Words don’t trigger him, emotions do
Bucky Barnes x Reader
Anger, resentment and especially, jealousy—those emotions were all he knew while you both spent decades at Hydra.
Warnings- angst, jealously, mental struggles, smut, possessive sex, love bites
Words- 3400
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And his love has its own dark morality when rivalry enters in, when another man dares to flirt with you and Bucky shall show well what he shows best.
“Hello, snowflake" he says "Hope I'm...interrupting”
There is an intonation so bitter and so imperative that the man who you are talking with shallows hard. The words which are set in the air—in themselves they are simple and sweet. But his jealousy, protectiveness are a living thing. Shifting, changing, growing.
"Do you know the man?" he asks politely, blue eyes burning with violence.
There is a natural comorbidity between possessiveness and jealousy, between the desire to fuck and the desire to kill.
„Yeah, I do,“ you reply and Bucky feels alone in the moment your eyes break contact—and in a fever, among the walls of the bar, he looks around too, a thickening twilight peeps out in his mind.
"Who is he?" he asks in a pleasant but cold voice, now clearly less friendly than before.
„It doesn’t matter“ you smile softly, that sentence is a uttered curse to Bucky’s ears. Immediately, his guard is up.
Bucky is silent for a moment, suffocated by the situation, ringing in his ears, and the heart—it will bust.
The simplicity of your answer spreads as frost, closing off the light of his eyes. His mind starts racing once again, a nameless emotion has nested in Bucky – who is that guy?
Bucky sits on your left side before he leans on the counter next to you, with his metal hand and puts his right one on his tight, closer to his gun strapped there.
You know him, you know that behavior— this yearning to protect, tearing at his insides like hunger and thirst. It is not love. Love is warm and soft, like a bed of leaves. But this is dark, like the shade under a poisonous shrub, and it is hungry. So hungry.
You know its' name—Winter.
You're stuck with him. Not for a few decades, not for centuries. You're tied to him forever. That's why you are good at putting out his flame before it grows—the frame he still carries from the past.
Jealousy isn't a pleasant quality, apart from its inconvenience there's even something touching about it—his starless nights eyes—his face, as if it has been a dial cut in impassive stone, the dwindling of life.
You are equipped to handle what he has, both past and present—package deal of both. In other words, you have been assigned a load you can handle.
“Bucky-”
“Let's go home, it’s getting late” he interrupts, in a soft, vicious voice.
“Give me ten minutes”
He feels like a thread has come between you when he hears your answer, tugging, tugging at his heart—so hard, it hurts him.
You glare at each other. He closes his eyes, because there is a petulant woundedness with which he stares back at you.
Neither of you say a word until Bucky moves, leaning back against the counter, and folding his arms over his chest. It takes all his concentration, to keep from ripping out this man’s throat. But Bucky shoves the familiar fury down, to the place where he stifles Winter's power.
“Okay”
He says as he looks over to the man, and wants him to say something mean so he would have an excuse to shoot him. Bucky is something dark and beautiful, in conflict with what he shows to the world and what he truly feels inside, it is hard to control it.
A worry deep in you stir, but you ignore it for now, pushing it down as best you can with the distraction of music and whiskey.
You fully turn to the man and all Bucky wants is your full attention. He wants your gaze to stay fixed on him, only him. He wants to stare into those beautiful eyes for as long as he lives.
Every avalanche begins with the movement of a single snowflake, and you are this Snowflake tonight.
When the ten minute mark hits you hear a quiet screeching sound—he has carved a small heart on the counter with his index metal finger—you can’t believe how jealousy has him gagging, his blue eyes are clouded before he lowers his gaze to the floor.
Snow is super soft, bottomless and amazingly light, yet supportive—until you take a wrong turn and feel every crystal reacting within your soul, suffocating you. Bucky has lost himself in the emotional storm: it takes so little this time, to put fuel in his cynical heart.
“Bucky…” you whisper and your eyes meet, his actual humanity can’t seem to triumph over the rage and jealousy this time, something you hardly imagine in your wildest dreams.
