#james 'bucky' barnes

[lovestony16]

[lienwyn]

This is one of the illustrations I did for the @reforgedzine that I can finally show you all! And yes, it's my favourite — warm colours, soft lighting, and tooth-rotting fluff. Plus some really impressive metal texturing, if I do say so myself.

Also, there's a leftover sale that starts on the 10th of February, so head on over to the website if you're interested in buying one of the zines! And you can find the AO3 collection for all the amazing fics here :D

[herdreamywasteland]

Abandonment: Part 1 - Edited

Warnings: implied sexual content, angst

Word count: 573

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Prompt: None

Requests: Open!

It had been a concise five months and six days since James Buchanan Barnes broke your heart into a million jagged pieces.

You remember every crystalline moment of the day before he left you. You remember how you flipped the frying pan perfectly, giving you and Bucky beautifully shaped eggs. The toast jumped in perfect time as the eggs finished cooking, giving you the synchronous warmth you both desired with breakfast.

You remember the cold feeling of his dog tags against your skin as they slid between your fingers, as your hand clutched his shirt. His face buried in your shoulder, his lips whispering how much he loved you. How your breathing synched, blending with the only other sound; the quiet whooshing of the dishwasher. 

You remember the steady breathing of Bucky as you closed the gap between your ear and his naked chest. The way he held your body, his hands tight around your bare waist. The way your breasts pressed against his stomach and his fingers danced along your bare body. The way you fit together, like two pieces of the same puzzle. 

You remember it all - remember it too well. Sometimes when you close your eyes, the tears you hold for months fall, betraying your calculated facadé.

It’s embarrassing, but you stroke your hair every night before bed, replicating the path his fingers followed for years. You need him so much that you need a bolster to simulate your head on his chest. Only then can you relax enough to close your eyes.

You know Bucky well enough to understand he needs to find himself before he could commit to a relationship. You just wish that Bucky would have turned to you, even in his worst moments. You turned to him, so why couldn’t he do the same?

You wanted to find the world with him. You found the world in him. In his eyes, his smile, his his voice. 

You knew what you wanted. You planned on him being there, through every night and day, no matter how hard it got. 

Bucky knew what he wanted. His plan didn't involve you.

That day, when Bucky said those heartbreaking words, you questioned him.

"Are you sure, Buck?" Your voice cracked as you tried your damn best to smile. This had to be a sick joke, and you weren’t going to be the girl who cried over a prank. 

His only reply was the sad smile that you knew oh so well. The remorse on his face was enough for you to know that he was serious. His eyes crinkled in reluctance, tears threatening to fall. The idea of Bucky, your Bucky, crying was enough to make you close the gap between his lips and yours. You gave him the lightest kiss possible, your lips barely brushing his mouth. 

It was how you said goodbye. 

If your kiss had been any firmer, you would have gotten down on your knees, begging him to stay. You knew him well enough to know that he would stay, simply for your sake. As much as you wanted him to stay, you knew that he wouldn’t be happy.

The thought hurt more than the idea of him leaving you. 

That day, he took away your light and ran like a damn coward. And you let him because, maybe - just maybe - it would lessen his pain. 

You were glad to take the fall for him anyway.

[chkemo]

Sam had the distinct feeling of being followed.  He couldn’t place a finger on why exactly; you never could, but his instincts were rarely wrong.  It felt like someone was breathing down his neck, eyes were peering at him from the caliginous alleyways he passed on his way home to the New York apartment he and Steve shared.

The shadow over his shoulder began a week and a half after he came home from another 3 month tour of Europe searching for the Winter Soldier.  It was a balmy night in October and he’d been bringing home groceries for a special comfort meal. His mom’s famous salmon patties and maque choux, when he felt what must have been a breeze as he strolled beyond the alley before reaching their building.  Not uncommon this time of year, but something about this particular breath of wind wasn’t quite natural. 

[izayoizuki]

Set Him Free

Bucky x Reader

Warnings: grief, angst, but with a happy ending, allusions to suicidal ideation, allusions to imprisonment and lack of free will

Unbeta'ed, no word count because written on phone.

You did it in the deep of the night, when even the stars were too tired to run their course, when the moon slept with the sun and gave the earth some time to breathe in its shadow.

You did it with fear in your heart, fear of pain, of being found, of not knowing whether it would work or not.

You did it in the dark of the woods, where the trees grew not a little bit tighter, not a little bit gentler, where they promised to hide not in their bosom but in their boots, burying, enshrouding, suffocating.

Your fingertips worked silently, your breaths a sussuration that mingled with those of the trees, skimming, prodding, sealing.

You blew gentle breaths on heated skin, charred skin, obliterated skin, skin that had taken beyond its fair share of pain, that cried out in wretchedness and misery even from the barest of glances. Just like the eyes of its master.

And that is why you did despite. Despite knowing the ache of the whip, the agony of the shackle, the helplessness of the chains.

Because you would do what no other ever allowed him to.

You would do anything to set your soul free.

You keep your head down, your eyes assiduous in their examination of only what is in front of you, a horse with blinders and the consequences of a whip awaiting, a whip that would scar your heart first and everything else second.

You anoint with feathered touches, wondering if this feeling has been felt for millennia, of grief and love and loss and relief all together, so strong that your throat aches, like your heart feels as if it wants to give up, as if your head wants to be placed in a cool cool stream and be eroded, persistently, implacably, unyieldingly, by clear water as you beg for peace and mercy, or if this amalgamation is yours alone, yours to keep, nurture, like a mother who knows her offspring will be the death of her, to keep under her wing even with the knife to her heart. And you hope not. Whatever name they give to this affliction, you hope you are the only one who has to bear it's exquisite touches, because the thought that anyone else would suffer this is an idea too terrible to contemplate.

It has taken too long, but a small, harrowing part of you wants it to go on for longer, to keep at bay the horrific reality that is gathering, looming, a wave held back against its will. But you have forced yourself through every step prior to this, and you will do so for every step to come.

"Go." You tell him, your voice isn't even a whisper, it feels like your heart has to take up the duty your tongue owes, "Go now. There's no safeguards to this. No off switch nor tracker. This arm is yours alone." This life is yours alone. But you do not need to speak life to the words, because they will not come out right, with the right tone, the right inflection, the right joy.

"Go." You push him, even as your heart weeps Stay. "You're free, Bucky, go."

Bucky leaves.

The days change inasmuch as they remain the same, vehement in their vapidity, abhorrent in their atrociousness, at odds with the way your heart overflows with emotions you would be hard-pressed to name even if you ever had a desire to, which you didn't, because all you wanted was to make everything go away. It seemed mocking to have the world tell you you could have anything when your very soul had left your body.

The nights are worse, because they allow you reprieve from the world, and in the reprieve your heart is fooled into hoping, and nothing ever came of hope. Hope allowed your body to exist when you would rather disappear into the aether, hope allowed your mind to live another day when you would much rather your skin kiss the earth.

But the worst are the dreams. The nightmares are bad, predictably, imperturbably, consistently. But the dreams. The dreams where you had happiness. The dreams where you had joy. The dreams where the sunshine on your skin echoed the warmth in your lungs, where there were no other shoes to drop, where your soul came back to you and promised never to ever leave you. Those were the dreams that woke you from the deepest of sleeps so that you could sit. Sit up. Sit up and weep. Weep for every loss, of yours, of the ones you had lost. Weep for a world beset by cruelty where there could be so much happiness. Weep for love. Weep wretchedly for love.

Slowly the nights and days tangle their legs and arms, clasp hands and lace fingers, till your head spins without end, vertigo your new companion, nausea a close second. You feel your heart shrink into a pit, feel your mind disattach, and since your world is already gone, you pay it no need.

On the darkest night of the darkest year, a storm blankets the heavens, intent on sharing its wrath with all those who would listen, willingly or not. The curtains spin wildly around their moorings, the thunder rumbling up your spine, the lightning raising tiny hairs, nature's defibrillator, and you sit, unmoving, facing the mighty ambush, willing to be smitten.

And in the dark of the night, the deep of the woods, with no fear left in your heart, your soul comes, on little cat feet, back to you, back to you.

"I tried to go," your soul informs you. "I went."

"I went and I was not free. You laid a burden on my heart. You laid a debt on my soul. You gave me love and it tied us and now I cannot move without the anchor that holds my heart."

"Come with me," Bucky says. "Come with me, and then I'll be free."

And you go, because you'd do anything to set him free.

