on even more.

His eyes were black with lust as he watched you. “C’mon, doll. I bet you look so pretty when you cum.” He said, his metal fingers finding your clit and circling it with his thumb.

With that, you came around him.

You repeated his name over and over like it was a prayer. His hips stuttered against yours as you squeezed onto him.

Your vision went white as he continued to thrust into you.

He started to slow his thrusts, but you grabbed his hands and stopped him.

You quickly rolled over, so you were straddling him. “What’re you doin’, doll.” he asked, stuttering as he watched you.

“You’re gonna cum too, super soldier.” You said, sliding down on his cock again.

He sat up, leaning against the ropes of the ring. His head hung back, breathing heavily as you started riding him.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Your breasts bounced in front of his face with every thrust, and he was almost drooling. “Haven’t paid enough attention to these tits,” he mumbled, taking your nipple in his mouth. He softly bit down, making you yelp.

You knew you were already close to another orgasm. His hands cupped your ass. “You take me so well.” He praised you. You tightened your grip on his shoulders.

“Doll, you’re gonna make me cum.” He groaned.

“I’m close too,” you mumbled.

He took your hips in his hands and helped you speed up. His moans sounded angelic to your ears. You could feel his cock start to twitch and his breath got caught in his throat.

“Fill me up,” you purred in his ear.

That was enough to push him over the edge. You could feel him cum, and then your orgasm hit you. “Oh, God, Bucky,” you moaned.

His cum leaked out of you as you squeezed his length. “Love the way you feel,” he mumbled as he started to slow your thrusts.

You collapsed against his chest, sweaty and out of breath. He brushed your hair to the side and kissed up and down your neck.

“I would love to stay and do another round, but Yelena’s gonna be wondering where I am.” You said, caressing his shoulders with your fingertips.

“Any chance you can sneak out later tonight?” He asked, softly.

“I think I can make that work.” You said, grinning.

You both got dressed again. “I’ll be taking these.” He said, grabbing your ripped panties from your hand and stuffing them in his pocket. You went up on your tiptoes and pressed a kiss against Bucky's lips.

He walked behind you as you headed for the door. You both stepped into the hallway and came face to face with Yelena.

She took one look at your disheveled clothes and swollen lips, and her face morphed into a scowl.

Standing behind you, Bucky tried to smooth out your hair after noticing how messy it had gotten.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Bucky.” Yelena said, crossing her arms.

He held up his hands in surrender. “It wasn’t just my fault. It takes two to tango.” He said, winking down at you.

Yelena groaned and pulled you away from him. “See you tonight, doll,” he called after you, knowing it would get on Yelena’s nerves.

taglist: @laurakirsten0502 @miraclesoflove @nathaliabakes @millipop18 @lillyssh-tposts @shyinadarkplace @vanteguccir @missroro @guiltandguitarstrings @sw33t-cupid @ice-dtae @leyannrae @sia2raw @nyx2021 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @shyconversationalbookworm @shadowhuntyi @iamavailablesstuff @ruzannetheseahorse @superdeath @wandaswifeyforlifey @spookyqueen @mcuswhore @astheskycries @n3ssm0nique @peakascum @cjand10 @namsey1987 @supernaturalstilinski @stephv213 @sunwardsss @studentville-struggles @impossibleapricotlampbat @infjwinchester44 @weirdfishy @lickmymelaninn @eternally-timeless @andreasworlsboring101 @glassesandthunderthighs @holding-on-to-my-youth @fanofalltheficsx @spiderstyles04 @mostly-marvel-musings @madisondelstan @spookyparadisesheep @beyondthesefourwalls @basicfangirlx @rivirox @i-wish-i-knew-what-i-was @reniescarlett @multiplums @alotofrandomfangirling @bbl32 @bob-fucks @stressydepressyandlemonzesty @faykyrie @dorothea-hwldr @cherryyxbabyy @lovethemfictionalboys @starsdancegirl @akumune @harrysthiccthighss @warriormirkwood @one-sweet-gubler @narliesstuff @bibissparkles @stupiidfrogs @navs-bhat @marvelcasey05 @velyssaraptor

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for all my fics or for a specific character/fandom!!

