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totallynotaqua · 11 days ago

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𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 | Winter Soldier x fem!reader

It was supposed to be a quick and easy mission—break in, grab the files, and get out. Simple. Or so you thought. But here you were, going toe-to-toe with the one person you were told to avoid at all costs: the Winter Soldier.

Warnings - nsfw [18+], smut, cursing, porn with plot, choking, size kink, face slapping, mask kink, a pinch of degradation, kind of ooc winter soldier, unprotected sex [wrap it before you tap it], fingering, biting

Author's Note: Originally, this was meant to be a one-shot titled The Winter Soldier, with no plans for a continuation. But as I started writing, I started liking the storyline, so now it's becoming When Winter Comes, and yes, there will be a part two!

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Panic surged through you as you threw desperate punches, backpedaling with each strike. You’d told yourself this would be easy, clean, and quick. But deep down, you should’ve known. Missions like this never stay simple for long.

A sharp pain flared in your side as his punch landed hard against your ribs. You groaned, gritting your teeth through it. Fighting back, you kicked at his legs, knocking him to his knees. Taking the moment, you slammed a punch into his face while he was down.

But he recovered fast. In a blur, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and slamming you backward. Your spine hit the cold edge of a metal table, the force knocking the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” you gasped, pain shooting through your back.

You’d had enough. Your hand grabbed onto the knife strapped to your thigh. With a sharp pull, you drove the blade into his shoulder and kneed him in the chest as hard as possible. He staggered, and with all the strength you had left, you shoved him off you.

He hit the floor with a thud. Without looking back to see if he stayed on the floor, you ran out of the now-wrecked room, breathing heavily.

“I’ve got the flash drive — I’m on my way out of the base now!” you shouted into your radio, your voice echoing through the long, dark corridors of the Hydra compound.

The thought of finishing the mission vanished as quickly as it came. A sudden impact slammed you into the nearby door, throwing you into the next room. Your ears rang, your vision blurred, and a groan escaped your lips as you hit the floor, clutching your ribs. Dazed, you looked up.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me...” you groaned, trying to stand — but you barely got halfway up before your legs were yanked out from under you, dragging you forward.

“Give it to me,” the Winter Soldier said, now standing over you, his legs planted on either side of your body.

“I’d rather die,” you muttered, reaching for the spare knife hidden in your pants. But before you could move, he dropped onto you, pinning you down with his full weight. His hand clamped around your wrists, slamming them above your head.

“Last chance. Give it to me,” he growled, leaning in, the threat sharp in his voice.

As he hovered over you, you finally got a proper look at him — the way his piercing blue eyes scanned your face, how strands of long brown hair slipped from behind his ears, brushing your skin and tickling the side of your face.

Breathing heavily, your grip tightened around the flash drive. “Piss the fuck off,” you spat.

Before you could register what was happening, his hand struck your cheek with a sharp slap, then wrapped around your throat.

“You just like being a hard-ass, don’t you?” the Soldier muttered, his grip tightening around your neck.

You hummed. “When I need to.” You shifted, trying to free yourself from beneath him, but his legs tightened around you, cutting off any chance of escape.

“How about you just let me go and we pretend none of this ever happened?” you offered, voice light but edged with defiance.

“Then I’d be a dead man,” he replied quietly.

His eyes lingered on you for a long moment. The grip around your neck loosened slightly — not enough to move, but just enough to breathe. His metal hand still held your wrists firmly in place.

You watched as he leaned in, his mask brushing against your nose. His eyes softened — just slightly — though the cold edge never fully left them.

Before you could think twice, you leaned up and pressed your lips to the spot where his mouth would be, right against his mask.

You felt his body relax, just slightly. His legs loosened around your waist before he pulled back.

“What? Didn’t like that, pretty boy?” you teased, a sly grin tugging at your lips.

His eyes were wide, and for a second, you caught the faintest flush of pink across his cheeks.

The hand still at your throat tightened — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who was still in control. Then something shifted in him. His metal hand released your wrists and moved to his mask. Without a word, he pulled it off, revealing his face.

You took him in, shamelessly letting your eyes trace the scars and lines scattered across his face. He didn’t look away.

The moment didn’t last long. Before you could say anything, his lips were on yours.

They were softer than you expected — cracked, rough in places, but still careful. His right hand never left your throat. You hummed softly, your hands sliding up to his face, fingers brushing along his jaw. His metal hand settled on your waist, firm and steady, giving a slow, deliberate squeeze.

Without thinking, your hands slid from his face to his chest. Pulling back slightly, you searched his expression.

“Can I?” you asked, your eyes flicking down to the straps that crossed his shirt.

He nodded quickly, then leaned back in, his lips finding yours again. His hands moved with intention now, gripping your waist before sliding under your shirt, his fingers skimming across your skin.

As you worked to unbuckle the straps, a sharp gasp escaped you — the cold metal of his hand now pressed directly against your bare side.

You moved quickly, freeing the last of the straps and tossing them aside with a metallic clatter as they hit the floor. His kiss grew more desperate, and your fingers found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his torso.

He broke the kiss just long enough to pull his hands from under your shirt and strip his own off in one swift motion, tossing them aside. Before you could properly take him in, his metal hand gripped your shirt — and with a single, rough pull, he tore it from your body.

“C’mon, I needed that,” you groaned, glaring at the shredded fabric.

“Shut up,” he snapped, voice low and stern, before standing and pulling you up with him.

He pinned you to the wall, leaning in to kiss you again. His knee slid between your thighs, pressing firmly against your core. You let out a soft moan, fingers tangling in his hair as you gave it a gentle tug. His hands roamed your body, mapping every inch like he needed to memorize it.

Grinding down into his thigh to get some kind of relief, another breathless sound slipping from your lips.

His fingers toyed with the button of your pants before popping it open, sliding them down, and kicking them aside. He broke the kiss and stepped back, eyes sweeping over you — lace bra, black underwear, flushed skin.

“Perfect,” he muttered, voice rough with desire, before undoing his pants and pushing them down.

Before this mission, there was one thing you knew for sure about the Winter Soldier: he’d taken the super soldier serum. You’d studied that serum like the back of your hand — you knew exactly what it did. It enhanced everything.

Your gaze dropped, trailing along every sharp line and hard curve of his body — solid, sculpted, built to perfection. As your eyes traveled lower, the sheer size of him hit you, and you swallowed hard.

He noticed. “What?” he said with a low chuckle, stepping toward you. “Cat got your tongue?”

Before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly and set you down on the nearby table, stepping between your legs like he belonged there.

His hands found your neck, applying the slightest pressure as his lips met yours. The kiss was urgent, like he needed it to survive. Your hands wandered across his body, exploring every dip, every curve, every scar, committing each one to memory.

“Please…” you breathed, your moan muffled against his mouth.

“Please, what?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“I need you,” you whispered, barely able to speak.

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest as his hands slid to the waistband of his underwear. “Ask, and you shall receive,” he muttered, pulling them down and tossing them aside.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked at him. “T-That’s not going to fit…” You whispered, anxiety lacing your voice.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll make it fit,” he said, his voice calm.

His metal hand slipped down, a single finger hooking around the waistband of your panties. With a sharp tug, the fabric tore in his grasp.

“Look at you… Already so wet for me,” he hummed with a low chuckle.

His fingers traced slowly over your slick folds, teasing you. Then, without warning, his middle finger slid into you. You gasped, the cool touch of metal rubbing against your walls sending a jolt through your core. His gaze fixed on your face, studying each reaction like he was memorizing them.

As his finger began to move faster, your moans grew louder, your hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging in and leaving crescent-shaped marks.

“Oh, you little slut,” he chuckled darkly, mocking. “Just one finger in, and you already sound like a desperate whore.”

Watching you squirm, a tight smile curled on his lips before he slipped his ring finger inside you. "Such a good girl, taking my fingers so well," he murmured with a smirk, pressing a kiss to your lips as he curled his fingers upward.

A loud moan escaped you, your fingers digging into him, legs tightening around his waist.

"Aww, looks like I found your spot," he said, the amusement in his voice almost sounding like laughter.

"Please, I need you..." you begged.

He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. "Since you asked so nicely," he hummed, slowly pulling his fingers out from your core. Bringing them to his mouth, he sucked your taste from his fingers with deliberate care.

"Perfect," he mumbled, his hand moving down to grip the base of his cock. Loosening your legs around him, he guided himself to your core, the tip rubbing slowly against your clit.

“Fuck,” you moaned quietly, your arms wrapping around his neck as he pushed the tip into your cunt.

A soft groan slipped from your lips as you bit down on your lip.

“Shh... you can take it. Just relax,” he whispered, his right hand settling on your hip, squeezing gently before pushing deeper.

The stretch felt unbearable, every inch of him sinking further into you. A low groan rumbled from the soldier’s chest, his grip on your waist tightening—you already knew that would leave a bruise later.

“Look at you, taking me so well, like the good girl you are,” he groaned, his voice thick with pleasure as your walls tightened around him.

He bottomed out with a deep thrust, pausing for a few seconds. Then he pulled back slowly, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming his hips forward again. You moaned loudly, your head falling back against the wall.

Sliding his arms under your thighs, he lifted your legs, adjusting the angle, driving himself deeper with each thrust.

Squeezing your eyes shut, your fingers dug into his skin, scratching deep and leaving red, swollen trails.

“No, no—look at me, doll,” he muttered, his hand moving to deliver soft but firm taps against your cheek. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

His grip tightened around your face, fingers pressing into your cheek with a firm squeeze.

Your eyes fluttered open, gaze dropping slightly as he pounded into you with unrelenting force.

His hand never left your face as he thrust harder into you, your orgasm building with every deep stroke. Your walls clenched around him, drawing a ragged breath from his lips, but his rhythm barely faltered.

“So fucking tight for me,” he growled, his eyes locked on yours, nothing but hunger burning in them.

Your body trembled beneath him, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter—until it snapped. Pleasure crashing over you, your moans spilling into the heated space between you.

But he didn’t stop. Not when you felt like heaven wrapped around him.

He knew this was wrong—knew he was putting all of Hydra at risk—but none of that mattered. All he needed right now was you and only you.

His hand slid back to your waist, gripping you firmly, possessively. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving it red and burning.

He glanced down, watching the way your cunt stretched around him, slick pooling beneath you. He could’ve come just from the sight alone, but he didn’t. He wanted to watch you squirm beneath him, fucked-out and overstimulated.

“Such a good fucking girl for me,” he growled, slamming into you with each word, punctuating every syllable with a thrust.

Feeling his stomach tighten, he thrust into you harder, your moans echoing through the empty room. Your hands gripped his biceps, fingers digging in as you watched him fuck you—his hair disheveled, his body gleaming with a thin layer of sweat.

His breath grew ragged, each exhale brushing hot against your cheek as he leaned closer, hips snapping with unrelenting rhythm.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he growled, voice low and ragged. You gasped, your nails raking down his arms as your legs trembled beneath the weight of pleasure.

He was close—hips relentless, rhythm brutal. His mouth found your neck, teeth sinking into your skin as he left his mark. His grip around you tightened, possessive and desperate.

“F-fuck!” He slammed his hips flush against yours, burying himself deep, and before you could process the wave building inside you, you felt his hot cum flood your cunt.

You moaned at the sensation, the warmth of him filling you, only pushing you further.

His body shuddered through release, as he kept moving, chasing the aftershocks. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, your bodies covered in sweat.

The two of you stayed there, breathing heavily, bodies tangled together, hearts still racing as you both came down from the high.

“You need to go… they’ll start searching the building soon,” he muttered, voice hoarse as he stepped back.

You let out a soft moan when his cock slipped from your still-sensitive walls, the sudden emptiness making you shiver.

