#falcon smut | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kaynothanks · 2 months

Text

On His Collar | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Wilson!Reader

Warnings: bucky’s one jealous boi, lil bit of violence, no smut which (for me) really is surprising, smooching, being caught

Summary: Bucky can't keep his hands off you and your brother notices

Word-Count: 12.3K

With a nervous gnawing at the inside of your cheek, you were only half-aware of your leg's relentless fidgeting. Your eyes remained affixed to the world beyond the car window, the landscape blurring as the vehicle, courtesy of Zemo's orchestration, sped on. Vague details of the city drawing closer had filtered through to you via documents and whispers; the scant knowledge of its shadowy dealings enough to stir an unsettling churn within your chest. From a distance, Madripoor was breathtaking, its myriad lights flickering through the rain's swift descent, captured momentarily on the glass before you.

This fleeting illumination conjured memories of a night several months prior, when a call in the deep, silent hours had pierced your tranquility. Urged by his voice, laced with an unspoken desperation, you hadn't hesitated. Your car had cut through the sleeping city of New York, a beacon in the dark, drawn to alleviate his turmoil. The lights of that night, though bearing a resemblance to the ones now stretched before you, held a beauty tinged with a personal touch, perhaps making them appear even more enchanting.

You released a breath tinged with anxiety, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the scant dress that, for reasons unknown, Zemo had at his disposal. The material, with its thinness and the overlay of silver glitter, chafed against your skin, a constant reminder of its presence. However, the knowledge of Zemo's opulent wealth lent you the perspective that this barely-there garment might indeed possess a value surpassing the collective worth of your entire wardrobe.

"You good?" came your brother's voice, close enough to stir the air by your ear, pulling your attention sharply towards him.

For a fleeting moment, you found yourself studying him, ensnared in your own whirlpool of anxiety. The furrow of worry etching deep between his brows sent a sharp pang through your heart. Witnessing this, a desperate plea bubbled within you, a silent yearning for him to cease his endless vigil over you—to halt his attempts at shielding you from every conceivable harm, to stop viewing you through the lens of perpetual childhood, to simply cease the worry that seemed to etch itself into his very being. The thought of being the source of such profound distress, such tangible sorrow for him, was more than you could bear. Heaven knows, the troubles you'd landed yourself in, the predicaments from which he'd extricated you time and again, were countless, far beyond what your fingers could tally.

Sam was the epitome of the brother everyone should be blessed with. From the tender years of your childhood, he had been the figure you looked up to, the beacon that guided many of the choices that had shaped your life. And in the wake of your father's passing, his protective instincts didn't just increase; they surged, enveloping you in a steadfast, unwavering care. He was your rock, your constant, in a world that seemed all too ready to shift beneath your feet. Always there, without fail.

Your decisions often found themselves at odds with his views, sparking debates that seemed as endless as they were passionate. A vivid memory that stood out was when you announced your intention to follow in his footsteps and join the Marines. What ensued was a marathon two-hour discourse, laden with reasons he believed painted a vivid picture of why the military was a mismatch for someone like you. You had absorbed every word, every concern, yet your resolve had remained unshaken. In hindsight, the wisdom woven into his admonitions might have merited deeper consideration, a realization that dawned on you with greater clarity once you found yourself deployed to the turbulent south.

It was there, amidst the chaos and the distance from home, that you began to truly comprehend the depth of Sam's anxiety for your well-being—a sentiment that became reciprocal as concern for your family gnawed at you. Sarah, battling to keep the family business afloat while nurturing two young boys in Sam's absence, became a focal point of your worries. Meanwhile, Sam's life, veiled in the secrecy of countless missions, left a chasm between your shared experiences. Often, he returned with stories he couldn't share, silences that spoke louder than words, deepening your understanding of the burdens he carried and the protective shield he tried to extend over you from miles away.

Had you heeded his words, the tapestry of your life might have been woven with different threads, perhaps even brighter hues. Imagine a reality where you had chosen to stand by Sarah's side, absorbing the tranquility of domestic life rather than the chaos of battle. In that alternate existence, your path would never have intersected with the harrowing battlefield against Thanos. Your presence in the thick of that fight was nothing short of serendipitous, a stark coincidence born from a casual visit to him just as the alarm bells of invasion clanged their ominous toll.

The details of your unexpected journey to Wakanda are shrouded in the mists of adrenaline-fueled urgency, a memory blurred at the edges by the sheer intensity of facing an extraterrestrial threat for the first time. It was an initiation by fire into a reality far removed from anything you had ever known or imagined.

Yet, amidst the whirlwind of chaos and the blur of combat, one memory stands etched with crystal clarity—the visceral sensation of teetering on the brink of oblivion. The cold brush with death is an experience that lingers, a stark reminder of mortality that paints every moment with a sharper contrast, a memory that forever shapes your understanding of life, resilience, and the fragility of existence.

You had weathered the storms of human conflict, battles steeped in the folly and hubris of mankind, but never before had you faced a legion from beyond the stars, intent on culling half of all life in the universe. In the shadow of such an unfathomable threat, your own mortality had seemed inconsequential, dwarfed by the incalculable lives teetering on the edge of annihilation. Driven by a newfound recklessness, a fiery resolve to make a difference, you had abandoned the post Sam had painstakingly chosen for you. You had forsaken safety, charging headlong towards Thanos, the architect of doom.

To him, you were but a speck, a mere human too insignificant to warrant attention, and he had dismissed you with the ease of one swatting away an irritating fly. Yet, with your firearm spent, desperation had lent you audacity. You had launched yourself onto his colossal frame, a knife clutched in your fist, the last vestige of your defiance. You were acutely aware of the invincibility that his skin professed, an armor no earthly might had pierced with lasting effect. But ambition—or perhaps the raw edge of survival—drove you to attempt the impossible: to excise one of the gleaming Infinity Stones from its gauntlet perch.

And in that breathless moment, as your blade kissed the surface of the gauntlet, Thanos's fingers curled into a fateful snap.

The universe hung in the balance, suspended on the cusp of his action and your audacious defiance. Time itself seemed to stand still, awaiting the outcome of a confrontation that had spiraled far beyond the realms of imagination.

When consciousness reclaimed you, five years had vanished into the ether, and you awoke to a world that had moved on without you. The sight that greeted you was your own veins, pulsating with an uncanny luminescence, casting a ghostly glow over the skin they webbed. Your body, once a familiar vessel, now refused the basic command to rise, leaving you sprawled and powerless on the ground. If only you had heeded Sam's directive, you mused bitterly, you might have remained untouched by this curse, spared the constant, gnawing anxiety that now made a den in your heart. Fear had become your unwelcome shadow, looming over you with endless "what ifs." The thought of unintentionally unleashing harm, of your very essence becoming a cataclysmic force capable of leveling cities, was a nightmare that played on an endless loop in your mind.

Through it all, Sam had been your anchor in the tempest, steadfast even as you spiraled into a mire of self-distrust. For three agonizing months, he had nursed you through the turmoil of accepting this altered existence, an existence marked by an estrangement from your own being. Comfort in your own skin had become a foreign concept, an elusive state that you feared might elude you indefinitely. Nowadays, every flicker of your fingers was accompanied by a torrent of anxiety, a silent battle waged between mind and heart. With each throb of your pulse, a cacophony of fears whispered the possibility of harming the one constant in your life—your brother. This new reality was a labyrinth with no visible exit, a path you tread with trepidation, haunted by the potential havoc you could wreak with a mere gesture, a thought, a slip of control.

You took a deep breath, your fingers nervously adjusting the sleek black leather gloves that now served as a barrier between your touch and the world, a precaution against the inadvertent destruction your mere contact could cause. For a fleeting moment, your gaze drifted to him, taking in the precise way his ebony locks were coifed, a style so meticulously arranged atop his head. The shortness of his hair, a detail so starkly different from before, still felt alien to your eyes. Catching his gaze already fixed on you, a silent exchange that spoke volumes, you redirected your attention back to your brother, mustering a smile tinged with awkwardness. "Of course. Stop worrying," you whispered, attempting to lace your voice with reassurance, even as your heart wrestled with its own tempest of concerns.

"I'm your big brother," he reminded you, his tone carrying a hint of playfulness as if introducing a fact that might have somehow slipped your mind. "That's my job," he added, a declaration of his unwavering role in your life.

Gotta be a real thankless job, you mused silently, the thought echoing wryly within the confines of your mind. "How haven't I fired you yet?" you quipped back, a teasing lilt in your voice as you nudged him gently with your elbow, inviting a moment of light-hearted banter between the gravity of your shared experiences.

His response was an exaggerated gasp, a playful act that drew a slight, amused smile across your face. Without missing a beat, he turned to the conspicuously silent super-soldier beside him. "Ey, Bucky," he called out, seemingly plucking his next words from thin air with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Did I tell you about that one time, when Y/n was seven and she peed—"

"Oh my god, Sam, stop!" The words flew from your lips as you reached out to silence him, your hand slapping his shoulder before trying to cover his mouth, a futile attempt to stem the flow of embarrassing tales. Your cheeks flushed with a warmth that radiated from the deep-seated embarrassment of the memory, vivid as if it had happened just yesterday, rather than years ago.

"I apologize for interrupting your camaraderie," Zemo's voice, laced with a hint of formality, cut through the air from the front seat. His eyes found yours in the rearview mirror, carrying a mix of apology and inevitability. "Unfortunately, my driver can proceed no further."

Zemo was the first to emerge from the vehicle, setting the tone for a swift exit. Sam was quick on his heels, nearly leaping from the car at the sight of Bucky preparing to disembark. The super-soldier merely rolled his eyes at the urgency, a silent testament to his annoyance, before he too followed suit, stepping into the open air.

Left alone for a brief moment, you lingered in the cocoon of the car's interior, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. The unease knotted in your stomach, a familiar harbinger of doom, seemed to grip tighter with each passing second. Yet, as you prepared to step out into the uncertain world beyond the car's confines, a flicker of hope dared to whisper through your thoughts. Perhaps, just this once, the ominous premonition that twisted your insides would prove false. Maybe, after a stretch of relentless storms, a moment of calm awaited you. With that fragile hope cradled in your chest, you ventured forth, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

Navigating the bustling streets of the city, your senses were on high alert, eyes darting left and right in a mix of wariness and awe. Every sound, every blur of movement was cataloged, an overwhelming flood of stimuli as you endeavored to absorb the essence of the place. Ahead of you, the three men moved with a purposeful stride, seemingly indifferent to the sensory overload that ensnared you. Or so it appeared, until a momentary glance to the side caught Bucky mid-observation, his head subtly angled in your direction. The instant he realized he'd been noticed, his gaze snapped forward, a silent admission of his watchfulness.

A small, knowing smile played on your lips as you continued your exploration, your attention now on the eclectic mix of individuals that populated the streets. Their attire was a vivid tapestry of the city's culture and complexity, each person a unique thread woven into the larger fabric. In this context, Zemo's insistence on changing your clothing became crystal clear. Clad in your usual cargo pants and top, you would have stood out starkly, a beacon of foreignness in this richly diverse crowd. It would have been akin to parading around with a neon sign branded "idiot," announcing your outsider status to every discerning eye. His foresight, though begrudgingly acknowledged, spared you that unwitting declaration of naivety.

In the mosaic of your life, Bucky Barnes occupied a space that was both vivid and complex, interwoven with threads of intimacy and shared secrets, away from the prying eyes of your overprotective brother, Sam. Your connection with Bucky had evolved, nurtured by the clandestine moments and deep conversations that unfolded in the quiet corners of New York's bustling cityscape.

It began with chance encounters, two souls adrift in the vastness of the city, finding solace in the understanding gaze of the other. These meetings grew in frequency and depth, transitioning from fleeting to intentional, as you both sought the comfort and understanding that seemed to elude you elsewhere. The shared experience of navigating a world that often felt too constricting, too demanding, became the foundation of your bond.

Your relationship with Bucky was a tapestry of silent understandings and whispered confidences. There were evenings spent in his modest apartment, where the glow of the city lights barely filtered through the curtains, casting the room in a soft luminescence. Here, amidst the shadows, you shared parts of yourselves that had been carefully guarded from the rest of the world. Bucky, with his guarded heart and weary eyes, found in you a kindred spirit, someone who could see beyond the Winter Soldier to the man who was still standing beneath.

These moments of vulnerability were your secret, a world built for two, where words were often unnecessary. You had memorized the layout of his apartment, the contents of each cupboard and drawer, not through any explicit intention but through the natural intimacy that comes from shared spaces and shared silences. It was in the way you could wordlessly hand him a glass of water from his kitchen without having to ask where he kept his glasses, or how the two of you could sit in comfortable silence, each lost in your own thoughts yet together.

Yet, this closeness was kept hidden, a chapter of your life unread by Sam. Not out of deceit but from a desire to protect this fragile connection from external judgments or expectations. With Sam's protective instincts, your relationship with Bucky was a delicate balance, a treasure trove of moments and memories that you both guarded fiercely.

The complexity of your relationship with Bucky was not defined by labels or expectations but by the depth of connection and mutual understanding. It was a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most profound relationships are those that exist in the spaces between words, in the comfort of silence, and in the shared experiences of two souls navigating the world side by side.