#bucky barnes #thunderbolts #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes oneshot #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts fic

2K notes · View notes

lovelybucky1 · 2 months ago

Note

need bucky to fuck me whilst eating out yelena tbh

it's odd to see bucky barnes, the feared assassin and newly-elected congressman, rolled over on his back, baring himself to two equally dangerous mercenaries.

his body is stretched out over the mattress, arms above his head to hold onto yelena's hips. his fingers, both flesh and metal, dig into the softness of her skin but they don't prevent her from moving. he allows her to rock her hips as much as she wants, taking her pleasure from his tongue, lips, nose, and beard.

you also sit on top of bucky, his thick length sheathed inside of you as you chase your own pleasure. with each bounce of your body, bucky's abs tense. seeing his defined muscles flex and twitch as the two of you use him is fascinating.

you both know he could easily overpower you, even being pinned under your combined weight like this. it wouldn't take much effort for him to lift you off, put you on your back, and take charge. it's the fact that he's letting you do this to him that makes it so hot

you and yelena face each other, her expression of pleasure mirroring yours. she swears something in russian you can't understand but based on the throb of bucky's cock inside you, he heard her loud and clear.

you reach out for her and pull her into a kiss, wanting to swallow all of her moans. you know she must be close because she doesn't dominate the kiss like she usually does. instead, it's more of a tangle of tongues. you lean your weight on your hand, places firmly in the center of bucky's chest to support yourself. you can feel the heavy beat of his heart, steady and strong unlike the rapid beating of your own.

"'lena," you gasp when the kiss breaks, moaning her name like she's the one inside of you.

bucky, ever the attention seeker, reminds you of his presence by sliding his left hand between your bodies and teasing your clit with his cold, metal fingertips. the sensation catches you by surprise and makes your breath hitch. it's quiet, but bucky's enhanced hearing gives him access to even your most subtle of reactions.

“i’m close,” you tell them. bucky’s fingers keep their steady pace while you fuck yourself on him, and it only takes a few more thrusts before your orgasm is washing over you. while lost in your own pleasure, yelena reaches her own peak and gushes into bucky’s mouth, who greedily continues to suck on her folds until she pushes him away.

once riding out her high, yelena moves forward off of bucky’s face to sit on his chest. she leans her forehead, slick with sweat, against your shoulder. both of you stay like that, catching your breath while bucky is still fully erect inside of you.

he clears his throat to get your attention. “just gonna leave me here?” he asks, voice gruff from lack of use.

you and yelena lock eyes and can’t help the giggles that erupt from both of you. you two have the winter soldier wrapped around your fingers.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova fanfiction #yelena belova fanfic #yelena belova smut #yelena belova x you #yelena belova x y/n #bucky barnes x yelena belova #thunderbolts #ask #anon

1K notes · View notes

ilovolderman · 2 months ago

Text

Hiding in Plain Sight

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You and Bucky sneak away for a secret rooftop date

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: secret relationship, fluff, nosy teammate (guess who), taylor swift 🤭

A/N: this is part 3 of a little series, but you can totally read it on its own. i poured a bit too much of myself into this one, and it’s my favorite so far. you can check here: part 1 & part 2. hope you like it and please let me know if maybe you would like a part 4.

It starts with a note—folded twice, slipped under your door, and written in Bucky’s ridiculously neat handwriting:

“Mission briefing: Meet me on the roof at 8. Wear that hoodie I like. Bring your appetite. Everyone’s out tonight. – B.”

You grin like an idiot and stash the note in your pocket, heart fluttering.

At exactly 8, you sneak through the halls of the compound like a very suspicious ninja, hoodie up, steps quiet. You take the service stairs two at a time, and when you push open the rooftop door, the city lights bloom around you like fireflies.

Bucky’s already there. You sit down next to him on the blanket, legs folded beneath you as Bucky hands you a burger wrapped in foil. He’s already grinning before you even open it.