When you looked up, he was already pulling his pants back on, his expression unreadable, jaw tight.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you pushed yourself to your feet on unsteady legs. You reached for your clothes, pulling on your pants with a wince, the ache between your thighs a sharp reminder of what had just happened. Your ripped panties lay forgotten on the ground.

“My shirt…” You murmured, frowning at the torn fabric in your hands.

He glanced over, then wordlessly peeled off his shirt and handed it to you.

You hesitated, looking at him—shirtless now, bruised, and marked by your nails. The scent of sex still lingered in the air between you.

“Thanks,” you said, pulling the shirt over your head. It was too big, hanging off one shoulder, still warm from his body.

He nodded but didn’t speak. Instead, he stepped toward the door, pausing to glance back at you.

“I’ll find you,” he said quietly. “When this is over.”

Something in his voice—half promise, half plea—made your throat tighten.

You gave a small nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone in the aftermath, heart pounding, already aching for more.

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totallynotaqua · 11 days ago

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Pressure Points | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky never misses a tell and hiding an unexpected injury during a mission debrief forces both of you to confront what the two of you are really doing.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood, injury, untreated wounds, dissociation, implied PTSD, medical care, emotional vulnerability, canon-typical violence, tension with unspoken feelings

Word Count: 5k

Author’s Note: hi hiiii!! this one’s based on a request that got way too emotionally loaded way too fast, so naturally i blacked out and wrote this instead of doing literally anything else on my to-do list. still unsure how i feel about the ending here, idk i feel like i struggled a bit with this one 😢 but anyways... hope you enjoy the soft angst and emotional damage™

The door hissed closed behind you, sealing you into the dim of the debrief room.

You didn’t sit yet. Honestly, you weren't sure you could. Sitting would mean slowing down, and slowing down would let your body register exactly how much damage it had taken. There was no blood on the floor, but your boots felt like they were sticking to the tile with each step.

You stood facing the long table at the center, fingers pressed flat to its edge. Cold. Good. Cold helped.

It had been two hours since the ambush. Maybe more. You’d landed, walked straight through the hangar, flashed your ID to three different checkpoints. The adrenaline had carried you most of the way—through extraction, through the sting of antiseptic wipes and gauze stolen from your belt kit, through the awkward shrug of your jacket over stiffening muscle. It was wearing off now, and quickly.

Your side ached. But it was the kind of ache that came with a quiet weight behind it. A deep, thick hurt that didn’t burn anymore. It settled.

The kind you knew better than to poke.

You were supposed to be collecting surveillance. Mapping out structural weaknesses, taking silent photos. Minimal movement. No contact. The risk level had been marked green.

Yelena’s name had been on the initial rotation, but you owed her one—stupid bet, high stakes, something about who could down Alexei in the least amount of moves during game night—and when she grinned across the table and tossed the data chip at you, it hadn’t felt like a trade that would matter.

It should’ve been easy. In, out, report filed. Nothing worth blinking twice over.

But they’d been waiting anyway.

You weren’t sure if it had been a leak or just bad luck. Maybe both. A perimeter shift, a wrong turn, a wire you didn’t see until the light went red and the floor gave way beneath your boots.

There were two of them. Close combat. One with a blade.

It was clean, at least. A trained hand. Nothing jagged.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table. The distraction helped. Only a few more minutes, maybe five. Long enough for the after-action report upload to ping, long enough to get through debrief, long enough to get your hands on a copy before it hit anyone else’s radar. You could file the injury in a supplemental note. Frame it as a scratch. Make it clean.

The mission had succeeded. The data was retrieved. The kill order had been avoided.

And Bucky didn’t tolerate excuses in debrief.

You moved very slowly to sit, spine straight, jaw locked. The pain was manageable. As long as you didn’t shift too much. As long as you kept breathing shallow. As long as your body didn’t betray you first.

The door opened behind you.

You didn’t flinch, but your shoulders pulled just slightly tighter.

You didn’t look up until he sat down.

Bucky dropped into the chair with a kind of quiet authority that never tried to announce itself. He didn’t need to. You’d seen people straighten instinctively when he walked into a room. Not out of fear. Not even respect. Just gravity.

He keyed into the tablet with a flick of his thumb and said nothing for a long moment.

“Solo recon,” he said, eyes on the report. “Low contact. Data collection only. You were in and out six hours ahead of schedule.”

Your mouth felt dry. “The infrastructure was lighter than predicted. I got what we needed.”

“You didn’t log an early extraction.”

“I didn’t need one.”

His jaw shifted slightly. Not clenched, just a tick of muscle, subtle and practiced, like he was filing your answers away for later. Like he already knew he’d be circling back to every word you just said.

“You breached the secondary corridor. That wasn’t on your pathing.”

“There were inconsistencies in the thermal layout.”

“You followed them alone.”

“That’s the job.”

He didn’t argue. Just turned the tablet, tapped the video feed timestamp. A grainy loop of your helmet cam played: a shadow moving through darkness, light flickering across concrete. The corner where you turned too sharply. The sudden jolt in the image. A sharp gasp—short, quiet, then nothing.

He paused it. Tapped again. Rewound. His brow furrowed. Let it play back slower.

This time, he didn’t look at the footage. He looked at you.

“You dropped your shoulder,” he said quietly. “Right before the feed cut.”

“It was nothing.”

“Was that a hit?”

Your tongue pressed hard to the roof of your mouth. “It didn’t affect the objective.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move. Just watched.

And you hated how that made it worse, how the stillness wrapped around the room like a noose. He was letting you lie to him. Letting you say whatever you needed to say, because he already knew.

He’d been there before, in that same position, pretending a cracked rib was bruising, pretending a torn tendon was stiffness, pretending a mission wasn’t carved into the meat of him long after it was over.

There was no lecture. No accusation. Just the weight of someone who could see through you and chose not to interrupt the performance.

“I’m fine,” you said flatly.

He didn’t answer.

The quiet stretched. You thought maybe that was it, maybe he was going to let it go.

Then his eyes flicked down to your right side. To the faint, spreading mark where the fabric of your shirt beneath your jacket was turning darker. Not fast. Not enough to pool. But enough to stain.

His chair scraped back.

You stiffened. “I'm fine, it's handled.”

He came around the table, slow and deliberate. Metal fingers flexing at his side.

“Lift your arm.”

“I said I'm fine,” you snapped.

“That’s not the same thing as handled.”

You didn’t move. You weren’t sure if you could. The adrenaline was starting to thin out in your veins, leaving behind that sinking, swampy exhaustion. Your stomach turned, not from pain, but from how seen you suddenly felt. You’d trained for exposure. For being watched. Not for this.

Bucky crouched beside you. Not in front, but beside. Like a pressure valve being slowly eased open.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, tone unreadable. “How long.”

You swallowed, head dropping slightly. “Since the drop site.”

“Why didn’t you flag it?”

“It's under control.”

“No, it's not.”

His voice was low. Not cruel. But final.

You’d heard him angry before. Heard the bite in his tone when someone made a call that put the team at risk. This wasn’t that. This was colder, quieter. A kind of disappointment that didn’t need volume.

You didn’t know which was worse—being yelled at, or being spoken to like someone who should have known better.

He reached for your side, and your hand caught his wrist before you could stop yourself.

You hadn’t meant to. It wasn’t a choice, not really, just instinct, like every muscle in your body recoiling from the threat of being touched before it was ready. Not because it was him. Because you knew what came next. Knew what it looked like when someone saw too much and tried to carry it for you. And you couldn’t afford that. Not from him.

He stilled.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. If you saw the look in his eyes, you might flinch. And you were still trying to pretend you hadn’t already lost.

“It wasn’t supposed to go loud,” you said, voice thin. “There were two waiting. They knew where I’d enter. They knew the blind spots.”

You could hear the shift in him. That internal lock of gears grinding against something they’d already worn through before. You hadn’t meant to trigger that recognition in him, but you’d felt it land. Somewhere deep, in a place you both shared but never acknowledged.

You shifted your grip. Not letting go, just adjusting. Like you could buy yourself another few seconds by pretending it wasn’t about the wound at all.

“Just leave it,” you muttered. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“It never is. Until it is.” His tone didn’t change, but his gaze lifted—finally meeting yours. Calm. Direct. A low, measured pressure behind it, like he was willing to wait you out.

You hated that about him. That patience. That quiet steadiness that didn’t waver, didn’t flinch. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It just was.

And it made it so much harder to pretend he didn’t see you. Really see you.

“I don’t need—” you started, jaw tight.

“You need someone to look at it,” he said. “Let it be me.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an order either. And that somehow made it worse. You weren’t sure which was more dangerous, someone barking commands or someone asking for permission.

His voice had dipped lower, just enough to make your chest pull tight. There wasn’t concern there, not in the usual sense. He wasn’t doting. He wasn’t trying to soothe. He was present. And there was something in that presence that made it hard to breathe.

You dropped your hand.

He pushed your shirt up, carefully, and you exhaled through gritted teeth as the gauze pulled away. The cut was clean. But deep. His brow furrowed slightly—not from shock, not quite. Just calculation.

He was already thinking of entry angles. Blade length. Positioning. Probably already seeing the hallway in his head. Watching it unfold in slow motion, over and over again, looking for what he missed. As if he had been the one to miss it.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You let out a humorless breath. “That your professional opinion?”

He didn’t smile.

There was something cruel about how quiet he stayed. Not toward you, but toward himself. You could feel it, even now, in the way he shifted to reach for the med kit like he couldn’t let himself react to what he’d seen. Like the second he let emotion in, he’d lose grip on what was necessary.

“You patch this yourself?”

“Didn’t have time to find med support.”

He moved to pull the kit from the wall behind him with one hand, snapping it open. You heard the rustle of packaging, the gentle snap of gloves. His hands were steady. Too steady.

Too calm. Too clinical. Which meant he wasn’t.

When he pressed the antiseptic to your skin, your breath caught.

You didn’t mean to—didn’t want to—but the pain was sharp, cutting through whatever haze had been buffering you. Your body flinched before your mind could will it still. You hated how obvious it was. How involuntary. You hated even more how his hands didn’t pause.

“Just breathe.”

It wasn’t said like a warning. Wasn’t a comfort, either. It came quiet, low enough that it felt more like a thought spoken aloud than something meant for you to answer.

You hated how your lungs obeyed. How the next inhale came shallow but cleaner. How the sting faded just enough under the sound of his voice for you to remember where you were. Who was touching you.

Your gaze didn’t lift. Couldn’t. You stared at a smudge on the floor instead, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that had nothing to do with pain. You weren’t fragile. You weren’t. But there was something about him seeing the flinch, about him not reacting to it, that made your throat go tight.

His eyes flicked up, barely a beat behind it. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch or hesitate, didn’t scold you for not holding still. Just paused long enough for the air between you to thicken. The smell of alcohol and blood and something too human to name settled over the room like fog.

“Still with me?” he asked, but it was rhetorical. His eyes had already checked—your pupils, your hands, the tension in your legs. He read you like a goddamn topographic map.

“I’ve had worse,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said.

You wished he didn’t. Wished he hadn’t been there for half of them, hadn’t watched you limp out of drop zones or tape your shoulder back into place mid-mission with the kind of steadiness that wasn’t brave, just practiced. He knew what you looked like when you bled. You’d made peace with that years ago.

But this felt different.

He set the antiseptic soaked gauze aside and reached for the sutures. The gloves didn’t crinkle when he moved, he was too precise for that. Even the gentlest press of his fingers at your side felt deliberate. Controlled. No wasted motion. No softness, either. Just a kind of reverence that came from experience. You weren’t sure if it was for you, or for the wound itself.

“You said there were two,” he said suddenly, voice low. “Which one of them did this?”