And this is the secret you both share—the kind you don't dare to let out—Words don't trigger him, but emotions do. You can’t leave them unnoticed, unattended and unsolved.
“Let's head home”
Your language has been lost for so long at Hydra. But not the gestures. It is almost comforting, this mutual acceptance of understanding each other without the need for words.
He maintains his silence, but he slowly gets up—he doesn’t look back, he knows you are following him closely. Of course you do, but you think about what has just happened
While you were looking into his eyes, there were fragments of his inner struggle that were deeply repressed—he always tries to repress the past. It’s hard to distinguish if they were buried inside because dealing with them was such dirty work, or if he was ashamed to voice them.
The truth is that he would rather dig his own heart out, with a knife, than admit it. A while ago he let you know that it's hard to control certain emotions—but he didn’t want to throw his intimacy in front of you, especially when he cares.
But nothing stays secret forever
You are trying to heal too, but, finally, there are things which he is afraid to divulge even to himself—he needs you, he needs your reassurance, he feels like someone will snatch you from his hands, damn his split personalities and untrustworthy habits from the past, but he can’t help it, it scares him.
You are both unearthed by deception, torture, brainwashing, whose essence was shrouded by Hydra—your own father naming the Winter Soldier program after his own daughter, you, stringing you with Bucky together—the yearning theme of your life.
After you escaped Hydra, you went your separate ways until he came back to you, searching for someone who understands him.
That was a year ago.
The more he thinks about it, the more he wants you, the more my desire rises and swells—
“Bucky” He shakes his head in exasperation, not stopping as he climbs the stairs to your shared apartment, aiming for the door, but he can’t stay with you, not when he is not fully himself “Bucky, stop, talk to me”
You have known him for so long, you can see the pride through his words, the truth through his silence, and the anger through his smile.
Always.
“Soldat“ he turns to you, perusing your body as he comes to stand in front of you, his abysses as deep as those of love, finally meet yours.
That realization takes about a nanosecond to register in Bucky’s brain before the real important information comes to the forefront—you’ve noticed.
He lowers his head toward you, so you could feel his breath warm against your skin, your mouths only inches apart
“Why did you call me that?”
He has no answer nor idea, just a never-ending list of questions, he is searching for a loophole that increasingly feels like a noose—he denies it, he tries to—you are not entitled to exposing him like that.
How hollow is it for him to have no secrets left—Bucky's love gives, and Soldat's lust takes.
His gaze, improper, is the most sensual thing he can have done at this moment, and it jolts your heart into a strange rhythm as you speak
“Tell me, how can I help?” You put your hands on his chest, your eyes still locked and an unwelcome sensation pierces you.
“You already know” he says thoughtfully as his cool gaze devours you “snezinka” (snowflake) and his lusty grin when he says that, it's sinful—and pleasurable.
“There is nothing to worry about. Do whatever you want to make yourself feel better” All you want to do is make him feel better, to drown his worries in your embrace.
Both shame and worry drown themselves in the dark eyes that stare back at him.
You.
Only you.
Bucky dreads this power you have over him.
Everything you say is exceedingly obvious, and undoubtedly true, but he feels that something more obscure, more frightening lurks in the back of your mind.
You don’t halt the hands he lays on your waist when he pushes you, backing you into the door.
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1968–1969, Zhao Jianmin Spy Case
„That is going to be mass murder, send them together.“
This mission is a long, never-ending massacre, it never ends.
He is lost in your eyes, it’s eating him alive.
Corpses fill the floor, the sight of gore is peaceful in your corrupted existence. He becomes obsessed in this moment of solitude with you, he has the need to touch you and you respond with a kiss, blood all over your face.
Your wretched fate is shared, your need for touch also.
Winter’s lust betrays him as he pushes you against the wall, feasting on your lips and neck, his hands running up and down your back.
“Relax, Winter” you giggle as you gently press your fingers into his shoulders, forcing him to break the kiss as he looms over you- waiting with a predatory grin.