“You didn’t,” you say, suspicious.

“I did,” he says proudly. “Double Cheesezilla. Extra onion rings. No tomatoes. Just how you like it.”

You squint at him. “Okay, first of all, you remembered that? Second of all, are you trying to seduce me with a burger right now?”

He leans in, eyes twinkling. “Is it working?”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Unfortunately, yes.”

For a while, you eat in a comfortable silence. The breeze is warm, and the city lights glitter below like scattered stars. He passes you fries and steals a sip of your milkshake, acting like he didn’t just order the same thing.

Then his voice breaks the quiet.

“Y’ever think about what it’d be like if we didn’t have to sneak around?”

You glance over at him, chewing slowly. “You mean like… just be open about this?”

“Yeah. No more crawling out windows or hiding in broom closets or pretending I didn’t order you three milkshakes last week.”

You smile. “To be fair, I think Tony already found out, when you asked FRIDAY to play Taylor Swift over the speakers in the kitchen.”

“I panicked, okay?” he laughs, covering his face with his hand. “You left and I missed you.”

You blink. “I was gone for ten minutes.”

“Felt like hours.”

You feel your heart stutter in the best way. He’s not always this open—usually it takes a bit of teasing to get him to admit how he feels. But here, now, under the stars and above the city, he’s soft.

“I like this,” you say quietly. “Even if we have to sneak. It’s kind of… ours. Like this little world no one else gets to see.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second, then nods. “I like it too. Not just because it’s secret. But because it’s you.”

Your cheeks heat up. You look away, but he’s already watching you with that look again—that look like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“You know,” you say, trying to lighten the mood before your heart explodes, “if someone catches us again, I am not hiding in a broom closet. You’re too big and you stepped on my foot like four times.”

“I told you, I was trying to make space for you!”

“There was no space, Bucky.”

“Well then next time,” he says, shifting closer, his voice dropping, “we’ll hide somewhere better.”

“Like?”

He smirks. “Like under the table in the conference room."

You gape. “You’re insane.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning too hard to make it convincing. “You realize that under the conference table is, like, the opposite of discreet, right?”

Bucky shrugs, totally unbothered. “Not if we’re quiet.”

You scoff. “You? Quiet? You’re literally 200 pounds of muscle and metal.”

He grins and leans back on his hands, all confidence. “I’m surprisingly stealthy when I’m motivated.”

You toss a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth, smug as hell.

“I can’t believe I’m dating you,” you say, half-laughing, half-swooning, when suddenly you hear the rooftop door creak.

You jolt upright.

“Go,” Bucky whispers urgently, already helping you gather the soda cups and tuck the food wrappers under the blanket.

You scramble behind one of the big industrial vents, crouching low just as the door swings open.

“Barnes?” Sam’s voice echoes through the rooftop. “Why does it smell like fries and secret feelings up here?”

“Barnes?” Sam’s voice cuts through the night. “Why does it smell like french fries and teenage romance up here?”

Bucky clears his throat and leans back like he’s been chilling here all along. Totally not on a secret date. Totally not with his heart still racing from kissing you.

“Hey,” he says coolly. “Didn’t know you were coming up.”

Sam steps out, eyeing the scene. The fairy lights. The two cups. The suspiciously rumpled blanket. The very not-Bucky playlist still going in the background.

“Uh-huh,” Sam says. “You always hang out up here listening to Taylor Swift?”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “It’s… connected to Y/N’s phone.”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“She was showing me a playlist earlier,” Bucky lies smoothly. “Must’ve accidentally left it on Bluetooth. You know how it is. One second you’re listening to Metallica, next thing you know, boom—Swiftie central.”

“Right,” Sam says, slowly circling the blanket like he’s collecting evidence for a crime scene. “And the two soda cups?”

“She drinks a lot of water,” Bucky deadpans.

“The fries?”

“I was hungry."

“The pink lighter?”

Bucky hesitates. “It’s… mine?”

Sam gives him a look. “Man, you are the worst liar I’ve ever met. Even Steve was better and his idea of subtlety was a trench coat and sunglasses.”