There was no hesitation in the question, but it wasn’t casual. Nothing about it was. The way he asked, like he already knew the answer would sit wrong in his chest, told you more than it should’ve.

Bucky didn’t bristle often. Didn’t posture. But there was something under his voice now, tight and metallic. Cold. Like if you named the man responsible, he’d dig him up just to break him again.

You held his gaze. Didn’t flinch.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t walk out of there.”

The edge in your voice was quieter than his, but just as sharp. You didn’t offer more. You didn’t need to.

His eyes searched yours for a second too long, jaw flexing once like he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the shape of it. He looked back down, set the first suture, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.

“Good.”

You weren’t sure if he meant it the way it sounded. You weren’t sure if he was sure. But something settled in his shoulders after that, and he didn’t ask again.

It would’ve been easier if he had. If he’d pressed. If he’d let the protectiveness boil over into something sharp, something that gave you a reason to push him away and keep things clean between you. But he didn’t. He never did. He just stayed in that crouch beside you, jaw tight, hands steady, letting the silence stretch between you like a wire pulled too thin.

And maybe that was worse.

Because he didn’t look at you like a soldier waiting for confirmation, or a leader waiting for a report. He looked at you like he’d already imagined a hundred different versions of that fight—the ones where you didn’t walk out. The ones where someone else did. And you could feel it sitting behind his ribs like weight. Like something he wasn’t letting himself name.

It had always been like this with him. That quiet intensity. The kind that crept in slowly, uninvited. The kind that made it impossible to tell where professionalism ended and something more dangerous began. You never asked. You didn’t need to.

You’d felt it in the way he moved between you and crossfire before anyone could blink. In the way his voice dropped, barely audible, when you were hurt. In the way he never touched you unless he had to, but when he did, it was like he was memorizing the contact. Like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was worth the—”

“Don’t,” he said, too quiet. “Don’t downplay it.”

He reached for another suture strip, tore it open with one hand. “You think if you minimize it enough, it won’t matter? That if you wrap it tight and walk like your spine’s straight, it doesn’t count as damage?”

Your breath hitched, shallow.

“I’ve done that too,” he added, and there was something in his voice now, not pity, never that, but something hollow and brutal and familiar. “I used to think if I could stand through the pain, no one had to see it. That if no one saw it, it couldn’t touch anything else.”

He looked at you again.

“But I see it.”

You stared at him.

He went back to working your side, taping and sealing with brutal efficiency, like if he just moved fast enough, it wouldn’t settle in his chest the way it was clearly trying to. Like if he didn’t meet your eyes again, he wouldn’t say anything worse.

But you didn’t let it go.

“You’re not just pissed about the mission.”

He didn’t answer.

You shifted, just enough to wince, and he caught your elbow before you could flinch all the way.

“Careful,” he said, voice low.

“That wasn’t an answer.”

His jaw ticked. You watched his throat move as he swallowed something back.

“I’m not pissed,” he said eventually. “I’m—”

He stopped. Adjusted his grip on the bandage. Fingers tight.

“I don’t like watching people I care about bleed.”

It was the first time he’d said something like that, care about, out loud. Not just implied in the way he moved between you and danger, not just the steady presence outside your door after bad missions, not just in the way he always remembered what you wouldn’t ask for. But said.

Out loud.

You sat very still.

Bucky cleared his throat. “You didn’t think you could come in here like that and I wouldn’t notice?”

“I didn’t know what you’d do if you did.”

“I’d do this,” he said simply, finishing the last suture. “I’d sit you down and fix it.”

“And after?”

He looked at you again. Quiet. Careful. Like you were still bleeding, just somewhere else now.

“I don’t know,” he said. "The same as always."

That should’ve been the end of it. The final thread cut. No promises, no mistakes, no ground given. Just those few words, flat and true.

But you didn’t look away.

And he didn’t move.

The med kit sat open on the table beside him, wrappers scattered, tools laid out with military precision. His gloves were still on. Blood on the fingertips. Your blood. You watched him peel them off one at a time, like he needed something to do with his hands. Like the silence might drown him if he didn’t fill it with something.

You let your weight shift back into the chair. Your side pulled tight. Not enough to tear. Enough to remind you it was still there.

He reached forward again. Not to touch the bandage. Just to rest his hand near yours on the table. Close. Not touching. You could’ve bridged the gap with your pinky.

You didn’t.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, voice quieter now. Tired in a way that didn’t show on his face but sat in the back of his throat like ash. “That I’m mad? That I don’t get it? You think I don’t know why you don't tell anyone?”

You didn’t answer.

“Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Because then someone else gets to decide how bad it is. Gets to take it from you. And maybe you’d rather bleed through your fucking ribs than let anyone carry the weight.”

Still, you didn’t answer.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Rubbed a hand over his jaw. His knuckles were scraped. Probably from training. Or from the chair he’d shattered in the sparring room last week when Torres made a joke about his shoulder during drills.

You knew Bucky didn’t lash out without a reason.

You just didn’t like thinking about whether you counted as one.

His hand didn’t move. Yours didn’t either.

The table felt like the only thing keeping your body upright, your fingers curled just enough to hide the tremble that had nothing to do with blood loss. He wasn’t looking at you now—his eyes were down, jaw tense, thumb tracing a slow arc near the edge of a wrapper. Like he was waiting for you to say something that would let him off the hook. Or maybe give him permission to stay on it.

You shifted slightly. Just enough to test your range of movement. Just enough to remind yourself where the pain was still sharpest. He caught it. Of course he did. His eyes flicked back up for half a second. Not to ask if you were okay. Just to watch. Just to know.

“I didn’t come in here looking for a scene,” you said finally, voice low. “I wasn’t trying to make this into—”

“Into what?”

You didn’t answer.

He sat back on his heels, knees cracking slightly. His hand was still on the table. Still close. And when he spoke again, the edge in his voice wasn’t anger. It was something colder. Resigned.

“You think I give a shit if this turns into something.”

That pulled your eyes up. Slowly.

He looked tired. Not physically. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixed. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there last year. Not deep enough to age him, but enough to mark the hours he spent pretending things didn’t hit as hard as they did.

You stared at him. “You say that like you know where it’s going.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I just know I’m not the one walking in with blood in my teeth and acting like it’s business as usual.”

That got under your skin. You felt the flicker of it move through your chest like a match.

“I didn’t ask you to do this.”

“I know.”

The room went still again.

He exhaled through his nose, slower this time, like he was trying not to say the next thing before it forced itself out. Like he was weighing the silence in his mouth and deciding whether it was worth breaking.

“You don’t make things easy,” he said.

You tilted your head slightly. “You want easy, Barnes, you’re in the wrong line of work.”

“I’m not talking about the work.”

It landed harder than you expected. Or maybe exactly how you expected, and you’d just been hoping he wouldn’t say it out loud. You sat back a little. Let your hand fall away from the table. Your side throbbed in protest.

He watched it happen. Didn’t comment.

You looked down at your lap. Focused on the dried blood near your waistband. On the way your fingers had curled in again without your permission.

“I didn’t come here to talk about us,” you said, quieter now. Not defensive. Not backpedaling. Just honest.

“I know,” he said. “But you didn’t come here to bleed out alone in a chair, either.”

You didn’t have a response for that. Because part of you had. Not to bleed out, exactly, but to hide the worst of it. Just long enough for the report to clear. Just long enough for it to not become anyone else’s problem. But that had never worked with him. He didn’t wait for permission to see through the mask. Never had.

Bucky stood slowly. Not like he was leaving, like he needed to stretch his legs or he’d start pacing. His hand dragged down his face once, like he was trying to rub the expression off before it settled into something harder.

“You scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he said.

That pulled your head up. “What?”

“Not because you’re reckless,” he added, facing the wall now, hands planted on his hips. “Because you’re calculated. Because I know you made the call. Took the hit. Handled it. And still didn’t say a damn word.”

You watched his shoulders rise, slow and tight, like his breath caught halfway through.

“I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t going to help,” you said. “The mission was clean.”

“I’m not talking about the mission.”

That made something in your chest shift. He said it too fast. Like it had been waiting there the whole time, right under the surface.

He turned back toward you then. And this time, there was no detachment left. No cool professionalism. Just Bucky. Raw and present and exhausted by the weight of everything unspoken.

“I can’t read your mind,” he said. “You think I can, but I can’t. I can see when you’re hurt. I can see when you’re bleeding. But I don’t know when you stop letting anyone in.”

You stared at him. “I haven’t shut you out.”

“You think letting me stitch you up means I get to know where you are?”

That landed.

He crossed his arms. Not defensive—anchoring. Trying to hold something in that was already slipping. “You could’ve come to my room instead of here. You didn’t.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“I’ve seen you worse.”

You stood. A little too fast. The pain surged. You gripped the edge of the table to steady yourself, jaw clamped tight until it passed.

He didn’t rush forward. He just stood there. Watching. Letting you decide what you needed to hold yourself together.

“You think I want to keep doing this?” you said finally, voice low. “You think I like walking in here looking like hell and pretending it’s fine? You think I don’t know how this looks?”

He didn’t say anything. Which was worse than if he had. You could feel him watching you, reading you, the way he always did. And somehow, that still made it harder to speak.

“I didn’t come to your room,” you said, “because if I did, I wouldn’t have left.”

There. Said. It landed between you like a weapon left on the table. Sharp. Unmoving.

And it silenced him completely.

You watched his face. The way his jaw ticked once. The way his eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but like he was trying to fit the truth of it into the space between everything else. That it hadn’t been about pride. Or protocol. Or even pain.

It had been about him.

He moved first.

One step, then another, until he was standing close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. Not touching. Not yet. Just close. Close enough that when he spoke, you didn’t miss a word.

“You wouldn’t have had to.”

That knocked the breath from your lungs more than the blade had.

He reached out slowly. Not toward your injury, not toward your face. His fingers brushed just barely over your wrist, featherlight. Like he didn’t want to startle you. Like he’d been waiting to make this exact move for weeks, maybe longer.

But you didn’t pull back.

You couldn’t.

Because this was exactly the part that scared you more than any mission, any ambush, any stitched-up wound. The knowing. The letting him see how much it cost you to be steady. To stay upright when you were tired of it. To walk into every fight like you didn’t already have enough bruises from the last.

His hand moved to yours, just enough to curl his fingers around your knuckles. The contact was warm, grounding. No pressure. Just weight. Intentional and steady and there.

“I hate this,” you whispered. “How easy it is for you to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not fooling you.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t say you’re not, because he didn’t need to.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, quieter now. The kind of quiet that cracked at the edges. “Not with everything else. Not when it’s already hard enough to breathe some days.”

His grip didn’t tighten. He didn’t pull you in. He just stayed.

“I’m not asking you to do it all at once,” he said. “I just want you to stop pretending you’re alone.”

You felt that one in your bones.

He let his hand slide up from yours, slow, up your forearm, to the bend of your elbow. Not possessive. Not comforting. Just anchoring. Just present. Like he was proving he was real. Like he knew what it meant to stand still while someone flinched under the weight of being seen.

“Can I help you back to your room?” he asked after a beat.

You hesitated.

Because yes would mean surrendering something. Control. Image. The illusion of strength that had gotten you this far.

But then you nodded.

Because no meant going back to that silence. To pretending he wasn’t right. To pretending that the tremble in your legs wasn’t going to give out the second you passed the threshold alone.

He didn’t say anything else. Just stepped back a little and reached for your jacket, careful of your side. He helped you into it like it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Like he’d already memorized how to move around your injuries without needing the full inventory.

When you swayed, just slightly, his arm came around your waist. His touch was careful—more supportive than guiding. Like he wasn’t leading you anywhere you weren’t choosing to go.