„I need you, Samodiva“ he slurs, eyebrows furrowed as he glances up at you. His trembling fingers touch the strings in vain, wanting to find the right notes from the fading memory, Soldat wants his soul to vibrate again; with lust, with love.
He knows you feel his arousal, your closeness causing him to grow hard, inhaling sharply, enjoying the sensations you are eliciting in him.
“I need you, too” you finally answer without faltering.
This is all Soldat needs to hear - his tongue flicking lightly over your neck once again, tracing the skin slowly, eliciting a moan from your lips, bodies acting on instinct.
A soft squeak escapes your puffy lips, the tension building up in your body too fast, too soon. Winter puts his hands around your waist, your pants already unbuckled, surrendered to him.
He wastes no time, there's no time left… his hands suddenly drop to his own pants, popping the button open and then pulling down the zipper.
The feeling of your insides drains all of his self power to not come on the first trust, he moves at an excruciating slowly pace, fucking you into the bloodstained walls, there is a glimpse of human nature when you fill the room with moans.
„I am yours,“ he whispers, his words sending a series of chills through her.
This is about him, not you, this is what he needs.
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“1968, do you remember?“ he groans as he brushes his mouth against your cheek. The plea in his tone floods your veins with a whole different form of power “Just say no, snezinka-”
“This is exactly what I want“ you counter. As you arch your back, pressing the tips of your breasts against his chest, closing your eyes at the whisper of a kiss, at the hunger that ravages inside you.
He leans down more, his mouth only inches from yours. “Fuck,” the barely leashes growl of his voice rumbles up through his chest, and every nerve ending in your body flares to life.
Bucky loves seeing you pinned to the door—his control balancing precariously on the point of a knife. He tightens his hands holding you even closer, until your chest is pressed against his own, you can feel his hard cock pressing between your bodies.
All he needs is one push.
And you are about to shamelessly shove.
“Come on, I can take it” you tilt your head up to his and draw his bottom lip between yours, sucking before gently nipping him with your teeth.
“Yeah, yeah, okay” He speaks against your throat and finishes one languorous stroke up the column of your neck.
It breaches something within him, and he gives in.
Finally, mouths collides, and the kiss is hot and hard—it invades his body, abolishing any constraints and bringing to life the desire for you. It grounds him firmly in the moment and drags his body in it, too—Bucky wants to be the only thing touching you, the only thing that touches you ever again. He is kissing the shell of your ear, nipping at it gently and then soothing the nips with soft kisses.
Rage. Lust. Jealousy. Past. Preset. Every day is a reminder of how nothing stays the same, every day an exercise in variability, resilience, understating and trust.
You love the seasons, but, you must admit—at the risk of offending the others—Winter is your very favorite one. What a beautiful madness, to explore the darkness in his old self and find joy in the unearthing of such a wicked past.
He craves you, he kisses you again.
When your mouth touches his, it is like a blade glancing off metal—the darkness inside him briefly lights up with violence and rage before the emptiness comes flooding in like a black lake—you see it in his eyes.
“Let’s get inside '' he hears your whisper and he reaches up to stroke your cheek with the backs of his fingers. He might be lust-intoxicated, but he always cares.
Tonight, you have successfully deflected his attention from the gloomy thoughts and the contemplation of his past—his lust rushes, but his love makes him wait.
His love lasted for decades—will last for a lifetime.
Awash with trepidation, you two manage to get into the apartment, but the moment you lock the door—your back is against the wall again.
All those desires Bucky has felt in passing have culminated, growing deeper, hungrier, darker—he can do whatever he wants with you.
That through alone causes trouble below his belt.
He pulls his shirt over his head, the sight of his sculpted muscles, crisscrossed with countless scars. They have the strange power to remind you both that the past is real.
Bucky’s hands languidly roam the curves and valleys of your body as his kisses became sensual, slow and deep. There is such a luster in his eyes that you have to look away, but when you look back at him, his gaze hasn’t moved, still focused on your face.