[every-marveler-ever]

Stucky Kitten Interview, #1 Trending

Stucky Bingo Round 4 | 🥀 @stuckybingo | Puppy/Kitten Interview

Marvel Rare Pair Bingo Round 2 | 📪 @marvelrarepairbingo | Strange or Dark Matter

masterlist :: (ao3 link)

RATING: Teen WARNING: Sexual innuendos, A lot of flirting, Writer's attempt at a healthy relationship

Stucky is the internet's favourite couple with many compilations surrounding them, in battle, on the red carpet, doing press conferences, and even famous BuzzFeed interviews. | Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes

rpb 📪 round 2 | sbb 🥀 round 4

If you scroll through YouTube for long enough you will come across a compilation of two super-powered husbands that love each other, the news headlines call them a powered couple, one with super serum and impeccable strength, but those on the internet much prefer the couple’s pet name, Stucky. 

Stucky Moments I Am Obsessed With

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes Being The Best Couple For 4 Minutes

Who’s The Coolest Couple? Stucky Is! (Literally)

Stucky Being Adorable and Cute!

Powerhusbands Steve Roger and Bucky Barnes Being Adorable During Battle

If they are fighting strange-goey-matter in the field that makes them sick afterwards or completing adorable kitten interviews, Alpine videos included, they are nearly a perfect couple together. The videos often include battle footage where they can be heard speaking over the coms, compliments, suit managing, pick-up lines, and all the works that get their teammates fed up;

“Bucky have you thought about what you want for dinner tonight?” Steve asks while throwing his shield away, knocking over six guys like bowling pins, or dominos hitting one after another. 

Bucky while helping Sam punch a guy puts a smile on his face answering, “I can make that spaghetti you like, the one with the creamy white sauce and mushrooms?” In the footage that plays Sam can be seen pretending to throw up at Bucky’s response.

Steve pushes it further knowing what Sam’s reaction would be and the video can hear him respond, “I would love that babe, and maybe something else for dessert?” Steve’s voice goes sickly sweet using a nickname the two certainly don’t use at home, it’s evident for the viewer and even worse for Steve and Bucky’s fellow Avengers.

“Public coms, Rogers,” Natasha reminds, “we already hear enough through the thin floors, don’t need to hear it at work as well.”

The footage is split into two sides, Steve Rogers pauses punching some guy, feet stuck in black goo, Bucky Barnes the other as he and Sam tag team a circle of villains around them, black goo all over their uniforms. They are both, in sync, wincing at hearing Natasha’s voice and scolding manner, they know they have pushed it too far when she gets involved, “sorry Tash,” they say together, ever the power couple the papers say they are. 

While they are incredible in battle working like the team they had always been, from the camera’s point of view the press prefers the interviews they do. The ones where they lean on each other’s shoulders answering questions from the interviewer, doing quizzes that determine which Avenger they are (Bucky always seems to get Sam somehow) and the culturally important dog cat interview.

Buzzfeed had been waiting for months to do this interview, once Peter Parker had done his interview (who knew the new heir to Stark Industries would be so ready to cuddle puppies for his first public interview) and mentioned the couple viewers were going insane on twitter.

@stuckyaremyparents Oh My GOOOOOSH! Stucky doing the famous puppy interview!!! I WOULD DIE!

@barnesberrypie Could you imagine them with puppies running around, Bucky would for sure take one home, he wouldn’t be able to resist.

@stevexbucky The day Steve and Bucky do the puppy interview is the day that Stucky breaks the interview! (And we know they could do it THOSE FACES!)

@competitionstucky I know everybody is saying things like this but if a puppy interview dropped, if any interview dropped of them, it would really make me smile today

There was one condition to doing the interview;

“We are not taking another cat home Bucky!” Steve frowns trying to be serious when looking into Bucky’s puppy dog eyes, which is ironic seeing as they are surrounded by very adorable kittens. 

It’s an unusual interview request as normally their puppies running around and chewing expensive shoes but this time it’s different, the kittens are just as feisty as the puppies chewing on toys and specifically Bucky’s fingers. The cats are all for adoption, raising awareness, and Steve and Bucky are meant to be answering the questions that fans has sent in which an interviewer was asking behind the camera. 

Bucky rolls his eyes using his metal arm’s shoulder to shove Steve’s shoulder, knocking Steve down. They both have smiles on their face as Bucky turns back to the interviewer, “What was your question again I feel like we may have gotten slightly off track,” he laughs knowing how true it really is. 

The interviewer, very used to this, laughs it off as well, “We get that a lot,” she smiles, reassuring them both, “buckysrealplums asks, what’s one question you wished you would get asked in an interview more often?”

Steve smiles thinking of an answer, Bucky is much more prepared, “what’s my favourite hairdo because some think it’s my man bun, I personally like my short sideburns but others,” he shoots a pointed look at Steve “prefer me with my long luxurious hair.” Steve’s mouth falls wide at the accusation, “well I didn’t ask you to shove your beard because it burned?”

It is very clear the interview and conversation are moving away from PG and so the interview stops them, “okay Steve, do you have a better answer?” It is very easy to make it a sudden competition and that quickly gets them back on point.

Stucky does love a competition, it’s why they're so ruthless at games night, and why Monopoly and Cludeo are banned in the tower (too many broken windows (and three of their teammates are professional spies which makes Cludeo even more accusative and Tony Stark is a billionaire and therefore apparently makes all the rules to Monopoly). 

It is the #2 most trending video title for Stucky compilations’. 

The internet does really love Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, no matter if they are covered in dirt and rust at a press conference, fighting aliens and HYDRA villains or completing adorable buzzfeed interviews. They are a super-powered, powerful husband couple, who love saving the little and the big guys of the world. Even if that’s making a Twitter fan smile from just one interview. 

Super-powered Stucky Husbands makes the internet swoon.

Cards: (📪 1/25) (🥀 3/25)

[riarkle-felinettelove]

Looking for a Winteriron fic, please help!

From what I remember, the fic was about Tony and Bucky falling into a portal(?). This portal lands them on a deserted island. They have to work together to survive. They fall in love and Tony even has their kids. They become self sufficient on the island. Tony teaches the kids. They stay on the island for a while and when there rescued not a lot of time passed in the real world. It was kinda like a time warp island maybe? It may have also been an Alpha/Omega fic, cause I think I remember something about them bonding and Tony not really aging (Not really sure about this part though).

Please help me find it, it's been driving me crazy!

[fic-ive-read]

Link To The Fic

[mccarthawrites]

Uncle Sam

Relationship: Bucky Barnes/Sarah Wilson

Rating: General Audiences

Summary: Sam takes Cass and AJ out on a boat trip to give Sarah and Bucky a break. He tells the boys about their dad.

Author’s Note: Dave is my own original character because the MCU hasn't really given us a name for Cass and AJ's dad. We know next to nothing about him except he's their dad and he seems to not be in the picture.

Words: 2,806

The Wilson-Barnes Family Masterlist || Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Sarah gave Cass some space. She felt a little better after their talk the other night, but she wasn’t sure she solved the problem. So she talked to Sam about it.

“Cass has been having a hard time.” she told him. The two siblings sat on her porch swing.

“With what? The baby?”

“The baby. Bucky. He snapped at Bucky the other night at dinner and I- I talked to him about it, but I don’t know.”

“Let me guess, he feels like Bucky is replacing Dave?” Sam asked.

“How’d you know?”

“He’s old enough to remember his dad. Bucky is the first real relationship you’ve had since he died. Of course he’s going to feel some type of way.” Sam shrugged. “I mean I would to.”

“I told him no one is being replaced. Bucky has been tiptoeing around, trying not to rock the boat. He loves those boys, but I know he doesn’t know what to do half the time. He wants to support me, but-” She took a deep breath. “If I knew it was going to be this complicated, I’d have waited to have a baby.” She cradled her bump.

“How about this weekend, I take Cass and AJ out on the boat?” Sam suggested. “Let you and Bucky take a break. I’ll talk to them.”

“Would you? That would be great. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, Sam.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re an amazing mom. Cass is a kid with big feelings that he doesn’t even fully understand yet. He’s already gone through more than we did at his age.”

“Tell me about it.” She scoffed.

“Everything is going to be okay, but how are you? Are you alright? I mean you’re having another kid.”

“I’m excited, nervous, scared. It’s going to be fine. I’m lucky I’ve got Bucky and you.” She looked at Sam. “I’m happy to have you around more, Sam. I know the boys are too.”