Outside the room, the hallway was quiet. Late-shift lighting hummed overhead, casting the corridors in that dim, sterile blue you’d always hated. But it didn’t feel cold now. Not with his hand steady at your side.

You didn’t talk. Neither of you did.

It wasn’t avoidance. It was a truce.

When you reached your room, you paused in the doorway.

“Thanks,” you said, turning enough to look at him, “for not making it worse.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

He gave you the smallest nod. Like he understood there wasn’t a better way to say what you meant. Like he didn’t have one either.

You thought that might be it. That he’d step back. Let you walk inside and close the door and process this later, on your own, the way you always had.

But he didn’t move.

And you didn’t step inside.

Not yet.

There was one last thing sitting between you—one last thread you hadn’t pulled.

“Bucky.”

He looked up, and his eyes were softer than they should’ve been.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“If I had came to your room,” you said, “and I didn’t leave—what would you have done?”

He held your gaze. Steady. No hesitation.

“I would’ve stayed too.”

That broke something open in your chest. Not sharp. Not painful. Just... full. Like the air had shifted. Like maybe you didn’t have to hold all of it alone anymore.

“Okay,” you said.

Then you stepped aside.

When he followed you in, he didn’t say anything else.

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totallynotaqua · 11 days ago

Text

Obsession

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.

word count: 6021

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, masturbation, dirty talk, degrading, praising, desperation, fingering, teasing, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex and he talks through it, breeding, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), possessive behavior.

A/N: i’m horny, okay?…

You don’t have a crush on Bucky Barnes.

That would imply affection. Admiration. Maybe even a little emotional investment.

You don’t have any of that.

What you do have is a deeply inconvenient, soul-destroying case of lust. A constant, throbbing ache between your legs every time he walks past. A full-body reaction to the way he stretches, or leans on the counter, or wears those fucking grey sweatpants like a goddamn weapon.

It’s chemical. It’s hormonal. It’s not personal.

Because Bucky Barnes is grumpy. Bucky Barnes is quiet. And Bucky Barnes has absolutely no idea that he’s the reason you can’t go three days without needing to fuck yourself stupid.

Like right now.

He’s just standing there in the kitchen, back to you, broad shoulders stretching that worn black Henley like it’s a second skin. His hair’s short now, freshly trimmed at the nape, the kind of cut that shows off the sharp line of his jaw, the back of his neck.

You’re staring. Again.

You don’t mean to. But he makes a little grunt when he stretches — just a tired noise, nothing sexual — and you nearly whimper like a kicked dog. Instinct. Pavlovian response.

And he doesn’t notice. Not even a flicker of awareness as he pours his coffee and walks out, oblivious, muttering something about the mission report.

You just stand there, holding a spoon, clenched thighs and flushed cheeks like you’ve just been fucked by the idea of him.

It’s getting worse.

Like, medically worse.

You’ve gone from horny to feral to clinically unwell, and it’s all because of one man.

One grumpy, emotionally constipated, vein-poppingly hot man who can’t say a sentence without sounding mildly irritated. Who barely even looks at you unless you’re in the way. Who definitely doesn’t like you — and yet somehow owns your nervous system like a fucking landlord.

And it’s not fair.

Because he’s not even nice to you.

He’s short with you in meetings. Scoffs when you crack jokes. Gives you that look when you say something mildly reckless on a mission — like you’re exhausting. Like you’re annoying.

But then he’ll do something that ruins you completely. Like grunt your name low and gravelly when tossing you your gear. Or casually push you out of the line of fire with one big, rough hand and say, “Watch it, sweetheart,” like you’re some dainty little thing.

You pace your room that night, ranting to no one.

“I don’t even like him,” you mutter, folding laundry with violent purpose. “He’s so rude. He never smiles. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless he has to.”

Your shirt gets yanked onto a hanger too hard. You nearly snap it.

“And he doesn’t even like me. Not even a little. I’m just some girl who laughs too loud and gets in his way and—oh my god, I would let him ruin me.”

That’s probably the most honest thing you said all week. You’d let him manhandle you. Throw you over his shoulder. Rail you into the mattress like a war crime. That arm? The metal one? You’ve thought about it. God, you’ve thought about it so much it’s starting to feel like a sin.

You can’t help it.

You collapse onto your bed, still in your T-shirt and underwear, legs kicking uselessly against the sheets. Your body is hot — too hot. Your skin prickles, stomach twisting tight with the sheer need of it.

You shouldn’t do it.

But fuck it — you do.

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties like second nature, no hesitation. You’re already soaked — of course you are. One fucking grunt from Bucky in the kitchen and you’ve been like this all day, wound tight and throbbing.

Your fingers slide through the slick heat of your folds, and your hips twitch. You let out a soft, breathless whimper, biting your lip like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

He’s all you can think about.

Bucky, with that low rasp of a voice. Bucky, sweat-slicked and panting, muscles straining above you. Bucky, staring down at you like you’re a mess he likes making.

You rub lazy circles around your clit, teasing yourself, letting it build slow. Letting the images crawl behind your eyes:

His hands gripping your thighs, spreading them open.

That cold metal arm wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he pounds into you, relentless and filthy.

His voice in your ear, rough and possessive —“You been thinkin’ about this, sweetheart? Been touching yourself like a needy little thing?”

Your fingers move faster.

You arch into the mattress, breath stuttering, hips chasing the pressure. Your other hand slides up under your shirt, finds your breast and squeezes hard, tugging at your nipple.

“Fuck,” you whisper, squirming, already so close it’s pathetic.

You imagine his hand — that hand — between your legs. Imagine him shoving your panties to the side with those cool, precise fingers and just… watching you squirm. Watching you come undone with that unreadable expression of his, like he’s filing it away for later.

You imagine him making you come like this. Telling you you’re not allowed to stop. That you’re gonna do it again, and again, until you’re crying.

Your thighs start to shake.

You gasp, pressing harder, grinding down. Your toes curl, muscles tensing, pleasure tearing through you like lightning — sharp, wet, overwhelming.

You come hard, moaning into your pillow, breathless and ruined, hand still trembling between your thighs.

And then?

You lie there. Sticky. Hot. Unsatisfied.

Because no matter how many times you make yourself come, it’s never enough.

Not when it’s him you want.

Not when it’s Bucky fucking Barnes.

———

You’re minding your business. Truly. Peacefully. Drinking your stupid little smoothie, scrolling through intel reports on your tablet, trying so hard not to think about last night and the shame spiral that followed.

You’re in the common room, feet tucked under you, hair up, living a clean and quiet life.

The front door hisses open. Voices filter in—Sam laughing, Nat muttering something dry, Steve’s boots heavy on the floor.

And him.

Bucky.

You don’t look up at first. You don’t need to. You can feel him. Like some sixth sense activated just by his presence, like the air itself is different when he walks into it.

But then you do look up and you regret it immediately.

He’s just back from the field. Tactical gear still clinging to him, black shirt soaked through with sweat in that way that makes it stick to every hard line of muscle underneath. The sleeves are tight around his biceps—dangerously tight—making it look like the fabric’s seconds from giving out under the strain of his arms.

His hair’s damp, just messy enough to be criminal, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Dog tags resting against his chest. Black cargo pants slung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like they were custom-made by someone with your exact problem.

He’s flushed from exertion, a little dirty, jaw tight like he’s still coming down from combat.

And he doesn’t notice you. He just walks past, arm flexing as he drags his glove off with his teeth.

You actually—physically—have to grip the edge of the couch.

You squeeze your thighs together so tight your eyes almost roll back. Your smoothie is sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your leg, and it’s the least of your problems right now.

Because that man?

That man could rail you into next week with the anger he carries in his shoulders alone. You’d let him wreck you in the debriefing room, up against the wall, still wearing that gear and not saying a word.

You’d tear those tactical pants off with your teeth.

And he just keeps walking. Oblivious. Like he’s not singlehandedly dragging you through the gates of horny hell.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, heart hammering. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He pauses for half a second like he might’ve heard you. Glances over his shoulder—just once.

And then he’s gone, down the hall.

You stare at the door for a long time, smoothie forgotten, thighs still clenched like your life depends on it.

You need help. You need prayer. Exorcism. A cold shower.

Or maybe you just need him to ruin your entire existence.

You barely make it back to your room.

Your legs are shaking. Your mind’s a blur. All you can see is him—sweaty, panting, muscles strained beneath that black t-shirt. His arm flexing, the curve of his jaw, those goddamn tactical pants hugging every inch of thigh like a threat.

You lock the door behind you with trembling fingers.

You don’t even bother taking your clothes off properly—just shove your hand down your shorts as you collapse back onto your bed, legs spread, head spinning.

He looked so good.

Your fingers slide through your folds, already wet, your body acting like it’s been starving for him. Like it’s been waiting all day, all year, for a glimpse of that man so it can break down on command.

You rub your clit in tight, needy circles, moaning quietly.

Your eyes flutter shut.

You picture him over you, sweaty and still in gear, that black shirt pushed up just enough to show the cut of his stomach. You imagine his voice, low and rough, right next to your ear—“Couldn’t even wait, huh? Needed me that bad?”

Your hips buck, thighs shaking, pleasure building fast and desperate.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you gasp, breath catching.

You don’t hear the quiet footfalls in the hall.

Don’t hear the door next to yours click shut.

Don’t know he’s just gotten back to his room.

But he hears you.

Bucky stops with one boot halfway unlaced.

He frowns—still half in mission mode—until he hears it again: a faint whimper through the wall. A soft gasp. Then—his name. Muffled. Almost whispered.

His blood goes still.

He steps closer to the wall, heart suddenly pounding, every nerve pulled tight.

Another moan. Higher this time. Desperate.

He can hear the rhythm now—quiet, wet sounds, a bed creaking slightly with every movement. You’re touching yourself. Saying his name. Whimpering like it’s been torturing you.

His mouth goes dry. Something low in his stomach twists.

He shouldn’t listen.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

You don’t know he’s there—don’t know you’ve already ruined him. That he’s standing on the other side of the wall, jaw clenched, cock straining against his pants, while you moan into your pillow and come with his name on your lips.

———

The next day, you tell yourself you’re fine.

You look fine. You act fine. You sit in the common area with your laptop open and a mug in your hands like a picture of peace. The night before? Never happened. The hand between your thighs? The breathy moans into your pillow? The orgasm that left you limp and half-ashamed?

A delusion. A private, pathetic delusion.

Until he walks in.

And your entire body remembers.

Bucky enters like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Joggers low on his hips, black T-shirt riding up in the back, hair damp from a shower and curling just slightly around his ears.

You look up instinctively.

And he looks right at you.

Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. He holds your gaze for half a second—half a second too long—then nods, casual as ever, and heads to the kitchen.

No hello. No smirk. Nothing to suggest he heard the way you moaned his name with your fingers stuffed between your thighs like you were starving for him.

He doesn’t say a word.

You try to refocus, try to look at your screen and breathe, but your eyes keep flicking back.

He’s moving around the kitchen now, calm, quiet, efficient. Forearms flexing with every movement. The joggers cling when he crouches to grab something from a low cabinet, and your mouth actually goes dry.

Your thighs squeeze together.

He knows.

He has to know.

But he’s pretending like he doesn’t, and it’s driving you fucking insane.

You don’t even want to like him. He’s grumpy and rude and dismissive. He doesn’t flirt. He barely talks. He exists like a thundercloud with muscles and you still want to cry from how badly you want him.

And now he knows.

Now you’ve moaned his name with a hand between your legs, and he’s seen you since and said nothing.

You want to crawl into the floor.

You want to jump him.

You want him to ruin you until you can’t even say your own name.

He walks past you again with a cup of coffee, eyes flicking toward you—slow, heavy, unreadable.

And this time?

You swear there’s a hint of a smirk.