Bucky shrugs, trying to hold back the grin tugging at his mouth. “What do you want me to say, Sam?”

“I wanna know why Taylor’s singing about soulmates and there’s a literal picnic blanket up here.”

Before Bucky can answer, the speaker clicks into the next song: Enchanted.

Sam’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t,” Bucky warns.

Sam’s smile spreads. “This night is sparkling, don’t you let it go…”

“I will throw you off this roof.”

“I’m wonderstruck, blushin’ all the way home—”

Bucky stands up. Sam bolts for the door, laughing all the way down the stairs.

You and Bucky exchange a look, as soon as you leave your hiding place, trying not to laugh.

“Should’ve locked the damn door,” Bucky mutters.

You smile, brushing your hand against his. “Still worth it.”

He squeezes your fingers gently. “Definitely.”

You close the space between you with a soft kiss, slow and warm, the kind that makes you feel like maybe the world really does stop spinning for a second. When you pull back, his eyes are still closed, like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

Then—

“FRIDAY, please tell me you’re not watching this,” you mutter.

“Not at all,” the AI replies blandly, “but Mr. Stark is wondering why the rooftop cameras are mysteriously malfunctioning.”

You and Bucky exchange a look.

“…Run?” you suggest.

“Run,” he agrees.

You grab the blanket and the fries, and he grabs your hand, and you both sprint for the stairs laughing like idiots.

next part

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fandom #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky x y/n #james bucky barnes #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #the winter soldier #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x reader #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n

2K notes · View notes

shadyfestivalperfection · 3 months ago

Text

Fifth Time’s The Charm~Oneshot

Summery: Every date gets interrupted before they can steal the deal. By the fifth one, they’re both so wounded up, it turns explosive-in the best way

Characters: Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Vibes/warning: Sexual tension, mutual pining, flirty banter, interrupted make out sessions, smut, tension building.

Note: All characters except y/n are not mine.

||Master List||

🌙 Date One: Rooftop Romance & a Falcon Crash

Bucky’s hand is warm as it slides over yours, his vibranium arm resting on the rooftop table like it belongs there.

The rooftop restaurant is quiet. Just a few candle-lit tables surrounded by fairy lights, with soft jazz playing through overhead speakers. The skyline behind him glows like a dream. And Bucky?

He’s in a button-up. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Hair tied back. Eyes locked on you like he still can’t believe you said yes to dinner.

“So,” you murmur, swirling the wine in your glass, “this is… kind of perfect.”

Bucky smiles. “I figured if I’m going to ruin someone’s night, might as well do it with a view.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not ruining anything, Barnes. Though I’m still not convinced this isn’t some weird pity date.”

He leans forward, eyes twinkling. “Sweetheart, if this were a pity date, I wouldn’t have rehearsed what to say in front of my mirror five times before picking you up.”

Your heart flips.

It’s funny—everyone sees Bucky Barnes as the brooding soldier, the stone-faced assassin, the Winter Soldier. But here, tonight, he’s just Bucky. Soft-spoken. Charming. A little shy. And very into you.

“So… what’d you rehearse?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He groans, covering his face with his hand. “Nope. That was supposed to stay buried.”

You grin. “Come on. You owe me at least one line.”

He groans again. “Fine. I was gonna say…” He sits up straighter, exaggerating the delivery. “‘You look beautiful tonight, doll.’ And then maybe something cheesy like… ‘Nothing in this city shines as bright as you.’”

You blink. “That’s… actually good.”

“Right?” he says, pleased. “Sam told me it was too much. Said I sounded like I was

quoting a romance novel.”

You’re about to respond—something flirty and appreciative—when your phone buzzes on the table. You glance down, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Don’t check it. I’m trying to live in the moment.”

You nod. “Me too.”

You don’t even notice how close you’ve gotten until his knee brushes yours beneath the table. His eyes drop to your lips for just a second. And your breath catches.

He leans in.

You lean closer.

He’s inches away. One hand rising to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His voice drops—

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time you handed me a cup of coffee in the break room—”

CRASH.