“Don’t start getting soft on me.” Sam teased. She playfully punched his shoulder. “You and- and Bucky are going to be great parents. Like I said you’re already an amazing mom and that’s not going to change.”

“Why are you being so nice?”

“What are you talking about? I’m always nice.” He replied, making her laugh. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I know.”

Sarah stood in the kitchen, packing a cooler with snacks and drinks. Since Sam was taking the boys for the day, the last she could do was feed them.

“Need help?” Bucky asked, walking into the kitchen.

“No. I’m pretty much done.” She replied. “I’m so glad Sam volunteered to take them for the day. I need a break.”

“No one deserves one more than you.” Bucky told her, making her smile.

“You need a break too.”

“Me? You’re the one doing all the work. You’re body’s working overtime.” He replied. “How do you feel about having a gender party?” He asked. She looked at him confused and concerned.

“A what?”

“Yeah. I didn’t say that right.” He pulled out his notebook, opening to a page. “I meant a gender reveal party.You know where everyone gets together and we announce if we’re having a boy or a girl.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about having one. Why? Do you want to have a gender reveal?” Sarah asked.

“Shuri was sending me videos of them. She was also explaining to me what a baby shower is. I think a baby shower would help with figuring out the nursery.” Bucky explained. Sarah laughed. “What?”

“It’s so early in the pregnancy, I wasn’t even thinking about all that yet.” She told him.

“Added Shuri to the list. In case we have a girl.” He chuckled. Having crossed off the names on his list for his amends, Bucky was now using his notebook to write down baby names and things he was learning being a soon-to-be-dad. He had already filled three pages back to front with name suggestions since they found out Sarah was pregnant.

“At some point we’re gonna have to trim that list down and actually figure out what we’re gonna name them.” She rubbed her bump.

“What about Steve for a boy?”

“Maybe for a middle name, but not for a first name. Steve Barnes? No.” She shook her head.

“Why not? It’s a solid name.”

“What about James?”

“James Junior? It’s too obvious, don’t you think?” He asked.

“We could call him Junior. It’d be cute.” She smiled.

“I guess I don’t hate that. James Steven Barnes. Even if he’ll be a junior, we’re definitely dropping the Buchannan.”

“I agree with that, but we’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.”

“Yeah. I just- I can’t wrap my head around the fact that by this time next year, we’ll have a baby.”

“Yup.” Sarah looked at him. His worried look concerned her. “Hey, you’re going to be a good dad. You’re so good with the boys.”

“I can’t even remember the last time I interacted with a baby. Probably when Katie was born.”

“Your sister?”

“Yeah. When my folks brought her home, she was so tiny. I was twelve.” He explained. “That was around the same time I met Steve, as a matter of fact.”

“With the baby on the way, have you thought about finding your siblings' families? I’m sure you have nieces and nephews.”

“I don’t know. I’ve thought about it, but- I’ve got my family here. You, Cass, AJ and Sam, even though he likes to deny it.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair.

“You’re cute.” She laughed. Sam knocked on the screen door. “It’s open.

“Good morning.” Sam walked into the kitchen.

“Still getting ready, probably. If you’re hungry, there’s some leftovers from breakfast on the stove that might still be warm.” Sarah told him.

“I got breakfast on my way here, but thanks. Where’s the boys?”

“I’ll go see if they’re ready.” Sarah left Sam and Bucky in the kitchen.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” Bucky asked.

“Nah, I’m fine. How are you?” Sam asked. Bucky looked at him. They never made small talk.

“I’m alright. Why?”

“Just wondering where your head’s at. Excited to be a dad?” Sam asked, leaning on the wall.

“To be honest-” Bucky looked down the hallway to make sure no one would hear him. “It scares the shit out of me.” His admission made Sam laugh.

“So White Panther is scared of something: fatherhood.” Sam teased. “I bet you’ve been reading all the parenting books, right?”

“Did Sarah tell you?”

“Didn’t have to. Should have seen Dave when she was pregnant with Cass.” Sam laughed at the memory of his late brother-in-law.

“What was he like? He’s such a huge part of their lives, yet I know nothing about him other than the few times Sarah mentions him.”

“He adored them. Loved being a dad. Sarah was the love of his life. Has she made you watch Top Gun, yet?” Sam asked.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You’ll be home all day without the boys. Ask her to show it to you.”

“Why? Was he in it or something?”

“No. It was his favorite movie. You’ll see when you watch it with her.” Sam told him.

“Watch what?” Sarah asked, walking into the Kitchen with AJ and Cass following,

“You haven’t made him watch Top Gun yet?” Sam asked.

“What’s that?” AJ asked.

“It was your dad’s favorite movie.” Sarah explained. “I haven’t gotten around to it. Not exactly a movie the boys can watch yet.”

“Fair enough, but you’ll be alone today. Just saying.” Sam told her. “What’s that for?” He motioned to Cass’ bookbag. “You going to school?”

“It’s my drawing stuff.” Cass replied.

“The artist never leaves home without his supplies.” Bucky teased. Cass rolled his eyes.

“I packed lunch and threw in some snacks and drinks.” Sarah explained, pushing the cooler towards Sam.

“That’s why you’re my favorite sister.” Sam grabbed the handle of the cooler.

“I’m your only sister.” Sarah replied.

“Exactly. We’ll be back at the dock once the sun starts to set. We’ll find something else to do and I’ll bring them back around seven.” Sam explained.

“Sounds good.” Sarah nodded. “Make sure they’re wearing their life jackets, Sam.”

“Yeah. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll wear one too.” Sam teased. Sarah glared at him.

“Get out of my house.”

“Message received. I’ll see you later.” Sam left the kitchen with the cooler.

“Alright, you both better be good and listen to Sam. Especially when you’re on the boat. You hear me?” She asked.

“Okay. Bye, mom.” Cass walked outside.

“Bye, mom. Bye, Bucky.” AJ followed his brother to Sam’s truck. Sarah watched them through the screen door.

“They’re gonna have fun.” Bucky wrapped his arms around her.

“I know. They won’t stop talking about it for the next week.” Sarah laughed. “So Sam wants me to show you Top Gun. You’ve never seen it?”

“I guess it wasn’t important enough of a pop culture thing for Shuri or Ayo to show me back in Wakanda.” Bucky told her.

“I was planning on napping, but we can watch it. And we can watch the sequel. Dave would have loved that they made a sequel.” She smiled.

“Sequel came out after he passed?”

“The sequel came out almost forty years after the first one.” She explained.

“Why would they do that?”

“Who knows. Come on.” They walked to the living room.

Sam and the boys sat on the boat, eating the lunch Sarah had packed.

“Are you guys excited about having a new sibling?” Sam asked.

“I want a little brother.” AJ replied. Cass stayed quiet.

“What about you, Cass?” Sam took a bite of his sandwich. Cass shrugged.

“Cass doesn’t like Bucky.”

“Shut up!” Cass glared at his younger brother.

“Hey! That wasn’t cool.” Sam stopped it before it could continue. “What’s going on, Cass?”

“Nothing. I like Bucky, but I don’t want him to be my dad. That’s what I told mom.” Cass explained.

“Why not? We don’t have a dad.” AJ replied.

“We do have a dad!”

“Hey! No fighting on the boat, but Cass is right. You guys do have a dad. His name was David and he was a good man. A great one. He loved you guys and he loved your dad.”

“Why don’t I remember him?” AJ asked.

“Because you were small when he died.” Sam replied.

“How’d he die?” AJ asked.

“His plane was shot down. He was a pilot in the airforce.” Cass explained.

“How’d you know that?” Sam asked.

“Heard mom telling Bucky.”

“He was a hero.” Sam pulled his phone out. “I bet you’ve never seen these.” He handed his phone to Cass.

“That’s dad?”

“Yeah. That’s what he would wear when he had to fly. If you scroll far enough you’ll see his plane. His callsign was Checkmate.”

“What’s a callsign?” Cass asked.

“It’s like a nickname they give pilots in the military.” Sam explained.

“Did you have a callsign?” AJ asked.

“No. I wasn’t a pilot. I was a pararescue.” Sam explained.

“He jumped out of planes.” Cass explained.

“Yes, but it was more to it than that.” Sam chuckled, watching his nephews scroll through the photos.

“Why doesn’t mom talk about him that much?” AJ asked.

“Why don’t you ask her about him? I know she’d be happy to talk about him.” Sam replied. “I remember how excited he was to go home after one of his last deployments. He would always tell everyone about you guys. Kept pictures of both of you and your mom on him all the time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I bet you didn’t know he had a little brother.”

