dove3

Latest Posts by dove3

WHY GOD WHY

this is a fucking curse

I love love love this. This is so Sam/Anthony coded. Exactly how I think he’d react.

Playing It Cool

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam’s getting way too suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, laundry room shenanigans, sam wilson being done

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". It doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam didn’t sleep well.

It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t even the lingering PTSD from a week spent chasing Hydra remnants. No, this was different.

This was gut feeling. Instinct.

He was standing in the kitchen, hair wild, hoodie misaligned, and eyes like a war veteran who’d seen things and couldn’t unsee them. The clock blinked a smug 7:03 a.m. He poured black coffee like a man betrayed by the very concept of sleep.

That’s when he saw it.

Two mugs on the counter.

One had your initials. The other—a vintage WWII fighter plane sticker. It hadn’t been there last night. He knew, because he always did a final kitchen sweep before bed. Counters clean. Dishes put away. Mugs? Accounted for.

His eye twitched.

“…Barnes,” Sam whispered.

He crouched slowly, inspecting the mugs like they might start confessing their crimes.

Then the hallway creaked. Sam turned so fast he sloshed coffee onto his hoodie.

You entered the room, yawning dramatically, hoodie sleeves engulfing your hands.

“Morning,” you mumbled.

Sam squinted. “Is it? Is it really?”

You blinked. “…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, with the exact tone of a man who was absolutely not fine. He walked to the table and pulled out a chair like it owed him money. “Sit.”

“Why?”

“Because I have questions.”

“I’m not under interrogation.”

“You are now.”

“…Sam.”

“Tell me what you were doing between 0500 and 0700 hours.”

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

You squinted. “What kind of creepy follow-up—?”

Sam narrowed his eyes like a raccoon about to steal a whole rotisserie chicken. “I knew it. There’s a cover-up.”

You grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the hallway. “There’s a cover-up on your brain, Wilson.”

“I’ve seen the signs,” Sam called after you. “The glances! The whispers! The ‘accidental’ brush of hands during mission briefings!”

“Maybe I’m just clumsy!” you yelled.

“And matching mugs?”

“That sticker was mine first!”

Before Sam could yell something, Bucky entered the room, with aexpression criminally smug. He looked like the kind of man who had just done something worth hiding.

“Morning,” Bucky said, voice low and gravelly. He moved to the coffee pot.

Sam’s eyes followed him like a hawk on its sixth espresso.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“I’m great,” Sam replied. “Y/N just left.”

“Cool.”

“Came in lookin’ real tired.”

“People get tired.”

“You look real tired.”

Bucky paused, looked Sam dead in the eye. “You implying something?”

Sam sipped his coffee. “I don’t know. You implying something?”

They stared each other down. The air crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a tumbleweed rolled by. A raven cawed.

“You need sleep,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll sleep when the truth sleeps,” Sam snapped back.

Then Sam dramatically left the room—only to storm back in ten seconds later to grab a banana. He peeled it with authority and left again.

Later that morning, when Sam had finally left for a jog—or more accurately, a neighborhood reconnaissance mission—you found yourself back in the kitchen. You were putting away a dish, humming quietly to yourself, when a pair of warm arms slid around your waist.

You didn’t jump. You never did when it was him.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured against your neck, voice soft now, stripped of the earlier smugness he reserved for sparring with Sam. His lips brushed your skin like a secret.

“Hey yourself,” you whispered, leaning back into his chest. “You’re not worried Sam’s going to install surveillance cameras?”

“He probably already has.” You both laughed.

He rested his chin on your shoulder. “I left my mug out on purpose, you know.”

You turned your head to look at him, brow raised. “Seriously?”

Bucky shrugged, expression boyishly proud. “He’s been circling for weeks. Figured we’d give him a trail to follow. Let the man feel like he cracked the case.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You are so chaotic.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

You turned in his arms, resting your hands on his chest. “Yeah… I kinda do.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss that said, even with a super-spy roommate and questionable mugs, this? This is real.

Later that night you bumped into Sam, sitting on the couch. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, staring ahead

“Where are you going?” he asked, voice low and suspicious, eyes narrowing like you’d just confessed to treason.

You froze. “Uh. Laundry?”

“Interesting,” he said, voice dripping with suspicion. “You know who else said they had laundry tonight?”

You blinked. “…Literally everyone who owns clothes?”

Sam didn’t smile. He leaned in, voice lowering like he was revealing national security secrets. “Barnes. Same night. Same floor. Same time.”

You paused just long enough to regret getting out of your room.

“It’s a laundry room, Sam,” you said flatly. “That’s how they work. People… use it.”

“Mmmhm,” he replied, writing something cryptic in his notebook. The pen squeaked aggressively against the page.

Just then, the door swung open—and in walked Bucky Barnes, freshly showered, damp hair swept back like a shampoo commercial, whistling something suspiciously upbeat.

 “Y/N. Wilson,” he greeted smoothly.

“Barnes,” Sam said, staring like he was trying to burn a hole through his soul with his eyes.

You smiled. Just a regular smile. Harmless. No romantic undertones. Just two coworkers… being cordial.

Totally.

 “You know... I was asking Y/N here,” Sam said, still squinting, “about her suspiciously coordinated laundry schedule.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “Must be fate.”

You coughed, choking down a laugh.

Sam slammed his notebook shut with the kind of theatrical flair that screamed “I was born for this drama.”

“Enough. You think I’m not onto you. But I see things.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You seeing ghosts again?”

“I’m seeing clues, Barnes. Don’t play dumb. You two doing laundry together. The mugs. The vanishing act during last Tuesday’s debrief—twenty minutes. Both of you. Gone.”

You opened your mouth, searching for a reasonable explanation, but let’s be honest—this was Sam. There was no “reasonable” left. This man had turned your laundry schedule into a covert op.

You crossed your arms. “We went to get snacks.”

“Snacks,” Sam echoed flatly.

“Yes,” you said, trying to maintain dignity. “You know. Human food. Fuel. Chips. The sacred post-mission ritual.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. “For twenty minutes.”

“There was a vending machine incident,” Bucky added smoothly, stepping closer, unbothered. “Y/N had a standoff with a bag of peanut M&Ms. It got intense.”

You rolled your eyes as Bucky leaned casually against the doorframe, looking way too smug for someone being accused of laundry-based espionage.

Sam was relentless. “You think this is a game? Because I’ve got spreadsheets. I’ve got charts. I have timestamps.”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky replied, folding his arms. “Didn’t realize I was your top case file.”

“You’re not,” Sam snapped. “You’re just the most suspicious.”

You shook your head, already backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go… do the thing. With the clothes. Like a normal human person.”

“Sure you are,” Sam muttered, squinting again like he was two seconds away from installing security cameras.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” Bucky said with a wink. And then—because of course—he followed you out.

“Hey!” Sam called. “This isn’t over!”

You didn’t turn around, but you did hear the sound of him furiously scribbling in that cursed notebook again.

You and Bucky sat side by side on top of the industrial dryer, the hum of the spinning machines filling the quiet room. A single overhead light flickered occasionally, casting a soft glow over the laundry baskets at your feet. The scent of fabric softener lingered in the warm air.

“He’s going to lose his mind,” you murmured, folding a hoodie with unnecessary precision.

“He already has,” Bucky said, smirking. “Tried to stick a tracker in my jacket this morning.”

You laughed, bumping your shoulder into his. “We should start leaving fake clues. Plant a puzzle piece under his pillow. Hang a tie in the garage.”

“I already put a sock in the fridge,” Bucky said casually, reaching over to pull a warm towel from the dryer.

You turned to look at him, mouth open in delight. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Red. Argyle. No explanation.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I love you.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning in to kiss your temple. “I know.”

You went quiet for a beat, letting the rhythm of the machines and the safe warmth between you fill the space. His knee rested against yours. The scent of his cologne barely clung to the edge of his freshly laundered shirt.

He reached for your hand, twining his fingers through yours beneath the basket of still-warm socks. “He’s getting close, though. We are getting pretty obvious.”

“You wanna stop?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you—really looked. And it was all soft eyes, steady presence, and a patience you hadn’t known you needed until him.

“Not a chance.”

Bucky smiled, warm and easy, and pressed his forehead lightly to yours.

“So,” you whispered, “what are we going to do when Sam actually proves something?”

“We deny everything.”

You laughed. “Even under interrogation?”

“Especially under interrogation.”

One day, he’d prove it.

But not today.

Meanwhile in the living room, Sam was writing in his notebook. On the top of the page:

CASE #110: They’re DEFINITELY Dating. And beneath it, scrawled in increasingly frantic handwriting:

shared laundry = suspicious

“Coincidentally” always sitting next to each other

Y/N smiled at him like he invented air.

Bucky smiled back.

FRIDAY pinged softly. “Sir, your blood pressure is elevated.”

“Because there’s a LIE in this house, Friday!”

War was still on.

But as long as you had Bucky Barnes looking at you like you were his whole world?

You were definitely still winning.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2

A/N: it's me again, hi. just wanted to say a big thank you for all the comments and feedback i've been getting from all of you. never thought that a one-shot could turn into a series with already SEVEN PARTS. anyway, just thank you all again. i hope you're liking where this is going. see you next chapter <3

needs bucky to growl and groan into my ear while he’s fucking his thick cock into my tight wet pussy telling me, “take it, doll. take daddy’s fat fucking cock.”

and suddenly i wouldn’t mind being a stripper if bucky was there.

acquainted

bucky barnes x reader (undercover stripper!reader x undercover bodyguard!bucky)

word count: 3.3k

warnings/tags: SMUT, oral (male and female receiving), vaginal penetration, language, strip club setting, creepy dude being a piece of shit, violence and a brief mention of blood, protective/possessive bucky, reader is afab, no use of y/n, touch her and die trope, Bucky might have a slight lingerie kink... 18+ only!

The pulsating fuschia and lime green strobe lights illuminating the club had been making your eyes throb for the last three hours. EDM plays so loudly that you're surprised blood doesn't trickle down from your ears. Not to mention the suffocating combination of cheap perfume, body odor, cigars, and booze that permeates the air makes your empty stomach churn.

If you never step foot into another nightclub when this is all over, you'll consider yourself lucky. Not just any nightclub - one of New Orleans’ scummiest strip clubs.

Five goddamn nights of this operation and not a lick of progress.

Your objective was simple - obtain proof that the owner was operating a sex trafficking ring out of the club, and then call for the back-up squad parked a block away. So far, you had not been able to acquire any kind of definitive proof. No hints of anything shady going on behind the scenes, and you had yet to even see the owner make an appearance at any point since the mission began.

Everything seems as above board as a strip club can be.

One last night, you compromised with Fury. One last night and if it went as the last few have, you were done, and he owes you a few days of paid leave for putting you through this.

“If you don't stop picking at your garter belt, it's not going to have any sequins left.” Bucky's low voice murmurs through the communication device placed discreetly in your left ear.

“If you don't stop watching my every movement, you’re not going to have any unbroken toes left,” you threaten lightly, taking a sip of your drink - just a Shirley Temple, to keep up appearances. “Shoes like this could do a lot of damage.” You glance down at the pointy heels of the black velvet stilettos.

“Is that not my job?” he counters. You don't have to look over at where he's standing in the corner of the room to know he's smirking. “To not take my eyes off of you?”

“Then do your job. Watch me. You don't have to make comments on my sequins to do that.”

“Alright, alright,” he concedes. “I'll be over here, admiring your sequins from afar. You won't even know I'm here.” The com line clicks off before you can retort.

Except you absolutely would know that he's here. Just as you have the previous four nights of this mission - painfully aware that he's here, tracking your every movement in the skimpiest outfits you've worn in your life, doing the most provocative dances imaginable, and flirting with men that you wouldn't touch with ten foot long poles in real life, all while he keeps to the sidelines in case something were to go wrong.

Keeps to the sidelines and just watches you. Even when one of the dancers approached him to ask if he'd be interested in a private dance once he's off the clock on the first night on the job.

Even when there's gorgeous, topless women crawling on the stage and all but humping the pole in his direct line of sight.

He isn't here to look out for them, of course. He is here solely to keep you safe if things were to go sideways. But you had assumed you would have caught him sneaking glances at the dozen other women at least once by now.

It's almost your turn to go up on stage. You've performed a solo set every night so far, and you still feel every bit as nervous as you did the first time.

You enjoy dancing, actually. In the comfort of your own room, when listening to music alone. When you go out with friends, occasionally. When you took ballet lessons as a child. This, however, was leagues out of your comfort zone.

“The creep from a couple nights ago is back,” Bucky's voice is a strained whisper in your ear.

“Gonna have to narrow it down a bit for me, Barnes. You could be referring to at least half of the men in here right now.”

“Sitting in front of the stage, to the left,” he mumbles back. “He's wearing a red wife-beater–”

“See him,” you interrupt, your eyes zeroing in on the short, stout, beady-eyed fuck who had been thrown out of the club night before last. One of the other security guards on duty chucked him out when he repeatedly got too handsy with one of the girls who had been giving him a lap dance.

“Fantastic,” you huff under your breath, as you finish touching up your lipgloss and reapplying the iridescent baby pink body glitter across your chest. “Just in time for my dance.”

You get up from your seat at the bar and adjust your lace bustier and thong as the announcer calls your stage name.