A loud thump echoes above you. Then—

“Shit! Sorry!”

You both jump as something heavy hits the rooftop ledge and rolls, a few pebbles scattering across the floor.

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “No. No no no—”

“BUCKY!”

You turn to see Sam Wilson—in full Falcon gear—tangled in his own wings, skidding to a stop right in front of your table.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky hisses, standing up.

Sam grins sheepishly. “Hey, man. Didn’t know you were up here. Testing some tech. Kinda… overshot the landing.”

You just blink. “That’s… impressive. Actually.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face. “Sam. I swear to God.”

Sam glances between the two of you. “Oh. OHHHH. Shit—were you two—”

“Yes, Sam,” Bucky snaps. “We were on a date.”

Sam’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then he shrugs.

“Well… my bad. I’ll just… backflip off the side and leave you to it.”

“You do that.”

With a whoosh of his wings, Sam vaults back off the building—leaving behind only a couple of knocked-over chairs, one blown-out candle, and the unmistakable sound of Bucky’s teeth grinding together.

You burst out laughing.

Bucky glares at you—but it’s mostly mock offense. “Glad you’re enjoying the death of our first date.”

You reach across the table and take his hand again. “Okay, it was interrupted, not dead. Honestly? I like that he crashed it. Now you owe me a second date.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” You squeeze his hand. “Next time… somewhere Falcon-proof.”

His grin is soft. Wicked. “Anywhere you want, sweetheart.”

You smirk. “As long as I get that kiss you were about to give me.”

His eyes darken. “Oh, you’ll get it. Trust me.”

🎬 Date Two: Movie Night & Third-Wheel Steve

The sound of a movie plays quietly in the background, but neither of you’s really paying attention.

You’re curled up on Bucky’s couch, under a fleece blanket, one of his old sweatshirts hanging off your shoulder. He sits behind you, legs spread, body warm and solid, and you’re tucked between them like you belong there.

Spoiler: You do.

“I swear,” you mumble, reaching for more popcorn without taking your eyes off the screen, “if this ends with another crash landing, I’m suing Sam for emotional damages.”

Bucky laughs into your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “This one’s Falcon-free, I promise.”

“You said that last time.”

He groans, playful. “C’mon, don’t hold that against me. It was one crash.”

“It was our almost first kiss, Barnes. That’s a felony in some states.”

He leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You want me to make it up to you?”

Your breath catches. “Yeah. I do.”

You twist in his arms, shifting so you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips. The movement is smooth. Bold. A little reckless.

But he doesn’t mind. In fact, he looks thrilled.

“Well damn,” he says, hands gripping your thighs through the thin fabric of your pajama shorts. “Is this part of the movie, or…?”

You smile, teasing. “Bonus content.”

His eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You’re killin’ me, doll.”

And then his hands slide up your thighs, fingers curling around your waist. You can feel him underneath you—hard, hungry, ready—and you’re barely even kissing yet.

His voice drops, rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop now if you want to.”

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, breathless.

That’s all he needs.

His lips crash into yours—hot, intense, a kiss you’ve both been aching for since the rooftop. His tongue teases your bottom lip, and you open for him, moaning into his mouth as his hands tighten on your hips. You rock forward instinctively, and he groans, hips bucking beneath you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “you’re gonna make me—”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A heavy knock slams against the front door, startling you both.

You freeze.

“No,” Bucky mutters against your neck, lips still brushing your skin. “No. Not again.”

“Ignore it,” you whisper, grinding against him a little just to tease.

He groans. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna kill me.”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Bucky!” a familiar voice calls from the hallway. “I brought pizza!”

You pull back, blinking. “Is that—?”

“STEVE,” Bucky growls.

You scramble off his lap, cheeks blazing as Bucky nearly explodes off the couch.

The front door swings open—of course he still gives Steve a key—and there stands Captain America himself, smiling, holding two pizza boxes and a six-pack of root beer.

“Hey,” Steve says, totally oblivious, “movie night?”