He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, that black mug dwarfing in his gloved hand. The steam curls around his face, catching the light, and he’s just staring at nothing—completely unreadable.

Until he speaks. “Sleep okay last night?”

You freeze. Your heart flatlines. Then kicks into overdrive.

You glance up too fast, trying to act casual, but your grip on the mug betrays you—tight, white-knuckled.

“Yeah,” you say, blinking. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs. Sips again. His face is all calm, cold stillness. Like he’s discussing the weather. Not like he heard you moaning his name behind the paper-thin wall like your soul was leaving your body.

“Nothing,” he says, low and even.

You swallow hard. Try to hide the heat crawling up your neck.

You stare at him. Waiting for something. A look. A smirk. A single flicker of anything.

But he gives you nothing.

Just turns back toward the hallway, casual as ever, coffee in hand, like he didn’t just dangle a loaded gun over your head and walk away.

And as he disappears down the hall, your thighs press together again.

You’re so fucked.

———

You try to sleep.

You really, really do.

You toss. You turn. You fluff your pillow. You kick the blankets off and pull them back up. You stare at the ceiling and beg your brain to stop replaying the way he looked in that shirt. The way his voice dropped when he asked about your night. The nothing he gave you like a damn grenade and walked away.

It doesn’t stop.

It won’t stop.

You squeeze your thighs together for the fifth time in twenty minutes, but it only makes it worse. Your whole body’s aching—burning. Tight with the need that’s been building for the entire day.

You glance at the door. You know you should get up and lock it.

But you don’t. Because you’re tired. And turned on. And pathetic.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, dragging your hand under the sheets. “I’ll be quiet.”

You bite your lip as your fingers slide down, already warm, already soaked. You work slow at first, trying to stay silent—just enough to relieve the pressure. Just enough to breathe again.

But then your mind starts drifting.

To him.

Always him.

Bucky in the gym, sweat-slick and scowling. Bucky walking past you post-mission like a walking sin. Bucky pressing you into your mattress with that big metal hand wrapped around your throat, voice rough in your ear—“You’re so fucking loud for me, baby.”

You gasp. Then whimper. Soft. Barely audible.

But he hears it.

He’s in his room again. Reading. Trying to pretend like he didn’t spend all day imagining the look on your face when he asked about your sleep. Trying not to picture your hand between your thighs again.

And then he hears you.

Again.

A muffled moan, breathless and aching, like it’s being pulled out of you against your will.

He stands without thinking.

Crosses the hall with quiet, deliberate steps. His pulse is steady, but something low is stirring—something primal. Something possessive. The kind of heat that doesn’t burn—it consumes.

He stops outside your door.

Closed. Not locked.

He doesn’t even knock.

The handle turns with the softest click, and then—

He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet snick.

You don’t hear it.

You’re on your back, one knee bent, your hand buried under the hem of your shorts. Your head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in these soft, gasping little whimpers as you chase the edge, hips twitching, breath fogging in the dim light.

You have no idea he’s there.

Not until you hear him speak.

“Didn’t I just ask if you slept okay?” The voice—his voice—cracks through the quiet like a whip.

You bolt upright.

Everything inside you lurches, heart ramming against your ribs, a violent rush of heat and panic rising through your chest like you’ve been caught in a fire. Your hand yanks back from your shorts like it’s been scorched, and you scramble to pull the blanket up, dragging it over your thighs as your breath shatters.

Your eyes fly to the source of the voice.

And there he is. Leaning against the door like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.

His expression is unreadable—casual, maybe—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry. Like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you in one glance.

You can’t move. Can’t think.

Your heart’s thudding like a drumline, and your cheeks go hot, burning as your stomach flips over itself in full-blown horror.

You can still feel your arousal—sticky, heat pressed between your thighs, your pulse fluttering in places he’s not even touched.

“Bucky—” you croak, throat tight. “I—what are you doing—how—”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he says flatly.

Matter-of-fact. Like that explains everything.

And it kind of does.

You just sit there, still clutching the blanket to your chest like it can undo what he saw. As if it can erase the sound of you moaning into your pillow while your fingers worked yourself over to the thought of him.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches.

Like he’s curious. Patient. Like he’s giving you a chance to dig your own grave or shut up and let him lower you into it.

You look at him and it hits you how big he is. Broad and solid, filling the doorway like a wall. The black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, tucked into his pants just enough to show the lines of his waist, and that goddamn metal hand is flexing at his side like it’s already made its decision.

And still… he doesn’t leave.

Your voice breaks trying to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was quiet— I didn’t know—”

“I heard everything.”

That shuts you up.

His voice is calm. But it’s not soft. Not gentle. It sinks into your gut like a stone, and your thighs squeeze together before you can stop yourself—before your body betrays you again.

You look away. You can’t look at him. Not when you’re like this—hair messy, skin flushed, caught in the act like a filthy little secret with your want written all over your sheets.

He moves. Not quickly. Not harshly. Just decisively. Like this is inevitable. Like he knew the moment he opened that door that he wasn’t going to leave until you were ruined.

He crosses the room in two slow steps. Sits on the edge of your bed, right next to you. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid, and your breath hitches—your entire body tensing as his presence crowds the air.

Then his hand—the metal one—reaches out.

He takes your wrist. Your fingers are still damp. Still twitching from where they were buried between your thighs. He stares at them for a second, then meets your eyes.

“Touch yourself.”

You blink. “What—”

“I said touch yourself,” he repeats, a little lower this time. “Show me.”

Your heart slams. His grip stays locked around your wrist, not forcing—but not letting go either. He doesn’t need to threaten. Doesn’t need to beg.

He’s already heard you fall apart for him.

Now he wants the show.

And fuck—your body obeys before your brain can stop it.

You shift beneath the covers, breath shaking, eyes wide as your hand slides back down, slipping under the waistband of your shorts.

Your skin’s hot. Everything throbs and you’re soaked.

Shame prickles in your chest, but it’s drowned by the way he watches—focused and still, his hand still gripping yours like he owns it.

You let your fingers find that spot again, slick and swollen, and you shudder.

“Fuck,” you whisper, breath catching.

His voice cuts through it. Soft. Direct. “You’ve been touching yourself thinking about me?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“And now you can’t stop, can you?” he murmurs. “Poor thing. You want me this much, baby?”

You let out a tiny, broken sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and press harder.

His metal thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful, like he’s testing your pulse. You’re so wet your fingers glide without resistance, your hips moving on their own.

“Messy little thing,” he mutters. “God, you’re desperate. Didn’t even lock the door.”

His flesh hand moves too now—reaching up to push your hair from your face, tilting your chin toward him.

“You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, but your body betrays you—back arching, thighs tensing, rhythm faltering as your orgasm creeps up again, fast, tighter than before.

He sees it. Feels it. And he knows.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispers. “Right here, baby? With my hand around yours and your pussy soaking your sheets?”

You sob his name and he finally leans in—breath warm against your cheek.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers slip again—rhythm stuttering, body caught in that maddening edge.

He watches you falter. Watches your mouth fall open, brows pull together, your thighs start to shake with the pressure of holding yourself there. So close. Too close.

And that’s when he moves. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make you freeze.

“Let go,” he says.

You whimper. “But—”

“I said let go.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

You obey. Your hand slips from your shorts, fingers slick and trembling, and your chest rises in short, desperate breaths as he shifts closer.

“Bucky—” you gasp.

But he’s already there. His fingers slide between your folds—just one, at first, cool and unreal, brushing over your clit in a slow, torturous circle. Your hips jerk like you’ve been shocked.

“God,” you moan, clinging to the sheets, “fuck—”

“So sensitive,” he murmurs.

His eyes are locked on your face, hungry, focused—like he’s memorizing the way your mouth falls open for him, the way your lashes flutter when he presses a little harder.

You can’t stop the sounds you make.

You’re already too close—too much—your body wired tight from teasing yourself for nights and thinking of him, only him.

One metal finger dips lower—in now, slick and slow—and your breath punches from your chest.

Your hips grind into it, chasing it like you’re starving.

He fucks you with it slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Watching you unravel inch by inch.

“You’ve been dreaming about this?” he says, voice like gravel. “Getting off to the thought of my hands on you?”

You nod helplessly, fingers clenching around the sheets.

Another finger slides in.

Your body wails for it—so full, so good, the metal stretching you just right—and your thighs tremble, back arching as your orgasm builds so fast it almost hurts.

“Then come for me,” he growls. “Right now. I want to feel how tight you get when you finish.”

You choke on a cry.

And then you fall apart.

Hard.

Your walls clamp down around his fingers, body convulsing as the wave hits you—sharp and electric—shaking through your entire frame with a loud, wrecked moan that echoes in your room.

His hand doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it—slower now, drawing it out, holding your body steady with his free hand while you tremble and sob and drip around him.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You just know you’ve never come like that before.

Not in your life.

Not until him.

You’re still gasping, thighs twitching, brain static from how hard you just came—but he’s not done with you. Not even close.

His fingers slip from you slow, drenched, and he brings them up to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off you.

Then?

He smirks.

That low, dangerous smirk you’ve only ever imagined. Dreamed about. Touched yourself to. And now it’s real.

“You’ve been thinking about me so much,” he says, voice thick with heat, “I bet you want to feel my cock, huh?”

You don’t even answer. Can’t. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out but a broken moan.

He laughs. Dark. Rough. “You fucking slut.”

He stands. Hands go to the waistband of his pants.

Your breath catches, watching.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.

The black tactical pants slide down slow over those solid thighs, revealing the outline of what’s beneath—thick, heavy, hard. You feel your whole body clench at the sight.

He steps out of them, shirt already discarded somewhere between your moans, and he’s standing there now in nothing but black briefs—soaked at the tip.

And holy fuck, he’s big.

Your lips part, staring. You want to drool.

He notices.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Look at what you’ve been aching for every night.”

He pulls the briefs down—slow, shameless.

His cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed at the tip, veins running along the length like something out of a wet dream. You whimper, thighs pressing together reflexively.

“You wanted this inside you so bad you couldn’t keep quiet,” he says, climbing onto the bed again, crawling over you until his weight cages you in. “Moaning my name with the fucking door unlocked.”

Your body arches up to meet him.

“Please,” you whisper.

He fists his cock once, dragging his head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.

You’re still sensitive. Still pulsing.

“Is this what you want?” he growls, notching the tip right against you. “Want me to stretch you open and fuck the brains outta that filthy little head of yours?”

You nod, desperate.

His cock sits heavy in his hand, the flushed tip glistening as he slides it through your slick folds again. Over and over—up and down—until you’re squirming beneath him, hips chasing every motion like you can’t stand another second of not being filled.

But he doesn’t give in. Not yet.

He drags the thick head over your entrance, slow and deliberate, just barely nudging inside before pulling back again.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you whimper, body arching.

“You’re soaked again,” he growls, almost to himself. “You got this wet just thinking about my cock?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. Not for him. He taps your clit once—sharp and teasing—and your whole body jerks.

“Say it.”

Your breath catches. “I—I thought about it every night,” you gasp. “I wanted it so bad. I still want it. Please, Bucky—”

He groans, low and ragged. The tip of his cock presses at your entrance again. Just a little. Just enough to make you feel the burn of it—how thick he is, how your body tries to pull him in even as he holds himself back.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, circling your hole with maddening precision. “How much your pussy needs me?”

You moan, desperate. Hands clawing at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold onto.

He grins. “Needy little thing.”

Then he pushes. Just the tip—slow and thick, stretching you inch by inch.

Your mouth falls open. Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“Oh my—fuck,” you cry.

He pulls back.

You sob.

“Patience,” he mutters, teasing your entrance again. “Wanna feel you beg for it.”

“I’m begging,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please, I need it, I need you to fuck me—”

His mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cry as he thrusts in deep—all the way—filling you to the hilt in one thick, devastating stroke.