“He won't lay a finger on you,” Bucky assures you as you're walking up the steps of the platform.

There's a weak round of applause and a few whistles as you take your place on the center of the small stage. You give a vague nod in the direction of the DJ’s booth to indicate you're ready for your song to begin.

An upbeat but sensuous synth-pop song pours out of the speakers throughout the room and you begin to sway your hips.

You're hyper-aware of the fact that you can see Bucky making his way closer to you, away from his position in the back of the room. He settles when he's just a few tables behind the man in the red wife-beater.

There's an eruption of butterflies in the pit of your belly at how close he is. Each night prior to this, he has kept to lingering around the exits and the far wall towards the back of the club. Now, he's close enough that you can actually see his eyes following every languid movement that your body makes around the pole.

“Take your fucking top off!” a grating voice bellows from the audience. “We want to see your tits.”

You don't have to look to know who the voice belongs to. You decide to ignore him, hoping he would stop if you didn't give him any attention. You go to wrap your thighs around the pole again, preparing to spin–

“Did you not fucking hear me?” he shouts even louder this time, audible to everyone over the roaring music. “I said take your fucking–”

A flash of movement in your peripheral vision causes you to freeze around the pole. You turn your full attention to the ruckus, just in time to see Bucky fisting the man's greasy, shoulder length hair and pulling his head back. The music comes to an abrupt pause.

“You don't fucking talk to her like that,” Bucky snarls. “In fact, you don't talk to her at all, you don't look at her, you don't even breathe the same fucking air as her.”

The man is thrashing around, trying and failing miserably to get out of Bucky's grasp.

“Let me go you fucking–”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Bucky snaps the man's head forward, sending his face crashing into the granite tabletop.

The instantaneous pool of blood that contrasts so starkly against the white stone snaps you out of your fear-stricken trance.

Bucky pulls his head back up, forcing the man to look up at him.

“It's not my fault she refuses to show off those perfect–”

You all but jump off the stage - miraculously not breaking an ankle in the six inch heels - and rush over to where Bucky still has the man's hair yanked into his fist.

Just as Bucky is beginning to shove the man's head downwards again, you place both of your hands on his chest, gently but effectively shoving him backwards. He immediately releases his grip on the man as the other few security guards on duty arrive to detain the pervert.

“Hey, hey,” you place your hands on his biceps, trying to turn his attention to you and away from the man who he's still glaring after, as he's hauled off by security. “I'm fine, yeah? Everything is fine,” you try to assure him, though you're not sure your shaky voice sounds very convincing. “He's just a creepy, entitled asshole.”

Noticing that Bucky is shaking beneath your touch, you rub your hands up and down his arms in hopes of calming him down.

He finally meets your gaze. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just stares at you as he takes a few deep breaths.

“Go get dressed,” he orders you calmly after a moment. “I’m getting you the fuck out of here.” You want to leave too badly to even think about objecting.

You make a beeline for the changing room, where you throw on a sweater and force your pants over your heels, not even bothering to change out of the lingerie and stilettos.

Bucky's waiting for you right outside the door as you sling your duffel bag across your shoulder.

“How mad do you think Fury will be that we are abandoning our positions?” you ask in a hushed tone as Bucky ushers you through the club, his metal arm wrapped around your waist.

“Not as mad as I am that he's had you doing this bullshit for no reason for almost a week now.”

You and Bucky exit the club as quickly as possible, ignoring the curious and confused stares of the other dancers and security guards. He guides you down the block, then through an alleyway where his motorcycle is parked in a heavy silence - other than the obnoxious clanking of your heels against the pavement.

Bucky straddles one leg over the seat of the bike, taking his place in the driver's position and then hands you the helmet.

“Wait,” you pause before putting it over your head. “I'm starving.” Your stomach growls, as if on cue. “Can we stop and get some take-out?”

He looks at you incredulously. “I just shattered that guy's nose and likely severely concussed him and then just dipped. Our cover is essentially blown, don't you think we should get back to the motel room and lay low until the morning?”

“There's a Chinese place open late just a few blocks from the motel–”

“If I say yes will you put on the helmet and get on the bike?”

Taking that as a win, you slide the helmet over your head and hop on behind him. You wrap your arms securely around his midsection in a tight hug and he takes off down Bourbon Street.

You spend the drive trying to ignore the thought that of all the times you've ridden on the back of Bucky’s motorcycle, you don't remember him ever feeling so tense beneath your touch.

Half an hour later, you're lounging on the rickety motel bed, stuffing your face full of sweet and sour chicken and vegetable fried rice while Bucky fills Sam in on what happened over the phone.

He sits in one of the small chairs at the singular table in the corner of the room, his posture rigid. He answers all of Sam's questions with clipped, one-word responses as he massages his temple between his thumb and forefinger.

He hangs up the phone, refusing to meet your gaze. Instead, he pretends to be interested in the episode of Family Guy playing on the old motel TV.

“Your egg rolls are going to get soggy,” you tell him, pushing the to-go box across the mattress towards him.

“I don't have an appetite right now,” he says, picking up the box of food as he stands. You grab his bicep in your hand as he begins to walk past where you're sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” you say, stopping him. “Everything's okay. Really. Don't let that guy get to you–”

“A little late for that, don't you think?” He snaps, pulling his arm from your grasp. You sit back, too stunned by his reaction to know how to respond. You just stare after him as he crams his take-out box into the motel room's mini fridge.

“I shouldn't have reacted so harshly,” he says after a moment, still facing away from you. “I couldn't stop myself. He spoke to you that way, and I could have killed him and not thought twice about it. Probably would have if you hadn't intervened.”

He turns back to you. You're frozen in place.

“Do you know what that's like?” He asks, taking a step closer to you. “To feel like you aren't in control of your own body? To be so irrationally protective of someone that you'd kill for them without a second thought?”

You feel like all air has been stripped from your lungs. He's just inches away, staring down at you from where you sit on the edge of the mattress. The way he's looking at you makes your skin feel like it's on fire.

“Because that's what you do to me. That's how you make me feel.”

Heat pools between your legs.

“Come here,” you say - it sounds more like a question than a command.

He closes what little distance is left between the two of you, and pulls you up from the mattress by the tops of your arms so that your body is flush against his.

His mouth hovers over yours - not quite making contact, though you can feel his breath fan across your skin.

He takes his flesh hand and cups the side of your face with it, his thumb trailing across your bottom lip. His metal hand wanders down your back until it reaches the curve of your ass - grasping your cheek in a firm hold and squeezing until his touch borders between pleasure and pain.

“This is what I wanted to do to you every time I saw a man so much as glance in your direction in that club,” he whispers against your mouth. “I thought about bending you over the stage and making them watch me take you right then and there, but they didn't deserve to see that.”

“They aren't here to see us now,” you murmur as you bring your hand to cup the noticeable bulge of his jeans, eliciting a hiss from him. “So what are you going to do now?”

There's a dark grin spread across his face. He pushes you, softly but effectively, back down on the bed. You scoot back a few inches on the mattress, and then bring one of your feet up to remove the stiletto heels that you'd completely forgotten to take off upon returning to the motel with your haul of Chinese food.

“Oh, no,” Bucky laughs lowly. “I want you to keep those on. I've grown to like those quite a bit.”

Your cheeks warm in both arousal and bashfulness. You begin to push your pants down your thighs as Bucky kneels on the ground and helps you maneuver the fabric around your shoes. The sweater that you threw over your bustier goes next.

You're left in the lingerie set that you wore at the club.

“Call me jealous,” Bucky sighs as he begins trailing sloppy kisses up the insides of your thighs. “Call me possessive, call me crazy..”

You lay back down against the scratchy comforter as Bucky gets closer and closer to where you're aching to have him the most.

“But I don't want anyone seeing you like this but me.”

He pulls the already soaked lace material of your thong to the side, exposing your cunt.

He licks up your center torturously slow, causing you to let out a sharp exhale. He repeats the motion, and then locks his lips around your clit. Your hands shoot to his hair, fisting your fingers through the short brunet strands.

He eats you until you're a mewling and squirming mess beneath him.

You come hard, clenching your thighs around his head and riding his face through your orgasm.

“Stand up,” you instruct him as soon as you can think semi-clearly.

He obeys without any hesitation. The warm glow of the singular lamp in the motel room highlights the way your slick coats the lower half of his face.

You get up on your hands and knees before him and he lets out an audible groan at the sight in front of him. He bends down enough to kiss you - cupping your face in both of his hands and tipping your head up to give him a better angle to slip his tongue into your mouth. You moan into the kiss - the ache between your thighs reappearing already.

He removes his hands from your face, unbuttoning his pants while still kissing you.

You pull away to help free his cock from the confines of his boxers. Your mouth waters at what's directly in front of you. He's impressively long and girthy, with a thick vein running up the side.

You pump him a few times in your hand, swirling your tongue around the pre-cum dripping from his slit. He's already putty in your hands - groaning above you and placing his metal hand around the back of your neck to keep you where he wants you.

After you've run your tongue up and down his length a few times, you spit on the tip of his cock and massage it over the entirety of his shaft before taking him as far into your mouth as you can in the first go. He throws his head back, moaning your name.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and you gag before pulling back.

He curses under his breath, nudging himself slowly back towards your throat again.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he praises and you moan around his dick. He gradually increases the speed at which he pumps himself into your mouth, obscene noises echoing off of the thin motel room walls.

When he pulls out, you feel drool running down your neck and mascara-tinted tears leaking from your eyes.

“You're so gorgeous like this for me,” he tells you, and despite knowing that you look thoroughly fucked out, you believe him. “Will you turn around?”

You do as he asks, turning around on your hands and knees. You lower your chest down to the bed so that your ass is angled upwards.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunts under his breath. He grips your hips with both of his hands, yanking you to him. His erection juts against the cloth of your underwear.

He tugs them aside once more, giving him access to tease your slit with the head of his cock. You rock backwards, grinding against him. He brings his flesh hand around your stomach and reaches down to rub your clit as he begins to slowly fill you from behind.

He pauses for a moment once he bottoms out, giving you time to adjust to the fullness of him before he starts fucking into you.

The combination of him slamming into you at such an intense angle and massaging you so perfectly has your climax building shamefully fast.

You grunt his name, bouncing your ass to meet his thrusts. “I'm gonna come,” you mewl, knowing he's on the verge of doing the same as his movements become uneven.

One, two, three more pumps and you can feel your pussy clenching around him as you come together.

You pull off of him, collapsing onto the bed and rolling onto your back. He crawls over you, propping himself up on his arms above you.

“You know,” he stares down at you, his eyes trailing to your breasts that are now spilling out of the black lace bustier. “As much as I hated every second of that mission, I do hope I might get to see you in some of these outfits again.”

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist!!!

omg this. i love him. this is exactly how i see him in my head.

𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙

Part Two Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Heavy Mutual Pinining, Heavy Sexual Tension, Longing, Yearning, Right Person-Wrong Time. Friends to Lovers, a bit Angsty but Happy Ending. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky being obsessed with tiddies, unprotected piv, creampie. Summary: Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt. A/N: This is a Two Shot, so another one will be coming soon.

tags: @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @classicrebound

The first time it really hits is when you see him with her.

It’s a crowded room, warm bodies pressed close together, the low hum of music barely louder than the thudding in your chest as you watch Bucky Barnes wrap his arm around the waist of a woman you don’t know. 

She’s beautiful, of course—someone you'd expect to be by his side. Her laugh is soft, melting into his as he leans in close, whispering something that lights her face up, his lips brushing her ear like he can’t help himself.

You glance down at your drink, the sudden bitterness pooling in your throat harder to swallow than the wine. You tell yourself to look away, that it’s none of your business who he holds, but you can’t. Every time you look up, he’s there, still wrapped around her, laughing at something she’s said, his hand resting on her back in a way that feels too familiar, too tender. You know that look—the way his fingers splay protectively, pulling her close like she belongs to him. Like he’s finally let someone in.

It’s torture, standing there with a smile plastered on your face, pretending not to notice. Pretending that it doesn’t crush you.

Because when you’re alone—when you’re single—he’s taken. And when he’s got nobody, you do. Every single time. You’ve gotten used to seeing him across rooms, with someone else in his arms, with that look in his eyes that you wish, desperately, could be meant for you.

And he’s always looking at you that same way, that glance just a second too long, that warmth held back by a fragile thread of restraint. Just enough to keep the lines from blurring.

Tonight, he finally looks away.

When he glances up, catches sight of you, his smile falters. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and something soft flickers in his eyes—something like regret, the same regret you carry. But her hand tightens on his arm, and he turns back to her, his smile returning, wider than before. You hate how easily he can pull away from you, how quickly he can make you feel invisible.

“Hey, Bucky,” you manage, your voice steady though it feels like your chest is caving in.

He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Hey.” His gaze drops, and for a second, you think he might actually say something, that he might admit that this hurts him too. But then she shifts closer, and he wraps his arm around her more firmly, giving you a look that’s both a dare and a dismissal.

“This is Emily,” he says, and she gives you a polite, too-sweet smile.

“Oh.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “I didn’t know… I hadn’t realized you were…” You can’t finish, the words catching in your throat.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s tone is almost too casual, too final. “We’re together.”

The finality of it slices through you, sharp and clean. You nod, trying to hold onto whatever scraps of dignity you have left, but all you can manage is, “Well… congratulations. I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—anger? Hurt? But his jaw tightens, and he nods, looking away as if to spare you. 