Bucky’s expression is somewhere between a murder charge and emotional devastation. “STEVE.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Bucky gestures wildly. “What does it look like?!”

Steve finally notices your flushed cheeks, the messed-up blanket, the very awkward distance you’re both now keeping.

“Oh,” he says.

There’s a pause.

Then: “Should I… leave?”

Bucky looks like he wants to throw him through a wall. You try not to laugh.

“Probably,” you say, standing and adjusting the oversized sweatshirt. “Unless you wanna be very scarred tonight.”

Steve holds up the pizza hopefully. “I brought pepperoni?”

You groan. “Okay, fine. But I’m picking the movie and you’re sitting at the other end of the couch.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath about “damn super soldiers and their terrible timing,” but you give his hand a squeeze as you walk by.

When your eyes meet, he mouths:

“Next time. You’re mine.”

And something about the heat in his stare tells you next time’s gonna be very worth the wait.

🖼️ Date Three: Art, Anticipation & An Unwelcome Mission

The Met is unusually quiet for a Saturday evening. Dimmed lights. Velvet ropes. Elegant, whispered conversations.

But Bucky’s not paying attention to the Monet in front of him.

No—he’s watching you.

Your dress hugs your curves too perfectly. Your eyes shine every time you pause in front of a new piece. And when you tilt your head, smiling at some abstract sculpture like it just told you a dirty joke, he damn near loses his mind.

“You’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes,” you murmur, not even turning around.

“You make it hard not to,” he replies, stepping closer, voice low. “You know that dress should be illegal, right?”

You smirk, still pretending to focus on the painting. “So arrest me, Sergeant Barnes.”

His fingers brush your lower back. Soft. Teasing. “You sayin’ you want me to cuff you, sweetheart?”

You shoot him a warning look, cheeks heating. “This is a museum.”

“This is foreplay,” he corrects, voice deep and delicious in your ear.

You nearly choke on a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” His metal hand slides down your waist, resting right at the curve of your hip, “…you still came out with me.”

You turn to face him, caught in that pull he always seems to have over you.

“I came because I like the way you look when you pretend to care about art,” you tease.

He raises an eyebrow. “I do care. Especially about the nudes.”

“Bucky!”

But you’re laughing, and he’s leaning in—smirking, dangerous, beautiful. The tension between you crackles like electricity in the air.

“I need to kiss you,” he whispers. “Right now.”

“Not in the middle of the sculpture room.”

His smirk grows. “Then come with me.”

Before you can protest, he takes your hand and tugs you down a quiet side hallway labeled “Staff Only.”

“Bucky,” you hiss, half laughing, “we’re gonna get kicked out—”

“I’ll make it worth it,” he says, pulling you into the shadows.

The hallway is dark. Silent. Cold stone walls and empty echo. And Bucky?

He’s all heat and hands and hunger.

His mouth finds yours like it’s been waiting too long. You melt into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands grip your hips and press you against the wall. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you whimper—soft, needy—hips rocking forward just slightly.

The sound he makes? Absolutely feral.

“God, doll,” he groans, grinding into you. “You keep makin’ those noises and I’m not gonna make it to date five.”

You gasp against his lips. “Then make this one count.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His lips travel down your jaw, nipping along your throat. One hand slides under your dress, brushing the inside of your thigh—and you know if anyone catches you right now, you’d be banned for life.

And honestly? Worth it.

Just as his fingers start to trail higher—

Bzzt. Bzzt.

His phone vibrates hard against his chest.

Bucky groans like he’s in actual pain. “Ignore it.”

But it buzzes again. And again.

And then your phone starts to vibrate in your bag.

You both freeze.

He curses softly, reaching into his coat. The moment he checks the screen, everything changes.

His entire posture shifts. Military. Tense. Ready.

“What?” you ask, straightening, heart dropping.

“It’s Sam,” he mutters, already walking back down the hallway. “HYDRA hit a black site in Berlin. Nat’s down. Cap’s calling us in.”

You’re suddenly cold all over.

He turns back to you, jaw clenched, eyes apologetic. “I have to go.”