Then he shifts his mouth to your neck for a hard love-bite that makes you cry out— the need to possess you, to claim you, he never did that before.
But even though you feel his erection stir as you press your hips against his, he doesn't attempt to resume the lovemaking in full, he catches you around your slender waist again and brings you close to whisper teasingly in your ear
“Ты - моя, слышишь?”
You begin to feel a familiar wetness form between your legs.
“Bucky,” you call out, impatient with desire.
But that exact position triggers so much delight, of the heated memory—he has all the time in the world, not as the last time.
He kisses you like he has forgotten how your mouth tastes—with a curious childish delight, kisses like wants to take you dancing.
As you pull apart, you remove your own shirt and his teeth scraping down the skin of your neck, his hands sliding around back to remove your bra, tossing it aside.
His right hand makes its way up, passing over a mark left by a bullet—your cheeks heat, and your breath hitches, but you can’t look away, you follow his hand with your eyes.
“I was not there when you got shot” he says as his fingertip skims the top of your breasts “When was that?” he uses the vibranium arm to lift one of the long locks of your hair to his lips and inhales the scent.
“It doesn’t matter”
And maybe you are right, but it stands as a reminder yet again of how you too escaped death's touch before. It was almost...normal for you back then.
Bucky takes a breast into his mouth to suck at it vigorously as you shiver in his grasp, the metal hand sides down to your waist to keep you against the wall.
You let out a small moan as you feel his hardness tighten and press even more insistently against you.
You worm your hands between your bodies, opening his jeans, freeing his length from the confines of his boxer-briefs, then reaching in to caress it and he burying his face in your neck to stifle his groan.
Bucky shudders when when you take him in your hand, stroking him painfully slowly. He allows it for several moments before hiking up the skirt of your dress to quickly tear your damp underwear.
He rubs a hand down your leg, fingers curling behind your knee and pulls it to his hip.
You instinctively jump, he catches you, abandoning his attempts of fingering you in favor of grabbing your hips, and you moan as you wrap your legs around his waist.
He loves you.
He loves you because nature wills it as it did for decades.
Because you are already long united by the past.
The bare flesh on every part of you always belonged to him, the scent emitting from your skin is his—he loves you, but he doesn't dare tell you that.
You have become Bucky’s favorite hiding place over the past year, the place he put every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, you keep him safe.
You have possessed him—and you never knew it.
He has been dependent on exactly how close he can have you next to him, how long he can get to stay at your apartment—making various excuses every time until you suggested to him to move in with you two months ago.
“Bucky,”
you tighten your legs around his waist, urging him to continue, running your hands over his shoulders.
Your voice pulls him out of what was ravaging in his mind, all those thoughts, but then he kisses as he roughly inserted his cock with no warning, you let out a surprised gasp as his forehead falls to your shoulder, bracing his hands on your hips and pressing you against the wall more firmly when he bottoms out, moaning shamelessly at the feeling of your body against him.
You are made for him, made for fucking.
“I love biting you, I need it” his voice is brittle, not saying anything else.
You stare like he is something you can’t comprehend, something unexpected – willingly admitting.
Your fingers thread gently through his hair and you can’t help, but hang your jaw in bewilderment at the sight before—he is falling apart from the need to claim you, to reach the white-hot ecstasy.
You have never seen him like that.
He bites his way along your jaw to the base of your throat. His mouth is hard and punishing, lathering your skin with marks—ferocity burns in his gaze promising something primal—thrusting into you wildly, trying to elongate your pleasure for as long as possible, but suddenly he is choking on moans as waves of climatic bliss are sent throughout his body.
This is about him, not you, this is what he needs.
This night you learn about his jealousy, it has you starving to learn more about this side of him. A new hunger that you know you will satisfy only with time.
His steel blue eyes hide a nearly irresistible urge to claim you—it’s hard for Bucky to control it when the incurable desolation of Winter exaggerates in displaying old emotions.
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