The inexplicable flutter in your heart whenever Bucky was near often left you questioning your own sanity, yet there was something undeniably captivating about the way he made you feel. The warmth that crept into your cheeks as you reminisced about a lazy afternoon spent in the park was a testament to this. It was a simple moment, really—Bucky's admission of his aversion to text messaging because he preferred the sound of your voice had somehow managed to send your heart into a delightful somersault. In that instant, you understood the unspoken pact between you two: to keep the depth of your connection hidden from your brother.

This secret camaraderie you shared with Bucky was treasured quietly, a series of moments and feelings kept just between the two of you. Bucky, too, found solace in your presence. The way you looked at him, with eyes filled with genuine affection and understanding, offered him a tranquility he had long thought was beyond his grasp. Your smile was like a beacon to him, urging him to open up about his past, his fears, and his dreams, despite the darkness that shadowed much of his history. Yet, of all the things that drew him closer, it was your laughter that he cherished most.

Your laughter wasn't restrained or demure; it was the kind that bubbled up from deep within, unfiltered and infectious. Those moments when you would laugh so heartily, throwing your head back without a care in the world, were the ones that Bucky held dear. It was in these bursts of genuine joy that he saw the lightness of being, a stark contrast to the battles and burdens he carried. Your laughter, free and unabashed, symbolized a purity of happiness that Bucky admired. It reminded him that amidst the complexities of life, there existed simple, unguarded moments of joy worth cherishing.

In the twilight of Bucky's life, where happiness seemed more a memory than a possibility, the moments he shared with you illuminated his world with an unexpected joy. Time and again, he teetered on the brink of asking you to intertwine your lives officially, to step beyond the unspoken boundaries of your secret affinity and declare it openly. Yet, each time the words perched on the edge of his tongue, ready to leap into the abyss of possibilities, the thought of Sam cast a long shadow over his resolve.

Sam, the steadfast pillar of your family, was a friend to Bucky in every sense except in name, for their camaraderie was too complex and layered for simple labels. Bucky was acutely aware of the fierce love Sam harbored for you, a protective and encompassing love that was both admirable and intimidating. He knew of the cherished photograph Sam carried in his wallet—a tangible reminder of the bond shared between you, your sister, and his beloved nephews, a snapshot of the life Sam fought so valiantly to protect.

And it was the thought of Sam, with his unwavering loyalty and brotherly love, that stayed Bucky's confession. He was painfully aware of the turmoil that would ensue should Sam discover the depth of his feelings for you. Bucky could almost feel the weight of Sam's betrayal and anger, for in his heart, he knew that his affection for you crossed lines that Sam might never forgive. This tension, this fear of fracturing the fragile truce they had built, kept Bucky silent, trapped in a limbo of longing and loyalty, where his desire to claim your heart battled with his respect for the brother who would view such a confession as the ultimate treachery.

As Zemo led the way, weaving through a throng of onlookers whose eyes darted with a mix of curiosity and caution, the air buzzed with hushed whispers that all seemed to echo the same question: "Is that the Winter Soldier?" Yet, if only they could see beyond the infamy and the scars of war, they'd find Bucky. This was the same Bucky who had once called you in a panic, deep into the night, baffled by the modern conundrum of ordering a television online. The same Bucky who shared with you his playlist of favorite songs, tunes you never expected to enjoy, yet found yourself playing on repeat. And this was the Bucky who, in an earnest attempt to teach you to dance, ended up with you standing on his feet, both of you moving in a clumsy but heartwarming harmony across the floor.

Arriving at the bar, you edged closer to Zemo and Bucky, the latter noticing your approach and subtly shifting to grant you more space. "Good evening," greeted the bartender with a nod towards Sam, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Wasn’t expecting you, Smiling Tiger."

The effort to suppress a grin was Herculean as the nickname filled the air. Your brother, Sam, for all his bravery and skill, was many things, but a master thespian he was not. Tonight, he was to embody Conrad Mack, or "Smiling Tiger," a persona draped in notoriety and whispered about in the darkest corners of the criminal underworld. Knowing Sam's theatrical limits, the anticipation of watching him navigate the guise of an African gangster tinged your apprehension with a thread of amusement, painting the night ahead with the promise of unforgettable moments.

"Plans have shifted," Zemo interjected smoothly, answering on behalf of Sam, who tightened his lips in an attempt at solemnity. The sight was almost comical; Sam's expression ventured into the realms of absurdity. "We have business with Selby tonight."

A cloak of skepticism draped over the bartender's demeanor, his eyes—a mix of inquiry and caution—peered from behind the substantial frames of his glasses. His visage, half-obscured by a beard, seemed out of place in this den of shadows and whispered secrets. One could easily mistake him for a tech wizard from the polished corridors of Stark Industries rather than a keeper of this clandestine establishment.

"The usual, then?" the bartender queried. Sam, lips still tightly sealed, offered a single, determined nod, his posture shifting slightly with unease. With practiced ease, the bartender turned to retrieve a jar housing a deceased equatorial spitting cobra, laying it out with a certain reverence on the cutting board before you. He wielded a knife, expertly slicing the serpent open to extract its heart. This he placed in a shot glass, to which he added a dash of Triple sec, a measure of gin, and a squeeze of finger lime, concocting a drink that teetered on the edge of the exotic and the macabre. Sliding the glass towards Sam, the air was momentarily thick with anticipation.

"Ahh," Zemo exhaled, a chuckle threatening to breach his composure. "The Smiling Tiger, your favorite." The room hung in a momentary suspense, the bizarre ritual highlighting the lengths to which one might go to blend into the shadows of this underworld.

As you reluctantly redirected your attention away from the unsavory scene, your eyes found solace in Bucky's gaze. The moment of eye contact with the super-soldier was like a silent pact, conveying volumes in the briefest exchange. “I think the next part’s worth watching.” His suggestion was delivered in a hush, his voice a soft, enticing caress against the delicate skin of your neck, sparking a cascade of warmth that pooled in the pit of your stomach. You darted a quick look around, half-expecting the assembled throng to notice this intimate exchange. Yet, their attention remained steadfastly on the notorious figure of the Winter Soldier, allowing you a sliver of privacy in the crowded space.

Turning back towards your brother, you endeavored to steady your racing heart, to cloak the fluttering butterflies that Bucky's nearness had unfurled within you. But it was akin to trying to calm a storm with whispered words; Bucky's heat enveloped you, a comforting yet unnerving presence. Then, almost imperceptibly, he edged closer, a mere shift that breached the scant distance between you. His chest hovered just shy of touching your back, a whisper of contact that electrified your senses.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up, muscles tensing, heart thundering against your ribcage as if seeking escape. The air seemed to thicken, each breath a labor through the heightened tension that his proximity wrought. The warmth from his body seeped through the fabric of your clothes, branding your skin with a heat that was both foreign and intoxicating. A shiver coursed through you, unbidden, as you fought the urge to lean back into him, to seek solace in the strength of his embrace. His presence, so close and yet so restrained, left you teetering on the edge of something profound, a precipice overlooking a maelstrom of uncharted emotions and desires.

The atmosphere in the dimly lit, cramped space was charged with an uneasy anticipation as Sam steeled himself to down the concoction before him – the alcohol mingling with the snake's heart in a display of grit and resolve. Standing beside him, you could almost taste the bile rising in your own throat at the thought, empathy for Sam's predicament tangling with your own visceral reaction. It was in this moment of vicarious revulsion that you felt it—a touch so light, so fleeting on your arm that it could have been mistaken for a trick of the air, save for the deep, intrinsic knowledge that it was Bucky. His touch, though minimal, carried with it a warmth and a reassurance that seemed to cut through the tension of the moment, grounding you.

This gentle caress, lost to anyone else's perception, was like a beacon to your heightened senses, which seemed to come alive with a fervor that only Bucky's presence could ignite. It was a silent communication, a shared moment amidst the chaos, confirming that his attention was riveted not on the grotesque spectacle unfolding with your brother but on you. And then, without need for visual confirmation, you sensed the subtle shift in his posture, the lean of his body just close enough for you to catch the light inhale as he discreetly breathed in the scent of your hair. The intimacy of the action, hidden in plain sight, had your eyelids fluttering close, teetering on the edge of surrender to the sensation.

But the moment was shattered by the intrusion of a new, deep voice, unfamiliar and brusque, pulling Bucky's gaze away from you for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The voice belonged to a tattooed biker who had sidled up beside Zemo, breaking the spell that had cocooned you and Bucky in your private world. Yet, even as Bucky's eyes momentarily flicked to the newcomer, assessing and then dismissing him as a threat, his hand lingered on your arm, a silent vow of protection and an unwillingness to completely sever the thread of connection between you.

When the biker had disappeared back into the throng of the bar's patrons, Bucky's voice, low and resonant, brushed your cheek, "A Power Broker, really?" His breath was a warm caress, a contrast to the cool air of the bar and the cold reality of their mission.

Zemo's response was a shrug, nonchalant yet laden with the weight of their precarious position within this den of intrigue and danger. "Every kingdom needs its king. Let's just pray we stay under his radar." The words were a stark reminder of the peril that shadowed their every step, yet, for a fleeting moment, the only truth that seemed to matter was the connection between you and Bucky, a silent acknowledgment of a bond that thrived even in the heart of danger.

As your brother subtly leaned in, distancing himself from the ears of the surrounding strangers, his voice carried a note of quiet inquiry, "Do you know him?" His gaze was sharp, the weight of leadership and concern pressing upon his features, a look you knew all too well.

Zemo, ever the enigmatic figure, glanced briefly over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping across the teeming masses of Madripoor's underworld. "Only by reputation," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of wariness. He continued, his tone lowering to match the gravity of his words, "He is judge, jury, and executioner in Madripoor." The way Zemo articulated the roles imbued them with a sense of dread, painting a picture of a figure wielding absolute power over life and death in this lawless land.

As Sam prepared to step back, blending once more into the crowded backdrop of the bar, his gaze inadvertently fell upon Bucky's hand, a subtle yet intimate gesture resting gently on your arm. The silent question was evident in the arch of his brow, a wordless probe into the nature of the connection he had just witnessed. Despite the many shared battles and secrets between you, this particular nuance of your relationship with Bucky remained veiled from Sam's knowledge. He knew of the camaraderie, the shared jokes, and the mutual respect; what he had yet to grasp was the depth that lay beneath those surface interactions.

Caught under the weight of your brother's scrutiny, you felt a compelling urge to divert, to shield the budding complexity of your relationship with Bucky from any further inquiry. With a practiced nonchalance, you reached for the glass that had mysteriously found its way before you—its contents unknown but suddenly invaluable as a means of distraction. The glass felt cool against your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through your chest, fueled by Bucky's proximity and the intensity of your brother's gaze.

Without granting Sam the acknowledgment he sought, you lifted the glass, the liquid inside catching the dim light of the bar in a fleeting dance of shadows. With a resolve born of necessity, you downed the contents in one swift motion, the liquid tracing a burning path down your throat, a physical manifestation of the turmoil swirling within. In that moment, the intricacies of your heart's desires, the silent yearnings, and the whispered dreams shared in the quiet with Bucky were drowned in the sharp bite of the drink. There was no love life to dissect, you reasoned, at least not one that could be neatly explained or openly acknowledged under the watchful eyes of your brother. This was a complexity you were not yet ready to unravel, preferring instead the sanctity of ambiguity and the solace found in the unspoken.

From the periphery of your vision, the subtle yet unmistakable shift of the crowd's focus toward your group sent a ripple of tension through the air. Zemo, breaking the mounting silence, uttered something in Russian, his voice a sharp command that instantly put Bucky, who loomed protectively behind you, on high alert. Your grasp of Russian might have been rudimentary at best, but the gravity carried by the word "attack" pierced through any language barrier, sending a shiver down your spine. Your gaze darted anxiously between Bucky and Zemo, then to the increasingly hostile encirclement of men.

In a moment driven by instinct more than thought, your hand found Bucky's arm, a silent plea for restraint, an acknowledgment of the heavy burdens he bore and the battles you wished he wouldn't have to fight again. Yet, as the hand of an adversary reached for Zemo, intent on aggression, Bucky's protective instincts overrode any hesitations. The mission's success, the preservation of your collective guise, demanded action.

With a fluidity born of countless battles, Bucky intercepted the stranger's hand, wrenching it into a grim contortion of pain before hoisting him by the collar. The air was punctuated by the thud of the man's body crashing to the ground, a clear signal to the onlookers who, rather than stepping in, recoiled to the safety of the crowd's edges. Their initial shock quickly gave way to the modern reflex of capturing chaos on their smartphones, eager to document the return of the Winter Soldier.

Another assailant lunged forward, driven either by bravado or foolishness, only to meet Bucky's calculated fury. A swift strike to the chest paired with a debilitating kick to the shin sent the man staggering, a prelude to the crushing force of Bucky's elbow against his back. But Bucky was far from done; he delivered a final, forceful kick to the assailant's stomach with such power that the man was propelled backward, colliding with another would-be attacker and sending them both sprawling to the ground.