“He did?” Cas gave Sam back his phone.

“Yeah. That’s who you’re named after.”

“We have an uncle named Cass?” Cass asked, incredulously.

“He died when they were both kids.”

“How come you know so much?” AJ asked.

“Your dad and I were friends. Who do you think introduced him to your mom?” Sam asked. “When you get home, ask your mom the story of how she met him.”

“You tell us.”

“It’s funnier when your mom tells the story, I promise.” Sam smiled.

Sam and the boys returned to the house just before seven, as he said. Sam knocked on the door.

“We’re home.” He announced as Cass and AJ ran inside, excited to tell Sarah everything Sam told them about their dad. Sarah and Bucky had fallen asleep on the couch, cuddling. But Bucky being a light sleeper awoke when Sam’s truck pulled up.

“Hey guys.” Bucky kept his voice low. “Hey, doll, they’re back.” Bucky kissed Sarah, making her stir.

“Don’t do that. Not when I’m here.” The disgust in Sam’s voice made Bucky chuckle. “Come on, guys. Let’s give your mom a minute to wake up.” Sam put his hands on his nephews shoulders and ushered them to the kitchen. After a few moments, Sarah and Bucky joined them in the kitchen.

“Did you guys have a good day?” She asked.

“Yeah! Sam told us about dad!” AJ exclaimed. “Did you know his callsign was Checkmate?”

“Yeah. Ironically, he never knew how to play Chess.” Sarah laughed. “Did he tell you how much he used to make us laugh?”

“Yeah. He was a big jokester.” Sam smiled at the memories.

“Do you want to hear the story of the first time we met?” Sarah asked.

“Yes!” AJ replied.

“Sam said only you could tell the story.” Cass told her.

“I guess he’s right. Uh-” She laughed. “We were celebrating Sam’s birthday and the place we went happened to be a karaoke bar. None of us had any idea it was a karaoke bar, and I don’t think any of us wanted to do it. None of us, except your dad. He got this idea- something he’d seen in a movie.” She laughed. “So he signed up for karaoke. None of us knew what he was planning, only that he was going to sing. When he got up there and to the mic, he started singing this really old love song. And then he walked over to me and started singing to me. His singing was terrible.”

“The worst thing I ever heard.” Sam added.

“And yet at the end of the night we exchanged emails.” Sarah scoffed.

“Emails?” Cass questioned.

“It was the early 20s. Texting wasn’t as advanced as it is today. We had T9.” Sarah explained. “So it was easier to email.”

“What song did he sing?” AJ asked. As if on cue, Sam played “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” by The Righteous Brothers from his phone for a bit.

“Yup. That’s the night I met and fell in love with your dad.” Sarah explained. “Are you guys hungry? I can order pizza.”

“Nah. I fed them.”

“Okay. Go get ready for bed.”

“It’s so early.” Cass whined.

“I didn’t say you had to go to bed. Just to go get ready.” Sarah replied. Cass and AJ walked to their rooms. Sarah looked at Sam. “Thanks for taking them.”

“We had fun. Talked about Dave all day. I just wish he was here to see them.” Sam sighed.

“He’d be proud.” Sarah told him. She looked at Bucky, who kept quiet. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I know it’s weird we’re talking about Dave so much.”

“No. I like hearing about him. And I know Cass and AJ like hearing about him too. I have nothing but respect for him. Just wish I could have met him.” Bucky told her.

“I think you two would get along.” Sarah wrapped her arms around Bucky.

“Are you kidding me? You think the jokester and stone cold Steve Austin here would have gotten along?” Sam asked. “This guy didn’t crack a smile for the first three years I knew him.”

“That’s fair.” Bucky replied. “But you didn’t give me much to smile at. Not until you introduced me to this one.” He kissed Sarah’s head.

“I didn’t introduce you. You did that. I don’t want credit for any of this.” Sam motioned to them, making Sarah laugh.

“You’re going to have to get used to it when the baby comes.” She told him.

“I’ll never be used to that.” Sam replied. “But I am exhausted. Those two- I understand why you’re always so tired.”

“I bet. Have a goodnight, Sam. And thanks again.”

“Anytime. Goodnight.” Sam left the house. Sarah took a deep breath.

“I’m ready to go back to sleep.”

“Then go to bed. I can handle the guys for the next-” Bucky checked his watch. “Yeah, I can handle them until ten.”

“I appreciate it, but no. Not this time.” She told him. “But it’s the thought that counts.” She kissed him.

[serenailith]

letters from home

pairing: winterhawk (gen) rating: t tags: PTSD, alternate universe, pen pals, trauma, clint-centric chapters: 3/? ao3 here

in which clint finds out talking is hard and is adopted.

The next morning finds him clambering out of the backseat of a taxi, handing over a small wad of bills, and he stares up at the tall, imposing building that the cabby is pulling away from. Clint almost wonders if he’s in the wrong place—maybe the driver’s GPS is on the fritz or something—but no, there’s Natasha leaning against the side of the building, unmoving and unbothered by the people shoving past. Clint nearly chokes as he swallows past the lump in his throat. Her red hair shines in the mid-morning sun, and a small part of his brain questions how she always manages to look like a fuckin’ runway model when he always looks like he’s crawled out of a dumpster. Regular showers and clothes that actually come from a store, his brain replies in her voice.

He knows she has seen him from the way her shoulders tense imperceptibly and her foot shifts just enough to give her the advantage should he decide to run away like a coward. Clint knows it’s a losing battle to try to weasel his way out of doing whatever this is, so he straightens his spine, lifts his chin, and ambles toward her like he hasn’t got a care in the world. His resolve wavers when a businessman pushes by with way more force than is actually needed. Clint forces himself to keep going, even as he flips the guy off behind his back. A mother pushing her toddler in a pram shoots him a dirty look and hurries away.

“Top o’ the mornin’, Natty.”

Natasha’s eyes are hidden by her dark shades, but Clint knows he’s going to pay dearly for that comment. She ignores it for now, though, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Ready?”

“Absolutely, definitely. This is a wonderful time for—whatever we’re doing.”

If Clint was a smarter man, he would be terrified by the sharp grin that Natasha flashes at him. It’s sickly sweet, full of feigned innocence, but edged with solid determination and a lack of humour. It reminds Clint of the smile that Bruce gives Dory and Marlin. He tries his best not to shiver at the threats that smile promises.

“We are doing nothing. You are talking to Doctor Brayden.”

His stomach drops to the ground, and he wonders if it would be too weird to start running while also kicking his own ass for not seeing this coming. He really, really should have. Natasha’s been on his case about therapy for, well, too long, and Coulson coming by last night to tell Clint he has a job offer that hinges on him seeing a psychiatrist? Yeah, the signs were all there. Clint is just too much of an idiot to actually have read them correctly. Or to recognise his psychiatrist’s office building.

Nat proves she can read his mind; her hand darts out, her fingers wrap around his wrist, and he knows there is no way he can get out of her hold without an outright fight occurring in the middle of the sidewalk—a fight that he would lose spectacularly. He may have the upper-hand in muscle mass, but what Natasha lacks in size, she more than makes up for in skill and speed. However aware that Clint is about his inability to win against her, he still tests her grip by attempting to tug his hand away. Her fingers only tighten in response, becoming vice-like and digging into his skin, and Clint gives up with at least a little grace.

His body sags in defeat, but he follows her regardless through the doorway. She shows her talent at being his, quite frankly, terrifying best friend by managing to manoeuvre him into the elevator while preventing others from stepping on. The doors close on the grumblings, and he grips the bar tightly as the lift starts to move. Natasha keeps her distance but still stays close enough for her presence to be a comfort.

Doctor Brayden gives Clint a sharp, assessing once-over when he finally gets comfortable in the chair twenty minutes later. He feels like he’s being x-rayed as the silence drags on. Finally, she nods, drags her gaze to the notepad on her lap, and writes something down. Clint can’t make out what it says—her handwriting is neat but so damn tiny, and it’s upside down right now, so he really had no shot at it—but he’s pretty sure it’s something about his lack of sessions in the last two months. He slouches in the armchair, crossing his legs at the ankle, and lets his head fall back to stare at the ceiling as he listens to the almost-soothing sound of the pen gliding across the paper.

The curtains on the windows have been drawn back, letting in sunlight that illuminates every corner of the room and makes the pale seafoam walls even lighter, more yellowish-white than green. The wax warmer on the bookshelf behind her desk is decorated with an explosion of flowers made up of thick black lines and fading ink in a variety of colours; the aroma of cinnamon-apples mixes with the clinical astringency of hand sanitiser. Weirdly, it doesn’t smell awful.