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says, his voice steady, controlled.

Emily pulls him closer, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she glances at you. 

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” she says, and there’s a challenge in her tone, a silent declaration that she’s won, that whatever you think you had with him is nothing compared to this. She presses a kiss to his cheek, her fingers curling possessively around his shoulder as she tilts her head, catching his gaze.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice hollow. “Yeah, he is.”

And for a brief, desperate second, you think he might look at you—really look at you, see how much this is tearing you apart. But he doesn’t. His gaze is on her, soft and full of warmth, a look he’s given you a thousand times. And it feels like he’s choosing her, like he’s making the decision to let go of whatever fragile orbit kept you two circling each other all this time.

You turn away, trying to hold yourself together, but the ache in your chest is all-consuming, a raw, relentless reminder that he’s moved on. That he’s chosen her.

And as you walk away, you can still hear their laughter, the sound twisting like a knife in your chest, leaving you wondering if he was ever yours to lose.

And then one night, fate flips, and you’re the one with someone new by your side.

It’s been months since you last saw Bucky. You assumed he was out of your life for good, until tonight, when you walk into the cozy warmth of a private dining room in a restaurant, your hand firmly held by your boyfriend Andrew. It’s Steve’s dinner party, a small gathering of friends, and the lighthearted chatter fills the air, mixing with the warm glow from the dimmed overhead lights.

You’re laughing at something your boyfriend said as you step into the room, but your laughter dies in your throat when you see him.

Bucky is seated across the table, leaning back casually in his chair, but the moment his eyes meet yours, a spark flickers there—surprise, mingled with something darker, something that quickens your pulse. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight, and judging by the way his gaze lingers, he hadn’t expected you either.

Steve stands, grinning as he greets you and Andrew, and you introduce him to everyone. You smile, trying to seem natural as you move around the table, your hand still resting in your boyfriend’s. But it feels wrong, the warmth of your boyfriend’s fingers against yours suddenly strange, like it doesn’t quite belong.

When you reach Bucky, he stands, his jaw tense, his eyes unwavering as he offers a hand to shake. You almost expect him to make some dry remark, to cover up whatever unspoken tension lies between you. But he’s silent as he grips Andrew’s hand firmly, while looking at you. His fingers are steady, a touch too tight, like he’s barely holding something back.

“So, you’re the boyfriend,” Bucky says, his voice calm but laced with something you can’t quite place.

Your boyfriend laughs, unaware of the tension. “Yeah, I am. And you’re the famous Bucky I keep hearing about.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into a half-smile, but his eyes remain cold. 

“I’m sure you have.” He releases your boyfriend’s hand, his gaze shifting back to you, lingering a second too long before he forces himself to look away.

It should feel like a victory—that, for once, you’re the one who’s found happiness while he’s left to watch. But the second you meet his eyes, the air shifts. You feel the weight of everything unspoken, of the years that have passed with both of you just out of reach, orbiting each other but never colliding.

You take your seat next to your boyfriend, aware of every brush of his arm against yours, every gentle squeeze of his hand on your knee under the table. He leans close, murmuring something soft and sweet, and you offer a small smile, but your focus is entirely on Bucky, sitting across the table, his gaze flickering between you and Andrew, his jaw set with that same restrained tension.

As the night wears on, Bucky remains quiet, only contributing here and there to the conversation, but each time he speaks, his words feel weighted, almost directed at you.

“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the chatter, “I’m guessing you’re happy?”

The question is simple enough, but there’s a challenge hidden beneath it, a question he doesn’t ask outright.

“Yes, I am,” you say, your voice firmer than you feel, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Your boyfriend glances over, squeezing your hand, unaware of the undercurrents in the room. 

“She’s stuck with me now,” he jokes, nudging you. “No escape.”

You laugh softly, but the sound feels hollow, especially when you catch Bucky’s expression—something dark and raw flashing in his eyes before he schools his features again.

“Good for you both,” Bucky replies, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s about time.”

There’s a pause, the kind that seems to echo louder than any conversation, and you can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, filled with a thousand things he can’t say. Your chest tightens as the weight of everything unsaid settles heavily between you, filling the air with a tension you’re certain everyone can feel.

As people start to leave, you find yourself alone with Bucky by the door. Your boyfriend is across the room, saying goodbyes, and it’s just you and Bucky in the dimly lit entryway, a fragile bubble of space and time.

“So…” His voice is low, almost too soft, his eyes searching yours. “This is it, then?”

There’s a vulnerability in his words that pierces through you, a rawness you’ve never heard before. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to deny it.

You glance away, your voice barely a whisper. “Yep. This is it.”

A shadow crosses his face, and he just stands there, watching you, his gaze heavy. He doesn’t say anything for awhile, his hand lingering just inches from yours, as though he’s contemplating reaching out, breaking whatever boundary lies between you. The air feels thick, and you wonder if he can hear the frantic beat of your heart.

But he lets his hand fall back to his side. 

“Guess there’s nothing left to say,” he murmurs, a bitter edge coloring his voice. His eyes linger on you, as if he’s memorizing every detail, every second of this final, silent goodbye.

You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips, caught between everything you want to say and everything you can’t. You reach out, almost instinctively, but Andrew calls your name from across the room, his voice shattering the fragile stillness.

Bucky’s gaze flickers, and he takes a step back, his expression falling into something guarded. 

“Take care, doll,” he says softly, the words laced with both a goodbye and a promise. His eyes linger on you one last time, and then he’s gone, slipping out into the night.

He’d spent years replacing your lips with so many others, all in an attempt to forget the mark you left on him.

Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled her in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.

× × × × 

Present

It’s one of those nights, another dinner gathering among friends, the kind that’s almost become routine. You’re already seated in the cozy living room, surrounded by the familiar warmth of Steve’s place. The soft glow of lamps and low bable of conversation wrap around you like a comfortable blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you’re truly at ease.

Beside you, Sam nudges your shoulder. 

“Hey Boo,” he says, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, “remember when you and Bucky were practically attached at the hip? What happened there?”

The question catches you off guard, and you feel warmth creeping up your neck as a few heads turn, curious eyes glancing your way. You roll your eyes, nudging him back. 

“Leave it to you to bring that up, Sam.”

He chuckles, unrelenting. “C’mon, just saying. You two were tight. I mean, tight.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, feeling the weight of a few more gazes on you, even if they aren’t pushing the question. 

“It’s… complicated,” you finally say, giving him a look that tells him to drop it. But Sam just chuckles, clearly amused, like he knows something no one else does.

“Complicated.” He echoes with a slow nod, a knowing grin spreading. “Right. Complicated.”

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, barely suppressing a smile, but you can’t deny the fondness in your tone. Sam just winks, nudging you again, and the others quickly move on, the brief moment of attention fading as conversation flows around you.

And that’s when the front door opens, and you hear his voice.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky calls out, his deep voice filling the space effortlessly as he steps in, slightly flushed from the cold outside. His eyes scan the room, and the moment they land on you, you swear the air shifts, that it crackles with something electric, something only the two of you seem to feel.

Your heart stumbles over itself as he walks further into the room, tugging off his jacket and offering smiles and nods to everyone. But it’s like a magnetic pull—his eyes keep flickering back to you, and each time it does, your stomach does a nervous, excited flip.

He looks good. Better than good, really. There’s a slight scruff along his jaw, and his hair falls just so, framing his face in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch it. When he finally reaches the empty chair directly across from you, he stops, fingers lingering on the back of it.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asks, his voice low, and there’s something almost hesitant in his eyes, like he’s waiting for permission to be close to you.

You shake your head, trying to keep your cool, even though every part of you is screaming, yes, sit, sit right here and don’t you dare move.

“No, go ahead,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steady.

He sits, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted, and the faint scent of his cologne drifts over, warm and familiar, making your head spin.

As he settles in, he leans slightly closer, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it?” you murmur, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. Every subtle movement, every small smile he throws your way feels like it’s weaving a thread around you both, pulling you in.

The conversation around you resumes, but it’s like you’re in a bubble, the two of you orbiting each other again. Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, just enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you bite back a smile. His hand rests on the table between you, his fingers drumming absently, and you find yourself staring at them, remembering every time those hands had nearly, almost touched yours.

After a lull in conversation, he clears his throat, glancing at you sideways. 

“So… where’s the boyfriend?” he asks, almost casually, but you catch the underlying question. His tone is light, but his eyes are cautious, searching yours, looking for an answer he can’t ask outright.

You raise a brow, unable to hide the grin pulling at your lips. 

“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you meet his gaze, “the lack of presence should answer your question.”

For a second, Bucky just stares, and then a slow, dawning smile spreads across his face, his whole expression softening, the guardedness falling away. He looks like he’s holding back from saying something, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table, his knee pressing just a little more against yours as he leans in.

And before you can think twice, you match his question with your own, barely above a whisper. “And where’s your girlfriend, Bucky?”

“Nonexistent.” he said almost instantly.

His eyes hold yours, and something subtle shifts in them—a hint of a smile playing at his lips, but he doesn’t look away though he plays it off with a small, casual shrug. “Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person.”

You nod, feeling the smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. 

“Nice,” you say, trying to keep it casual, though your heart’s picking up a pace of its own.

“Yeah… nice.” He lets out a quiet chuckle, raising an eyebrow as if he’s catching onto your attempt at nonchalance. 

Deafening silence settles between you, but it’s charged, a silent exchange that makes you feel more breathless than words ever could. Neither of you seems to move, his knee still brushing yours under the table, and it feels like he’s lingering in your space, right on that line between friend and something more. 

You glance around, feeling the tension rise, and blow your bangs out of your eyes, hoping it might ease the knot in your stomach. But when you sneak a look at him, he’s still staring, his gaze solid, unblinking, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of every tiny shift in the air between you. Your cheeks warm, and you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, but it only makes your heart pound harder.

Your cheeks warm instantly, and you quickly look away, focusing hard on the table.

A small smile tugs at his lips, his voice soft. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Your pulse quickens, and you swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. 

“Maybe a little,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

A spark lights in his eyes, and his smile widens, soft but undeniably mischievous. 

“Good,” he murmurs, his knee pressing just a fraction closer to yours, enough to send a thrill up your spine. “Because, for the record… you make me a little nervous too.”

Your heart does a flip, and you feel a grin tug at your lips despite yourself. 

“I make you nervous?” You try to keep the surprise out of your voice, but he just nods, his gaze intense, that teasing warmth settling over his expression.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, his tone light but honest, like he’s been waiting to say it. “Especially when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, barely breathing.

“Like you’re about to bolt… but part of you doesn’t want to.” His voice is low, and his eyes search yours, as if he’s daring you to deny it.

You feel the smile you’ve been holding back break through, your heart racing as the last of the distance between you seems to dissolve. Just as you’re about to respond, a voice calls from the dining room, breaking the tension as everyone calls you both to join.

“Guess we should go, huh?” Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, pulling back just slightly, though his gaze lingers on yours for a heartbeat longer. 

“Yeah,” you manage, feeling a little breathless.

But as you both stand and head to the dining room, his hand brushes yours, just enough for his pinky to link with yours for a brief, secret moment. The warmth of that tiny touch lingers, and you can’t help but feel like something just shifted between you, something new and thrilling, waiting just under the surface.

× × × ×

As you both step into the dining room, Sam raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There they are,” he teases, his voice just loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “We were wondering what’s taking so long.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks, and you catch Bucky’s gaze, a subtle, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t say anything, slipping into the room to find only two empty seats—right beside each other.

Bucky gestures to the chair beside him, waiting until you sit before settling in next to you. He settles in beside you, his broad shoulders and steady presence enveloping the space, making you feel smaller.

Conversations swirl around the table, but you’re painfully aware of every tiny shift Bucky makes. The subtle brush of his arm against yours, the steady warmth radiating from his shoulder—it all has your heart racing. His hand rests on the table beside yours, fingers drumming lightly, and your pulse hammers as his knee presses just slightly against yours under the table, a connection so subtle yet electric that it makes your skin tingle.

Then he adjusts his position, angling himself more toward the group—and you. The small movement brings him even closer, and you’re immediately enveloped in his scent, something warm and cedar-like, filling the air around you until it feels almost overwhelming, in the best possible way. You take a slow breath, fighting the urge to close the distance even more, feeling trapped between wanting to be near him and feeling breathless because of it.

As Bucky joins the conversation, you find yourself watching him, captivated by the way he leans in, his voice low and steady, his easy confidence only pulling you in deeper. His lips curve as he speaks, and you can’t help but linger on every detail, the way his eyes light up, the rough timbre of his laugh, every tiny thing about him that’s impossibly distracting.

And then, in the middle of a sentence, his eyes flick back to you, catching you looking. You quickly look away, feeling your cheeks burn as you fixate on your plate, hoping he didn’t notice the way you’d been studying him.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His pinky grazes yours again, a gentle, teasing touch, sending a thrill up your spine as he continues his conversation, his presence unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

You try to focus on anything else, but his gaze keeps finding you, even when you’re not looking. And with every shared glance, every quiet brush of his fingers, the air grows thicker, charged with something unspoken, as if each tiny touch is daring you to lean in, to close that final distance.