In those tense moments, Bucky transformed the immediate vicinity into a no-man's land, a clear warning to any who still harbored thoughts of joining the fray. The message was unambiguous: the Winter Soldier, though cloaked in the guise of Bucky Barnes, remained a formidable force, his actions a blend of precision and power that left no room for doubt or defiance.

The melee unfolded with relentless ferocity, each blow landing with a chilling finality. Amidst the chaos, Zemo's unexpected touch on your waist snapped your attention sharply to him, an unwelcome distraction amidst the turmoil. His fingers were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the skirmish that raged a mere breath away. Holding a shot glass, with another stationed invitingly before him on the bar's counter, Zemo seemed almost nonchalant, as if the violent ballet unfolding around you two was mere background noise.

You could only hope that Sam's gaze was entirely consumed by the spectacle of the fight, lest Zemo's audacity earn him a swift and severe reprimand—the kind that involved a painful reconfiguration of his hand's anatomy. And, should Sam's protective instincts flare up, your carefully maintained cover would be shattered in an instant.

"So," Zemo initiated casually, offering you the glass while securing his own. His demeanor was eerily calm, a man unfazed by the chaos, his curiosity piqued by personal intrigues rather than the potential dangers that lurked in your immediate vicinity. "How long have you and James been seeing each other?"

His question caught you off guard, a blunt intrusion that left you momentarily flustered. "Excuse you?" you retorted, the sharpness in your voice mirroring your surprise.

He downed his shot in one fluid motion, a satisfied exhale following the liquid's descent. "Oh," he dismissed with a nonchalant wave of his hand, a gesture that belied the keen observation behind his words. "Your brother might be wearing blinders, but I certainly do not. It's been quite evident that Barnes has scarcely glanced away from you all evening."

You found yourself grappling for a response, the unexpected scrutiny leaving you unsettled. "Well, uh," you stumbled over your words, grappling for composure. "It's just what he does—staring." Your gaze dropped to the shot glass cradled in your palm, its contents suddenly more appealing than the conversation. With a swift tilt of your hand, you emptied the glass, the liquid courage coursing through you. Instinctively, you braced yourself for whatever probing questions Zemo might pose next, bolstered now by a fleeting rush of boldness from the alcohol.

Zemo's attention subtly shifted behind you, a prelude to his hand sneaking once more to your waist. A wry smirk played at the corner of his lips as he leaned closer, his breath brushing against your ear with a whispered directive, "Get ready." Immobilized by a sudden rush of surprise, you found yourself momentarily unable to react, your mind racing to process the unwelcome proximity.

As you regained your composure, indignation fueling your resolve, your hands began to rise, intent on removing his intrusion. Yet, before you could act, a familiar and comforting warmth enveloped your back. A sharp intake of breath caught in your throat as a low, protective growl resonated from behind you, a primal sound that spoke volumes of the tension filling the air.

In the blink of an eye, Zemo's hand was forcibly removed from you, Bucky's intervention swift and silent. The warning in Bucky's eyes was unmistakable, a clear message that brooked no argument. His grip on Zemo's hand tightened, a silent demonstration of his protective instincts. The strain was evident as Zemo's face flushed, a crimson wave ascending his neck in stark contrast to his paling face, a vivid testament to the discomfort and possibly fear induced by Bucky's ironclad hold.

Observing the intensity of the moment, you placed your hand gently atop Bucky's, seeking to diffuse the tension. "It's okay," you whispered soothingly, a plea for peace. "Let him go." Your voice, though soft, carried the weight of your concern, hoping to coax Bucky back from the brink of further conflict.

With a grudging release of pressure, Bucky acquiesced to your request, albeit with a distasteful grunt. He allowed Zemo the mercy of an unbroken hand, a testament to his respect for your wishes. The moment, charged with silent confrontations and unspoken bonds, highlighted the deep connection between you and Bucky, a bond that transcended mere words, resonating with loyalty, protection, and an unyielding sense of unity.

The tension in the air was palpable, a heavy cloud that seemed to weigh down every breath, until the bartender's voice sliced through the silence with the precision of a well-honed blade. "Selby will see you now," he announced, effectively diffusing the charged atmosphere. As you were ushered down the dimly lit corridor by a group of stern-faced men, the arrangement was strategic: Zemo leading, followed by Sam, with you nestled securely in the middle, and Bucky bringing up the rear, his vigilant gaze ensuring no threat would find its way to you unnoticed.

In a fluid motion born of protective instinct, Bucky's fingers found your wrist, gently but firmly pulling you aside into the seclusion of the shadowed alcove. The dim light played across his features, casting deep shadows that sculpted his face with an intensity that was almost breathtaking. His rugged attractiveness, framed in the half-light, struck you with a force that made your heart flutter. "Are you okay?" you found yourself asking, drawn into the complexity of emotions that danced within his eyes. It was clear he was wrestling with his own turmoil, yet his proximity to you, so near that the soft flutter of your eyelashes could have brushed against his cheek, seemed to both unsettle and anchor him.

“Next time he grabs you like that—” He cut himself of, jaw clenching.

As you laid your hand against the solid warmth of his chest in a comforting gesture, a ripple of tension eased from his frame. "It's okay," your whisper broke the intimate silence between you, your gaze lifting to meet his. "I'm okay, promise. He was just trying to get under your skin."

His eyes, a mirror to his soul, roamed over your features with an intensity that felt as though he was memorizing every detail, every curve, and contour, before finally settling back into your gaze. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?" His voice, soft yet filled with an emotion that resonated deep within your chest, enveloped you in a warmth that went beyond the physical closeness. In that moment, amidst the shadows and whispers of danger, a connection forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unspoken understanding deepened, transcending the chaos of the world outside.

Your smile, blossoming in response to Bucky's unexpected compliment, was abruptly cut short by Zemo's call for the Winter Soldier, reverberating ominously off the walls. A mutual sigh of resignation passed between you and Bucky. With a bite to your lip, signaling the gravity of the interruption, you took a hesitant step back, murmuring, "We should go."

Bucky's response was a tight nod, the muscles along his jawline tensing visibly as he too made the difficult choice to distance himself. The atmosphere shifted palpably as you entered Selby's domain. She was ensconced regally in an armchair, her fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against its worn fabric, embodying the calm before the storm. "You should know, Baron," she began, her voice cool and measured, "people don’t just come into my bar and make demands."

Zemo, unfazed, countered with equal calmness, "Not a demand, an offer."

Selby's demeanor hinted at a mix of curiosity and caution as she observed the changes in her domain and the players within it. "A lot has changed since you were here last," she remarked, her gaze sliding over Bucky with undisguised interest. "By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?"

Zemo, settling himself before Selby with a nonchalance born of confidence, merely shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "People like us always find a way, don’t we? I'm sure you've already figured out what I am here for."

Selby, her attention never straying from Zemo, extended a languid finger toward your brother, her voice taking on a teasing, almost flirtatious tone. "You're taller than I'd heard, Smiling Tiger," she purred, her grin sharp as a knife's edge, before shifting her focus back to Zemo. "What's the offer?"

"Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum." Zemo's command hung in the air, heavy with implication. He rose, his movements deliberate, as he made his way to where Bucky and you stood in a silent vigil. The audacity of his next offer sliced through the tension like a cold blade. "And I give you him," Zemo gestured towards Bucky with a chilling casualness, "along with the code words that control him, of course." His fingers dared to trace a path along Bucky's jawline, a presumptuous gesture that hinted at possession. "He will do anything you want." You moved your hand to brush against his, blocking the view with your body, not wanting your cover to blow, also not wanting Bucky to blow up because of the over-the-top trade Zemo was talking about, which he hadn’t disclosed with you "Now, that’s the Zemo I remember," Selby's voice curled with a mix of admiration and threat, her lips twisting into a grin that was as dangerous as it was pleased. "I'm glad I decided not to kill you immediately." She mused aloud, nodding to herself as if affirming her own wisdom. "Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right." Zemo, with a nod acknowledging the compliment veiled as a critique, moved back to his chair, rejoining the precarious dance of conversation.

"The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor," Selby continued, her revelation hanging in the smoky air like a veiled threat. "Doctor Wilfred Nagel is the man you wanna thank, or…" Her voice trailed off as she tilted her head, her gaze sharp, "Or condemn, depending on what side you're on."

"Is Nagel still in Madripoor?" Zemo's question cut through the tension, his inquiry pointed and loaded with unspoken implications.

Selby stood, her movement fluid as a shadow, drifting behind Zemo. She was about to divulge the answer, a secret that could tip the scales, when the moment was shattered by the unexpected vibration of a cell phone. Sam's cell phone, ingeniously hidden within the confines of your bra, the only place deemed secure given the impracticality of the suit's tiny pockets. The room froze, a tableau of anticipation and dread, as all eyes darted towards you. The vibration continued, a silent herald of impending chaos, until, with a steadiness you hardly felt, you retrieved the phone. The caller ID flashed "Mom jr." — a code name for your older sister, Sarah, that now felt like a harbinger of disaster.

"Go on," Selby's voice was a command laced with curiosity and a hint of menace, her henchman already looming ominously behind her. "Answer it. On speaker."

With a nod, terse and devoid of any option but compliance, you swiped the screen, the green circle heralding a connection fraught with risk. Clearing your throat, an attempt to mask the torrent of nerves, you answered with a voice feigning confidence, "Smiling Tiger."

"...Okay." The brief silence that followed was thick with confusion, Sarah's voice betraying her bewilderment. "Why do you have his phone? Is he there?"

"Uh, yeah, yes, he is."

"Could I speak to him? It's urgent."

"Sure." You navigated the tense atmosphere with caution, aware of the danger that lurked in every corner. Approaching Sam, you offered the phone with a discreet, "Sir."

Sam accepted the phone, his throat clearing a precursor to the conversation. "Hello?"

"Hey, uhm, we need to talk about this situation. It's been driving me nuts."

"What situation are you talking about exactly?"

"Are you high? You know the situation. It’s the only situation me and you have."

"What situation, Sarah? Say it."

"The damn boat. And watch your tone, okay? I let you slide at the bank."

Sam's scoff was almost audible, a mixture of disbelief and humor. "The bank, yeah. Laundered so much money," he chuckled. "Yeah, they'll come around."

"If that’s the case, then why'd they dog you out, Big Time?"

"Yeah, you damn right I'm Big Time. You'll see when I have that banker killed." Your gaze flickered to Bucky, dreading the potential fallout from this precarious bluff.

"Cass! What did I tell you about the Cheerios? I don’t have time for this!" Sarah's exasperated outburst was unexpected, yet somehow, it underscored the normalcy of life's chaos — even when worlds apart, Cheerios could cause turmoil. "Sam, I'm sorry, let me call you back."

"Sam?" Selby's voice, sharp with suspicion, cut through the room. "Who's Sam?" Her eyes scanned the room, landing on one of her men as she gave the lethal order, "Kill them!" No sooner had the command left her lips than a bullet from an unseen sniper found its mark, sailing through the window to claim Selby's life with unerring precision.

As Selby's men, jolted by the sudden turn of events, scrambled to retaliate, the trio leapt into action, their movements a blend of desperation and determination, ready to confront the chaos unleashed by a single, ill-timed phone call.

Sam's movements were swift and precise, his elbow connecting with the gut of the assailant beside him with a force that spoke of urgency and desperation. In a fluid motion, he seized the man's weapon, leveraging his strength to send his adversary crumbling to the floor. Nearby, Bucky confronted another threat, an opponent armed with an automatic firearm. The bullets, however, were no match for Bucky's metallic arm. With an almost serene calmness, he raised his arm, the bullets ricocheting off the vibranium and falling harmlessly to the ground, their lethal intent nullified. With a swift, decisive movement, Bucky disarmed the gunman, the heavy thud of the weapon striking the assailant's head a grim punctuation to the confrontation.

Zemo, meanwhile, exhibited a different kind of strategy. He glided to the side, a ballet of avoidance, demonstrating a preference to remain on the fringes of the physical altercation. His demeanor suggested disinterest, a calculated decision to avoid the fray, yet you knew the truth. Zemo possessed skills honed by experience, a dangerous combatant by any measure, choosing discretion over engagement.

As for yourself, standing on the precipice of engagement, you too could have dismantled any adversary with ease, mirroring Zemo's restraint. Yet, it wasn't the fear of the fight that stilled your hand, nor the dread of physical harm. It was a deeper, more insidious kind of fear that gnawed at your resolve — the fear of responsibility. Sam had seen the toll it took on you, the anxiety that came with wielding your powers. He reassured you, time and again, that it was okay to hold back, understanding the weight that came with such immense power.

You had mastered control over your abilities, a feat that was as much for those around you as it was for your peace of mind. But control was a fragile thing, a constant battle against the possibility of a catastrophic slip. The echoes of the past haunted you, a stark reminder of the chaos unleashed during the battle against Thanos. The risk you had posed to your brother's life was a memory etched in the recesses of your mind, a harrowing reminder of the potential consequences of your powers. The burden of that day weighed heavily on your shoulders, a silent vow to never relive that helplessness, that guilt, again. Control could temper the power, but it could never erase the memories, the fears, or the haunting possibility of what could happen should it ever falter.