“So. It’s been a while.”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

“How are the nightmares?”

“They’re fine.”

“I see.” Clint can hear in her words the sigh that she’s stifling. “Agent Romanov seems very vested in your progress. Why do you think that is?”

“Because she’s my best friend. If I wasn’t around, who would she have to call a dumb-ass?”

“So she’s abusive?”

“No!”

Clint sees too late just how much he’s been tricked into showing something by the slightly smug smirk on the doctor’s face. He settles back in the chair, disappointed with himself, and frowns. He wants to ask if her smugness is against professional protocols, but that would give away that he even cares.

“Don’t worry, Clint. Your friendship with Agent Romanov is. . . interesting, to say the least, but it’s healthy enough in that she keeps you from regressing. While I don’t approve of the way she communicates with you—the calling you a dumbass, specifically—I cannot deny that without her help, you wouldn’t have been nearly this successful. Why don’t we talk about the flashbacks?”

Clint groans, whining out a “Do we gotta?”

“Yes, we ‘gotta’.”

So Clint speaks haltingly, trying to downplay the terror and anger he’s oscillated between each time he’s woken up from a nightmare or had a panic attack from the memories. Thankfully, Doctor Brayden lets him talk without interruption; Clint’s thankful for that. He doesn’t think he could broach the subject if he kept being talked over or had to answer probing questions.

He stares at his hands the entire time, unable to look in her eyes while he tells her about reliving the bombing, the death and carnage he witnessed firsthand because he failed to stop it. He can’t hear her writing over the echoing screams and orders being barked in his head. The usual rush of adrenalin and horror seems far away, as if it’s just something he’s watching on television. His chest is tight, but he can still breathe. Clint eventually falls silent, his words coming to a stop, and he waits with bated breath for Doctor Brayden to say something.

“Well. . . I can certainly see why those would be disconcerting.” She clears her throat, and her pen taps gently against the notepad in her lap—the only nervous tic she’s ever shown in any of the times Clint has been here. “I have no way to imagine how horrible those experiences were to go through, and the aftermath has obviously been Hell on you.”

“Ya think?” he retorts with a snort.

“Clint, I’m not trying to provoke you. I am merely trying to understand your brain a little better.”

This causes him to look up, meet her eye. “Yeah? Well, if you manage that, could you tell me all about it? Because I definitely don’t understand my brain at all, and it’s mine.”

The rest of the session goes much the same; once he’s talked about the nightmares, it’s as if some part of his brain refuses to let out any more secrets. He tries to talk more about the flashbacks, but nothing comes out. All that happens is his lungs feel ten sizes smaller, and he chokes on the words that go unspoken. He does manage, however, to tell her about Alyshia forcing him into writing to a pen pal. Doctor Brayden looks all too pleased with this announcement, and she tells him that she approves wholeheartedly of the fact. He shoots her a quizzical look, and she stifles a smile.

“Having a pen pal is a great way to get the socialisation that you need without the pressure of face-to-face conversation. In person, you have to stick to a relatively fast script, and you can’t take back what you say. With letters, you can take your time, rewrite, add and take away what you deem to be too little or too much.”

Clint mulls over her words before conceding that she has a point. Doesn’t mean he has to like it, though. It’s difficult enough to consider that he’s going to be writing letters to a stranger and getting them in return. He keeps that thought locked up; he really would like to not have that conversation.

Time runs out, and Doctor Brayden leads him out to the waiting area where Natasha sits in a chair, ostensibly reading the tabloid magazine in her hands. Clint knows she’s scoping out everyone who’s in the room, and he feels safer being so close to her. She rises smoothly to her feet, ambles to his side, and shakes the psychiatrist’s hand. The pinch in Clint’s side spurs him into the action of scheduling another—it’ll get his best friend off his back for now, and he can always cancel it later.

He forces a smile for the receptionist as he takes the appointment card and turns to follow Natasha out of the waiting lobby. She doesn’t speak to him as they take the elevator back down to the ground floor, but Clint can see the tiny tilt to her lips that says she’s proud of him. She keeps her eyes on the passing cars, her hand shooting out when she catches sight of a taxi, and he presses a quick kiss to her temple when the cab comes squealing to a stop by the curb. Her nose scrunches up as she shoves at him playfully.

His mailbox is empty save for one envelope, and Clint tucks it into his back pocket before heading up to his apartment. He feels all turned inside-out and twisted up, but it’s all obscured slightly by the hazy heaviness that floats through his veins. A car horn honks down on the street, someone shouts in response; Clint crosses the living room to land a light punch to the top of the air conditioning unit. It rattles to life with a high-pitched squeal, and he flops down onto his couch to enjoy the cool breeze. Something crinkles under his ass, and he reaches under himself to tug the envelope from his pocket.

24 August, 2018 Clint,

Thanks for your letter. Yeah, Lysh is very adamant about telling people what she wants. Her school started the Pen Pals with Soldiers program a couple years ago, and she’s been mine ever since. So I’m very familiar with her upfront personality - that kid’s gonna go far in life.

I was wondering why she hadn’t written back in a while. We usually have at least one letter a week, but the past couple have gone without. Them moving explains it…

My name is James Barnes, but most people call me Bucky (long story short, my parents are very patriotic and decided to name me after a fucking president). But you can call me Sarge if you want, I know Alyshia prefers to. I think she thinks “Bucky” is too funny to be a name. Don’t worry - I won’t judge you too harshly for being a trainwreck as long as you don’t judge me too harshly for being a panicking mess liking big band music.

I can’t say that I like my coffee that dark, honestly, but coffee is ALWAYS good. I’ll drink it black if I gotta (and right now I gotta), but it’s not my preference. Dogs are cool. I personally like cats better, since they require less work - seriously, clean their litter box and fill their food bowls, and bam! They’re fine with ya. I had a dog growing up. She was pretty awesome. Lots of work, though. Had to take her on walks three times a day and brush her every day or so or she’d shed EVERYWHERE. It was ridiculous, honestly.

Please don’t run away with another person’s dog. That’s asking for jail time, and I don’t know how pretty you are, but I’m sure you wouldn’t last in there (I’m assuming your handwriting is no reflection of your looks because if so, I’m sorry you’re so ugly) (kidding. I’m totally kidding) Pizza is a New York staple so if you don’t like pizza, you ain’t a New Yorker. I’ve watched an episode or two of Dog Cops - never really have much time to watch it lately. I’ll check it out when I get the chance.

Uhhh… I guess I should say some stuff about me then, huh. Okay, I’m 29, got a best friend Stevie who’s the biggest self-sacrificing idiot known to man, and I like plums. I really don’t know what to talk about. I’m used to writing to Alyshia who fills her letters with information that I can respond to.

Anyway. Better go. - Sarge/Bucky (whichever you prefer)

Clint laughs as he rereads the letter in his hands. Who the hell goes by the name of Bucky? It’s a ridiculous name, and this “Bucky” guy should feel ridiculous. And that dig about Clint’s handwriting? Hilarious. He slides the letter back into its envelope and drops it on the counter. He figures he can write back later.

The air is sticky with humidity, and the rattling air conditioner in the window does very little to break up the heavy heat. Clint sprawls out on the couch and lets the small stream of cool air skim over his skin. He is slowly starting to nod off when his phone vibrates in his back pocket. A sleepy giggle escapes at the tickling sensation along his ass cheek before he realises it’s an actual phone call, and if it’s Coulson, Clint is going to have Hell to pay if he ignores it.

“Unless the world is ending, I don’t care,” he gives as a greeting, then snorts. “Actually, scratch out. Even if the world is ending, I don’t care.”

“Barton?”

“Sir, I’m trying to nap. Talking is hard.”

“So you went to therapy then,” Coulson surmises; his voice is bland enough, but Clint can absolutely hear the pride in it.

“Yes, and I hated it.”

“Keep going.”

Clint groans, ignores the petulant whine in the sound, but ultimately agrees. There’s something to be said about being praised by someone he respects that keeps him from acting too much like a child even when it involves something he hates with a passion. Coulson hangs up a moment later with a terse goodbye—the noise in the background tells Clint that his supervisor is about to be using that specific tone that tells an agent just how badly they screwed up without actually saying they screwed up.