You’re doing everything you can to keep your composure, to focus on the laughter and stories being shared. But Bucky’s presence beside you is inescapable, it’s a thrill that’s leaving you silent, lost in your own thoughts as the night goes on.

Sam’s voice suddenly cuts through, pulling you back to reality. 

“Hey,” he says, smirking as he leans back in his chair, his gaze playful but sharp. “You’re unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on with you?”

Feeling everyone’s eyes on you, you force a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension simmering under your skin. 

“Just… food coma, I guess,” you say, waving a hand and attempting a casual smile. 

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Food coma? Really?” He drags out the words, as if he’s not buying it for a second, and you can see the teasing glint in his eyes. “Pasta’s got you this speechless?”

Beside you, Bucky’s lips twitch, and you can feel his gaze, that familiar, subtle amusement making it impossible not to blush. You risk a quick glance at him, only to find him looking back with that same knowing smirk, like he can see right through every excuse.

“Maybe she’s just tired of all your talking, Sam,” Bucky says smoothly, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he speaks. The movement is so casual, so effortless, that it almost seems like an afterthought. But the warmth of his arm behind you, his fingers just brushing the curve of your shoulder, makes your heart race in ways you can’t ignore. His tone stays casual, but there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes as he looks at Sam, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a subtle, grounding touch.

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d check,” he says, throwing a playful wink in your direction.

You feel yourself sink back just slightly, leaning into the warmth of his arm, and it’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers stay near your shoulder, steady and unassuming but unmistakably there. The conversations resume around you, but the space between you and Bucky feels even smaller, the quiet thrill of his touch pulling you in.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping so only you can hear. 

“That food coma excuse was almost convincing,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with playful challenge as he watches your reaction.

× × × ×

As the night winds down, people start to gather their things, saying their goodbyes. You slip on your coat, waiting for Sam to finish up his goodbyes, but he suddenly turns to Steve with a grin.

“Hey, Rogers,” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “How about we hit that bar down the street? Just a quick nightcap.”

You raise an eyebrow, deadpanning as you fold your arms. “Seriously, Sam?”

He flashes you an unapologetic grin, shrugging. “What? You’re always saying you’re an independent woman. I figured a little alone time wouldn’t hurt.”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head, muttering, “You’re an asshole.”

Sam just laughs, looking over his shoulder. 

“Hey, maybe Bucky can give you a lift. It’ll be like old times.” He gives you a wink, completely ignoring the way your cheeks warm.

You glance at Bucky, trying to keep your expression neutral. “It’s fine, really,” you say quickly. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket and heading out with Steve. “But you know Bucky’s free.” He gives you one last smirk before slipping out the door, leaving you standing there with Bucky, who’s leaning casually against the wall, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Need a ride?” he asks, his voice warm, that familiar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

You open your mouth to decline, still feeling a bit of resistance. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll just grab an Uber.”

Bucky chuckles softly, tilting his head toward the door. “I’ll drop you off. It’s fine.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, trying to gauge his sincerity, but there’s that familiar steadiness in his eyes, a quiet patience that leaves you with no real reason to argue. Finally, you sigh, giving in with a reluctant nod.

The car ride starts in silence, the engine’s low hum filling the tense quiet between you, only occasionally interrupted by the soft rattle of snowflakes pelting against the windows as the blizzard starts to gather strength. 

You shift in your seat, fidgeting, your hands smoothing over your coat, your fingers picking at invisible lint. Nothing feels comfortable. Every second, your eyes flick to the window, tracing the passing streetlights, trying to focus on anything but him.

But you can feel him there. The warmth of him beside you, the steady, calm presence that somehow has you on edge, unable to breathe fully. His familiar scent fills the car—a mix of cedar and something undeniably him—sharp and soothing all at once, making the small space feel even smaller.

You cross your arms, uncross them, uncross your legs, then cross them again, pressing your back firmly into the seat as if that might stop the quick, relentless beat of your heart. But each turn he makes, each slight shift of his shoulders, sends a fresh rush of awareness through you, and your mind is racing, trying to keep pace with the pulsing tension that seems to settle between you like a third presence.

Finally, desperate for a distraction, you reach over and flip on the radio, hoping for anything to ease the silence. But the first song is almost too on the nose, the lyrics hitting like they were made for this moment:

"All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation, my hands are shaking from holding back from you…”

A breath catches in your throat, and before the verse can continue, you reach over and quickly press the button again, changing the station, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

The next station crackles to life, and it’s somehow worse.

“Cause when I got somebody, you don’t and when you got somebody, I don’t. I wish that the time would line up so we could just give in…”

Your pulse races, and you switch stations again, more urgently this time, and the next song fills the car with a familiar pop beat.

“You ain’t my boyfriend and I ain’t your girlfriend. But you don’t want me to see nobody else and I don’t want you to see nobody…”

You press the power button, cutting off the music entirely, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your coat, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him glancing your way, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Bucky clears his throat, his voice a low murmur. “Trouble finding a station?”

You manage a quick, nervous laugh, eyes fixed on the road ahead. 

“Yeah… something like that.”

He just nods, his gaze returning to the road, but you catch the lingering smile in his expression, like he’s perfectly aware of the tension simmering between you, the unspoken things filling the silence.

And as the quiet stretches, you can hear his breathing, steady and unhurried, and it only makes you more aware of your own. You try to breathe normally, in and out, but each breath feels too loud, too obvious, like you’re trying and failing to hide something you both already know.

× × × × 

Bucky pulls up in your driveway, and for a moment, the relief you thought you’d feel at reaching home is overshadowed by something else—something closer to disappointment. The quiet tension that’s been hanging between you feels almost unfinished, and you find yourself wishing the ride could somehow stretch on just a little longer.

He leaves the engine idling, the faint rumble filling the silence as you both sit there, neither moving to get out. After a few seconds, you clear your throat, glancing over at him with a small, reluctant smile.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, voice softer than you intended.

Bucky nods, returning your smile, but you can see a similar reluctance flicker across his face as he glances toward the house. 

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

Your eyes drift to the porch, and you remember the old habit the two of you shared, back when he’d drop by after a night out with everyone—those late nights with coffee and the dessert your mom always made, the one he loved and never turned down.

The memory brings a small smile to your lips, and before you can second-guess yourself, you look back at him. 

“Actually… my mom made her chocolate tart. The one you like. If you’re up for coffee and dessert, that is,” you say, feeling a twinge of nerves despite the casual invitation.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard, but you catch the hint of warmth in his eyes. 

“Chocolate tart, huh?” he echoes, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know I can’t say no to that.”

You shrug, playing it off, but your heart races as you nod toward the door. 

“Figured it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Besides,” you add, trying to keep your tone light, “it’s been a while since we did coffee and dessert.”

Bucky’s smile widens, and he cuts the engine, pocketing his keys before glancing at you with that familiar spark in his eyes. 

“Guess it’s tradition,” he says, opening his door. “Wouldn’t want to break it.”

You step out, leading him up the walkway, and as you unlock the door, the feeling of anticipation settles back over you, even stronger now. It’s like the tension from the car ride has followed you inside. 

As you head into the kitchen, Bucky follows, his gaze drifting over the familiar space. He takes in the room, noticing what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. The same cozy lamp in the corner, casting a warm glow over the soft cushions on the couch, the same framed photos on the wall—but a few new things catch his attention.

A navy-blue jacket, draped over the armchair, too large to be yours. A set of keys on the counter with a small metal keychain that he doesn’t recognize. And a book on the coffee table, a spy thriller with a bookmark halfway through. He frowns slightly, his mind racing as he takes in these small, unfamiliar details, each one lighting a spark of jealousy that flares bright, unbidden.

He hadn’t asked about Andrew—hadn’t wanted to. But now, surrounded by small traces of him, the thought of someone else being part of this space, of sharing moments with you that once might have been his, digs into him with an unexpected force. The sight of it sparks something sharp and unbidden within him, jealousy flaring up like a match struck in the dark. He swallows, trying to ignore it, trying to remind himself that he has no right to feel this way, but the thought of Andrew’s things still lingering here sends his mind racing.

In the kitchen, you’re busy slicing the chocolate tart, setting two plates with practiced ease as you fill the silence with the familiar rhythm of preparing coffee. But every now and then, you feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching, like he’s taking in every detail of the room and of you.

Bucky clears his throat softly, his voice low as he leans against the doorway, watching you pour the coffee. “Things… feel different here,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, but there’s a roughness in his voice that betrays him.

Your eyes follow his gaze to the jacket, and a flicker of understanding crosses your face. You give a small, almost sheepish laugh. 

“Oh, that. He left it here ages ago. I keep meaning to get rid of it, but it’s… just kind of stayed.” You shrug, looking away as if embarrassed by the attachment. “Guess I’m just lazy.”

He nods, the answer somehow not as satisfying as he’d hoped. His gaze shifts back to the room, trying to reconcile this familiar space with the small hints of someone else. 

“Ah,” he says, his tone lighter. “I get it. Hard to let go of things sometimes.”

You nod, a knowing look in your eyes, as if you both understand the layers beneath his words. You hand him his plate, the rich scent of chocolate and coffee filling the room as he takes it, his fingers brushing yours for a brief, lingering moment.

Settling down at the table, he watches you from across the coffee cup, the quiet tension between you only growing thicker. And as he takes a bite of the chocolate tart, the flavors familiar and nostalgic, he can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at something he’s been missing for too long.

You try to focus on your coffee, but Bucky’s gaze is unwavering, fixed solely on you. He takes another slow bite of the chocolate tart, and the way his eyes soften, paired with the slight curve of his lips. It’s like he’s seeing something he missed, something he can’t look away from.

After a beat, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, unable to take it anymore. 

“What?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, but your heart’s racing too fast.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, eyes dark, thoughtful, and a little teasing, as if he’s enjoying watching you squirm. 

“Just… wondering why it took so long to get back here— it feels good to be here. With you.” His voice is low, quiet, but there’s a warmth behind it that makes your stomach flip.

You glance down, biting back a smile, but you can feel his gaze still on you, unrelenting, like he’s waiting for you to look back. 

“It’s just dessert, Bucky,” you murmur, trying to keep the moment light, but your cheeks betray you, a blush blooming under his attention.

“Maybe,” he replies, his tone teasing, eyes glinting. “But it’s the best damn dessert I’ve had in a long time.” He takes a slow bite of the tart, watching you with that infuriatingly soft gaze that makes it impossible to breathe.

"Christ..." you mutter under your breath, barely aware you’ve said it aloud. His gaze is so intense, it feels like he’s peeling away every defense you’ve carefully built.

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice, like he’s testing just how far he can push.

You let out a shaky laugh, glancing down at your coffee to avoid those piercing eyes. 

“You’re not… it’s just—” You don’t know how to finish the thought, every word slipping away under his unwavering stare.

He lets the silence hang for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and heart-stopping. Then he leans forward, just a bit closer, his eyes still locked on you, the teasing glint in them intensifying.

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. His fingers toy with the edge of his coffee cup, but his attention never wavers, every inch of him focused on you. “Because if I’m honest… I think I like watching you get flustered. Kind of makes me wonder what else I could do to make you look at me like that.”

Your breath catches, and you feel your pulse race, cheeks burning as his words sink in, every nerve suddenly buzzing. You’re caught, and he knows it, the challenge in his gaze daring you to look away—but you don’t, rooted to the spot, every nerve in your body humming.

But in that moment of stunned silence, something in your expression shifts, your eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not discomfort, but a soft vulnerability—an openness he wasn’t expecting.

He misreads it entirely.

Bucky straightens abruptly, his face softening as he lets out a quick, self-conscious laugh, breaking eye contact. “I—sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his smirk fading. “I’m just messing with you. Didn’t mean to… you know, make things weird.”

Your heart clenches at the quickness with which he pulls back, his retreat sudden, like he’s trying to undo the last few moments. You open your mouth, words rushing to the tip of your tongue to stop him, to explain, to tell him he hadn’t made you uncomfortable at all.

“Bucky…” you say softly, reaching out before you can think twice. The moment your fingers brush his hand, he glances up, eyes wide, almost searching yours for permission.

And before you can lose your nerve, you let the words slip, your voice barely a whisper. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable… I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

The tension between you flares back to life, sharper, deeper, as he studies you, realization dawning in his gaze, as if he’s daring himself to believe what you’re saying.

× × × × 

The blizzard outside has intensified, blanketing everything in a thick layer of snow that doesn’t look like it’ll be easing up anytime soon. By the time you both finish your coffee and dessert, the wind is howling against the windows, and the soft glow from the streetlights barely penetrates the wall of snow outside.

You walk to the window, peering out into the swirling white, and let out a small sigh. 

“Looks like it’s getting worse,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Bucky, the words carrying a quiet invitation you don’t fully realize.

Behind you, he steps closer, joining you by the window, his hand resting on the edge of the sill as he gazes out into the storm. 

“Guess I might have to wait it out,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice, though his eyes flicker with something warmer as they meet yours. His tone is casual, almost nonchalant, but the unspoken question lingers between you.

You turn to face him, folding your arms, trying to play it off casually. 

“Yeah, probably not the best idea to be out there in this.” You pause, giving him a small smile. “I mean, I have a couch. Wouldn’t be the first time you crashed here.”

He chuckles softly, nodding. 

“Right. Wouldn’t want to risk life and limb just to get home.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, like he’s just as reluctant as you are to let the night end.