The moment unfolded before you with a surreal clarity, as if time itself had bent to accommodate the gravity of what was about to transpire. There stood Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme, his figure exuding an aura of solemnity. With a hand stretched towards you, his voice cut through the chaos of your thoughts, delivering the harrowing message that Thanos was on the precipice of ushering in another war.

The ground beneath you felt unsteady, as if it too, shared in your tumult of emotions. Your body was a tempest of sensations, akin to being engulfed in invisible flames, an internal inferno that threatened to consume your very essence. Your hands, held out in front of you, became the focal point of your bewildered gaze. They glowed with an ethereal green luminescence, transforming your eyes into beacons of an otherworldly force. In that moment, you were a stranger even to yourself, your identity obscured by the overwhelming power that surged within you. You feared that even your brother, upon witnessing this transformation, would find himself staring at an unfamiliar figure, your familiar visage masked by an alien force.

It was during this maelstrom of confusion and fear that Stephen Strange recognized the tumultuous energy you were channeling. With a wisdom borne of his experiences with the mystic arts, he extended not just his hand but an offer of guidance and mastery over the forces that now threatened to unravel you.

Amidst this turmoil, a familiar voice pierced the veil of your disorientation. Bucky's voice, imbued with urgency and concern, reached out to you, grounding you back to reality. "We gotta go." His words, simple yet laden with an unspoken promise of safety, beckoned you. As your gaze snapped towards him, you were met with the sight of his outstretched hand, a lifeline in the chaos.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you placed your palm against his, the warmth of his grip a stark contrast to the cold uncertainty that had gripped your heart. Led by Bucky, you began to make your way out of the building, each step away from the epicenter of your crisis a step towards reclaiming the self that had been momentarily lost in the eye of the storm.

As Zemo's directive to abandon their firearms behind echoed in your mind, a profound vulnerability washed over you, intensifying the uncertainty that already clouded your heart. The decision to venture into the unknown without the familiar weight of a weapon at your side left you feeling starkly exposed, each step on the pavement echoing your apprehension.

Amidst the chaos, the glow of countless phone screens caught your attention, their omnipresence a stark reminder of the digital eyes that followed your every move. Your grip on Bucky's hand tightened, a help in centering you amidst the swirling uncertainty, your fingers intertwined with his in a silent plea for reassurance. Bucky, feeling the tremor of your grasp, was confronted with an overwhelming pressure in his chest—a sensation so intense, it seemed as though his heart might shatter through his ribcage. The logical part of his mind suggested that releasing your trembling hand might alleviate some of his distress, disconnecting him from the tangible evidence of your fear. Yet, the thought of pulling you even closer overpowered him, a testament to the protective instinct that surged within him, despite the presence of his partner in crime at his side, equally eager to escape the impending peril and shield you from harm.

Out of the corner of your eye, a figure detached from the crowd caught your attention—a woman, standing apart with her hands mimicking the shape of a gun, playfully ‘shooting’ at your group. This macabre pantomime, juxtaposed against the sea of illuminated screens, shed light on the grim realization that you and your companions had been reduced to mere targets in a deadly game, surrounded by a multitude of unseen adversaries, each one thirsting for blood and the lure of a reward.

In the fraction of a second before you could advance another step, the air was pierced by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. An instinctive fear gripped you, catalyzing a reaction that tore you away from Bucky's grasp. You spun around, just as a barrage of bullets threatened to engulf your group in a lethal storm. Driven by a deep-seated impulse to protect, you extended your hands, your eyes instinctively closing as you tapped into a wellspring of power that had lain dormant within you for far too long. The air around you charged with anticipation, as if the very essence of your being had awakened to confront the danger head-on.

Upon daring to open your eyes, fearing the aftermath of your instinctual reaction, you were confronted with a surreal tableau: bullets suspended mid-air, frozen in time and space, an arm's length away, creating an eerie stillness in the midst of chaos. The sheer number of projectiles, hovering ominously close, sent a shiver down your spine, yet it was the sight of your own fingers, aglow with a radiant green luminance, that truly captivated you. It was a strange juxtaposition—how could something so ethereally beautiful harbor the potential for immense destruction?

Your fascination gave way to action as you turned your palm, the bullets beginning to dissolve into nothingness, disintegrating into a fine mist just before reaching your skin. The urgency to locate your assailant led your eyes to a figure, scant meters away, wielding a machine gun braced against a makeshift stand in the bustling market. With a focused gesture, you manipulated the now-liquefied metal, directing it with lethal precision towards the gunman. He recoiled, anticipating pain or perhaps even death, but instead, you targeted his weapon. The metal swarm enveloped the gun, rendering it inoperable, parts of its mechanism dissolving into oblivion.

The surrounding crowd, momentarily taken aback by the display of power, quickly regrouped, their initial shock transforming into twisted smiles as they once again raised their weapons. It was then that your brother intervened, his hand clasping yours with determined strength, pulling you back into the frenetic escape. The concept of a leisurely retreat was a luxury far removed from reality as you both dashed through the dense throngs of Madripoor, a city now teeming with adversaries drawn by the allure of a bounty. The streets, alive with danger, became a labyrinth as you navigated through the relentless pursuit, the weight of potential violence pressing against you from all sides.

“I can’t run in these heels!” Sam's grumble about his unsuitable footwear for their frenzied escape almost halted you in your tracks, the urge to chastise him for his complaint bubbling up fiercely.

"I'm wearing six-inch heels, you idiot!" you retorted, your voice slicing through the tension as you were half-dragged, half-ran, your form almost seeming to bounce off the pavement with each step.

Just then, the distinct growl of motorbikes escalated behind you, a clear sign that your pursuers were closing in with alarming speed. Instinctively, you twisted around, freeing one arm from your brother's firm grasp. A brilliant emerald glow enveloped your hand as you unleashed a force resembling a sonic boom towards your chasers. Glancing back, you witnessed the bikers caught in a surreal slow-motion, ensnared within the temporal anomaly you'd unwittingly summoned.

The urgency of your flight tapered off as your brother gradually decelerated, releasing your hand to take in the quietude that had enveloped the scene. Zemo, ever the observer, couldn't hide his admiration, stepping closer with a sly grin. "Quite impressive, if I may say so myself."

“You may not.” His commendation was met with a mutter from Bucky, barely audible yet brimming with protectiveness. Bucky positioned himself squarely between you and Zemo, effectively shielding you from the latter's view. Sam, meanwhile, appeared utterly bemused, hands perched on his hips as he oscillated his gaze between you and Bucky, bewildered by the sudden shift in dynamics.

"Okay, what—?" Sam began, only to be cut off as the moment teetered on the brink of unraveling.

"Well, isn’t this just perfect," a voice chimed from the enveloping shadows, laced with a mix of amusement and disbelief. Emerging into the dim light, a blonde woman approached with her gun poised, her stance radiating confidence and danger. Recognition flickered through your mind, delayed by the surreal context. Sharon Carter, the name finally clicked, associated with tales of Steve Rogers and his erstwhile entanglements. Sam's anecdotes, usually shared with a mix of reverence and jest, painted her in the light of a past fraught with complex allegiances, especially during the so-called Civil War—a term you found overly dramatic for what essentially amounted to a highly publicized skirmish among comrades at an airport.

"Sharon?" Bucky's voice cut through your thoughts, tinged with a blend of surprise and uncertainty. The Sharon Carter you'd heard of through scattered stories seemed far removed from the woman who now stood before you, gun in hand, in the underbelly of Madripoor. It was a reflection, perhaps, of how life's unpredictable currents could sweep anyone into unforeseen harbors.

Her gaze, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Zemo, the intensity of her scorn palpable. "You cost me everything," she accused, the words heavy with resentment. Sam attempted to interject, offering explanations that seemed to dissipate before they could reach her, lost in the void of her grievance. "I stole Steve's shield, remember?" she reminded, her resolve steel-hard, the weapon unwavering in her grasp. "I also took the wings for your ass," she directed at Sam, causing a ripple of tension to pass through you. The mention of sacrifices made—her actions for their benefit—underscored the gravity of her fall from grace. Her focus shifted momentarily to Bucky, implicating him in the web of consequences, before returning to Zemo with a disdainful flick. Finally, her eyes found you, registering your presence with a flicker of surprise. "No idea who you are," she stated, an admission that underscored the complexity of alliances and identities in this shadowy world.

With a determined stride, Bucky advanced towards Sharon, his every step a testament to his intent to defuse the tension that crackled in the air. He engaged her with words, his tone both pleading and firm, navigating through the storm of her fury. Eventually, her grip on the gun loosened, the weapon tucked away after an exasperated sigh, a silent concession to his efforts. Sharon then proposed an unexpected truce, inviting you all back to her sanctuary. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on you; moments before, the cold metal of her gun had promised anything but hospitality.

Crossing the threshold into Sharon's abode, you were immediately struck by an array of art that adorned every wall and surface. The collection was staggering, a visual feast of masterpieces that seemed too authentic, too valuable to be merely decorative. You half-joked to yourself about the possibility of the Mona Lisa being tucked away in a corner, marveling at the fortune that surrounded you, captured in oil and canvas.

The offer of a change of attire came next, with Sharon presenting an array of elegant garments that seemed to glide into the room on a valet rod. The promise of shedding your current attire, particularly the torturous heels that had been your nemesis throughout the evening, was a relief. Barefoot, you approached the selection with eagerness, only to have your enthusiasm dimmed by the realization that the options available were far removed from your comfort zone. Accustomed to the simple reliability of sneakers and boots, the sight of such finery felt daunting, alien.

Facing Sharon, a hint of disappointment lacing your expression, you ventured a request, hoping for something more aligned with your sense of style. "Don't you have anything less... that?" The words hung between you, a polite plea for normalcy amidst the opulence that defined her world.

"Like what?" Sharon's question cut through the tension in the room, her gaze drifting momentarily over Bucky and his shirtless state alongside Zemo. The moment made your skin crawl slightly, an unwelcome distraction in the midst of the unfolding scenario.

"Jeans?" you ventured hopefully, trying to steer the conversation back to a more comfortable topic, despite the circumstances.

"We are going to a club in Madripoor," Sharon pointed out, as if the venue demanded a specific dress code that was far from your preference.

"Yes?" you responded, not fully grasping why your suggested attire wouldn't be suitable, your tone a mixture of confusion and mild annoyance.

After a brief pause, during which Sharon seemed to consider her response, she chose to bypass your suggestion entirely, moving past you as if you had become part of the room's extravagant background. Your frustration evident, you rolled your eyes at her dismissive attitude and turned back to the daunting task of selecting an outfit from the array provided. Among the lavish options, you managed to find flared leather leggings and a high-neck crop top with a singular sleeve—a rebellious choice that echoed your own style while avoiding the discomfort of another glitter-infested dress. As you began the awkward dance of changing into the leather pants without first removing your current dress, a subtle commotion caught your attention.

Bucky, ever the protector, had taken it upon himself to ensure your privacy. His large hand found Zemo's neck, not harshly but with enough insistence to pivot the man's attention away from you. However, it wasn't just Zemo's attention he was diverting; his own gaze, filled with an intensity you couldn't quite decipher, kept flickering back to you. Each look seemed to linger a moment too long, filled with an emotion he seemed to struggle to define, let alone express. With a visible effort, Bucky tore his gaze away, a stern resolve setting in as he forced himself to focus on anything but you.

Your brother went to lift his whiskey glass off the table when he spotted what was inside of it. A shiver ran down his as he fished out the little snake part and stood to throw it out the window. The expression on his face made you throw your head back laughing. He raised his brow at you in question. You lifted your hands. "I didn’t do it."

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Because whoever did, is a genius." You were about to pull the top over your head when Sam pinched you in the side. "Ow, what the hell, Sam!" With furrowed brows, and the tight top stuck on your shoulders, you tried to kick him in the shin, though he moved back just in time; a broad grin rested on his face. "Too slow, sista," Sam teased, his playful nudge against your head causing your already precarious balance to falter further. With a grunt of mock indignation, you surged forward, aiming a determined chest-bump at your brother, eager to see him mirror your momentary imbalance. Your efforts were rewarded with a triumphant laugh as Sam was forced to step back, the shared moment of childish glee lighting up your features with a wide grin. This brief interlude of sibling rivalry whisked you back to those carefree days of your youth, where even the simplest acts of brotherly teasing felt like the grandest adventures. Back then, Sam could do no wrong in your eyes, the epitome of an older brother in the most magnificent form.

In the midst of your playful scuffle, you were secretly relieved that Sharon had exited the room. Her presence might have added a layer of self-consciousness to the innocent chaos. Although the antics might seem juvenile to an outsider, to you, they were a rare slice of normalcy—a cherished reminder of a life untouched by cosmic wars or Thanos' dread shadow.

As Sam busied himself with selecting an outfit, your struggle with the unyielding fabric of your top grew increasingly frustrating. The material, devoid of any give, clung stubbornly in all the wrong places. With your back to Bucky, a soft sigh of exasperation escaped you. "Buck?" The quiet call for assistance was barely above a whisper, yet it summoned his attention instantly.

"Need a hand?" His voice was close, filled with a gentle concern that made your heart flutter slightly.