Clint can only hope it wasn’t Natasha’s partner; he dismisses the thought quickly. If it had been her partner, his body would never be found for Coulson to even talk to. Clint settles back onto the couch, closes his eyes, and drifts off to the sound of the traffic outside, his neighbours stomping around, and the unit shaking and wheezing in the window.

When he wakes, the sun has started its slow descent toward the horizon, patchy blocks of light illuminating the living room. He stretches, scratches at an itch on his temple, and slowly shoves himself to a sitting position. He feels rather well rested considering he slept on a couch, but he isn’t going to question it. Instead, he stumbles to the kitchen and digs through the pile of leaflets on the counter for the nearest menu with the word “pizza” on it.

Clint makes his way to the bathroom once the order is placed; he does his business and washes his hands. A glass shatters in the apartment to his right, and he winces when their baby’s crying starts up, shrill and grating. The crying carries on for long minutes and is still echoing through the hall when Clint opens the door to get the pizza from the delivery kid. He’s just shut the door and turned around when he abruptly stops.

“And who are you?”

Of course the dog doesn’t respond, merely pants with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Clint stares at the dog, the dog stares back. Eventually, Clint blinks stupidly a few times, mutters something about not losing a fuckin’ staring contest to a one-eyed dog, and heads to the kitchen. Soft footsteps pad along behind him. He sets the box down on the counter and flips open the lid. The aroma of gooey, melted cheese and spiced, acidic sauce float up into the air; his mouth starts watering instantly, and he doesn’t care about the steam or the fact that the pizza is still hot—he grabs a slice and shoves half of it in his mouth in one go. He turns to glare at the dog when it lets out a quiet but demanding woof.

“Dogs can’t have pizza, go away.”

Clint tosses the dog the rest of the slice when it doesn’t do as ordered, grabbing another and closing the box just in case the mutt has any thoughts about eating more. He eats three more slices before his stomach feels tight and overfull. The dog follows him back into the living room and hops up onto the couch, curling into a ball on one end. Clint grunts, not in the mood to upset a dog and risk getting bitten. With a sigh, he lets his body fall back onto the opposite end of the couch, lifts his legs and stretches out across the cushions, and reaches for the remote. The dog stares at him, blinks its one eye.

“Don’t think about it,” Clint warns, but like the last time he gave an order, he’s ignored.

The dog huffs and scoots its way down the sofa until its sprawled alongside Clint. Clint has to admit it’s nice to have the warmth and company, so he scratches gently behind the dog’s ear and grins at the way the dog seems to be smiling. There’s no collar around its neck, and Clint wonders if this means he gets to keep the dog. He shrugs it off, figures he’ll find out at a later time. He doesn’t stop the dog from following him to the bedroom an hour later or climbing into the bed.

When Clint startles awake in the middle of the night, a silent scream on his lips, the pizza-loving dog is right there, pressed tight against his side, burying its wet nose into his neck and breathing evenly. Clint doesn’t think about it; he just tries to match his breaths with the dog’s and soon enough, he finds it’s worked. His skin is still clammy and still feels too small, but he can breathe without choking on the memories of ash and smoke.

“Lucky I got you, huh?” he rasps out once he isn’t shaking so hard. The dog’s tail thumps against the mattress, and Clint furrows his brows. “Lucky?”

A slobbery lick across his cheek is his response, and Clint splutters, groans, and wipes his face with the edge of his sheet, but he doesn’t kick the dog—Lucky, evidently—out of the bed. Instead, he scoots over just a little and rolls onto his side so that Lucky can get more comfortable. Clint brushes his fingers through soft golden fur and waits for the sunrise. Strangely, he’s asleep again before he can see the sun.

Lucky whimpers insistently from next to the bed, dragging Clint from a relatively restful sleep. He opens bleary eyes and frowns. The dog doesn’t look injured, but Clint can’t really tell. He could have punched the dog in his sleep, for all he knows. The longer he stares at Lucky, the more demanding Lucky’s whines become, and it finally clicks.

“Aw, Lucky, no. You gotta go?”

Lucky barks once and bolts toward the front door. Clint climbs out of bed, grumbling the entire time, and finds the least ratty pair of sweats he owns, slides them on.

“All right, well, I don’t have a leash, so. . . Come when I call for you, I guess?”

Clint barely gets the door unlocked and opened before Lucky is slithering through the gap and barrelling down the hall toward the stairs. Clint follows at a much more sedate—and sleepy—pace. The sky is still a deep navy, tinged with the faintest streak of pink and orange through the buildings, and Clint yawns widely. He waits as patiently as he can while Lucky sniffs around trees and lamp posts, finally lifting one leg to pee squarely on the rear tire of someone’s beat-up truck. Clint snorts and whistles for the dog.

Lucky trots up to him happily then, after snuffling at Clint’s hand, turns and makes his way to a patch of dead grass ten feet away. Clint stares up at the sky to give his new pup some privacy. Once Lucky is finished, Clint glances both ways down the street, sees no one else, and ushers the dog inside.

I’ll clean it up later, he thinks to himself as he lumbers up the stairs. Lucky flops onto the floor inside the apartment, rolls around wildly; Clint rolls his eyes when the dog doesn’t do anything else but lie there and stare up at him. Clint crosses the room to the coffee table where Sarge’s letter still sits. Without really thinking about it, Clint decides to write another letter to the sergeant, so he goes off in search of paper. All he can find, however, is a pocket-size notebook that he thinks belonged to Nat at some point. He shrugs and opens it up anyway. It’ll have to do for now.

28 August, 2018 Sarge,

Big band music? What, you originally from the 40s or something? Sorry, not judging - don’t worry. I’m just really tired so my brain to mouth - or, well, hand - filter is basically gone right now.

I got a dog. Or maybe it got me. I don’t even know. All I know is I ordered pizza, it showed up, and now it hasn’t left my side. It’s only been a couple hours so who knows. It might get smart and realise I’m kinda a crappy human and it made a mistake. Are dogs smart enough to know that kinda stuff?

Who the Hell names their kid ‘Bucky’? Kidding (mostly).

If YOUR handwriting is any sign, you’re just as ugly as me. So there. That was childish, wasn’t it? Oh well. Nat says I have the emotional maturity of a toddler so I guess it fits.

Plums are disgusting. Kiwis are where it’s at. Just don’t tell Nat I like fruit, or she’ll make me eat more of it. She’s scary and I don’t have the energy to deal with it. She’s my best friend, by the way. Not as self-sacrificing or an idiot like your friend Stevie, but still loyal (I’m assuming he’s loyal).

I’m not calling you Bucky. - Clint

Letter finished, Clint stares down at the words he’s written then sighs. He tried to be interesting. There just isn’t much interesting about him. Sure, he had a career as a sniper, but the glitz and glamour of it is hyped up by the media. It was nothing but lying completely still in high places, waiting for orders, and taking the shot from your position. Or, if you were him, throwing yourself off the ledge to take the shot without hitting the innocent civilian being held captive. Still. Nothing glamorous about the damn job.

Stupid media making it look better than it is.

Another week of doing nothing but hanging out with his new dog—no one has come to claim the mutt, and Clint doubts he’d leave even if his owners showed up. Lucky won’t stray from Clint’s side except when Clint forces him out of the bathroom. When pizza is involved, Lucky won’t budge. Clint doesn’t mind. It’s actually kinda nice to not be alone.

Another therapy session. Doctor Brayden is pleased to hear that Clint has adopted a dog—or, rather, been adopted by the dog. “Having someone other than yourself to take care of can give you a sense of purpose other than self-pity and wallowing.”

“I don’t wallow,” protests Clint, but even he can hear the lie in it. He can’t deny that there is absolutely some degree of self-pity and -hatred in there somewhere. It’s his fault the last op went disastrously, and he loathes himself for not doing a better job.

“Clint, Clint.”

The screams disappear, though the smoke lingers. He shakes his head, but the stench remains in his nostrils. “What?”

“Talk to me. Come back to the present.”

“It was my fault,” he admits after a long minute. It’s too much, but Coulson and Doctor Brayden demand honesty. He has to release the guilt. He doesn’t know how. “I didn’t see—I didn’t think he was a risk. He looked like the rest of them. The innocent ones. But he was one of them. The bad guys, I mean. If I’d thought about it, I would’ve known.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How would you have known he’d be the one to plant the second bomb?”

Clint thinks back as best as he can. It isn’t much, considering his mind is only full of the aftermath. The explosions, the screams, the carnage. He couldn’t have known. SHIELD had determined the bombs were crude, packing a punch despite their size. Unless Clint had X-ray vision, he would never have seen the explosive.