You manage a laugh, a quiet, slightly nervous sound as you gesture towards the living room. 

“The couch is all yours if you want it. I can grab a spare blanket.” The offer feels both genuine and like an excuse, a small plea for him to stay, if only a bit longer.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice soft, a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip. “Appreciate it.”

As you disappear down the hall to fetch a blanket and pillow, he lingers in the living room, glancing around the familiar space. He’s barely acknowledged how much he’s missed this—missed you—and now, surrounded by small remnants of your life, it all feels heavier than he expected, like he’s on the brink of something he’s not ready to let go of.

You return with a thick blanket and a pillow, handing them to him as he sets them down on the couch. 

“Here you go. It’s not much, but… I think you’ll survive,” you say, though there’s something tentative in your voice, almost as if you’re testing the waters, hoping he’ll stay a little closer.

Bucky chuckles, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands settling over his knees as he looks up at you. 

“Yeah, I’ve handled worse, I think,” he replies, his gaze lingering just a bit too long.

A quiet pause stretches between you, neither of you moving. Outside, the snow falls in thick, relentless waves, cocooning you both in this shared moment, and you feel the weight of what’s left unsaid, lingering like an invitation neither of you dares to speak aloud.

Finally, you clear your throat, offering a small smile. 

“Well… goodnight, Bucky,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, and you find yourself hesitating, like you’re reluctant to leave.

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Goodnight, doll.”

× × × ×

Bucky was asleep on the couch. Your couch. Crashing at your place, as he had so many nights before.

The man you wanted more than you’d ever wanted anyone in your life.

You couldn't sleep, tossing and turning and thinking of him lying not thirty feet away from you on the other side of your bedroom wall. He had stayed over countless times, what was it about tonight that had you squirming beneath the sheets? 

God, the subtle, masculine scent of him, the warmth of his body so close to yours—maybe he'd actually seen the little shiver of sexual awareness that had rippled through you during dinner.

Whatever it was, you were suffering now. His smile, his voice, his deep, infectious laugh...so what if he had been your friend since, so what if he could be a bit of a doofus at times—okay, a lot of the time—so what if you were both single now and feeling that familiar itch, that longing, that uncomfortable awareness of being without someone just a bit too long.

Fuck.

You both had talked about this. Once—a long time ago. You had agreed; getting involved wasn't the right thing to do—look how many friendships were ruined by relationships.

You threw back the duvet and swung your legs over the side of the bed, wiggling your toes nervously as you bit your lip. 

You needed a drink, that's what you needed. Not that kind of drink—although God knew you weren't far from it. You needed a cool glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and maybe some splashed on your face for good measure. 

Then you could come back to bed and read. Or listen to some music. Or... something. You had an early start in the morning, you had to find some way to get some sleep. If you were really quiet, you could slip right past him and he'd never even know you'd been out of your room.

You creaked open your bedroom door and listened for the sound of his quiet snoring. Sure enough, the soft sounds of sleep drifted towards you and you straightened, relaxing a little. 

He was sleeping just fine. He wasn't tossing and turning thinking about you.

You slipped out into the chilly living room, and shivered involuntarily. You'd set the thermostat low in the living room to save energy, completely forgetting to turn it up for his sake, so while your bedroom was toasty warm, the living room was cold and still. 

Guiltily you cast your eyes over his sleeping form, sprawled inelegantly over the couch with one hand thrown over his eyes and one leg up over the back of the sofa. He wore only a t-shirt and boxers, and lying with the blanket kicked to the floor instead to cover himself with, he looked vulnerable somehow, and uncomfortable.

And incredibly, almost achingly sexy.

Your eyes roamed over him in blatant appreciation. He was a powerhouse of strength, with thick, chiseled muscles that seemed almost carved from stone. Broad shoulders tapered down to a torso built from years of dedication, and his arms were thick with veins and ridges that caught the light. 

Your gaze slid down his powerful legs, the defined muscle of his thighs flexing beneath the hem of his shorts. He was the embodiment of rugged masculinity, intense and undeniably commanding. His stubbled jaw caught your eye, and you let your gaze linger on his lips—the lips you’d dreamed of tasting so many times...too many times, in fact. So often that sometimes you imagined the fantasy as if it were a memory. So delicious, so sensual and hot.

Only he wasn't hot—you try to tell yourself. You dragged yourself back to reality, frowning as you looked down at him. He was cold.

You went back to the bedroom and pulled an extra blanket off the closet shelf, and carried it back to lay across his sleeping form. He stirred slightly as you draped it over him, and his eyelids fluttered open.             

“Hmmm…” Bucky mumbled thickly, his voice hoarse and low. “Good morning.”

“It's not morning, it's two a.m,” you whispered. “I was just getting you another blanket. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmmm…” he said, cuddling it around him.

He pulled his leg down off the couch and straightened himself out, stretching languidly, shuddering, like a cat. You loved watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed. You loved watching him do anything, in fact.

“It's so cold,” You said by way of an unasked-for explanation, and looked away from his body. His eyes were still closed so you could have looked a little longer, but didn't want to risk it.

“Cold?” he murmured. “Just a second.” He pushed aside the blanket and reached for you, tugging you down towards him.

You gasped and lost your footing, sitting down hard on the couch beside him. He pulled you down and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.

He flipped the blanket over top of both of you. “There. I'll keep you warm.”

A sleepy duskiness coloured his voice, and something in the intimacy of it, the familiarity of it, made your heart flutter rebelliously in your chest. He smelled so damn good, like a mixture of soap and the sweet warm and musky scent of cedar wood. He drew you in closer, molding his body against yours, and God help you, you allowed him. You settled in more comfortably beside him, your leg thrown over his, your arm stretched across his chest.

“I was saying you must be cold,” you whispered. “Not telling you I was.”

“I know.” Bucky said without missing a beat.

You lay there, entwined, quiet, saying nothing more. You rested your head against his chest and could feel more than hear the lazy beat of his heart, and the quiet, smooth passage of his breath. His hand languidly caressed your arm, the rhythm growing slower as he drifted back to sleep. 

Sleep threatened to claim you, too, so you stirred, trying to disentangle from him. You'd have to be near your alarm clock or you'd never get up in time.

“No, don't go,” Bucky murmured as you tried to move. He held you tighter.

“I have to,” you whispered. “I have to get some sleep, I have to get up in a few hours.”

“Stay.”

“I can't.”

He was gradually coming awake, slowly becoming more oriented. He shifted position slightly so that he was more on his side, looking down at you as he rested his head on his bent elbow. He stretched his other arm across you and pulled you closer, gently caressing you back.

“Stay,” he said again. His voice was clearer now. He was fully awake. Still slightly dazed from sleep, but awake.

You hesitated, letting your gaze roam over his face. Finally you whispered, “We talked about this a long time ago, remember?”

“I know. I'm sorry. I just...I want you to stay.”

In the dim moonlight spilling in through the French doors his features were muted, but his eyes—his eyes were large and dark, taking you in with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Bucky moistened his lips, his pupils growing even larger as they roamed over your face and you could feel the pace of his heart pick up and his breathing increase. 

His gaze moved down to your lips and his brow creased in an expression that could have been longing, or frustration, or both. He raised his eyes slowly to meet yours, the haze of desire stealing slowly into his gaze.

“You're not nothing to me,” he said, almost to himself. “That's precisely the problem.”

How on earth were you supposed to resist such a sensual, beautiful, soulful man? Stay? How could you not?

“Please,” he whispered. “Stay. . . I have something I need to get off my chest.”

Your resolve was crumbling as you felt your chest tighten. You looked into his eyes and barely managed to whisper the words. 

“What’s that?”

“This.” 

He lowered his head slowly and kissed you, brushing your lips softly, sensuously, as if in no particular hurry. As if he had all the time in the world to savor you, to taste you, to send pleasure rippling through you with every touch of his lips. He murmured softly as he gently nipped at your bottom lip, teasing your, biting and then kissing-better the lips he was bruising.

You could feel the pleasure he was taking in kissing you, the slow—tortuously slow—pleasure he was enjoying for himself and teasing out of you as he lingered in your mouth. Bucky’s hand slid along your jaw, tilting your face up to him, his thumb caressing your cheek as he kissed you. He broke the kiss and looked down at you in wonder, his eyes glittering in the dim light, then brought your face up to his and kissed you again.

You opened your mouth to him and his tongue slipped in to tangle sensuously with yours. He angled his head from one side to the other, exploring your mouth and pressing kisses along the edges of your lips. You kissed his cheeks, his chin, his light stubble gently razing your lips and making them all the more sensitive. When you found his lips again, their soft warmth was intoxicating and you deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with your own.

You kissed him back sensually, with equal possessiveness and enjoyment, and knew that your response was emboldening him.

Bucky tensed and pressed against you, his kiss growing firmer and more insistent. His mouth moved over yours expertly, wringing pleasure from you in breaths that came faster and little cries that escaped into the quiet of the room. Your soft moans made him tense even more, and you could feel his arousal along the length of your leg, hard and urgent like the rest of his body. 

You were both warm now, and he threw back the blanket before settling back down on top of you, returning to the slow, rhythmic dance of kissing, teasing, and tasting that was just about driving you mad.

You slipped your hands up over your head, thinking to wrap them around him, but he found them and clasped your wrists together with his left hand and kept them there, holding you down with gentle pressure as he bent to kiss you more deeply. 

The sensation of being held by him, of being pinned down, gently, but with no doubt as to his strength, rushed through you in unfamiliar torrents of excitement. He entwined his fingers in yours, easing up the pressure, dipping his head between your upraised arms to kiss you deeply, slowly, torturously.

As his tongue tangled with yours the fingers of his right hand trailed up the side of your body, stopping at the swell of your breast. He ran his hand over you gently, tentatively, feeling the weight of it beneath him and groaning softly. He slipped his hand inside your robe and cupped you bare flesh, his warm hand gently squeezing, caressing, as he groaned again and grew even harder. His thumb circled over your nipple and you gasped, arching against him at the sudden sting of pleasure. He pushed aside the robe further, revealing your breast with its tight nipple, unbearably aroused by his touch.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, gazing at you breast. He lowered his lips to your nipple and gently kissed it, his tongue tasting and savoring it the way he had just been savoring your mouth.

The wet warmth of his mouth on your sensitive flesh made you ache with a tension and desire you had never felt before. When his tongue swirled around you nipple languidly, when he took the sensitive bud into his mouth and suckled softly, you felt the exquisite torture of it flow down through you body to you very core. How could this feel so damn good? Just the lightest brush of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on your nipple and you felt almost ready to climax.

His free hand slid around to the small of your back and he lifted you gently, sliding you further down the couch and farther under him. You were completely beneath him now, and completely held by him, one strong hand gently pressing your wrists into the sofa cushions and the other splayed across you back while he bent his head and kissed and sucked and teased you breast. You almost couldn't bear the sensation as your nipple grew harder, more tender, and the pleasure started liquifying between your legs.

"Yes..." you breathed. You arched again, wanting him to release you from his mouth and yet hoping that he never would. "Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good..."

Bucky lets go of your wrists and brings his hand down to your other breast, pushing aside your robe to free you completely. He caressed you, sensuously feeling the roundness of you, and trailed his lips across the rising swell, kissing and tasting and smiling at the way your soft flesh moved under his tongue. He gently grasped your breast and brought your nipple up to his mouth, which grew hard and exquisitely tender under his tongue. His fingers continued to tease your other nipple, the one still stinging from the feel of his mouth on it, still aching to feel it again.

You arched into him, sinking your hand into his hair and pressing him to your breast. The pleasure of his mouth and hands on you was making you weak, making you shiver with pleasure and need, all down the length of you and in between your legs. You could feel  yourself growing wet and ready for him, the pleasure so intense, so unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

You heard yourself moaning softly, whimpering, making sounds you had never made before, all but dizzy with desire and sensation. With every little sound you made he groaned, or his erection surged against you, or he fell onto your breasts again with increased hunger. Your response to him was as intoxicating to him as his mouth was to you—you could feel it in his every movement, his every ragged breath.

“I need you, Bucky.” You pleaded softly. “Please.”

He rose over you, bracing his arms on either side of you. His eyes blazed with heat as he looked down at you, at you eyes, your mouth, your breasts. He took your mouth expertly, hungrily, kissing you fiercely with a dominance that thrilled you. He moved to trail hot kisses down your neck, licking the sensitive skin near your collarbone, barely skimming you with his tongue as if wanting the merest taste. You gripped his shoulders, and turned your head to the side, aching at the sensation of his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting. 

You moaned at the feel of his tongue on your neck and the gentle pressure of his lips pressing kisses against your skin. You needed to feel him, to taste his salty sweet skin, his maleness, him.

As if he could read your thoughts he lifted up from you to pull his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. You reached up and ran your hands over his chest, and as he fell on you again his mouth found yours hungrily and his hand slid into your hair, gripping the top of your head possessively as you kissed.

You had never felt so possessed, so taken, so overwhelmed by a man. You broke the kiss and sought his neck, his shoulder, his tense muscles straining as he held himself above you. You branded your own hot trail of kisses into his skin, felt him strain against you at the sensation. You loved the taste of him, so male and wonderful beneath your lips.

"Baby. . ." His voice was hoarse, breathless. 