"Yes, please," came your subdued reply, the momentary vulnerability feeling strangely intimate. Then, you felt it—his touch. The slight graze of Bucky's skin against yours as his fingers traced a path up your side, his touch delicate yet assured. He navigated the fabric with a tender precision, his fingers briefly pausing at the edge of your top before guiding it smoothly into place. The fleeting caress that followed lingered just long enough to ignite a shiver of anticipation, a warmth blossoming within you that craved the closeness of his embrace. His breath, a warm whisper against the nape of your neck, sent a thrilling chill down your spine.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, the compliment hanging in the air between you, charged with an unspoken emotion that seemed to draw you even closer, tethering your heart to his with an invisible thread of affection and longing.

"I absolutely agree," Zemo's voice cut through the tension, drawing an involuntary growl of annoyance from Bucky. With a gesture of mock surrender, Zemo backed away, his steps carrying him to the bar where three glasses of whiskey awaited their silent call to be savored. Bucky, feeling the palpable shift in the room's dynamics, reluctantly distanced himself from you, his departure leaving a subtle chill in the wake of his warmth. He reclaimed his seat on the sofa, a move you couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment over.

Sharon chose that moment to grace the room with her presence, her arrival marked by the lively bounce of her blonde waves. She exuded a casual confidence, her tone light, yet probing. "So," she hummed, curiosity lacing her words, "How's the new Cap doing?"

Before Sam had the chance to form a response, Bucky's voice, laced with a mixture of disdain and resignation, filled the room. "Don’t get me started." His hands found each other, intertwining in an awkward dance as his gaze inadvertently met yours. Even in the simplicity of his all-black ensemble, accentuated by a blazer that lent an air of sophistication, Bucky looked effortlessly handsome, commanding the space around him with an understated elegance.

Sharon, undeterred by the tense atmosphere, pressed on, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "Oh, please. You buy into all that stars and striped bullshit." Her pointed gaze shifted to Zemo. "Before you were his pet psychopath, you were Mr. America! Cap's best friend." With a fluid motion, she sank into the space beside Bucky, a deliberate bite of her lip following her words.

The action did not go unnoticed, drawing a frown from you, a silent testament to the unfolding dynamics. Bucky, catching Sam's eye, shared a moment of mutual understanding, tinged with a hint of disbelief. "Wow," he uttered, the word heavy with implication. "She's kind of awful now." His observation, though softly spoken, resonated with a mix of humor and a poignant undercurrent of nostalgia for times and alliances past.

As you momentarily extracted yourself from the animated discussion unfurling within the living room, your attention was ensnared by the relentless buzzing of your phone, a beacon of unchecked notifications. A myriad of messages from your sister painted your screen, a digital mosaic of concern and updates. "I'll be right back," you announced, your voice threading through the dense air of conversation that was currently monopolized by debates over the Flag Smashers. The name itself, a moniker you found both laughably juvenile and misleadingly innocuous, echoed in your thoughts as you distanced yourself from the discourse, finding solace in the quietude of the hallway.

Leaning against the cool, indifferent wall, you began the arduous task of sifting through the digital deluge, your fingers scrolling with practiced ease. It was then, amidst the solitude of your temporary retreat, that the ambiance subtly shifted, heralding the approach of another. The door opened with a hushed creak, and there he was—Bucky, his presence alone commanding your undivided attention.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice a gentle intrusion, as he navigated the space around you to claim his own against the wall opposite. His casual demeanor belied the concern etched into the furrows of his brow.

"Hey," you echoed, a mirror of his own greeting, yet laden with an unspoken acknowledgment of the weight he carried in his gaze.

"You alright?" His inquiry was simple, yet laden with layers of unvoiced thoughts and concerns. There was a palpable hesitation in his words, a reluctance to tread upon the terrain of your powers—a subject he knew stirred a tempest of emotions within you. “You used your powers.”

"I did," came your affirmation, your response punctuated with a grin that sought to mask the undercurrent of apprehension that had long shadowed your relationship with your own abilities. "I'm alright, though, really." Your attempt to reassure him—and perhaps yourself—was sincere. "It felt weirdly freeing to use them. To see how well I can actually keep control. They are still kind of scary, though."

As the words tumbled from your lips, Bucky bridged the gap between you, each step he took charged with an unspoken intensity. Suddenly, the world seemed to narrow down to the space that separated you, every detail of his approach etched into your memory—the way the light danced in his eyes, the barely perceptible tension in his jaw, the silent communication of his body language that spoke volumes of his concern and his undeniable pull towards you.

The proximity between you dwindled to a mere breath, a distance so trivial yet laden with a myriad of unspoken possibilities. The air around you thickened, charged with a palpable tension that sent your heart racing, your breaths shallow. The notion of closing the distance, of yielding to the gravitational pull that seemed to draw you inexorably towards him, flickered through your mind like a tantalizing promise. It was an effort to maintain your composure, to anchor yourself to the moment without succumbing to the overwhelming urge to bridge the final vestiges of space with a kiss that threatened to unravel both of you.

Pressed against the cool, unyielding surface of the wall, the intensity of the moment had magnified as Bucky's hands found their way to your waist, his grip tightening with a hunger that sent waves of anticipation coursing through your veins. His large, calloused hands, battle-hardened yet gentle, conveyed a sense of urgency as they dug into your flesh, pulling you impossibly closer into his embrace. The strength in his touch was paradoxically comforting, each finger imprinting a promise of protection and desire onto your skin.

The world around you had faded into a distant murmur, his presence engulfing you, drowning out everything else. Bucky's body molded against yours, his chest to your chest, his hips locked with yours in a dance as old as time. The pressure of his hands on your waist was both a claim and a caress, a testament to the depth of his longing. It was as if he was trying to merge two separate existences into one, to erase any space that still lingered between you.

As his lips moved with a tender ferocity against yours, you could feel the raw power of his emotions, restrained yet palpable. The sensation of being wholly desired, of being pulled into someone's orbit with such intensity, was both exhilarating and terrifying. His touch spoke volumes, whispered of need and want that had been simmering beneath the surface, now unleashed in the privacy of this shared moment.

The hunger in his grasp was matched only by the passion of your response, your own hands exploring the expanse of his back, tracing the lines of muscle and scars that told the story of his past. Together, you were adrift in a sea of heightened sensations, every caress, every kiss, every breath amplifying the connection that had been quietly growing between you. In that moment, with Bucky's hands anchoring you to him, you weren't just touching; you were speaking a language of longing, of mutual understanding and unspoken promises made in the quietude of hearts beating in unison.

A voice unexpectedly cut through the thick haze of the moment shared between you and Bucky. The abrupt sound of Sam’s voice, laced with surprise and a hint of disbelief, acted like a cold splash of reality.

“Someone care to explain what’s going on here?” he demanded, his tone piercing the bubble that had enveloped you and Bucky. The shock of being discovered, especially by your brother, sent a jolt through you, compelling you to break the kiss.

Oh, no.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes series #bucky x you #winter soldier #the falcon and the winter soldier

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sebstan2020 · 4 months

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Sebastian Stan Fanfiction Masterlist

Bucky Barnes

Red Ties - Bucky Barnes

The King - Bucky Barnes

The Rise of Hydra - Bucky Barnes

The Captains Daughter - Bucky Barnes

Trespassing - Bucky Barnes

The Presidents Daughter - Bucky Barnes

A Slave for You - Bucky Barnes

She Works for the Devil - Bucky Barnes

At His Service - Bucky Barnes

Territory - Bucky Barnes

New World Order - Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark

Companion - Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

Repaying the Debt - Bucky Barnes

Bucky Barnes One shots

Steve Kemp

Not Leaving - Steve Kemp

Max Burnett

The Sharpest Lies - Max Burnett

Max Burnett One shots

Nick Fowler

Nick Fowler One shots

Sebastian Stan

Sebastian Stan One shots

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geeky-politics-46 · 17 days

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"Q" for bucky barnes pls & thank ☺️

- @buckymorelikefuckme

I was really hoping for some Bucky asks! I don't write for him near as much as I would like to.

Q - Quiet please (what’s the volume like in the bedroom? are they quiet? do they scream? do they like a loud partner? do they prefer if their partner is more soft spoken?)

Bucky was never loud in bed before, but now, after everything he's been through, he enjoys making noise. He likes just letting go and not holding anything back. Whining and moaning to show you how good you're making him feel. Lots of cursing and pet names. He will even moan and swear when he's going down on you to show you just how much he is enjoying himself. He's discovered he really likes a bit of dirty talk. He loves telling you all the filthy things he wants to do to you. Giving you praise that's both sweet and naughty.

"Fuck babydoll, I couldn't stop thinking about your perfect pussy. Swear I've been hard since our last date."

"You have no idea what you do to me. I'm never letting you out of my bed again. You feel like you were made to take my cock."

He loves hearing you whimper, and he swears he's never heard a prettier sound than you moaning his name. Especially when you switch from calling him Bucky to calling him James. That's how he knows he's got you right on the edge of cumming. He never wants anyone to call him James ever again because he only wants to here you say it in that breathy way you do when he's pounding into you. He loves when he can make you actually scream his name loud enough that Steve has to come knock on the door telling you to be quiet because he can't sleep with the noise. It's at this point that Bucky loves to tease you that Steve actually just wants you to be quiet because your pretty little noises have gotten him hard and he hates that you aren't screaming his name instead. He'll tell you you're such a good girl for letting his best friend hear how naughty you are. That maybe you two should let Steve watch. When he feels you clench around his cock at that suggestion he'll growl and tease you even more about how needy you are.

Steve has asked Stark to soundproof Bucky's room multiple times to no avail, Bucky just sees that as a challenge and tries to make you scream louder. Tony thinks it's funny.

Picked this gif because you know he would play innocent to the noise complaints in front of everyone at first. Then back to trying to make you even louder behind closed doors.

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geminijade · 9 months

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Grumpy Boy 💕💞

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makethatelevenrings · 1 year

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Day 24 - Breathplay

Pairing: Sam Wilson x gn!reader

Warnings: if you are under 18, why are you here. go away. get off my lawn

Summary: You want to test something out in bed. Sam is a willing but nervous participant.

Kinktober Masterlist

Sam was big on communication. It’s one of the reasons why you loved him. Concerns and worries were met with gentle words and an open ear. Fights were always talked out and addressed properly instead of held onto and thrown into each other’s faces. And the sex, fuck, the sex was fantastic.

Which is why you were confused when Sam stopped fucking into you and draped over your back, his cock still in you.

“Are you sure you want to try this?” he asked.

“Sam, baby, we talked about this before. I want it. You want to try it.” You huffed out a breath and looked over your shoulder at him. “I know you, Samuel. You did hours of research on this. Don’t even lie, you asked Barnes how to do it properly.”

“Listen, he has experience.”

“Not sexually!” You paused. “Don’t answer that.”

He rolled his hips, his cock dragging across your walls and pulling a moan from your lips without another thought. God bless Captain America. His shield wouldn’t be the only thing coming tonight, you would make sure of that.

“Seriously, Sam. The only person I would ever trust to do it with is you. I know you would never hurt me,” you panted as he snapped his hips, the distinct sound of skin striking skin echoing through your bedroom.

And then he wrapped his hand around your throat and yanked you up so your back was flush with his chest. Sam’s calloused palm squeezed your throat in just the right way as he drilled into you. The lack of air made you dizzy and fuck, it was euphoric. Your muscles spasmed and you clenched around him, practically milking his cock. He dropped his hand from your throat and caught you as you leaned back into him.

“I gotcha,” he murmured. He brushed a kiss against your shoulder and slipped out of you, helping you lay down on the bed.

“Thumbs up or down?” he asked as you regained your breath. Nervousness tinged his words and he was kneeling next to you, spine ramrod straight. You flashed him a thumbs up and dissolved into breathless laughter.

“Fuck, Sammy, that was so hot.” He relaxed instantly and collapsed into a heap next to you, pulling you into his chest.

“Anything for you, baby.”

#kinktober #kinktober 2022 #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson imagine #sam wilson smut #falcon x reader #falcon imagine #falcon smut #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #captain america smut

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mylovelies-docx · 1 year

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Dinner & Diatribes

A/N: Hey, wow, look at me posting another fic!

This one has also been in the works for a while (if you know when Dinner & Diatribes by Hozier came out, you might realize just how long).

Highly suggest giving the song a listen! Or anything by Hozier, really. I finally get to see this man in concert, so I'm ecstatic!

This is 5k words of pure smut. No plot. I'm not sorry about it.

Plot (or lack thereof): You and Bucky attend a dinner party for a couple you saved on the last mission. Unbeknownst to the couple (or maybe they just don't care), they're being total cock-blocks.

C/W: Smut, smut, smut (18+, Minors DNI)

Kinks: Edging, choking, hair-pulling, spanking, fingering, public sex, semi-public sex, overstimulation, cock warming, Bucky's metal hand (yes, it is a kink), reader is cock-drunk for half of the story. Probably more, let me know.

“Save some people one time, and they think they’re obligated to your free time,” you mutter into Bucky’s ear. He laughs softly and tightens his arm where it lays around your shoulders. Bucky knows that there’s no real venom behind your words, just disgruntlement that you’re not spending the evening alone like you had planned.