“I know,” you say quietly, following him.

“This isn’t how I wanted tonight to end,” he admits, pulling you into a brief, fierce kiss that tastes like regret.

“I know,” you whisper again. “Just… come back in one piece, Barnes.”

He cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. “You too.”

And then he’s gone.

You’re left standing in that dim, forgotten hallway—heart pounding, skin still tingling from his touch—wondering what the hell it’ll take to finally finish one damn date with him.

🌧️ Date Four: Rain, Restraint & a Damn Phone Call

It starts as a simple walk after dinner.

You and Bucky wander through downtown Brooklyn, hands tangled together like you’ve been doing it for years. The streets are damp, slick from a light drizzle that started an hour ago, but neither of you care.

You’re laughing. Warm. Buzzed off good food and wine and him.

He keeps sneaking glances at you like you’re the most stunning thing in the entire city. And truth be told, the way the rain makes your dress cling to your curves? He

might be right.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, pulling you a little closer under his umbrella.

“Not with you like this,” you reply, and rest your hand on his chest. It’s firm, warm even through his jacket, and you feel the way he subtly leans into your touch.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You say things like that, I’m gonna have to press you against this brick wall and make out with you like we’re in a damn movie.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

His smirk could melt steel. “Why don’t we find out?”

And that’s all it takes.

You stop walking.

Grab the front of his coat.

And pull him into the nearest alley.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, stunned, as you shove him gently against the damp brick. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve waited long enough, Barnes,” you say, pressing your body to his, looking up through soaked lashes. “Every single date, someone or something gets in the way. Not this time. I want you. Right now.”

He growls low in his throat, both hands grabbing your waist with barely restrained hunger. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, sweetheart.”

Then he kisses you—hard.

Tongue, teeth, rain-slick lips. It’s messy and desperate and hot. One hand slides down to your ass, gripping it like it belongs to him, while the other slides up under your dress, metal fingertips dragging fire across your thigh.

You whimper against his mouth, grinding into him. He’s already hard, pressed right against your core, and the friction makes your knees damn near give out.

“You feel that?” he rasps against your throat, dragging his mouth down to your collarbone. “That’s what you do to me. Every time.”

You moan, tugging at his belt. “Then do something about it, James.”

The way he groans at that—your real name for him, full of need—it’s feral. You feel him fumbling to push your panties aside, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and—

RING. RING.

You both freeze.

The loud, shrill ring echoes in the alley.

“No,” you gasp, panting. “No. Don’t you dare—”

He pulls back just enough to glance at his phone, face wild with frustration.

“Ignore it,” you plead, nails scraping down his chest.

“I want to, believe me,” he groans. “But it’s Sam.”

You nearly scream.

He kisses you again—fast, deep, like a fucking apology—then answers the call with a snarl in his voice.

“What?” he snaps.

You can hear Sam on the other end: “Uh… hate to ruin your date again, but we’ve got a situation.”

Bucky closes his eyes and lets his head thunk back against the brick wall.

You adjust your dress and sigh, already knowing the answer.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back at his place, soaked and pissed off, watching Bucky gear up like he’s going into war. (He is. Kinda.)

“I’m starting to think the universe hates our sex life,” you say flatly, arms crossed.

He gives you a tight smile as he straps on his thigh holster. “I’m gonna kill something just for interrupting us.”

You walk up to him, grab him by the collar, and pull him in for a slow, intense kiss. Your lips barely part, breath warm and heavy between you.

“When you come back,” you whisper, “you’re not getting another first date.”

He nods. “When I come back, you’re getting every inch of me.”

Your cheeks heat. “Bold talk for someone who’s gotta run.”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice ragged. “I’ll be back soon. And when I am… we’re not stopping.”

You don’t say goodbye.

You just let the promise hang between you—thick with tension, soaked in heat, and aching to be fulfilled.

💥 Date Five: No More Waiting

He doesn’t knock when he comes back.

He storms through the front door, drenched in rain and adrenaline, chest heaving like a man who’s run straight through hell just to get to you.