He still should have seen it. He should have known. He should have known. He should have known. He should—

“Agent Barton.”

“I should have known.”

Before she can say more, Clint is on his feet and out the door. The doctor doesn’t call after him, and he’s thankful for that. He can’t handle any more of her psychoanalysing. He stops by the reception desk to get his next appointment card then leaves.

Lucky peers blearily at Clint with his one eye when the human walks into the flat an hour later. The room fills with lazy thumps as Lucky wags his tail, but the dog doesn’t move from his spot in the sunshine streaming through the windows. Clint hesitates but ultimately lies on the floor beside the mutt, closing his eyes as his skin heats up.

Lucky has it right—the sun makes everything feel a little better.

I think i annoyed doc

Natasha’s reply comes within seconds: Will call you to talk about this. Op.

Of course she’s on another op. SHIELD doesn’t slow down, even when the world thinks nothing is going on. The country is blind to the threats it faces, and the organisation wants it that way. Panic only makes their jobs harder. Clint used to have that job until he proved himself a fatal mistake. Coulson should never have taken that chance on Clint.

Clint trusts Coulson without hesitation, but Coulson should never have trusted Clint.

3 September 2018 Sarge,

What do you do when you feel like you’ve screwed up beyond any repair? I made a mistake, and people got killed. I don’t know what to do now. - Clint

He crumples up the paper and tosses it in the bin. Sarge doesn’t deserve to know his newest pen pal is an utter disgrace. Lucky stares at him from the floor, huffing as his head falls back to the wood, then lets out a loud snore within seconds. Clint wishes he was a dog. Then he’d actually get some sleep.

[lovestony16]

[lienwyn]

And here are the other two illustrations I did for the @reforgedzine! I've been wanting to do matching art nouveau illustrations for these two for a long, long time and I'm very happy I finally got a reason to do it! I really like how these turned out! :D

Also, the leftover sale for the zine has now started! So go to the website if you're interested in buying one of the zines! And you can find the AO3 collection for all the amazing fics here :D

[herdreamywasteland]

Abandonment: Part 2

Warnings: angst

Word count: 817

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Prompt: None

Requests: Open!

@vicmc624, this one's for you!

Curling up on your lonely, depressing couch, you hold onto the memories of the countless traditions you and Bucky had. You let your mind drift to the way he’d pull you onto his lap, kissing your neck till you laughed. The way he’d slip his freezing hands up your shirt, simply to see you gasp. The way he’d lean forward when the two of you kissed, dipping until your hair brushed the floor. 

Distracted, you notice how the rain batters the window behind your dim television screen. The laugh track from the sitcom you’re watching - or rather looking at while absorbing nothing - startles you back to the real world. The rain outside is pouring down, white lighting up the sky before a loud crack of thunder rattles the glass. 

You feel as though the Blip has happened, all over again. 

Your choking devastation, your burning anger, your crushing disappointment, the inability to hope, to see any sort of future, and the raw, burning pain that clawed at your skin, begging to be let out. All this and more seems to be represented in how the rain rushes down. In the way the ground lets itself be pummeled by the water, no longer soaking up the liquid, just letting the puddles grow, layer by wet layer. 

The curled-up parchments burn against your palm. You open your palm and watch the curled, tear-stained papers sit on your skin. You will them to incinerate themselves. Nothing happens, the papers merely sitting against your flesh, mocking you in their wholeness. 

You no longer have your power, your fiery spirit, and your subsequent abilities. No, ever since you made the life-changing decision to remove your pyrokinesis, you can’t produce so much as a spark. You thought your choice would allow you to have a mundane life with Bucky. 

It’s what he deserves. 

When the parchment doesn’t flare to life, turning to dust in hot flames, you reluctantly open the paper. There lay the words you wrote every night, ever since Bucky and half the universe left you behind.

To Bucky,

Please come back. I need you. I can’t sleep without you here. 

To Bucky,

Freight car. Seventeen. Winter.

I forgot the rest.

Come back to me even in the form of Winter Soldier. I’ll flare to life, just like I did the first time. I’ll make you remember me. I’ll show you again, how we are the same, just two people with a life of adversity thrust upon us by some cruel, uncaring being. 

James,

Please. I just want you. 

I need you.

I love you.

I don’t want anything else. I’ll do anything to get you back.

Dear James,

Why did you have to leave? What happened out there? 

I miss you.

To Barnes,

come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back

bucky,

please

i’ll do anything

You crumple the papers again, clenching them in your fists until your nails tattoo red crescent moons on your skin. These were only six out of thousands more. A paper for every night for five consecutive years - how long you waited for him, fought for him, killed for him. Five years you fought to find a cure, a remedy, anything. Five years, trying to figure out how to live.

After Bucky and the rest of the world blipped back, after the sacrifice of Stark, after Steve left, you hid the papers intending to burn them before Bucky found out.

He never stayed long enough to find them.

Now, they’re anchors to your sanity. You have to bring at least one, every time you leave the apartment or when you miss him - which is almost every damn day. You leave them in every pocket, in every jacket, shirt, and pair of pants you own. It’s become an unconscious habit.

Before you can bury your head in your arms, letting your tears fall, the door echoes with repeated knocks. At first, you think it’s thunder, but the knocking becomes more and more insistent. You glance around, checking your phone to see if anyone asked to come over. No notifications. 

Fear spikes in your chest. Uninvited visitors are never a good sign, especially when they show up at the home of a retired Avenger. 

Creeping toward the door, you unsheathe the silver dagger you keep strapped to your thigh. Call you paranoid, but you’d rather be paranoid than dead. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you head towards the door. 

You slip your dominant hand behind your back, concealing the dagger. Then, you swiftly open the door, before you lose your nerve. 

The face on the other side is the face of the devil himself, wet and panting.

"Bucky?"

He stands there, wet, panting, face creased with regret, your washed-up denim jacket slung over his arm. Beautiful.

"Can I come in?"

[buckyalpine]

40s Sergeant Barnes with a nurse and a Sergeant kink (and breeding and house wife kink, virginity loss). This was supposed to be a pure smutty drabble but then I got in my feelings and added some fluff and angst but I promise Bucky is still a dirty, nasty little fuck in this. Just with a sweeter ending. The one he deserves.

Listen just imagine what a cute, sexy menace Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes would be just waking up from an injury when his eyes flutter open to the pretty nurse he’s been eyeing from the day he started. You’re not a shy, dainty little thing, nope. Not at all.

You bark out orders like a drill Sergeant and one glare from you is all it takes to get everyone in line and on task without a second thought. Even his superiors are scared of you, biting their tongue when you stitch them up and send them on their way before running off to your next patient.

Bucky was in love.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes” he rasps, throwing you a charming smirk while you roll your eyes in response, shaking your head. "How'd I get so lucky, got a my little angel tendin' to me"

“I see your injury hasn’t stopped hurt that mouth of yours Sergeant" You quirk an eyebrow while he playfully huffs as you change the dressing covering a gash on his abdomen. You swab the area clean and he doesn't flinch even though you know it must burn like hell, his muscles tensed while he continues to watch you with heart eyes. "Now you know I'm not your little angel, I got 20 other men to fix up, you better be out of this bed as soon as you're all healed up"

“C’mon sugar, you're breakin' my heart" Bucky gives you a little pout with those perfect lips and you catch the twinkle in his eye as he looks over your form with complete admiration. He loved your sassy, take no shit attitude and it's taking everything in him to calm himself down so he doesn't get a hard on right there in front of you.

"You'd tell that to a cat with three legs if it was in a nurses outfit" You try your best to not give into his flirty comments and puppy eyes, knowing damn well he's a heart breaker but he makes it so difficult when he continues to woo you with his boyish charm.

He can't help but chase after you; catching the way your eyes always dart around with anxiety when his group returns from an operation, relief flooding them when you finally spot him. He loves your indifferent attitude, patting him down to make sure he's uninjured but your furrowed brows and the tiny pout on your lips give away that you're worried.

How can he just let you go. Every time you check over him, he needs you closer.

So much closer.

-

"Ms. y/l/n, Sergeant Barnes is requesting you in his tent, he says it's urgent"

You shake your head looking over at the time, quietly making your way over to the tent he's stationed at, thankful that a number of troops were sleeping so you wouldn't be seen as you quickly slip inside.

“And what hurts now” you sass with your hands on your hips seeing the soldier in perfect health, doing your best to assess him without letting him know.