For one brief moment uncertainty flashed in his eyes and he looked as though he wanted to say something. But when your lips found his again he lost the thought and succumbed to the kiss, slanting over your mouth, teasing your tongue with his.

You ran your hands down his back to the waistband of his boxers, and dipped your hands beneath the elastic to roam over his flesh. He tensed at your touch and you felt him suck in a breath as you moved your hands around to the front. 

He was very hard, and you curled your fingers—which couldn’t wrap around him fully—as you gripped his ass with your other hand. He groaned softly and kissed you even more deeply, surging against you with an almost desperate urgency. You began to stroke him, your fingers gently gliding up and down his smooth shaft until he suddenly let out a groan and broke away, stopping your hand with his own.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly, heat blazing in his eyes. “I can't. . .”

Alarm flared in you. “What's wrong?”

“I won't last long. . .”

“Oh, is that all?” You gently pushed his hand away and began to tentatively stroke him again.

He moaned, closing his eyes briefly, enjoying the pleasure. “If you keep doing that. . .”

“What?” You prompted, nibbling on his lower lips as you stroked.

“I'll have to fuck you.”

“Good.” You took his lips again and you fell into a rhythmic kiss, as if you had been kissing each other forever. He moaned softly into your mouth as you stroked him, making soft noises of your own into his mouth.

Bucky broke the kiss, his breathing sharp and shallow, and gazed down at you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, urgent, almost desperate.

“Yes,” you breathed, pushing his boxers down with your free hand. He lifted up his hips to help you and shrugged out of them, kicking them to the floor.

“I didn't mean for this to happen, at least not tonight,” he said, his breath jagged and quiet as you continued to stroke him. “I've wanted you for so long, but—”

“I know,” You murmured, kissing his neck as your hand slid over his thick length again and again. His body was rigid with tension and you tried to relax him with your mouth, your whispers, the feel of your body. But you knew he wouldn't relax as long as you were stroking him. You paused and he relaxed slightly, but his eyes still burning and his breath still came unevenly.

“Are you sure?” He asked again, his eyes showing fear through the haze of desire. Heat blazed between them, and you felt such a desperate need in him that you wanted to soothe him, comfort him. But doing so with words seemed the wrong thing to do.

"Mhmmm," You murmured instead, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He groaned softly as you ran your fingers over his shaft, teasing, tempting, letting you fingernails trail along the sensitive skin below. You cupped him and squeezed gently as he groaned louder, pleasure that sounded almost painful. you laughed softly, kissing along his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck.

“You know how I feel about you. . . ” he managed, his voice little more than a breath. “Don't you? That I—”

"Shhhh," You said, coming back to meet his eyes. He looked so afraid, so vulnerable, and yet so filled with desire. You knew, then, everything you needed to know. And every word he needed to hear. "Please. . . Baby. . .it's okay. We can talk later. Right now. . .please. . . just shut up and fuck me."

His fear melted into a smile so warm, so open, so full of relief that he almost looked ready to cry. He took your mouth again, arching over you as he claimed you. Before his kisses had been searching and sensuous, now they seemed driven by pure desire. He ground his lips on yours  masterfully, taking what he wanted, what he needed.

You could feel the raw need in him, the need for acceptance, the need to let pure passion overcome his fear. Every meeting of your lips sent another jolt through you, every taste of his tongue made you desperate for more, and you knew he was reeling from the same powerful sensations that you were. You could feel him starting to let go, to abandon himself to you, to enjoy making you abandon  yourself to him. 

Here was the lust you had always hoped was there, the powerful sexuality always just below the surface, the desire you had hoped and prayed he felt for you. It was here, pressed against you, an urgent cock and a hard, warm body, roaming lips and soft, male moans of pleasure and need. A careful heart revealing itself to yours.

You moved beneath him, pressing your hips against him to ease the heat that radiated from between your legs. The ache was exquisite, your need growing more urgent as you felt his erection surge and strengthen.

You felt his hand on your knee and then slowly, so damn slowly, he began to trail his fingers up along the inside of your thighs, which parted so easily at his gentle persuasion. His touch was electric, yet soft and sensual, and wherever his fingers played you felt a fiery tingle that made you shiver. Finally his fingers trailed delicately over your sensitive cunt, teasing you, tantalizing you, until you cried softly, silently begging him to touch you most sensitive place.

With a smile that you could feel more than see, his fingers slipped into your slick warmth and you cried out, a spasm of pleasure overwhelming you. He silenced your cry with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours  while his fingers slipped deeply inside you and stroked, as languidly and rhythmically as you were stroking him.

“Oh my g—” You cried, writhing at the pleasure of his fingers sliding slowly in and out of you, then pulling out to trail up higher and caress your folds. When his fingers danced over your clit you arched you back, your breath leaving you in a gasp. The electricity of his touch, so gentle and sensuous, sent spasms of pleasure rippling through you. 

He didn't hurry the pace, just stroked you with an even, sensual rhythm as he kissed  you. He was holding you, his arm surrounding you, pressing his body to yours, his mouth never far from your lips, your neck, your ear, his eyes never far from yours. You had never felt so close to someone, so protected in his arms, so cherished and adored.

His fingers dipped down to enter you again and his thumb continued the slow, exquisite torture above. Just when you thought you'd go over the edge he'd pull away, pause, caress a different part of you and send you on the upward spiral again and again, or slide his fingers into you over and over while his thumb swirled and caressed and rubbed, driving you mad with an aching desire. 

He smiled down at you, nipped at your lips, pressed his forehead to yours and trailed kisses down your eyelids, your cheeks, until claiming your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the sweet, sensuous motion of his fingers and thumb.

He grew rock hard in your hand as you moaned with each breath, as you came closer and closer to the edge. You could feel him restraining himself, wanting only to pleasure you, anticipating your climax. But it wasn't what you wanted. On a ragged breath you stopped his hand.

"I want you," you said urgently. "Please, Bucky. . .fuck me."

He gazed at you, teetering on a moment of indecision. His chest rose and fell sharply with his labored breath, and he brought a trembling hand up to your hip and gripped you, holding you, moving to settle between your legs and pausing at your entrance.

"Please, I want you inside me." your voice dropped to a whisper so urgent you hardly recognized it yourself. "Please don't make me beg."

And whatever strength he had left vanished.

"Oh baby. . ." He moved forward and slid into you, a breathless throaty sound of pure male pleasure escaping his lips. "Oh my God. . ."

He paused for a moment, looking down at you with heavy-lidded desire, visibly enjoying the new sensation of being so deep inside  you. You were slick and hot, more than ready for him, and as you body adjusted to him, to the exquisite, aching stretch he was causing, you squirmed beneath him on a moan of primal pleasure. He pulled out slowly, torturously, and slid himself in again, filling you completely.

You closed your eyes and moaned, gripping his ass as he lifted your hips up to him, angling you so he could fill you more deeply. He began to thrust, slowly, rhythmically, his hips moving sensuously, making you muscles tighten around him as he plunged into you again and again, your movements coming so easily, so naturally, so deliciously slowly.

You lifted your legs to wrap them around him, loving the way it tilted you back so that his every thrust felt deeper, felt like it was reaching new depths of pleasure in you.

“Yes, yes, yes. . .like that. . .oh my god, Bucky. . .you fill me up so good.” 

He ran his hand possessively along your leg, pausing to look down at your joined bodies as he thrust into you. He raised himself up, his arms braced on the other side of you to keep his weight off you, and moved so he could thrust more freely, more quickly, building the tempo. He pressed his lips to your forehead gently as he drove into you, his breath ragged, panting, yours matching his intensity and need.

“Ugh—you drive me insane, I love hearing you moan my name—don’t stop.”

You could feel him getting close, nearing the edge of his own release, and he slowed, lowering his head to nuzzle your neck as the rhythm of his hips paused, and then resumed again, more slowly this time, building again, savoring you body the way his lips had savored you mouth, the way his tongue had devoured you breasts. His arm slid around you back again, holding you, lifting you up to him as he took your breast in his mouth and teased it with his tongue. His mouth was hungrier this time, sucking your nipple, flicking his tongue over it with such abandon that you felt it in your core. His passion was growing, and you could sense that his desire to be slow and tender with you was losing the battle against his raw primitive need.

You gripped him, lost in the dizzying sensations he was causing in you. His mouth on you, his hand roaming over you, gripping your ass as he thrust into you in a relentless rhythm. You were limp in his embrace, held in place for him to possess, to plunder, to pleasure. You had never been held like that before, and the primal intensity of it, the feeling of being so completely owned by his desire, overwhelmed  you. You were his, completely, your body as loose as a rag doll in his arms. You gripped his straining arms as he sent pleasure coursing through you, gripping you as he thrust and withdrew, plunged and pulled out, drove into you over and over again in breathless ecstasy.

“Keep fucking me like that—Yes! Oh my God, harder, please. . . B-Bucky!”

Waves of pleasure grew stronger and stronger in you, pushing you towards the ultimate pleasure, building with increasing urgency as his rhythm grew faster and harder. 

“Oh—like that? You like that?”

He groaned as he kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breast, and drove himself into you with such exquisite need. You gripped his buttocks, feeling the powerful muscles contracting with each thrust, drawing him deeper into you. When he tore away from your lips and looked down into your eyes you felt the waves rise, growing stronger and higher and faster until with a shattered cry you came, trembling as the pleasure spasmed through you.

His eyes never left yours as he thrust into you, groaning from the exquisite pleasure of your spasming pussy. 

“Shit—fuck, you’re gonna make me come. Ohhhh—” Bucky moaned.

You were so incredibly tight, gripping his cock as you came, milking him as he struggled to last just a moment longer, lost in the heaven of you hot, wet heat. Your cries of pleasure echoed throughout the darkened room and when you whispered his name on a soft, sweet whimper he found his own release, jetting into you over and over again as he cried out in an agony of pleasure and a torrent, a chorus, of your name.

Finally, finally, his hips slowed and he lowered his head and kissed you gently, sensuously, as softly as he had when he had first pulled you down to him. Then he lowered his head to your neck and let himself rest there, lying against you, his heart thundering, his breath ragged and heavy. You lowered your legs from around his waist and wrapped your arms around him instead, cradling him to  you. you rested your head against the top of his and felt your own breath slowing, your own heartbeat returning to normal. His cock was still hard inside you and he shuddered as you clenched around him.

"God, you're incredible." He exhaled a long, deep breath.

He rose up and kissed you, shuddering with each aftershock as his cock surged inside  you. You could feel your inner muscles clenching around him, not releasing him yet, teasing the last drops of pleasure from him. 

He lay his head down against you again, breathing out a sigh that was both release and contentment as the last tremors rippled through him. You loved this feeling, this sensation of his body trembling with the afterglow of pleasure, pleasure you had given him, just as your body was tingling from the intense pleasure he had given you.

He held you to him, sliding out of you slowly, and shifted slightly so that you fit against him perfectly, settling into the warmth and comfort of his arms encircling you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, pressing his lips to your temple and leaving them there for a long minute before letting go.

“I'm so glad you stayed over,” you said quietly, kissing the soft skin of his neck.

He stilled for a moment, and you looked up at him, trying to read whatever might be revealed in his eyes. In the darkness both of you were inscrutable, until he leaned closer and bumped your cheek with his nose before lightly pressing his lips to yours for a sweet, soulful kiss.

“So does this mean we're not friends anymore?” He asked, in between luscious nips at your lips.

“You tell me,” you said sleepily, unable to resist his slow, savoring kisses.

You felt his smile as he kissed you languidly, with deliberate slowness, each kiss deepening into something more intimate than the last. Finally his lips stilled and you felt him fall asleep beside you, his breathing soft and slow.

You wanted to stay awake, to freeze this moment in time, to make it last. you wished you could lay there forever, tucked in beside him, your bodies curled to get you. But even as you tried to stay awake, gently caressing the arm that draped over you protectively. you gradually succumbed to a peaceful, contented sleep.

See here’s the thing. If Inwoke up to Sebastian Stan. A man I don’t know obviously. between my legs. I’d let it happen. For the plot of course. No other reason.

Coffee. Emergency. Thighs.

Summary: You told Bucky that the only time he’s allowed to wake you up is under three conditions: He has coffee. It’s an emergency. Or his head is between your thighs.

And today, he really, really wants to wake you up.

Pairing: Beefy!Biker Bucky x Reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Smut, Oral (fem receiving), consensual somnophilia, praise kink, body worship (Bucky has a thing for thighs).

A/N: Beta’d by the amazing @lunarbuck and @cwbucky. Based off an anon ask.

《Masterlist》《Biker!Masterlist》《Library》

You’ve always said that the only time he’s allowed to wake you up before your alarm goes off is under three conditions: if he has coffee waiting for you, it’s a dire emergency or if he has his head between your thighs.

Otherwise, you won’t be responsible for what you would do to him if he doesn’t allow you to sleep in.

He learned this after he woke you up one bright and way too early morning to ask if you remembered where he put his book—it was next to his watch by the way. You found it in less than three seconds and turned on him with a disgruntled gaze.

He can’t lie, he loved the fiery way you glared at him.

Do not wake me up again without a good reason, Bucky.

You pulled him down to your level and repeated yourself so slowly and with so much malice, that he instantly got hard. 

The way you aggressively manhandled Bucky, turned him on more than either of you expected. He spent a few hours apologizing to you, mostly with you on top of him. 