Your back arches. Your vision whites out.

“So fucking tight,” he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips, grinding in deeper. “Fuck—you were made for this, weren’t you?”

He stays there for a moment—buried inside you—his cock stretching you open so wide it burns in the best way, hips pressed flush to yours. You can barely breathe, your body trembling with the shock of just how full you feel.

Then he moves. A slow pull out—just a few inches—before slamming right back in.

You scream. Not from pain. From everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pinning you down like he owns you.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking dripping around me.”

Your nails dig into his back.

He starts thrusting—hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with brutal rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where to hit.

And all the while, he talks.

“Been thinking about this tight little cunt every night since I got here. Didn’t know it was mine to take.”

You moan—choked and desperate.

“You wanted it so bad, didn’t you? Wanted me to catch you with your legs spread and fuck you like the filthy little cock-drunk slut you are.”

“Y-Yes—please—” you’re a mess beneath him, eyes wet, mouth open.

He grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare look away while I fuck your pussy.”

You blink up at him, dazed. And fuck—he looks insane. Hair a mess, sweat dripping down his temples, that metal hand gripping your thigh so hard you might bruise.

And still—he doesn’t stop. He fucks you like it’s punishment. Relentless. Ruthless.

Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, your body jerking with the force of it. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard slamming against the wall, your moans echoing like you’re meant to be heard.

“You gonna come again, baby?” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You gonna soak my cock just like you soaked your fingers last night?”

“Bucky—Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing fast circles over your clit as he keeps fucking you open with brutal thrusts.

“You’re gonna come with me inside you, sweetheart. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little toy.”

And it snaps.

You cry out—loud and broken—as your orgasm slams into you hard enough to steal your breath, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, grinding deep into you as you come, riding you through it. “That’s it. So fucking tight—so good for me—”

He’s close now too. You can feel it—his thrusts stuttering, muscles tensing.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “You want that, baby? Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy?”

You’re still shaking, but you nod. Whimpering. Needy.

“Please—inside—want it so bad—”

He buries himself deep and groans loud—raw and wrecked—as he spills inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as you feel every hot pulse of it.

You’re ruined.

His weight sinks down on top of you, breath ragged in your ear, and for a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting.

The room’s heavy with heat and sweat, skin sticking where it meets, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of how hard he fucked you.

Then he lifts his head. Eyes drag down your flushed face. Your parted lips. Your chest rising and falling fast. Still dazed. Still ruined.

He shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, hands gripping your hips, keeping you spread open wide beneath him.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he pulls out—slow and thick, his cock dragging against your fluttering walls before slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper.

And fuck.

You feel it immediately. The warm spill of him leaking out of you—thick and hot and so much—trickling down your folds and onto the sheets in sticky, glistening streams.

Bucky groans under his breath, his eyes locked on your pussy like it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You took it all. So fucking good for me.”

You try to close your legs on instinct, flushed and wrecked and so overstimulated—but he stops you with a firm grip, holding you open with his metal hand.

“Uh-uh. Keep ’em open. I wanna see it.”

His thumb slides down, spreads you further, letting him watch as more of his cum drips from your aching hole.

“Look at that mess,” he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You’re leaking all over the place, baby.”

You shiver under him.

He swipes his thumb through the slick, then presses it back in—just a little—pushing some of it inside again while your body jerks from the sensitivity.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You were made to be filled like this.”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and uneven.

“You’re gonna clean me up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick with command. “Gonna taste every drop.”

Your pulse spikes. You barely have the strength to move, still reeling from the wreck he’s made of you—but you obey, because you need it, because he told you to.

He shifts forward, settling between your thighs again. His metal hand spreads you open, keeping you wide for him, raw and messy. His other hand trails down, steadying his cock where it rests—still hard, still slick with both of you.

He throbs against your skin, flushed and glistening.

You lean forward without hesitation, tongue flicking out to catch the first salty bead that clings to the head. He lets out a quiet groan above you.

His eyes burn as you take your time, licking slowly around the tip—teasing, deliberate—before your lips part wider and you sink down, wrapping him in heat.

Your cheeks hollow as you draw him in deeper, your mouth soft and eager.

“Fuck,” Bucky grits, his hand sliding into your hair, curling tight. “You’re good at this.”

You moan around him, letting the praise sink in as you begin to move—slow, controlled bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls, tasting the mix of him and yourself, and it only makes you hungrier.

You’re not just cleaning him up. You’re savoring him and he knows it.

He pulls you up by your hair, not rough—controlled. Intentional. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and claiming, like he’s branding you from the inside out. His metal hand clamps around your waist, anchoring you, holding you still as he devours you like he owns you.

And fuck, maybe he does.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his breath ghosts over your lips, low and ragged.

“That’s enough,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. “You did so well. That’s my good girl.”

Your stomach twists, body still trembling, as you melt into him — breathless and soaked, the taste of him still slick on your tongue.

He doesn’t move for a while, just lets his weight settle into you, chest rising and falling against yours, heart still pounding beneath sweat-damp skin. His breath is warm where it fans over your cheek, his metal hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.

Then, gently, he shifts. His fingers slide up, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. He kisses your forehead—soft, slow—like he’s claiming you all over again, but quieter this time.

“My good girl,” he murmurs, the words husky but reverent now. “You were perfect.”

Your eyes flutter closed at the sound, overwhelmed, wrecked in the best way. His flesh hand strokes your cheek, soothing the heat from it, while the metal one trails lazy circles over your spine.

“Did so good for me,” he whispers again, like a secret meant only for your bones.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nuzzle closer, tucking yourself into his chest.

Fuck, he did ruin you.

tags: @iamthatonefangirl

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totallynotaqua · 13 days ago

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totallynotaqua · 15 days ago

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Fun little animation I made for a TikTok trend

Very proud of it :3

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totallynotaqua · 16 days ago

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˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

MASTERLIST POST

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

playlist | pinterest board

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

...more soon!

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totallynotaqua · 16 days ago

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Pride Month 2025 Daily Challenge Day 6:

Favorite Bisexual Character

Jacob Frye my beloved

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totallynotaqua · 16 days ago

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knife's edge.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Heels on. Nothing else. You only meant to try them on—until Bucky saw your reflection in the mirror. Now he’s on his knees, leaking, begging, and discovering a kink he never knew he needed.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, stiletto kink, cock worship (m receiving), edging, orgasm denial, ruined orgasm, praise/degradation mix, soft dom!reader, sub!bucky, kink discovery, begging

Author's Note: Just trying something new based on umm an old quote from the man himself (Sebastian).

You’d only meant to try them on.

The heels—sleek, obsidian black stilettos—had been tossed carelessly by your dresser, still in the box Yelena had left with a wink.

“You’re gonna need these at that gala. Something that says: I might stab you, and I’ll look damn good doing it.”

Now, fresh from your shower, skin still warm and dewy, you slipped into them—nothing on but a towel draped over your hair, drying off the ends. The hard click of the heel echoed sharply as you stepped across the hardwood floor of your walk-in, then paused to study your reflection in the full-length mirror.

The shoes made your legs look longer. Firmer. Every shift of your weight made your muscles flex just right—like danger incarnate wrapped in nothing but bare skin and sleek edges. You turned slightly, admiring the clean line of your thigh from the back, the curve of your ass lifted just right by the height of the heels.

You took a few steps—slow and experimental—toward the mirror. Click. Click. A small smile played on your lips. Powerful. That’s how they made you feel.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone.

Bucky had been standing just past the doorway—towel slung low around his hips, hair damp, chest still glistening from the aborted mission to shower. But now he was behind you, watching silently.

In the mirror, you saw him—towering behind you like some kind of storm barely held back. His jaw was tight. His cock already twitching beneath the towel.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.

You startled slightly, catching his reflection. “Buck?”

“I—” he dragged a hand down his face. “Don’t move.”

You arched a brow, amused. “Why?”

“Because I can’t stop staring. You—fuck, sweetheart…” His eyes raked your reflection, wide and hungry. “You look like a fucking vision. I can’t—your legs. Tight. Flexed. Those fucking heels…”

You shifted again, subtle, letting the pose change slightly. “It’s just heels.”

“You’re naked in heels,” he rasped, stepping forward like gravity reeled him in. “Clicking around like it’s nothing. And you didn’t even know I was here. That’s fucking criminal.”

He stopped just behind you—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his towel brushing your skin. You met his gaze in the mirror as he stared over your shoulder, utterly entranced.

“I was testing them out.”

“Yeah?” His voice dipped again. “I’m testing my fucking limits.”

Still, he didn’t touch. His breath ghosted across your neck as he whispered, “You look like you could slit throats and make a man thank you for it.”

You chuckled, soft and sultry. “That’s a compliment?”

“Sweetheart, that’s a confession.”

Then his hands finally found your hips. He pressed himself to your back, hard and hot, his cock fully erect beneath the thin towel. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You ever see yourself like this?” he murmured. “Legs flexed. Shoulders bare. Looking at me in the mirror like that?”

“I see you too,” you whispered, shifting your weight just slightly so your heel lifted. “And I see what this is doing to you.”

Bucky groaned, the sound dark and low in his throat. His grip tightened, and then—slowly—he turned you in his hands. Gently, reverently. Until you were facing him.

His eyes were glazed, jaw tight, towel strained over how badly he wanted you.

Then, with one hand, he reached down and curled his fingers behind your knee.

“Lift it,” he said, voice a raw rasp.

You obeyed, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance as you raised your leg.

He caught it easily—guided your stiletto up onto his thigh, right against the heat of him.

And just like that… you understood.

You shifted your angle slightly, just enough to let the sharp point of your heel drag slowly across the inside of his thigh. He gasped.

You did it again. Slower this time. Closer.

He bit his bottom lip, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Think I just found a new kink,” he groaned. “You, wearing those heels. Me just… watching you use ‘em like this.”

“You’d let me tease you like this?” you asked, voice teasing, hungry. “Keep you hard with just my heels and no hands?”

His hips jerked forward instinctively.

“You’d do that to me?”

You smiled, head tilting slightly. “I’d make you beg, Bucky. Tell you how pretty you look, all desperate. Maybe even let you rut up against my foot a little. But only if you ask nicely.”

“Fuck.” His voice cracked. “You could ruin me.”

You stepped in closer, both hands pressing gently to his chest now.

“Then let me.”

And with one slow, confident push, you backed him until his shoulders met the cool surface of the mirror behind him—still watching, still reflected.

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath, letting his towel fall.

And you dropped to your knees.

You were just getting started.

—

You looked up at him, cock flushed and twitching in front of you, chest rising and falling like he was holding on by a thread.

“Say please,” you murmured, fingers gliding up his thigh as you leaned in.

Bucky moaned—low and wrecked—his head falling back to thump softly against the mirror.

“Please. Just—baby, please.”

You didn’t give him what he wanted. Not yet.

Instead, you reached down and pressed your heel between his thighs again—light, teasing, right to that sensitive spot that made him jolt.

“The gala might have to wait.”

His breath stuttered hard, hands twitching at his sides. His hips rolled instinctively toward you, seeking contact—anything—but you just leaned back slightly, keeping your eyes on his.

“God,” he whispered, voice frayed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled sweetly and slid your palm up his length in a slow stroke—then let go completely.

“Not until I’m done with you.”

“You’re so hard,” you whispered. “And I’ve barely done anything to you.”

You watched him—so big, so ready to fall apart for you—and felt a flicker of nerves beneath the thrill. You weren’t used to this. Not like this. But the way he looked at you?

Like you hung the moon.

You straightened your shoulders slightly. Let the confidence follow your voice.

Instead, you slowly stepped back, out of his hold. The sharp click of your stilettos on the hardwood made him visibly flinch, like even the sound of them had power over him now.