"Always checkin' over me" Bucky chuckles, seeing what you're doing; his words making your cheeks heat up, "Knew you cared about me sugar"

"Well what am I doin' here" You give him an unconvincing huff, struggling to keep your voice steady, refusing to meet his eyes, keeping your gaze on his silver dog tags instead. It doesn't help that he's handsome as hell with a light dusting of scruff covering his cheeks. Bucky's never seen you flustered before and it evokes something in him, all the blood in his body rushing south seeing your fingers twitch.

All he wanted to do was kiss you but now-

“Help your Sergeant out doll” He whispers, taking another step forward till his chest brushes against yours, his hand coming to tilt your chin up, "Will you?"

You gasp feeling his hardness press against your thigh, your heart fluttering wildly as his thumb traces your lips, any semblance of control you had slipping away feeling the warmth of his skin.

“Y-yes Sergeant Barnes”

His lips press against yours, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the way his body was screaming for him to pick you up and toss you onto his cot.

"Sweet like sugar" He lets his hands fall to your waist, pulling you flush against his body while your arms drape on top of his shoulders. You stand on your toes chasing more of his lips and he chuckles at the needy whine you let out when he pulls away for air.

Now let's say your first night together was actually quite tame. He kisses you again and you swoon when he repeatedly checks in with you before going any further. His hand slips under your skirt, letting his fingers toy with places no on else has touched. With each night, he needs you more and more until he can't hold off any longer and neither can you.

-

You sneak into his tent and this time he doesn't hesitate to undress you completely, not when he needs you bare with nothing separating you both. You feel your heart race as he lies on top of you, draping a thin sheet over himself when you shiver at the chill night air. You feel his body heat instantly warm you up, his heavy cock resting between your soaked folds.

"Are you sure, sugar?" He asks, his hand cupping your cheek and stroking your skin.

"Please Sergeant" You whisper and the way you say his title makes his cock twitch. There's something so different about you when you're in his bed, a sweet little bunny giving herself to him completely. It drives him feral with a need to make you feel good, make you cry for his cock and his cock only, to keep you nice and full of him.

You don't look twice at anyone else and here you are completely naked in his tent with your tight little virgin cunt, your legs spread open so he can put his dick in you; there was no way he was ever going to let you go.

"You tell me if it's too much, alright?" His lips tickle your neck as kisses your skin while rubbing his heavy cock through your folds, coating it in your slick, "Breathe for me"

He slips his tags into your mouth as he starts to press in, the initial sting making you bite down hard onto the metal feeling a mix of pleasure and pain. You whine at the way he stretches you open, your thighs squeezing around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Shhh, that's it love, doin' so good for me so good for your Sergeant, look how you're takin' all of me baby" He looks down to where you're both connected as he continues to slowly push himself in till hes fully sheathed inside you. He gives you time to adjust, slipping his tags out of your lips and letting his tongue lace with yours instead, his balls already throbbing with how tightly you were squeezing his cock.

"Please-Sergeant" your heels press into his ass desperate for him to move, gasping when he starts to slowly roll his hips, barely pulling out.

"I got you love-don't worry" Bucky moves as slowly as he could not wanting to hurt you, taking just as much care of you as you had with him countless of times.

But he can only keep up at that pace for so long. Your muffled whines and moans don't help the way his mind is already spiraling. His pretty little nurse all spread out just for him, taking his raw, bare cock in her soaking pussy, squeezing him so tight, he was only a few strokes from cumming.

If it were up to him he would've proposed on the spot, thinking about making love to you on your wedding night, seeing you all shy and sweet wrapped up in soft white lace. If you were his wife, he'd take you apart every which way, not giving a fuck about traditions, taking you right on the dining room table.

You'd be the prettiest little thing for him to come home to, such a good wife all dirty just for her husband. Only he'd know the way your mouth would slobber all over his cock like your life depended on it. The way you'd moan at the taste of his cum. Bucky's eyes rolled back at the thought of you with nothing but some heels and a string of pearls he'd put around your neck while he stuffed you with cum and emptied his balls in you.

"S-Sergeant-I-oh god" You whimpered feeling his cock grow harder, your pussy pulling him right back in, feeling the coil low in your belly pull tighter and tighter as he hit that spot.

Meanwhile Bucky's jaw clenched as he felt his balls pull tight to his body, the tip leaking steadily in your pussy. His mind spiraled into places he didn't think would exist before he met you, rogue thoughts he only entertained when he had his dick in his hand. The harder he fucked you the more he thought about how gorgeous you'd look with a swollen belly.

Fuck, imagine if he got you pregnant right then and there. That nurses uniform would no longer fit you. Everyone would know he knocked you up, your perfectly round tummy carrying Sergeant James Barnes' baby, breasts heavy with milk, God, he wasn't going to last-

“Gonna let your Sergeant pump you full of cum?” He pants, letting his hands grip onto your hips like his life depends on it, the wiry hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit.

“Yes!!” You sob, biting down onto his shoulder to keep your cries down while he continues to fuck you into oblivion. You don't understand how such filth can spew from that pink, pouty little mouth of his. "Please-please-need-youI-I'm gonna-"

"M'yours sweet girl, m'all yours, go on, cum for me love, cum on my cock, it's all yours" He gazed into your eyes, cooing at your parted lips and sweat slicked skin. It didn't take long for you to shatter around him his lips smashing against yours to swallow your moans.

"Want your cum Sergeant" You beg , desperate to have him claim you from the inside.

"Oh fuck baby, y-you can't say that, m-gonna, oh fuckkk" Your words throw Bucky right off the edge as he lets out a deep groan stilling his hips and shooting endless ropes of his spend into you. You both lay in comfortable silence, your fingers playing with his hair; his usual kempt brown locks now disheveled .

“Y’know m’gonna marry you” his scruffy cheek nuzzles into your neck as he continues to stay deep inside you as his cock softens, “after all this is over. Gonna put a ring on that finger”

His words send a different wave of emotions over you, feeling more safe than ever, clinging onto him as tightly as possible. You let a whimper slip out and he pulls away from your neck with an expression of concern.

“What is it love” Bucky coos, wiping away the tears that slip you, stroking your cheek while you bite back a sniffle.

“Do you mean it? After this is all over?” You weren't sure what Bucky would want-there was still a war going on. Anything could happen. Perhaps this was just to keep his bed warm. Something to keep him calm, you were just someone to-

"Of course sugar" Bucky presses a firm kiss to your forehead, silencing the thoughts that tried to run wild. "You're mine"

-

And of course he gets his happy ending. Because when it's all over, he gets the ring for the girl he loves. He's on one knee, proposing to you with the sweetest words. He treats you like a princess on your wedding night, making love all night long until the sun is up.

There isn't a surface in the house he's left untouched. Nothing makes him more feral than moaning for his pretty wife, constantly taking her hand and wrapping it around his cock, watching that diamond glint with each stroke.

It doesn't take long for you to feel a little squeamish, knowing all the tell tale signs.

The day you tell him he's going to be a dad is one of the happiest days of his life. There isn't a single night that goes by where he isn't nuzzling his face into your tummy, talking to your little one.

Everything was perfecttt.

[gutsby]

Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.���

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

[every-marveler-ever]

Bucky Barnes Bingo 2023

April 10th 2023 - January 10th 2024

Writing has not been my friend recently (clearly shown by the fact that I haven't written (or posted) since August, and this bingo finished 8 days ago. I like the process I took for these two stories, going through my liked songs playlist on Spotify hitting shuffle and writing about whatever came up. It's the most fun writing I had in awhile. I'm hoping doing this technique more will encourage me to write again, inspire me.

THANK YOU TO @buckybarnesbingo FOR HOSTING!

Marveler | 🐐 | B036

Name: Marveler Number: B036 Bingo: Participant Squares: 2/25

navigation | bingo masterposts | ao3

(🐐 2/25) : PARTICIPATION

C2) Learning To Be Loved - SAD (Clap Your Hands)

Peter Parker is an adorable, intelligent six-year-old, learning about emotional intelligence and the magic of clapping your hands. Bucky Barens still doesn't 'fit' into the tower. [📌 Ao3]

K3) Invisible - Ground Control (feat. Tegan and Sara)

In a world where you have been deployed, purposely detached from ground control because of a radioactive disease. A disease they tell you puts everyone at risk so they require volunteers, for undisclosed tasks. Except everybody knows that it's propaganda but ground control has all the resources, and to gain those resources you have to volunteer someone. [📌 Ao3]