And when he sees you—curled up in one of his shirts, waiting on the couch with wide eyes and bare thighs—he stops.

You rise slowly, heart thudding, drinking him in. His hair’s wet and messy, jaw tight, dog tags clinking as he drops his gear to the floor.

“Bucky—”

“No more interruptions,” he growls, striding toward you. “No more missions. No more waiting.”

You don’t speak. Just back toward the bedroom.

He follows.

You barely make it through the door before he has you pressed against the wall, kissing you like it’s the last oxygen on Earth. Tongue, teeth, need. You moan into it, fingers already tugging at his shirt.

“Off,” you breathe. “Want to feel you.”

He rips the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, muscles rippling as he tosses it aside. You press your palms to his chest—scarred and strong—and slide down, mouth open as your lips trail kisses across his pecs, down his abs.

But he stops you with a growl, metal hand in your hair.

“Not tonight, doll,” he says, voice rough with control. “Tonight’s about you.”

He lifts you easily—like you weigh nothing—lays you gently on the bed, and kneels between your legs.

“Bucky—”

“You’ve been so damn patient,” he murmurs, dragging your borrowed shirt up your torso, kissing every new inch of skin he exposes. “Four. Fucking. Dates. And every single one? Ruined.”

His mouth ghosts over your navel. “I haven’t touched you the way I want to.”

“Then touch me now,” you whisper.

He looks up at you—eyes dark, starved, desperate.

“Oh, sweetheart… I’m gonna do more than that.”

And then he slides your panties down your legs and devours you.

His mouth is sinful—hot tongue swirling, slow licks that make your hips jerk, breath catch. He doesn’t rush it. He feasts. Like you’re dessert and he’s been starving.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, back arching as his tongue circles your clit.

He groans into you, loving the sounds you make, the way your thighs shake around his head.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “Come on my tongue.”

You do.Hard.

Your climax crashes over you like a goddamn wave, and Bucky doesn’t stop. He guides you through it, tongue relentless, even as you squirm and gasp from overstimulation.

“Too much—” you whisper.

But he pulls back, just enough to kiss your trembling inner thigh. “Too much? Or not enough?”

You blink, dazed. “Bucky—”

“I need you,” he growls, standing, shedding his pants, revealing just how ready he’s been. “Been dreaming about this. About you. Every fuckin’ night.”

He climbs over you, forearms braced beside your head, his tip sliding along your still-wet folds.

“You want me?” he asks, voice thick.

“Yes. Please—”

He sinks into you in one smooth, slow thrust, and everything else disappears.

Your moan is filthy, and his? It’s practically a growl.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he hisses, forehead resting against yours. “God, you feel perfect.”

He starts to move—slow at first, deep and steady—rocking into you like he’s savoring every inch.

“You take me so good, baby,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Like you were made for me.”

Your nails dig into his back. You wrap your legs around his waist. “Harder.”

He obeys instantly.

His thrusts pick up speed, power—his metal hand gripping your thigh, keeping you spread wide as he pounds into you with deep, possessive strokes.

The headboard hits the wall. The bed creaks. The room fills with the sound of skin, breath, moans.

“Fuck—Bucky—yes, just like that—”

He leans down, nipping your jaw, your throat. “You’re mine,” he groans. “This pussy? Fuckin’ mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”

He kisses you then—hungry, messy, like he’s claiming you—and slips a hand between you to rub your clit, fast and perfect.

You shatter around him a second time, crying out his name, your entire body trembling. He follows moments later, burying himself deep, moaning low in your ear as he comes.

He doesn’t move for a moment.

Just holds you, breathless, bodies tangled, hearts racing.

Eventually, he rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, cradling you on his chest.

“Worth the wait?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your sweaty face.

You hum, nuzzling into him. “Absolutely.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Next time,” he whispers, “we skip the date and go straight to dessert.”

You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed.

And for the first time in weeks, nothing interrupts the night.

-The end

(Yes, I know that I said I don’t write smut. I am not good at it. But… I gave it a shot to see how it goes.)

1K notes · View notes