“Down,” you said softly, letting the word hang in the air like smoke.

You weren’t sure what you expected. But the way he froze—chest rising, mouth parted—told you everything.

He wanted this. Wanted you like this.

His brows drew together—hesitant, breathless.

“Kneel for me, James.”

You didn’t say it again.

You didn’t need to.

He sank slowly, towel loosening around his hips as he dropped to his knees in front of you. You stood tall above him, completely bare but for the heels and the towel draped across your damp hair. One step forward, and he was level with your thighs—your heat, your scent—everything.

“Look at you,” you murmured, tilting his chin up with your fingers. “Big, dangerous super soldier, and yet you’re right here. On your knees. Just ‘cause I told you to.”

His eyes were wide, lips parted. You watched his cock twitch again, hard and leaking against his stomach.

You shifted your weight, lifting one leg slowly and placing the pointed tip of your heel right between his thighs. Just beneath his balls.

“God—” he gasped, hands twitching on his thighs, unsure where to place them. “You’re gonna fucking destroy me.”

You didn’t answer.

You dragged the heel up lightly—slow, deliberate—over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. His breath hitched. The sharp press made the muscles in his thighs jump, like his body couldn’t decide if it wanted more or to pull away.

“You like this?” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

He whimpered. Whimpered.

You did it again—just a graze, the tip of your heel trailing up to the crease of his hip before you slid it back down. His cock twitched again, leaking now, desperate.

“Your cock’s such a slut for me,” you said, voice dipped low and cruel-sweet.

You didn’t even know you had that tone in you. But the way he whimpered—his thighs trembling, breath stalling—it did something to you.

He squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving. “Please—”

“Aw, baby,” you cooed, tilting your heel just enough to press into the tender flesh inside his thigh. “Didn’t know you liked being teased like this. Thought you were the one who liked calling the shots.”

His throat bobbed, lips trembling with restraint. “I didn’t know I’d like you like this.”

Your smile was pure wicked delight. “Poor thing.”

You grazed the heel up again—closer this time, letting the tip ghost along the underside of his cock. Just a whisper of contact.

His whole body jerked. A cracked, broken moan slipped from his lips.

“Needy little thing,” you muttered, stepping closer, letting your calf brush his shoulder. “You wanna come already, don’t you?”

He nodded—frantic, wrecked.

You stood tall behind him, watching the muscles of his back flex as he breathed hard, towel barely hanging on. He was beautiful like this. Obedient. Thighs tense. Cock flushed, twitching, untouched.

But your confidence flickered—just for a moment. Your power felt so sharp, so new.

Your voice softened. “Bucky…”

He turned slightly to glance at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, heel tapping lightly against the floor behind him.

You didn’t mean to sound unsure, but it slipped out anyway.

“What… what do I do next? If I wanted to really ruin you?”

His eyes nearly rolled back at that. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You say shit like that and I’m close already.”

That response? That gave you permission to keep going.

You stepped in front of him again, brow furrowed, lips parted with the weight of wanting. “Tell me.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. He sat back on his heels, looking up at you like worship. “Start slow. Use your hands. Don’t let me finish.”

You blinked. “That’s mean.”

He smiled weakly. “Exactly.”

You knelt—carefully, heels still on—sitting with your thighs spread just enough for him to see how wet you were already. His gaze dropped instantly, groaning again.

“You want me to just… touch you?” you asked, hand reaching out toward his flushed, aching cock.

“Please,” he whispered, desperate. “Just not enough. Just enough to make me lose my fucking mind.”

You wrapped your fingers around him gently—slow, reverent. His hips bucked, and he hissed through his teeth.

“God,” you whispered. “You’re so hard…”

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, eyes wide and focused on the way he twitched in your grip. His cock pulsed with every pass of your hand, leaking at the tip. He moaned low, broken, head falling back.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured, voice growing steadier as you watched him unravel. “On your knees, begging.”

“Don’t stop,” he groaned.

But you slowed. Thumb grazing under the head, teasing the slit. He cried out softly, hips jerking again.

“Sweetheart, please—don’t play fair. Ruin me.”

You leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly up the underside of his cock—one long, deliberate stroke, just to taste him.

Bucky choked on a moan. “Fuck, fuck, do that again—”

You licked again, kittenish and slow, then placed a kiss to the flushed head. He whimpered.

Then stopped.

“Wait—baby—” His voice cracked. “Don’t… don’t let me come. Not yet. Please—keep me there. Just right there.”

You pulled back instantly, lips slick, eyes wide. “Like… this?”

You stroked him again, faster now—then stopped just as he started to pant.

He looked wrecked. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen from biting them. Chest heaving.

“Yes. Just like that,” he gasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Think I like seeing you like this,” you murmured, brushing your heel against his thigh again. “Whimpering. Barely holding on.”

His cock jerked helplessly. “I can’t—baby, I can’t take it—”

You leaned in, whispering at his ear, stroking him again just to the edge. “No coming, Bucky. Not until I say.”

He nodded helplessly. “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

Your breath hitched. You felt that.

He was shaking now. Begging under his breath. You watched every muscle in his body tense and tremble—every pulse of his cock in your hand.

And still, you denied him.

“You wanna come so bad,” you whispered. “But I’m not done watching you beg.”

He looked up at you—face flushed, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded.

“Please,” he breathed. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.”

You stroked him once more—firm and slow—then let go completely.

His hips twitched. A full-body jolt. His breath hitched on a raw, cracked moan.

You tilted your head. “You’re leaking again.”

He looked down, eyes wide with humiliation—because yeah, he was. The flushed head of his cock was glistening, dripping onto his own thigh like his body couldn’t hold it back anymore.

��I haven’t even touched you in a minute,” you whispered, awe curling around your voice. “You’re just leaking for me.”

His chest heaved. “I—I can’t help it—”

“Oh, I know you can’t.” You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “Look at you. All this from me in heels and a few soft strokes? That’s all it took to get you like this?”

He whimpered. Fucking whimpered. Shoulders hunched like the shame turned him on even more.

“I didn’t know you could get this pathetic,” you whispered, trailing a fingertip up the underside of his cock—barely touching. “But I like it.”

He gasped.

You watched in real time as another thick bead of precum dripped down his length—unprompted, untouched. His thighs were trembling now, muscles strained from trying to hold back the orgasm clawing its way up his spine.

“I feel like I’m gonna come,” he groaned, broken and frantic.

You leaned back, watching every desperate twitch. “You’re not allowed.”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, I know—but baby, please—”

His whole body was shaking. Cock flushed, painfully red at the tip. He was grinding the air just barely, involuntarily chasing friction he knew he wasn’t allowed to have.

Then you saw it—another thick drip of precum pulsing from him. His voice was wrecked now, barely intelligible.

“I’m gonna—fuck, I’m leaking—I can’t stop—baby, I can’t—”

His head dropped forward, resting between your thighs as he moaned—low and hoarse. He was panting like a man being edged at gunpoint—back arched, cock jerking helplessly, tip leaving wet trails across his own abdomen.

You didn’t let him come.

You just held his face, gently, fingertips brushing his stubble as he trembled between your legs.

“You’re so good for me,” you whispered. “Look at you. You haven’t even come, and you’re already falling apart.”

His hands clutched at your thighs like a lifeline.

“Say it,” you murmured, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

He looked up at you, red-faced, eyes glossy.

“I’m yours,” he breathed. “Fuck—I’m yours. Ruin me however you want.”

You smiled.

You didn’t expect to love this—holding him like this, guiding his pleasure like it belonged to you.

But you did.

“Good.”

Your thumb brushed along his jaw as he panted, face still buried against your thigh, cock pulsing and flushed, still leaking.

“Hey,” you whispered softly, voice different now—lower, steady. “You’ve been so good.”

Bucky whimpered.

You tipped his face up gently. “You wanna come, baby?”

His eyes fluttered open—wet and desperate, like he didn’t believe you yet.

“Yeah?” you asked again, more tender now. “You want me to let you?”

His lips parted. “Please. Please, sweetheart—I need it. I need to come so bad, it hurts.”

You kissed his forehead.

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Come for me.”

He didn’t even need to touch himself.

Just your voice—just that permission—was enough.

He groaned, head falling forward again as his hips jerked once, then twice, and—

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—”

Thick pulses of hot cum spilled across his belly, each wave shaking his thighs. His whole body shuddered from it, like the dam had snapped wide open and he couldn’t stop if he tried. You held his jaw, watched him fall apart so sweetly—muttering your name under his breath like it was the only thing he remembered how to say.

And when it was over—when the last twitch left his muscles and he sagged against you, boneless, breathing hard—you whispered,

“You okay?”

His breath hitched with something like a laugh. He leaned his head against your chest, still catching up.

“I think I just found religion.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “You liked that.”

“I loved that,” he whispered, still dazed. “Didn’t know I needed it—being owned like that. You… making me hold back, making me ask for it?”

He looked up at you, cheeks flushed and glowing, a little awestruck.

“Felt like I gave you everything,” he said. “And you took care of it.”

You kissed him again, softer this time. “I did.”

And he let out a breath like a man reborn.

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totallynotaqua · 18 days ago

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Back to Main Masterlist

Bucky Masterlist ☆

🤍 = Fluff | 💔 = Angst | 🔥 = Ma.t.ure

☮⋆☆⋆☮⋆☆⋆☮⋆☆⋆☮⋆☆⋆☮⋆☆⋆☮⋆☆⋆☮⋆☆⋆☮

A Home With You 🤍

Gist: It had become a quiet routine for Bucky to crash at your place whenever he felt like he needed it. You didn’t mind at all, of course! But eventually, you find yourself being pulled in the whirlpool of something stronger. And Bucky? Well, you wouldn’t know until you ask him, right?

Homecoming 🤍

Gist: A soft morning, and a lot of soft love—old, suppressed love but just newly confessed. That’s it.

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totallynotaqua · 18 days ago

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happy pride to whatever the fuck this was

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totallynotaqua · 18 days ago

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𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕧𝕚𝕝 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕤 𝔹𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕞

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Category: F/M Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Relationships: The Winter Soldier/Reader, The Winter Soldier & Reader Parts: 4/? Language: English

✪ Masterlist ✪

The girl was soft, some youthful fat still clinging to her cheeks, a heart-shaped face with soft eyes and the distinctive features of someone who grew up in good conditions.

She talked a lot, fidgeted a lot, spoke with her hands. She would go crazy in his situation, hands tied and silence filling the aseptic room.

But she has no business being in his situation; only monsters end up in his situation.

Time passes, the lights dim.

He will not see her again. Better to close the memory in a sealed-tight container in his brain, less messy, more organised, no stray thoughts confusing his order.

The soldier closes his eyes and sits on the metal bench bolted to the side of his glass cube. Forget her. She had not accepted the job. He had told her not to.

Steps, an irregular heartbeat, something weirdly spaced, too much adrenaline in the body hosting that heart. «Contrary to popular request, I accepted the job.»

Fool.

«I spoke to some guards, and I guess I can give you this. They were kinda unprepared for the request.» A giggle, true, no, nervous. Fake, no, still true. Chatty.

She’s dressed the same way, not much must have passed; he doesn’t know. A t-shirt, graphic, literally, some sort of rat wearing a spiked collar, a messy font saying something the creases of the shirt do not allow him to decipher; jeans, worn, old, borderline unsalvageable, sneakers. A messy rhythm in her chest.

She’s carrying a package.

Files, missions, reports.

Bread.

What?

She takes it out of the brown bag, gets closer, scared, still scared. Unsteady heartbeat, fast, then slow, then fast again. No. Not adrenaline. Something else. The bread gets put on a paper plate, in the slot in his cage for feeding. Waiting.