It’s a little after six, muted pinks, burnt oranges and streaks of blue mar the skyline, and enough light filters through the spaces around the curtains to illuminate the room in a dusky glow.

Bucky’s been awake for hours. He spent the first two on his back, staring at the ceiling, willing himself to get up and do something, anything.

But that would mean leaving you, all warm and soft and sleepy, he tried once, even got his leg over the edge of the bed but the light weight of your hand splayed across the ridges of his lower abs rendered him immobile, he has no choice but to stay in bed.

With you.

Keep reading

Oh my goodness.

5 Times You Are Not Dating Bucky Barnes (and the one time you are) | Bucky Barnes x Reader | One shot - 2.6k words |

You're sick of saying it, Bucky is not your boyfriend, you are not dating you're just friends. Until...

Warnings: 18+ for some canon typical violence and for Sam and Joaquin being pains in the arse (affectionate). Friends to lovers vibes, idiots in love, dating but not dating.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics & @saradika-graphics

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

1

Bucky Barnes is not your boyfriend.

At least once a day these words come out of your mouth in some form and it's becoming so frequent now that you're considering just recording yourself and playing it back on your phone.

Colleagues, partners in the field, friends.

Not a couple.

Not dating.

"Did you hear that, Wilson? She said —"

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

Sam rolled his eyes at Bucky, sighing dramatically in a way that only Sam is really allowed to get away with. Bucky hadn't taken his eyes from your laptop screen or the secure file you were scrolling through.

"Look awful close though."

You looked up this time, the top of your head brushing Bucky's cheek, his breath was warm against your own and the contrast between his exhale and the cold glass of the table gave you goosebumps.

"We're reviewing the data Joaquin sent us, what do you want us to do?" You snapped, scrolling to the next page of mind numbingly boring KPIs and MIs. Just your luck to get the management files and nothing juicy.

"Perhaps you could use the projector?" Sam clicked a button on the table and the details on your screen lit up the plain, white wall of the conference room.

Embarrassed heat flared up your spine and you shivered.

"Not very secure though, is it, Captain?" Bucky picked up the remote and switched the projector off, his eyes on the laptop screen.

The plastic of your chair squeaked as he tightened his hold on it, and the door slammed shut behind Sam.

2

You followed your nose from the cool darkness of the operations room to the open living area. Tedious as it was to be stationed in the middle of nowhere for recon, you couldn't fault the accommodation, it was almost like being on holiday, apart from the gruelling shifts staring at monitors every day.

Somewhere further along the corridor the sound of good-natured arguing grew louder, Bucky's voice rising above the others and warning them not to disturb you. There was a brief pause before you heard Sam and Joaquin start laughing and Bucky's heavy sigh.

"Morning," you gave a small sleepy smile to the assembled team. Joaquin smiled back, raising his coffee cup in greeting. Sam grinned and you knew instantly that there was something going on. "What now?" You sighed, sending both men in to fits of laughter.

Bucky handed you a cup of tea and bowl of yogurt and granola, a handful of blueberries and raspberries on top.

"Thanks, I'm starving." You bumped his hip as you wandered past to join your teammates at the kitchen island and earned yourself a rare smile.

"What've you got there?" Sam asked, peering into your bowl.

"Usual," you mumbled, sipping your tea. Perfect.

"Uh huh, the usual." He looked up at Bucky, whose face was slowly turning the same colour as the raspberries.

"Can I have some yoghurt, Bucky?" Joaquin asked, innocently.

"Nope." Bucky said, watching you take the first bite and allowing the corner of his mouth to turn up in a smile when yours did.

"Oh, did we run out?"

"Nope."

Bucky put the almost full pot back into the fridge, fixed his coffee and sat down too, shuffling his stool a little closer to you. His hair was still a little damp and you could smell the familiar scent of his shampoo, his bare arm bumping against yours as he took a sip of coffee.

Sam and Joaquin emptied out the last of their coffees into the sink and slunk away, whispering and laughing conspiratorially about "special treatment for girlfriends."

Bucky was, as usual, ignoring them and flipping through a week old newspaper and sipping his coffee. He caught you watching and gave you a mock glare, nothing like the hard stare he'd given Sam and Joaquín earlier.

Then he turned the pages slightly so you could see and you let your head rest on his shoulder, still sipping your tea.

3

"I'm sorry, okay, please stop giving me the cold shoulder." Sam followed after you as you picked your way back to the jet, trying to catch up so you could walk together.

"Absolutely not, I want to be angry for at least two more hours." You grouched, squeezing water from your tactical gear.

"C'mon, it's a little funny," Joaquin laughed, taking up space on your other side.

"Fuck off, Torres, if you had fish swimming in your tac suit you'd be mad too. "

Bucky met you at the cargo door, towel in hand and glaring at your team mates.

"Hell happened to you lot? And why are there fish in your suit?" He scanned you all quickly for serious damage, but it was just your ego that was bruised really.

"Someone, told me it was totally safe to cross this rickety fucking bridge back there," you scowled again.

It really wasn't Sam's fault, it looked perfectly safe or you wouldn't have started to cross, but it was clearly rigged to fall and that's exactly what you'd done, straight into the stagnant water below.

In their gear Sam and Joaquin had been fine. You, on the other hand, had been soaked from head to toe.

"Let's get you in something clean and dry," Bucky gently ushered you into the cool darkness of the jet, soothing your embarrassment with his own stories and wiping mud from the back of your neck as if it was an everyday occurrence.

"I don't think there's anything left in my locker after we got caught in that storm a few weeks back." Embarrassment made your skin itchy and your blood cold. You had spare underwear, maybe, at best.

"Don't worry," Bucky put his back to the door of the small bathroom while you stripped off your dirty clothes inside, "I've got something."

When you reappeared fifteen minutes later, cleaner, dryer, it was in a pair of Bucky's spare sweat pants and the black t-shirt he'd been wearing.

Joaquin raised his eyes but made the decision not to comment and incur your wrath any further.

Sam, on the other hand, chose to tease Bucky instead, their arguing bouncing around the jet while you tried to get comfy on the thin flight seats.

"Got your territory all marked then, Barnes?" He laughed, eyes darting between the two of you.

"Don't know what you're on about, Wilson." Bucky snapped back.

"She's in your clothes, couldn't find any spares? Nothing of mine of Joaquin's back there? You're getting more possessive." Sam shot you a look, "you need to tell him to fuck off."

"I'm good, Sam, thanks for your concern."

"Ahh so you are —"

"We're not dating!" You shouted in unison.

Which only made Sam and Joaquín laugh harder.

It was okay though, you were safe again now and, snuggling deeper into the body warmth of Bucky's t-shirt and definitely a lot less angry than you had been, you really felt safe too. How could you feel any other kind of way, when you could smell his body wash, when he had dried your face so carefully and helped you into your clean clothes.

He looked over at you, eyes still checking for injuries.

"You okay over there? Warm enough?" You nodded and he nodded back, smiling.

4

Joaquin woke with a jolt when the plane hit turbulence, there was a crick in his neck and a sore muscle in his back screaming for a soft bed and his favourite pillow. But no such luck, just an army evac in the dead of night.

Beside him Sam had spread out a blanket and his jacket on the floor, using his rucksack as a pillow and snoring soundly. He could always sleep anywhere, you all could, especially after the day you'd had.

Bucky had taken up a spot sat on the floor like Sam, but with his back to the thin benches, his pack holding up his head. In the gloom he could see Bucky's left arm rigidly holding his body up, elbow locked, because on the right you were leaning into him. His arm was around your shoulders and you'd curled your body into his, pressing into his side, face tucked into his neck and hand under his shirt.

The plane rattled again and Bucky blinked one eye open, his body still as he scanned around quickly before locking eyes with Joaquin.

"You two comfy?" Joaquin whispered and Bucky scowled back. He'd expected Bucky to push you away, but instead he tugged you closer.

Joaquin made a tiny heart shape with his fingers and then mimed kissing.

Bucky flicked up his middle finger and then closed his eyes.

5

"So, Playboy, got any plans tonight," Sam asked, scuffing Joaquin on the back of the head while you pulled your bag out of the gym lockers.

It'd been a long day and you couldn't wait to order a ridiculous amount of food, put your pyjamas on and forget the world existed.

"You know me, Sam. Keepin' my options open." The younger man grinned back.

"Lotta fingers in a lotta pies, have you Torres?" You snickered.

Bucky shut his locker with a slam. "Don't be crude," he grouched, but you saw the way he smiled when he rolled his eyes.

"Something like that," Joaquin shrugged.

"What about you man, hot date?" Joaquin asked,

"Nah," Sam turned away and Joaquin finished towelling his wet hair and started digging his clothes from his bag before wandering off for some privacy.

You slid your trainers back on, tucking your boots in your locker and wondering why they were both suddenly so interested in each other's dating life.

"Not even Leila," you needled, breaking the silence and poking him in the side.

"What's it got to do with you anyway? You seeing anyone tonight?"

"Nope, just me and some Chinese takeout tonight, maybe a little flirt with Netflix," Sam gave you a slightly sad look, but what did you care, it wasn't the only Friday night that would ever happen and you were exhausted.

"I was going to get noodles, do you want to come back to mine, we can split an order?" Bucky asked, fishing his keys from his gym bag and nodding his head towards the door.

"Ohh yes as long as we can get dumplings."

"Obviously we're getting dumplings."

"And maybe fried rice?"

"Rice and noodles?"

"You get one, I'll get the other, we'll split it."

"Fine."

"Shall I follow you —"

"Leave your car by the hanger, I'll drive you back in tomorrow."

"Perfect, let's grab a bottle of wine from the store on the way back."

Bucky groaned, holding the door open for you, "how many times have I said, the only acceptable drink with Chinese takeout is Tsingtao."

The door shut as Joaquin rounded the lockers again, a confused look on his face."Do they know it's Valentines Day?"

Sam laughed, "I don't think so but I can't wait to see their faces tomorrow when they figure it out."

+1

"I've got him, Bucky, you watch the trucks?" You put your sight back to your eye, shuffling your shoulders, settling lower into the ground, you breathed deeply as you prepared to take the shot.

"You'll give away your position, you're too close, fall back." Bucky's voice was surprisingly frantic in your ear.

"Quiet, please. I can do this."

"Leave her, Buck, she's got this."

"Cap's right, gotta have a little faith."

"It's too risky —"

You turned your comm off. You'd been watching this gang for weeks hoping to catch them in the act and you had the perfect chance.

Sam and Joaquin had been leading your infiltration of their den and everything had been going swimmingly — until their leader had walked out and thrown everything into chaos.

You caught the kickback from your rifle with practised ease, your aim perfect, the apparent leader of the group crumpled to the ground, bleeding from his now shattered kneecap. Nothing fatal, you wanted to see him on the stand as did the rest of the team.

You touched your ear piece again ready to gloat about your excellent hit but Bucky's panicked voice found you instead.

"Run, I'm coming but you've gotta run, go —go! Why aren't you going!"

You turned, surrounded by three armed guards, and did the only thing you could do. Fight back.

This wasn't the best time for close quarters combat, but you needed time to reach your handgun or your dagger or something.

Dodging around you gained enough time to slip a knife from your thigh holster.

"I've got it, Buck. Go to Sam."

"No you fucking haven't."

Your arm moved, swiping at your first assailant and leaving a splatter of blood behind. Still low you lurched for the second man's legs, jabbing upwards as he bent down to you. The blade pierced the top of his thigh and blood gushed out as you twisted your wrist and tugged.

"Don't kill anyone." Sam admonished.

But you were too focused to care. The third guard was huge, broad and carrying a knife to match. But it was the gun pointed at your temple that had your heart pounding.

"Put the gun down little lady, we don't want any more messes for you to clean up." The man leered forward, pressing the hot muzzle of the gun into your skin.

"Fuck off." You spat back.

He bent closer, sliding his dagger back into its holster, giving him a free hand to pinch your cheeks. "Such a dirty mouth, what will I do with you."

"She said, fuck off."

The man looked blank, turning his head to find Bucky towering over him gun pressed to his back.

"You okay?" He asked, glancing at you quickly.

"Fine."

"You're a lucky bastard today." Bucky pulled the trigger and you closed your eyes against the spray.

The man shouted, clutching at his shoulder where blood was pouring between his fingers, the wound wider at the front.

"How's that lucky, Bucky?" You chastised, brushing leaves and dirt from your tactical suit and grabbing your rifle.

"If you were hurt, I'd have shot him in the head." He answered, simply, and you felt yourself go hot all over at the thought of what he'd do for you.

Sam and Joaquin landed behind you and rushed forwards.

"We heard more shots, is everyone okay? — What the hell guys I said minimal damage." Sam groaned.

"Would've been easier if someone—" Bucky looked at you, "had left their comms on and run when I'd said."

You rolled your eyes, "I was fine, look." All three patrol guards lay bleeding on the ground.

"That guy had a gun to your head, you were not fine."

"I had him on the ropes." You smiled, but it wavered, you had been scared and your heart had been racing seeing Bucky sneak up on him. "Plus, I've got my knight in shining armour to shoot people for me." You grinned up at Bucky, blood painted on your uniforms and across your cheeks.