A destination wedding. How cliche. You didn’t know the couple, but your publicist insisted that you and Bucky attend their wedding. You’re currently sitting around a cramped table in the hotel restaurant, sipping greedily at your alcoholic beverage hoping to take the edge off.

The couple nearly broke down your and Bucky’s door an hour earlier, insisting that you join their wedding party downstairs for dinner. Their pounding on the door kept you from getting pounded by your boyfriend, and now you’re frustrated beyond belief. This nice dress should have been crumpled on your hotel room floor next to where you’d left your panties earlier. You wiggle in your seat as you’re reminded of your bare ass against the leather.

Buck reaches his metal arm across his body and rests his palm on the top of your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. “The head is a talking type, yeah?” he whispers to you, nodding towards the head of the table who had been droning on (and on) about how they’d met their significant other at a galaaaa and they’d had canapes and spaaarkling waaaater while looking out from the verandaaaa in Viennaaaa.

Seriously. Could they be any more pretentious?

You roll your eyes and bring your glass up to cover your mouth as you say, “Sounds like Tony before he ate a slice of humble pie out in the desert.” Bucky nearly chokes on his drink, spluttering and coughing into the back of his hand. He quickly recovers with an apologetic little smile and wave when the wedding party gives him a look, appalled that he’d dare interrupt the speech. They all face forward again when Bucky places his glass back on the table.

Bucky leans his head down so that his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“You better watch yourself, doll.” Bucky’s hand on your thigh slides to where your legs come together, too far to be of any use to you at the moment but tantalizing as the cool metal heats from the warmth of your skin. “The more we interrupt, the longer we’ll be here in hell.”

A smirk curves your lips as you place your hand on Bucky’s cheek and guide his head so you can whisper in his ear. The roughness of his stubble against your soft palm has you thinking of where else you’d like to feel the burn of his beard.

“I’d suffer hell if you’d tell me what you’ll do to me tonight.”

Bucky’s normally soft blue eyes find your own, and his gaze darkens as he stares intently at you. Your own pulse rises to match the thud of his heart where your palm has slipped down to cup around his neck.

Bucky uses the arm on your shoulder and the hand between your legs to pull you closer on the padded bench. Your dress was too short to tuck underneath you as you sat down, and you’d been so turned on earlier that the slick between your thighs had escaped and caused your thighs to stick to the leather. The abrupt movement vibrates your skin, sending pleasure straight to your core. You close your eyes at the sensation and the feel of Bucky’s warm breath across your face. He’s pulled the thigh he was holding so that your knee is hitched up over his leg, leaving you open to the cool breeze flowing from underneath the table.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he coos softly, “You want me to tell you what I’d rather be doing right now?”

You breathe out heavily as your thigh brushes against the bulge in his pants, opening your eyes to look into Bucky’s bright gaze. “Tell me.”

His metal fingers inch their way up your thigh, coming closer and closer to where you want him most.

“Or would you rather I show you?” he breathes against your mouth right before he places a small, hungry kiss on your lips. You hum, trying to follow him as he pulls his face away. He nestles your head against his shoulder and acts like he’s paying attention to the speech again, but his index finger ever so gently runs along your slit, gathering the wetness that only continues to grow as he caresses you.

You whimper silently, aware that the people next to and across from you could look over at any moment and see Bucky’s hand at your exposed core. You grasp at his shirt and ever so subtly shift your hips. Bucky tsks softly and moves his arm down off your shoulders and around your hips so that he can hold you in place.

Bucky’s voice is husky in your ear. “You don’t want these people to see you grinding on my hand like the needly little thing you are, do you?”

You gasp as one thick finger suddenly thrusts inside you. You press your forehead hard into Bucky’s chest, barely stopping yourself from crawling into his lap and straddling the hard length that’s straining against the fabric of his slacks.

Just then, the person that had been talking for the last eternity finally ended their speech. Bucky curls his finger once inside of you before extricating his hand from between your tense thighs. You whine at the loss as Bucky very casually licks his finger and pulls his arm away from your hips. He shoots you a shit-eating grin as he claps for the next person standing up to speak.

“You wanted to know what I’m gonna do with you later tonight, right? I’m thinking something like that.”

You laugh as it sinks in. Bucky is only teasing you, and he’d never intended for you to get off on his fingers – or even come close to it – here at the table. Or at all, if he’s thinking of edging you all night. You can scarcely speak, thinking of what all he has in mind for tonight.

The dinner drags on. Bucky refuses to do anything more than kiss along your neck, or gently graze your nipples as he reaches across you for something, or hike your leg higher over his so that he can quickly rub your clit with his thumb for no more than a few seconds.

You’re nearly out of your mind with lust by the time the end of the party is in sight. You’ve been able to drown out everyone’s voices with the brief feel of Bucky’s lips and hands, with the dirty visions of your anticipated release later tonight.

You’re so wound up that you barely register the parting words of the final speaker until you notice everyone turning away to reach for their glasses. You compose your features into an expression that you hope is passable despite the heat suffusing your face and chest. Your unsteady breaths are barely concealed by the fake little laugh you let out as you raise your glass with everyone else. Your eyes travel from Bucky’s slick and shiny fingers all the way up his arm and to his face. He’s looking at you with eyes that promise so many things once you’re alone.

“And a thank you to our very special friends: the Avengers. Thank you both soooo much for taking the time away from saving the world to help me celebrate my world.”

You snap your gaze away from Bucky’s heated one and chuckle a little awkwardly as you look around. Everyone is looking at you now, and you hope like hell they’re oblivious to what Bucky has been doing to you for the last hour. You’re extremely conscious of the fact that you’re basically sitting in a puddle of your own juices, so turned on that you’ve soaked through the side of Bucky’s pants where your core has been trying and failing to grind against him.

The dinner party begins to make their goodbyes and stand to leave. A spike of anxiety shoots through you at the thought of having to stand up and expose the shine and slick coating Bucky’s leg and the seat beneath you. Your hand clenches around Bucky’s knee and you turn your face up to look at him.

He gives you a soft smile and places a kiss on your temple before reaching for something on the table and ‘accidentally’ spilling a large glass of water as he pulls his hand back. All the contents in the cup cascade over the side of the table and into both of your laps. You jump up at the cold liquid hitting your sensitive thighs and feel Bucky jump up behind you, his entire lap soaking wet.

“You okay, dollface?” Bucky asks as he wraps you in his arms and pulls you away from the rapidly spreading puddle at your feet. You nod your head and wrap your arms around his waist. You’re so lust-rattled that you’ve turned into a needy and clingy little thing, unable to think any coherent thoughts until after Bucky lets you cum.

Bucky wraps his arms low around your waist, hands perilously close to groping your ass in front of everyone. You feel his cock pressing hard into your abdomen as you cling onto his front, causing you to shimmy against him. Bucky sucks in a quick breath before making his excuses and guides you both out of the dining room. He pulls you away from him so that you can walk beside him normally, but he grabs your hand in his large one and squeezes so that you know he doesn’t want to let you go.

He hustles you to the elevator and rapidly presses the call button. You turn so that the arm holding your hand is pulled into your body, cradling his bicep between your breasts. You grab at the other and entwine your fingers, lowering your hands so that his knuckles press into your mound right above your aching clit. You whine loudly at the feeling, uncaring of the people around you.

Bucky curses and pulls his hand away from your heated flesh. Pushing his now free hand through his hair, Bucky looks quickly around the lobby. He spots what he’s looking for and drags you through a door at the end of the room. Before the door even closes, he grabs both of your hands in his metal one and pushes you against the wall with your arms pinned above your head. He uses his flesh hand to grab at your knee and pull it up to his waist. You moan at the feel of him pushing against your center.

“Hell, sugar, you can’t do that in the middle of the fucking lobby.” Bucky rubs his nose along your jawline and up into your hair, breathing in deeply against your scalp. “There’s paparazzi standing right outside those windows.”

“Don’t care,” you whine, using your position to grind satisfyingly against his cock. “Need you, Bucky. Please.”

“Jesus, doll,” Bucky groans low in his throat, “you’re gonna get us in trouble.” But he’s as addicted to you as you are to him, so he drops your wrists and pulls you up into his arms, letting you wrap your legs around his waist and settle against him fully. You throw your head back against the wall and look above you, seeing dozens of sets of stairs spin into the highest reaches of the hotel.

Your moan bounces up into the echo chamber of the stairwell when Bucky thrusts his hips against yours roughly, fighting against the fabric of his pants to feel your wet heat on his cock. He grinds himself between your legs, the rough fabric covering his hard length providing the friction you've been looking for all evening. You gasp and tighten your legs where they've pulled Bucky in as close as you could get him, wanting – needing – to feel him buried inside you.

"Are you close, baby? Close to coming all over me in this stairwell?" He stops grinding for a moment to bounce you higher up the wall, putting a millisecond's worth of intense pressure on your clit. "Huh?" Bucky prompts.

"Yes," you mewl pathetically. You have one hand pushing against his shoulder while the other clasps his neck and pulls him into you, the stimulation too much for your body to know if it wanted Bucky to make you come or not.

Of course, you want it, your brain tells you. You want it oh so bad.

"Bucky. Please. I'm – ah."

"Yeah, baby?" Bucky teases you, using one hand to turn your face so that he can look into your cloudy eyes. What he sees there must spur him further in his own desire, because he suddenly plants a hard kiss on your lips and pulls away from you.

You drop down, barely catching yourself in time for your wobbly knees to support you. You nearly cry at the loss of contact, tears starting to form in your eyes. But as quickly as Bucky had dropped you, he scoops you up and over his shoulder. You feel a firm smack against your skin where your thigh meets the swell of your backside, and you can't help but cry out as the sensation travels through your skin and vibrates deep inside your pussy.

"Quiet, doll," Bucky admonishes as he climbs the stairs three at a time, "not a sound until we're in the room. Got it?" He asks again with another smack.

With your ass on full display over Bucky's shoulder, all you can do is wrap your arms around his waist from the back and feel the rush of blood flow to your head.

"Good girl," Bucky hums at your silence. He massages the juncture of your legs, his long fingers nearly inside your slit. You gasp quietly with every bump as Bucky powers up the stairs to your floor.

Once at the correct level, Bucky wrenches open the stairwell door, making sure to keep you balanced up on his shoulder. He walks quickly to your room, digging the keycard out of his pocket and swiping it against the reader. You can’t see the red light, but you hear the indicator deny your entry.

Bucky curses and tries again. Another error code.

You whimper pitifully from where you dangle, close to crying if Bucky’s cock isn’t inside of you soon. “Bucky. Baby. Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

Your cries force another curse from Bucky’s lips. He can’t stand how painfully needy you sound. Can’t stand not giving you exactly what you want from him.

He grabs the handle with his metal fist, forcing it downwards and breaking the locking mechanism. Finally gaining entry, Bucky walks in and kicks the door closed with his foot. Not wasting any more time, he throws you onto the bed, where you bounce several times on the plush surface. You spread your legs wide, laying there for several seconds. You enjoy the view of Bucky’s eyes on your exposed pussy as he shucks off his suit jacket and unbuttons the shirt beneath.

As his hands get to his belt, his eyes trail up from your glistening folds and pierce directly into your lust filled gaze. “All fours. Now.”

Not wasting a second, you turn over onto your stomach, pushing yourself up onto your knees and hands. You spread your legs apart, granting access for Bucky to slide in between them. But instead of a dip in the bed behind you like you’re expecting, you feel Bucky’s large hands grab onto your hips, pulling you backwards towards the edge of the bed.

You squeal in anticipation, feeling Bucky’s long legs press into your thighs. One of his hands circles around from your hip and cups your pussy. The other slides up along your spine until it reaches the back of your neck, forcing your top down until you’re resting on your elbows instead.

“I’m going deep, dollface. Take a nice big breath for me.”

If Bucky hadn’t reminded you, you’d probably have suffered from hypoxia since you’re sure you haven’t taken a breath since turning over.

You suck in a lungful of air as Bucky’s hand on your neck slides back down to your bottom and gives a quick slap. You shudder against him and almost collapse onto your face as he takes the hand from your pussy and lifts your thigh up and over the leg he plants on the bed.

Without a second’s hesitation, Bucky plunges his cock directly into your aching hole, filling you full to the brim.

You cry out in shock, your pussy spasming around his girth. No matter how many times you’ve taken him and no matter how wet you are, your body always forgets just how massive he is.

“That’s right,” he breathes, giving you a moment to adjust. “Just like that, baby.”

You moan and arch your back, hoping to accommodate quickly to this angle. When Bucky said deep, he meant deep. You can feel his cockhead nestled right up to your cervix, barely any room to spare. You’re so full – it feels as if your lungs can’t expand around his presence inside you.

You take in gasping breaths, so turned on that you can barely hold yourself up. Bucky’s flesh hand soothes your backside, rubbing gentle circles around the red handprint you’re sure is there.

“Breathe, darlin’,” he reminds you.

Once he sees your chest expand with oxygen, he slides out nearly all the way before plunging back in fiercely. You scream in pleasure as he continues to pump into you with abandon, feeling the way his abs flex against your buttocks, how his cock slams over and over into your slick hole, how his balls slap against your clit. You can’t help the whimper that leaves your mouth on a particularly deep thrust, tears welling up and spilling out of your eyes.