«There, eat.» An order. A new handler? HYDRA? Hesitation. He should not hesitate. «Or don’t! You can choose.» A choice, not a handler. Softness, not HYDRA. «I just— I saw your dossier, and the photo.» What photo? Photos of his missions? Horrors, her heartbeat unsteady, something that had shaken her. Fear? No, she doesn’t beat to the rhythm of fear. «And you looked way healthier.» He’s functional.

«So, you know, I thought you could use some more food. Anyway, this morning, you knew I was there, didn’t you?». Such casualty, such disorienting honesty. She knows. «Could you see us through the mirror?». She knows and she doesn’t. She observes.

Us, two heartbeats, the older man beats at a sick rhythm, old, dying. She beats faster, like a mouse. Something small and full of adrenaline. How has she noticed? Sharper, a threat, she could be a threat. «Are we alone right now?»

Not what he expected. Is she scared of it? Good. Who wouldn’t be?

He nods. «Good.» Yes— what? «I contacted Sam Wilson.» The man in the tight car? «To get to Mister Rogers the news you are here, but— god, I don’t know what I was expecting but I wasn’t expecting that, he thinks you already are in hiding with Captain America, he’s adamant about it… I— I don’t know what I’m doing, shit, were you captured with him? Is he like, detained too?»

No plan, no plan is a bad plan, the girl is unprepared, not a threat. In danger.

«Fuck. Can I take a bite?» She paces the room, nervous, heartbeat spiking, doesn’t wait for a response, nobody ever does. A stress eater. Not poisoned, the sandwich is safe. He’s starving. «Sorry, I have another one—» «No.»

Silence. Her cheek protruding, mid-chew. «You don’t want it?»

When you are in a cage, you don’t get to want. How did he forget something as simple as that?

«You want… This one?» Observant. «It has the same filling— Oh, oh, okay, here, sorry about the bite.»

He’s starving. She’s no capturer, she’s buzzing, stressed, soft. Still chewing. Swallowing. Safe.

It tastes better than anything he has ever eaten. It’s the hunger speaking, but it speaks truths.

The food is gone in under a minute, clean, efficient. Still starving.

«Do you want the other one too?» He does, he really does.

Another plate, clean, new. Soft, she is carelessly soft.

Silence. Waiting. He’s starving. «What?» A laugh, soft, breezy, true. Not nervous. «Do you want me to bite that one too?» a joke, another laugh. Faltering. Silence. «Do you want me to?» A frown.

A nod. From the soldier. «Oh, um, okay.» A smaller bite. «There, started.»

She is not swallowing. A trap, he should have known, was the rest of the food given to him poisoned too? Was it—

Gulp.

She swallowed it.

«Oh no, shit, you are right this one has mayo.»

. Chatty. So chatty.

She sits on the chair, then on the floor, one file becomes two, then three and then four. She speaks a lot. He has to respond. No, he doesn’t have to; something else. Maybe he needs to. «Okay, this one.» Another file pressed to his glass. «Was that you?» another question. The same answer: Another nod.

December 16th 1991 Yes.

«Fuck dude, that’s bad.» No judgment, only a remark. Not toward him, a casual one. Not efficient.

If people had words instead of days to live, she would have been dead at two.

«Shit, I haven’t even offered you water.» She licks a thumb, ink staining it. A bad taste, bitter. He knows, but he doesn’t know why. A camping bottle, a cup. «Here. Should I bite the cup?» Another joke, not mocking, only teasing. Laughter, soft laughter. Freely given.

«A sip.» «Oh, okay, sorry. Lousy mouth.»

The water is safe, she sloshes it in her mouth and swallows it. Safe.

«Are we still alone?» A nod.

«Alright, man, I really don’t think you should be rotting in here, but if Steve himself is being detained, I don’t know what I, mind you not being a lawyer, can do for you.»

«Steve’s free. In hiding.» «What? Are you sure? Then I have to tell him, shit, I need a photo of you, a recording, something to give to Sam—» «He won’t come.» She freezes, truly, finally, no nervous fidgeting, no absentminded movements, true stillness. He feels better, something in her nervousness clings to him. Better like this. Undisturbed, empty.

«But… but it’s… It’s you.»

Something squeezes his chest. It’s him. That’s why no one will come. «He cares about you.» No, no, he doesn’t care about him. A cancer, a sickness, an illness.

«No.» «Why wouldn’t he?» she presses. Insistent, petulant. «He does, he screwed his whole career for you, he must—» For him, for him, not for him. «He won’t.»

Uneven beats, nervous, no, frustrated, no, something else. «Why. Because you think he wouldn’t? People are weird, dude. You don’t really get to understand their feelings most of the time.»

«Because I took the shot.»

———— The phrase rings hollow, an unspoken continuation lingering in the blindingly empty room. You can’t decipher it, you don’t know where to look for an answer. He’s written in an alphabet you don’t know. You don't understand who he is trying to convince, is it you? You doubt it, yet somehow it's truly difficult not to believe him, he doesn't look anxious, he doesn't look backed into a corner, he just looks empty.

And angry. Not blatantly, deeply, under layers of nothingness. So deeply angry. The pen clenched in your fist creaks, or maybe your joints do, it’s hard to tell, you are gripping too hard. «How many of those you killed did you personally know?» Sifting through files, your notebook, the worn cover, the bent rings, you refilled it for the occasion, back in the UK, back when you had still thought you would have taken notes on a criminal, a serial killer, cowering behind rows of medics and therapists. He snaps, like a rubber band just waiting for the last yank. «Some—» «Not as Bucky Barnes.» This time is your index knuckle, a low creak, the grating of bones. The quiet in a chaotic place, something misplaced and alien. His silence, your creaking, you two are like a haunted house. Chaotic, silent, tired.

«None.» Keep pushing, keep pressing until he cannot but tell you, you must, it's an itch you can't scratch otherwise. «And how many do you remember?» Stillness, calm, something misplaced. Wrong. «All of them.»

Your knuckle pops. Painfully and satisfyingly There you go. «I don’t think an unsalvageable man would remember even one.»

He hadn’t said that; you had heard it.

The pen scratches, you hum lowly, mumbling your own thoughts to not let a single phrase get lost in the labyrinth of your horribly messy mind.

His voice is soft, his words are not. «Quit it.»

The job? You are not even sure you still can. It’s such a small peep, not the order he gave you yesterday. "Don’t take the job." You are so stubborn. No, this one is fragile, almost shy. You don’t expect it to escalate. It does, but instead of roaring lowly in anger, it just grows heavier, tired. «Don’t make me think I could be good.» Until his words soften. «It hurts.»

Your heart shatters for the man; you don't pity him, but you ache. Deeply and freely. You bleed for him.

And yet you must press, because nothing comes without a price, and you have a job, and for how much he hates you for doing this to him, you have to. You know no other way to save him. «It wouldn’t stop. Even if I quit.»

You let him be at peace for a while, you try to stay still while scratching some notes on your notebook. You have noticed how much he relaxes when you just stop existing in the loud way you have always existed, but it’s hard for you. Your leg begs to be bounced, your fingers gather air in your knuckle pleading you to just pop them and after that keep twisting and cracking until your joints ache and your pads tingle. «Do you want me to go?» It’s an honest question, one you are positive will receive an honest answer. You don’t think he likes you that much, it makes sense, you are not exactly the quiet type, and he looks constantly dipped in silence.

Surprisingly, he shakes his head. This time, you don’t press further; you just acknowledge it with a nod and resume your work.

Your eyes grow heavy, you can feel his eyes on you, but it’s less and less unnerving by the hour. He’s empty once more, no more anger, not the speckle of bottomless sadness you had glimpsed. Only empty. Waiting.

«I think I should let you sleep.» You finally declare, getting up from your contorted position on the floor and popping as silently as possible your stiff back. He doesn’t respond. You collect your things, buzzing the intercom beside the door. You wave at him, a tight-lipped smile more focused on being quiet and not overly you than polite.

A couple of seconds pass, nothing happens, then a full minute goes by, still nothing, you try the door handle, then you buzz again. Nothing.

«They went to sleep.»

«You are not surveilled 24/7?» Well, that was rude, but something is gnawing at the bottom of your stomach and you are pretty sure it’s anxiety clawing its way back from where you had tried to bury it.

«The food. It has tranquillisers.»

«What— No! I would never—» «Not yours.»

Oh. Oh, this is messed up.

«Well that is fucked up.» You warned him, everything going on up there must find a way to get out. You simply cannot keep a thought to yourself.

The room fills with silence once more. You spin on your heels, then slowly slide your way to the floor, tiredly slumping down the walls.

«I guess we’ll just have a sleepover then.»

The thought unnerves you, and you doubt you’ll be able to close an eye, but the man doesn’t need to know this. «Do the lights turn off?»

Silence. You are probably annoying him. Scratch that, you are definitely annoying him, hell, you are annoying yourself. «Нет.»

Silence. You should maintain it. «Animals.» No inner thoughts, right.

. 1st day of the 1st week: morning. If you had not closed an eye, you would not find yourself opening both of them, back stiff, your shoulder being shaken. «Ma’am, ma’am, what are you doing here?» Oh, the kid from yesterday, the guard bringing the soldier his mixture of gruel and tranquillisers. You want to reprise him, to ask, “Do you know they are sedating him?” without caring about any consequence at all, if not for the hope of changing the way things are being done, at least to make someone face the objective cruelty of their own practices. But even though you still need to reboot properly, and you still struggle to keep your own thoughts to yourself, you know that stating what you now know could not be a good move. What if he was not supposed to know? What if your lousy mouth ended up making things worse for him?

«Ma’am?»

James’ eyes are already on you, of course they are, what were you expecting? But something is amiss, there is a certain tension in his jaw, something deeply unnerving given the fact it’s distressing to the Winter Soldier. His eyes dart to the younger man in uniform, you can feel the faint buzzing of metal somewhere in the room.

Something is really tense in here, and it’s not your creaking back.

You jump up, knees popping loudly, a surge of nervousness punching a laugh out of your mouth. «Well, I need to shower.» The kid follows your moves, a machine gun you had not noticed strapped to his torso, dangling between your bodies. «Ma'am, I’m sorry I left you here—» «No harm done, kid. I had a lovely pyjama party, now please, I really need to pee.» And with a quick handwave, you bid goodbye to the man in the cage and shove past the door.

You had not lied. You need to pee so badly.

. ”He has a mole on the left side of his forehead. He’s being sedated and kept in a locked container. Believe me, he is not free. Please, I really don’t know what I should do to help him. This is my phone number. I’m begging you to give it to Steve Rogers.”

Well, there is no harm in trying; you still firmly believe that if only Captain America knew, he would come barging through the door to rescue his friend. You simply have to tell him.

You are barely out of the most uncomfortable, cramped and cold shower you have ever taken that your phone starts ringing.

«Hello?» «You are in a very bad situation. Whatever you are doing in there, stop. I’m saying this for your own good. You sound like a sweet girl, and I get that you want to make things right, but there is nothing to be set straight in this situation. Please. Go as far as you can from that man.»

Silence engulfs you, something rings hollow in your ears, a piercing sound that makes you shiver. «Steve Rogers, I gather.»

«I’m sorry you find yourself in this situation, whatever your job is, drop it. I’m truly sorry.» Prick, you had known the Winter Soldier for less than a day and you are more set on helping him than his life-long best friend.

A coward and a prick.

«Yeah me too, I thought Captain America had more spine than whatever the fuck you have. Have a nice day, sir. I’m not quitting.»

«You should—»

The line cuts, your thumb stays pressed on the red button, something boils deep in your chest, so furiously that you almost think sleeping in the same room with the Soldier had made you cling onto some of his repressed and deep anger.

Alone in the world, he is alone in the world. «FUCK!»

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