You reach one arm forward, grabbing for a pillow to bury your face in. The sensations are so intense that you need to bite down hard on the pillow, just needing to release the pressure building and building inside of you. You inhale your own hot, humid air as you struggle to take everything Bucky is giving you.

You’re so close to coming that you can’t think straight, but the rest of Bucky is so far away. You need to feel his whole body against you, need to feel his heat along your back and taste his tongue in your mouth.

“Bucky,” you whine, reaching a grabby hand behind you and looking to grab onto any part of him that you can reach.

Your fingers barely scrape along the V of his lower abdomen, but Bucky scoops up your hand with his flesh one, the metal one still holding your thigh over his leg.

“What is it, baby?” he huffs. “What do you need, kitten?”

“You,” you gasp, leaving a trail of spittle from your mouth down to where you’ve had your jaw locked onto the pillow.

He huffs out a small laugh. “You’ve got me, Sugar.” He takes your entwined hands and uses your combined fingers to rub against your clit. “I’m right here.”

You sob at the pressure, too wound up to truly enjoy using the juices dripping from your pussy on your bundle of nerves. You shake your head, trying to figure out how to get your point across with what little vocabulary is left inside your sex-adled brain.

“You,” huff, “on me. My back.”

Bucky releases your hand and grabs your bicep, hauling you up until your back is flush with his chest and you’re sitting on his cock. You moan and bite your lip hard, leaning your head against his shoulder because you don’t have the strength to hold it up.

“This, baby? This what you’re wantin’?” he breathes against your ear, using both hands on your thighs to hold you up so that he can keep pistoning up into your cunt.

Shaking your head again, you take in the air Bucky is breathing onto your face, getting high off his pheromones. “Want you to – ah – lay on me. Hold me down.”

Bucky growls in your ear. Securing you against his chest, Bucky climbs fully onto the bed without breaking contact, leaving you impaled on his swollen member. The heat radiating off of him has beads of sweat rolling down your back and gathering in your hair.

He stops at the pillow you dragged down earlier. Spreading his legs wide, he splits you open on his shaft before laying you both down onto the bed. His body crushes you into the comforter, your hips at an angle where they lay on your abandoned pillow so that he’s still able to leverage into you.

Totally ensconced in Bucky’s heat, you can feel every muscle of his as he grinds into you. The pressure of his body on top of yours collapses your lungs, making it hard to breathe. But that’s exactly what you wanted.

Bucky’s long, deep thrusts from your last position turn into short, brutal pumps. Your pussy clings onto his cock so tightly that you don’t think he could pull all the way out even if he tried. His hips beat against your ass, sending jolts to your clit where it grinds against the pillow.

Bucky’s metal grip winds its way up your body and into your hair. He grabs a handful and pulls your head up and around so that he can plant a sloppy kiss against your gasping mouth.

“This is what you were wantin’, ain’t it, sugar?” You nod as much as his hand in your hair will allow. Feeling his whole body working to give you pleasure sends every nerve fiber sizzling down into your core, putting you right on the edge of release.

“Wanted to feel me on you. In you. All over you? Huh?” Bucky’s words are harsh as he pants against your lips between thrusts.

There are no coherent thoughts in your head. You are so close you can taste it, but you need something. Something. Your blissed-out mind can’t think of what it is you finally need to tip over the edge.

But Bucky does.

His metal hand tugs hard on your hair before sliding down underneath you to grab at your throat. What little oxygen you were able to pull in before is now completely cut off, Bucky’s metal fingers dig into the soft flesh and nearly cut off circulation. His human hand snaps down to your clit and rubs harsh circles.

“Come.” He commands.

No sound escapes your mouth as you come hard on Bucky’s cock, spasming around the thick shaft and pulling him deeper into you. The world turns black as you ride wave after wave of pleasure, seeming to fall endlessly into ecstasy.

When you’ve almost passed out from lack of oxygen, Bucky’s grip loosens just enough to revive you. You breathe in and out harshly, the air leaving your lungs in sharp gusts as Bucky continues to pump into you rapidly.

“So good for me, baby,” he coos softly in your ear. You babble incoherently as he presses a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in deeply against your hair. “My sweet girl.”

You smile drunkenly at the praise, knowing that if he kept going like this you’d come again soon.

But before you can climb much higher, Bucky raises himself onto his elbows and slides out of you. The slick pop as the head of his cock leaves your tight entrance sends you spiraling at the loss.

“No, no, no, no, no…” you whine, trying to follow with your hips in the hopes that he’ll slide back in.

He laughs at you softly and kisses a trail across your shoulder blades. “Just a second, darlin’. I want to see your face.”

Bucky’s arms slide under your pliant body and flip you over onto your back. He grabs your ankles and plants your feet onto his shoulders so that you’re bent in half. He leans down until your knees are spread wide near your head and his lips are only centimeters away from yours.

If you thought it was hard to breathe before, this position shrinks your rib cage down to nothing, barely allowing for your lungs to expand more than a couple of inches. Bucky uses his metal hand to guide his cock back into your wet heat, setting a slow and languid pace.

His flesh hand comes up to cup your face, bringing you up so that he can kiss you lazily while taking long strokes in and out of your pussy. You huff dizzily into his mouth, trying your hardest to respond to his kisses. You bring your hands up through your legs and slide your fingers into his hair, keeping him close so that you can breathe the same air while he makes love to you.

The slow, gentle lovemaking sends you into a different kind of orgasm – one that starts as a soft fluttering of your walls and slowly morphs into a vice-like grip on his cock. You keen directly into his mouth, unable to pull yourself away from his lips even as you come apart. Bucky licks into your mouth, sucking your tongue and releasing it before nipping at your bottom lip. Picking up the pace, Bucky pumps into you until he reaches his own peak, grinding against you as his balls tighten and his warm seed leaks out of you.

“Bucky…” you breathe into his mouth. Your arms circle around his head and shoulders, pulling him down so that his face is nuzzled into your neck and you can plant soft, almost kisses to his temple.

You feel him grin into your throat and swipe his tongue briefly against your pulse. You giggle softly and tug at his hair. He raises up to look with a small smile on his face, letting your legs fall from his shoulders so that you can take a normal breath. You refuse to lose that much skin-to-skin contact, so you wrap your legs around his hips to keep him from pulling out of you any time soon.

He continues to grin down at you, sweeping a lock of your wet hair from your sweaty face. You smile up at him beatifically, basking in your post-orgasm haze.

He pulls your left arm from around his shoulders with his flesh hand. His eyes trace his gliding fingers as they make their way down your arm until he reaches your hand. He places a small kiss agaisnt the diamond ring sitting on your fourth finger before looking back at you.

“That’ll be us down there before too long,” he says to you, entertwining your fingers together and leaning back down to kiss your lips.

“What?” You question sarcastically. “That’ll be us cock-blocking some heros that saved our lives?”

“No, smartass,” he responds, tugging that same lock of hair from earlier with his metal hand. “It’ll be us not being able to shut up about how much we love each other in front of some heroes that saved our lives.”

“Yeah, well,” he responds slyly, “I’d already gotten you well and truly cock-drunk before Steve and Nat forced us on that ‘mission’.”

“Don’t let anyone on the team hear you say that,” you tell Bucky as you start scratching at his scalp with the hand he’s not currently holding. He closes his eyes and leans back down to rest his head on your chest. “They’re already insufferable since they think they set us up. Don't remind them they've saved our asses a couple of times."

You gasp lightly and playfully smack his head. “Bucky!”

He laughs heartily before he wraps both of his arms around your waist and nuzzles into you further. The movement causes you to feel his shaft begin to swell inside you once again. You wiggle against him and sink down further on his cock. He groans against your sternum as you flex your walls around him. “What, sweetheart? It’s the truth.”

You grab his cheeks with both of your hands and pull his face up to look at you. You pout your lips out in mock offense. “It’s not nice to point it out, though.”

He laughs and gives you a peck on your pouty lips. He rolls you both over until you are laying on top of his chest. His hands fall to your hips again and he looks up at you with mischief in his eyes. “Well, dollface,” he begins. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

You rest your palms on his chest and push yourself up. You grind your hips experimentally and watch as his eyes flash.

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

~•~○~•~○~•~○~•~○~•Fin~•~○~•~○~•~○~•~○~•

Please pay the Troll Toll: likes, reblogs, and comments mean the world to me! I'm always looking to improve my writing (I also like validation, please and thank you)

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky x y/n #captain america #the falcon and the winter soldier #smut

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ramen-flavored · 1 year

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Ladies and Gentlemen,

Him

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amhrosina · 1 year

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oh god, i made more. i can’t stop. here’s more marvel textposts (seriously sos i can’t stop).

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bi-ss · 4 months

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~ Ties that bind ~

Bucky x reader- arranged marriage.

Warnings - non, I don't think..

(This is a little bit of part 1, so I made write more I may not, we'll see. I'm also going to give the reader and her parents a positive relationship. idk I think it suits the best

You always knew you were to be married off. Your mother was always transparent with you about that. She always told you that you may not like the man or woman, but love was always hard to find anyway. So one day, when you were 16, you typed up an agreement and gave it to your father about if you were married off, what you wanted, you do have your mother's stubbornness after all.

*knock knock*

"Come in," hearing your father grumble, you push the dark wooden doors which you are a lot heavier than your dad and his men made it seem. You stand in the doorway for a second before your dad gets up from behind his desk. He slowly walked round, motioning for you to come in and close the door. He pulled a comfy seat out a bit before sitting on his desk. You sat out looking up at him, handing him the typed papers in your hands. He looked at the title and gave it back to you.

"Read it to me, Ladybug." You smiled at the nickname he used and has used since you were a baby. "I see your mother as prepared you for this, and I see you listened for once," he joked, knowing you never liked working or school for that matter.

"I don't want to be a housewife, can't think of anything worse," you scoffed at your remark while your dad just laughed, still smiling down at you. "But I would prefer if you read it then get back to me as I told mother I'd help her cook.. it's burrito night!" He slowly nodded at you. Reading aloud wasn't something you liked doing. Taking the papers stapled together, you got up and started walking towards the doors, dreading the embarrassment of trying to open them again, but you didn't have to. Your dad was right behind you, holding it for you like you didn't just use all the strength to pry it just a little.

That's how you life's always been, your mother, a housewife. Your mother was the most beautiful and mature woman to probably ever exist, her long vibrant curly ginger hair, her pale soft skin loaded with freckle, her forest green eyes complemented everything about her even those rosy cheeks and lips. She adored your father as much or even more as he adored her. They do say opposites attract, fitting for your parents as your father, the breadwinner. Your father was a handsome and smart man, with dark chocolate hair which your mother loved putting into pigtails, his skin is covered with tattoos front to back, up and down, his toned and tan skin barely visible, his one good eye a smokie light grey colour, is other eye was sew shut while being littered with scars. Your dad has become more careful and gentle when your mother is pregnant. It wasn't hard to see that his men liked this change to, according to your mother. An example is when the twins joined, Wanda and Pietro maximoff joined, and they were put through uni with help from the family in case they wanted an out, making sure they had a choice. They stayed by the family's side.

Now, 6 years later, you're sitting in your fathers office it hasn't changed a bit, you can't say the same about them, he was sitting on the worn-out leather chair with your mother behind him, their hair turning grey and with smile line proudly on display. You sitting at the side of the desk, not next to your dad and not next to Mrs and Mr Barnes, with their irritated son, James Barnes. The meeting was already off to a bad start when his girlfriend Sharon demanding to attend, but met with your dad saying he didn't have business with her and if that's know they did things, he'll call it off. You listened in on the conversation when your dad wasn't there, and to sum it up, Mr Barnes threatened, saying he'll disown his son and give it all to Rebecca. She's now at the bottom of the stairs being watched secretly by maids, workers, and guards. The elderly guest were very shocked at the fact they didn't even know you were there when they were giving the to toddler a reality check, which made both your parents proud and all 4 laugh about it. Before the definition of cantankerous, egocentric, and many more adjectives, you couldn't ever walk in.

. . . . .To be continued. . . .

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lady-phasma · 15 days

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Зимний Солдат (Zimniy Soldát)

Part 1 of 2 (cross posted from AO3)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI; from my AO3 - "Bucky's metal arm kink"; mostly p n v sex, fluff, canon typical discussion of Bucky's past and violence, implied/referenced past noncon. Written in first person fem!reader.

Summary a/n: Some feels but mostly reader and Bucky are simmering at this point. (This is how old this fic is: Events take place after F&WS Episode 5 - I want to add some plot and character details but there are only 6 episodes so I’m waiting until we find out what episode 6 brings us.) No beta. 3k words.

“Like dancing, it’s been a while,” he smirked as he looked down at his gloved hands. A pained smirk. He ran his thumb across the knuckles of his left fist.

“I’m sure it has,” I said. I reached up and brushed my fingers along his jaw, coaxing him to look at me. “Dancing has changed a lot in 78 years, this hasn’t.” I smiled and his face softened. His shoulders relaxed a little.

Without speaking I took his hands in mine and started to slowly remove each glove. First his right hand, grazing his palm with my fingers, then his left. The vibranium was warm to the touch. He flexed his fingers as if taking off the glove reminded him that his arm was metal. I held my hand out, palm up, offering it to him. The warm metal folded around my hand.

“How much can you feel?” I asked him.

“Everything,” he said and made small circles with his thumb in my palm.

I stood up from the couch and let his hand fall to his lap. He looked up at me as I slid my hand into his jacket. I slowly started to remove it but he got the hint and shrugged out of it. I straddled him and surprised him by sitting on his lap. I gently pressed on his shoulders, getting him to lean back on the couch, relax a little. His chest heaved with a sigh. My hands rested lightly on his t-shirt clad shoulders. “Well maybe it has changed a little,” I grinned as I teased him.

“Yeah, I don’t remember it quite like this,” he smiled and winked at me.

“I hope that not all changes are bad,” I whispered as I leaned in to kiss him. My hair fell by my face and he reached up to tuck it behind my ear. He placed his palm on my cheek and kissed me back. I wanted to pace myself, not rush anything, but it was proving difficult. I wanted to feel his tongue, to part his lips with my own tongue, but I was really enjoying this 1940s kissing as well. I pulled back a little so I could look at him. His eyes were closed. I pressed my cheek into his hand.

He opened his eyes, seeming to wonder why we stopped kissing. When our eyes met I turned and kissed the palm of his hand. His hips twitched slightly underneath me. I put my hand on top of his and pressed my lips harder against the metal. I began to make my way down his palm and wrist to his forearm, weaving my fingers between his. I glanced up at him as he leaned his head back on the couch. I watched the rise and fall of his chest as I kissed his arm. I slid my free hand up his bicep to his shoulder, fingering the ridge at the connection of metal and skin briefly before resting it on his chest. His heart wasn’t racing but I could feel it beating. I closed my eyes, sighed warm breath against his vibranium, and kissed the inside of his elbow. I released his hand as I kissed his bicep and he placed his hand on the back of my neck.

“Damn,” he sighed. “Definitely not how it was in 1943.” He raised his head and smiled, blue eyes sparkling. He gently pulled me toward him and kissed me. His hand moved into my hair and pushed me harder against his lips. His tongue slipped past my lips and I opened up to let him in. I pressed my chest against his and breathed deeply into our kiss. Bucky moved his hips as if he were uncomfortable so I spread my legs a bit wider. I moaned, deep and quiet, when I felt him hard against me. I shifted my weight in his lap and he inhaled sharply and grabbed my ass with both hands. He raised up to kiss me and lift me off his lap in one motion. Before I knew what was happening I was sitting on the couch and we were no longer kissing.

“What? Is everything-““Yeah, yes,” he cut me off. “It’s… fine. I just need a breather. You know… just don’t want to end this too early.” He looked down at his hands.

“Okay,” I said. “Do you want to talk?”

“Sure.”

“I have wanted to ask you something for a while now,” I stammered as I looked at my own hands. “It’s strange but I was curious if you really had never, you know, in all those years…”

“Is that a question?” he asked but didn’t wait for me to answer. His voice got lower and his tone was immediately serious. “Um, yeah, a few times I guess. I remember every mission, every encounter, every command. So, consenting? Not in almost eight decades. As him at least a handful of times.” “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “God that sounds so lame when I say it out loud, but I am very sorry.” I reached out for his hand. His skin felt cool when he took my hand in his. I slid closer to him so that our legs touched. I placed my hand on his thigh.

“Well, I’m only in a little bit of a hurry,” I winked. He smiled and leaned in to kiss me. He placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed a little. I immediately noticed how much more intense that touch was. Not more forceful but there was no give, no softness, in that hand. I moaned a little into our kiss. He pulled back and looked at me. I couldn’t meet his eyes so I smoothed my hair behind my ear. I intertwined our fingers and pressed my shoulder into his other palm. I encouraged him in a feline manner, pushing against his hand. He understood. His hand slid down my arm, onto my breast. When he paused I inhaled deeply and forced my chest out. His hand tensed and relaxed. He started to make small circles over my nipple with his thumb. Feelings like electricity shot from where he touched me to my crotch, making me jump a little. I finally met his gaze and languidly smiled at him.

He untangled his hand from mine and placed it on the small of my back, guiding me with the slightest pressure. I followed and moved back into his lap, straddling him again. So many sensations all at once: his hand pressing harder against my breast, his dick hard against me, his hand sliding up my back under my shirt.

“Bucky,” I moaned. I leaned into him, breathing near his ear, pinning his arm between us. I ran my hands through his hair, down the back of his neck, and over his biceps. I nibbled at his ear and kissed his jaw. Slowly, his hand slid away from my breast, toward the top of my jeans. “Yes, please,” I encouraged.

He cursed under his breath a bit as he got closer and fumbled with my buttons. I straightened up long enough to help him then pushed my body against his. His vibranium was smooth and warm against my belly. His fingers brushed against me not teasing but taking his time. I wanted so badly to speed things up but I didn’t want to pressure him. This was on his time but my hips twitched involuntarily and he inhaled sharply. He seemed to hold his breath as he slipped one finger over my clit.

“You are so… wet,” he mumbled.

“I know,” I replied. “I want you that much.”

Almost timidly, he slid his finger further down, then inside me. I rocked my hips on his lap and kissed him, hard. He slipped a second finger in. I moved slowly with him inside me, watching him. I held his face in my hands. He seemed so relaxed, so peaceful. For the first time I saw the scowl fade away from his brow. He closed his eyes. His fingers curled slightly inside me while his other hand travelled down my back and onto my bare ass. My jeans needed to come off but I didn’t want to stop him. I groaned and ground my hips into his hand. The vibranium seemed to match my body temperature and where I expected to feel metal I felt only him. I kissed his forehead, his cheek, his neck, his shoulder and then… I was back there, my lips on his arm. The metal worked and flexed as he moved with me.

I couldn’t take it anymore and began to move to take off his shirt. He looked at me and picked up on the hint. Neither of us wanted him to move but both of us wanted more. More skin, more contact. I lifted his t-shirt up and he moved his hands out of my pants. Oddly, I noticed his his left armpit was also metal. The crazy things we think in these moments, my brain said to me I bet he saves money on deodorant. I felt myself smile. I dropped the shirt on the floor, ran a hand down his bare chest, around a nipple, and over his stomach. Wow. Super soldier indeed. I think he blushed at my touch. I gently lifted his dog tags and then let them clank back onto his chest.

“You still have dog tags, Sergeant?” I teased.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” he mumbled, looking down at them. “Steve gave them to me. I guess, after HYDRA got me, these got stashed somewhere. He never said where he found them but they’re mine from the war.” My eyes widened at the thought of what these tags had been through over 70 years. I ran my fingers over them, the chain, and up to his neck, barely touching as if they, and he, were fragile.

I slowly reached down to unbutton his jeans but he grabbed my hands and gently began to push me back. I stood up. Before he could start I slipped my shirt off and stood in my bra and jeans. He kissed me just above my belly button. Smoothed his hands up my back to unhook my bra. I shrugged it off. He pulled me to him. His face was hot against my nipples. The cool air in the room and feeling him on me made them hard. He kissed one then the other. With his face still close to me he pushed both hands into my jeans and panties and slid them down until I could step out of them.

I was normally too shy to be this naked, this vulnerable, standing in front of a man but James made me feel enough. I didn’t rush to hide my stretch marks or try to distract him from looking at me. I let him look. His eyes followed the curve of my hip as he trailed his hand down my thigh. His vibranium hand slid to my ass and squeezed. He smiled and pulled me closer, covering me with kisses. I sighed deeply and ran my hands through his hair. I wanted him so badly. Why was he still wearing pants?!

I bent down slowly and ran my hands down his sides. His smooth skin taught over strong muscles. I got my fingers just in the waistband of his jeans when he understood and leaned back. He unbuttoned them and raised his hips to let me pull them off. Taking both underwear and jeans off at once required some awkward movements but then there he was. Just as vulnerable as I was. The scars at his shoulder stood out in contrast against his lightly-tanned chest. I reached out and touched the edge of the vibranium just where it met his skin. He shivered.

I moved toward him but he shook his head. He gently guided me to lay down on the couch instead of sitting. I smiled. He slid to half-kneel between my legs and pulled my hips close to him. My small giggle surprised even me. He ran his hands down my thighs, placing my legs so I could wrap them around him. Then he leaned forward. His biceps quivered as he propped himself up on his hands, one on either side of my head. The black and gold vibranium catching the light in the room, his dog tags swaying between us. I could feel him watch me looking at his arm. He kissed my neck. The movement resembled a push-up and I couldn’t take my eyes off the flexing of his arm. He kissed my collarbone, my shoulder, my breasts, each kiss accompanied by that flex and release. I ran my hand along the vibranium tricep, feeling it move under my touch.

“Bucky,” I started.

“Mmmm?” was his reply.

“Do you, well, I don’t know how to ask really… Does it bother you?”

“Not at all,” he looked into my eyes. “It turns me on actually. I like that you like it. Instead of it being this weird, shiny elephant in the room. Hell, you could be disgusted by it I suppose. But, no, not bothered in the way you mean.” He grinned that half-grin and raised an eyebrow. “Plus, it’s not going anywhere.”

“Good, that you aren’t bothered, I mean” I looked away. “One more question… are you sure you want this, now I mean? It’s not too fast?” He replied with a deep kiss. He slid his hand under me, to the small of my back, leaving his vibranium arm by my head. Then, for the first time, I felt him hard against my naked skin. I groaned and bit my lip. He slid his dick over my clit and between my lips before tentatively sliding inside me. His face was a little scrunched with concentration and his eyes were closed. I took that as a cue not to move or take things beyond his pace. So I kissed his forearm. I moved a hand to his back and then to the curve of the top of his ass. I didn’t pull but pressed my fingertips enough to let him know he could keep going if he was ready.

I felt every inch of him move into me, so slowly I thought I would lose my mind. I was so used to fast fucking, little intimacy, and not near-virgin sex. I reminded myself that he wasn’t a virgin and I let out a deep breath. He opened his eyes and kissed me as he began to move, began to pull out and return, a steady pace. His hand on the small of my back moved to grip my hip and pull me toward him. Harder. I moaned. I lightly grazed my fingernails over his back. He shivered.

I squeezed him tighter between my thighs and felt him deep inside me. Tiny drops of sweat were starting to bead up on his forehead. He was concentrating so hard. I buried my face in his neck; kissed and nibbled my way to his shoulder. I wanted to try something but I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate. I tried to think of a way I could ask. It was selfish, of course it was, but I was going to cum soon. If I were going to ask it needed to be while I could still make a coherent sentence. His hips rocked between us and the feeling of his entire body against mine was the incentive I needed.

“James?” I whispered close to his ear. I moved my face directly in front of his and placed my hand on his cheek.

“Hmm?” He slowed and looked into my eyes.

“Um… would it… would you like me to say it? To call you that?” I didn’t take my eyes from his. I didn’t know of a better way to ask without just being direct.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second when he understood. He blushed. He stared at me and nodded. Then he tucked my hair behind my ear with his vibranium hand and leaned down to kiss me. As he did, I arched my back to meet him, our bodies pressed firmly together. We kissed for a long moment.

He pulled back, took his hand from behind me, and propped himself on both hands again. I loved this safe space, this intimate place between his arms. I could barely see anything but him. I caressed his back and shoulders and kissed his vibranium. He increased his pace every time I did that. I felt my muscles start to tense and the heat build from our connection. I couldn’t catch my breath. As I came I put my lips near his ear, moaned as the orgasm rushed over me, and said:

“Zimniy Soldát”

He drove hard into me and his breath became shallow. I put my hands on his neck and the back of his head, making soothing noises in his ear.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “You are safe. I want you to cum because you want to. I want to feel you do that. I want you, Zimniy Soldát, all of you.”

He let out a sound, somewhere between a cry and a moan, and bit his bottom lip. He dropped his face into the crook of my neck and fucked me as the waves of pleasure shook his scared, beautiful body. He dropped to his elbows and pulled me into a fierce hug, fucking me deeper. I groaned so loud neighbors could have heard me. Something warm was on my shoulder and I wondered if he had shed a few tears. Before I could even think to turn his face toward me to sooth him, he moaned and froze. He whispered my name. All of his muscles seemed to tense at once and I felt him twitch inside me, the last of his cum spilling into me. I didn’t want to move, to make him feel like he should move yet. I turned my head slightly and kissed his jaw. His vibranium hand slid up my back and he curled his fingers in my hair, tugged just a bit.

He raised up and kissed my neck, my jaw, and then looked down at me. He brushed his lips against mine. I tensed around him and he groaned into our kiss. Our breaths mingled together. He slowly pulled out of me. It was my turn to groan. I moved my legs so he could sit up. Instead, he moved one of them and laid down behind me on the couch. He pulled me to him, the full length of our bodies pressed together. He ran his hand down my side, my hip, up my belly, and over my breasts. I listened to the slight mechanical whirring with every movement. He tucked my hair behind my ear, then gently kissed my neck.

Part 2

#winter soldier #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #winter solider x reader #marvel fanfiction #falcon and the winter soldier #probably need more tags #tw noncon mention #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction

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