"Good thing too." Bucky threaded his fingers through your chest holster and tugged you forwards, pressing a deep kiss to your lips. You hummed happily and leant into him before he set you back down

"If you're done, Sam, can we go back to the jet? I've got bad guy blood all over me, yuck." You made a face and wiped your cheek with the back of your hand before strolling off with Bucky, rifles over your shoulders.

"Did they just—" Joaquin looked over at Sam.

"Yeah —"

"How long?"

"No idea."

As you rounded the corner Bucky took your hand again, tugging you closer and pressing a kiss to your head where the imprint of the gun still lingered.

"Does this finally mean I'm your boyfriend?"

"Because you shot someone for me?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, sure." You smiled, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

I mean sometimes i care but other times….

The truth of it 🤣

oh so i want to eat pancakes off his body

my mini multiverse of madness…

Pancakes (Bucky x Reader)

word count: 0.7k

masterlist

You lived in the Avengers Tower. You were on pretty good terms with everyone there—Steve was sweet, Sam made you laugh, Tony made you snicker, Natasha made you feel both safe yet threatened, Clint made you feel comfortable, Thor entertained you, and Bruce made you relax. There was only one person in the tower you had issues with. 

Bucky. 

It wasn’t even like there was anything wrong with him, he just never talked to you or interacted with you at all unless it was to get on your nerves. It drove you crazy.

You went into the kitchen to cook some pancakes. You’d had a craving for them for some reason, and had decided to make them. When you went to gather your ingredients, however, you found many of them on the top shelves of whatever cabinet they were in. Unfortunately, you couldn’t reach the top shelves. 

Steve and Sam, while both being tall, liked to have things at a level they didn’t have to bend down to pick up, but they never put anything so high that you couldn’t reach it. Well, that was probably because Steve and Sam were decent, thoughtful people. So that just left Thor and Bucky. But Thor rarely used the kitchen—it perplexed him and he preferred not to use it, especially after that one time he nearly burnt the ceiling. 

So you sighed, frustrated, got out the step stool, and carried it to all of the cabinets, getting the ingredients from high up one by one. When Bucky walked into the kitchen, he smirked. “Need any help?”

You rolled your eyes and turned to look at him. “No. Did you seriously put all of these up here?”

“It’s just autopilot!” Bucky argued with a relaxed shrug. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you grabbed the container of salt and carried it down, stepping down from the two-step tall step stool. 

“Damn, you’re short,” Bucky chuckled. 

You glared daggers at him. “I’m not that shortYou just put things so damn high up that nobody under six feet could reach it.” 

“You ever notice how you only talk to me when I’ve done something that bothers you?” Bucky questioned. 

You stilled for a half-second. “…it’s not like you talk to me otherwise, either.”

“I’m just making an observation.”

“Just… make it someplace else. I’m hungry, I’m gonna make my pancakes.”

You thought about what Bucky had said, though. About you never talking to him unless he’d pissed you off. And you decided to give him a shot. 

So forty five minutes later, you walked into the living room and found him. “Hey, do you uhm… do you wanna have pancakes with me?”

Bucky looked up, surprised, but nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He followed you to the kitchen table and filled his plate up with pancakes. The conversation was a little uncomfortable at first, but you soon found a bit of common ground over different kinds of breakfast foods and chess. You were horrible at chess. He wasn’t all that much better. But you had found the game in the living room cabinet and pulled it out, playing it at the kitchen table with your sticky, syrup glazed plates. Since neither of you were particularly good at the game, that made it all the more fun. And you were beginning to realize that maybe Bucky wasn’t so bad.

Over the next few days, you found yourself talking to Bucky more often. You didn’t resent the sight of him every time you walked into a room. And the salt? It went back to the lower shelves in the cabinet. He was trying to do something nice for you. It made you smile. You never told him, but he knew. 

One morning, when you woke up, you walked over to your mirror, as you did most mornings. A sticky note was on the surface. You pulled it off and read it. 

Wanna go out somewhere maybe a little fancier than pancakes?

— Bucky 

P.S. Yes, I am asking you out. 

The note made you grin. So you walked over to your nightstand, pulled out a sticky note of your own, and wrote: “yes.”

taglist

@spaceycat @vidanand @xo-cench @raikan624

EXCUSE ME????? WHAT. WHO. WHEN. WHERE. WHO TOOK MY MANS HAIR????

Just woke up to this news

…bucky eating you out while you’re reading your book to him out loud. it wasn’t a sexy book honestly, it was one that was supposed to make you think but how were you supposed to do that with his lips latched onto your swollen cunt and sucking hard

“keep talkin’ doll.” he mumbles against your wet pussy, his tongue lazily swiping up and down through your folds, slick dribbling down his chin. you clear your throat as you grip your book, knuckles almost turning white

“e-eden knelt, her pale knees becomin— fuck..!” your hips stutter as you feel two of his thick fingers slowly push inside your wet heat, groaning.

“becoming what, sweetheart?” he teases as his tongue swirls around your clit, his fingers sinking deep and slow into your pussy with each word that leaves your lips as you continue to struggle to read

Raw. next question

Thunderbolts* 2025 | Dir. Jake Schreier

me when I click on a fic tagged x reader but in the end it's an x oc (I was tricked)

oh my. pls congressman sergeant james. pls.

Security Clearance

Title: Security Clearance

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Former SHEILD!Female Reader

Summary:  When a long day of political chaos leaves Congressman Bucky Barnes teetering on the edge, the last person he wants watching him is you.

Word Count:  3.8k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Rough sex, aggressive dominants, biting, bruising, possessiveness, Semi-public setting (gym), Mutual physical aggression (consensual, Breathless dirty talk, Workplace-adjacent setting (Congressman x Bodyguard dynamic)

A/N:  Want to get this out before Thunderbolts* 

You hated this suit.

Not because it was tight or unflattering, but because it made you feel like part of the machine again. Like some cog wheeled into place after being discarded years ago. The synthetic fibers clung to your skin like old duty-like expectation. It itched in a way you couldn’t scratch. You weren’t SHIELD anymore, hadn’t been for years, but when the government needed someone with a little edge, a little blood on their hands and a spotless record on paper, your name still came up. So here you were-again. A private contractor with federal strings tied tight around your wrists. They called it security clearance. You called it a leash.

That’s how you ended up here, standing in the corner of a polished D.C. office suite, the walls too white, the air too cold, watching Congressman James Buchanan Barnes slowly come apart at the seams.

He didn’t like you. That much was obvious.

You didn’t blame him. You were a shadow in his periphery, always there. At hearings. At dinners. In hallways with nothing but silence between you. You were the person who never flinched under his stare, the one who didn’t try to smile or play politics. Your job was simple: observe, protect, report. And sometimes, control.

You were a living, breathing reminder that Bucky Barnes wasn’t as free as the country he served.

But truthfully? You weren’t sure he hated you as much as he hated what you represented. The collar he couldn’t shake. The watchdog the state had assigned him in the form of someone with matching ghosts.

Bucky Barnes was a former assassin turned polished representative with a jawline sharp enough to make headlines and a gaze that could still freeze a room. That was before today. Today, his hair was disheveled, his jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. His eyes-stormy, bloodshot, heavy-lidded-burned with something you hadn’t seen since the field: unspent violence.

His tie hung loose around his collarbone, his sleeves rolled up past the elbow. The flash of metal from his forearm caught the light with every furious step he took across the office.

You didn’t need enhanced senses to pick up the tension bleeding off him in waves. It was in the twitch of his fingers. The restless pacing. The way his mouth moved soundlessly before finally giving voice to his thoughts.

"Need to hit something before I hit someone," he bit out, ripping the rest of his tie off like it offended him. He didn’t look at you. Just turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

You gave it two beats.

Then pushed off the wall and followed.

~#~#~#~#~#~

The gym was cold and empty. Just polished floors, the faint smell of leather and sweat, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. You stepped inside and paused just past the doorway, letting the door shut behind you with a soft click.

Bucky was already moving, disappearing into the changing room without a word. You stayed where you were, arms folded, leaning back against the wall as you let the silence stretch. A few minutes passed, and then he returned.

He’d stripped down into a plain black workout tee and loose dark sweats. Gone was the suited congressman-the image scrubbed away along with the tie and the tension. This was the man you remembered from field briefings in shadowed corners of SHIELD operations-lean muscle, taut lines, a low-simmering fury barely restrained beneath his skin.

You turned away from him, scanning the open gym floor as he began wrapping his right hand in athletic tape. Methodical. Focused. The sound of the tape unraveling was sharp in the quiet.

You started walking, slowly pacing the perimeter of the space, each step steady. You moved like you were still checking for exits, still measuring threats. It was instinct. Habit. You let your fingers skim along the wall padding. The air smelled like sweat and adrenaline and rubber.

Then the first thwack hit the air.

You stopped walking.

Bucky was hammering the punching bag. Sharp, brutal strikes. The kind that made the chain rattle and the leather creak. The kind that left bruises if anyone got in his way. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was still worked up. His grunts came short and clipped, not satisfied. Not eased.

You slowly turned back to watch him. He kept going. Harder. Faster. Each strike was more violent than the last, fists hammering the bag like it had personally offended him. You could almost hear it in his breathing-the way his exhales shortened, the growl that hovered behind each grunt. The bag wasn't working. If anything, it was winding him tighter.

You didn’t need to see his expression to know the storm inside him was getting worse. His punches turned more erratic. Sloppier, even, like control was slipping.

Then came the sharp exhale-a frustrated huff that echoed too loud in the empty space. He dropped his arms, the bag swaying slightly from the abuse, and turned toward you like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

His eyes were fire when they met yours.

"You got anything under that you can fight in?" he asked, voice still sharp, still clipped.

You crossed your arms and raised a brow. "We're not suppose to engage the client, Sir.."

His jaw ticked. "I thought you had to follow directives?"

"Charming." You snorted muttering under your breath. 

Still, you considered it. It had been a while since you’d had a proper spar. The last few agents assigned to Bucky’s rotation had all been too stiff, too careful. The second you got aggressive, they called you 'too much'-like they didn’t sign up to be knocked flat. Bucky, though... Bucky could take a hit. More than that, he wanted one.

With a sigh, you rolled your eyes and slowly began stripping off your blazer. Then your shirt. Underneath, a fitted black tank hugged your torso. "This work for you, Congressman?"

He just turned to dig in his duffel before tossing a pair of grey sweatpants at you.

"Wear those. I don't want to get billed for ruining those pants." 

You rolled your eyes but changed, your slacks hitting the floor before you stepped into the pants he gave you. Slightly too big. Smelled like him. Looking up Bucky back was to you while you'd been changing. 

You met him on the mats, both barefoot. The floor felt cool beneath your feet, the air thickening between you in slow increments. Barnes rolled his shoulders back, the faint mechanical whirl of his metal arm filling the silence like a warning. Then came the pop of his neck as he tilted it side to side, eyes still fixed on you, unblinking.

For a moment, nothing moved. Just the subtle twitch of his fingers, your mirrored stance, the tension coiling between you like an elastic band stretched tight. You studied him-really looked. The way his shoulders stayed high, rigid with barely leashed frustration. How his jaw was still locked, even now. He wasn’t fighting to warm up. He was fighting to keep something inside.

You could see it-every inch of him wound tight like a spring, controlled only by discipline and sheer force of will. He wasn’t here to spar. He was here to unload.

Fine. Let him.

It started controlled-simple drills, practiced maneuvers. The kind of opening movements you’d run a hundred times before. You both circled, feet light on the mat, trading calculated strikes. You blocked, countered. Tested. Pushed. Watched him do the same.

He was sussing you out.

You let it build. Let him think maybe you were holding back, maybe you were just a suit who couldn’t take a hit like you used too. But the second he shifted forward with more speed, you welcomed it. Met it. Matched it. Dared him to give you more.

You weren’t made of glass.

If Bucky wanted a moving target, you’d give him one.

His pace turned aggressive. The precision in his movements gave way to something harder, more visceral. Each strike he threw was faster, heavier-like he wanted to knock the air out of you, like he needed to feel the hit deep in his bones. You answered in kind. Your footwork shifted from reactive to dominant, testing his limits with sharper counters and quicker feints. Hits landed with satisfying thuds, echoing off the gym walls like thunderclaps.

You ducked beneath one wide swing and jabbed hard at his ribs, earning a grunt. His metal arm caught your next strike and shoved you back with enough force to make your heel skid along the mat-but you didn’t hesitate. You recovered fast, twisted low under his reach, and drove a solid kick into his stomach. The contact thudded through your leg and up your spine. He grunted again-not in pain, but with a glimmer of satisfaction flashing through his eyes like you’d finally given him something real to work with.

He grinned.

You hated how good it looked on him. Like he was finally enjoying himself. Like he hadn’t looked that alive in weeks.

You went for his legs. He anticipated it, but not fast enough. He hit the mat with a solid thud that reverberated through the floor, the sound sharp in your ears. Your body reacted without hesitation-knees planted to either side of his waist as you straddled him, sweat-slick and breathing hard. Muscles burned deliciously with effort, your limbs trembling slightly from exertion. You were already flushed, heat rising under your skin, blood thrumming loud in your ears.

Then he moved. A quick twist of his hips and you were airborne for a half-second before he flipped you like a coin. Your back hit the mat, air whooshing out of your lungs.

The fight bled into something else.

Now he was above you, chest heaving, face flushed, dark hair falling loose across his brow. His breath hit your jaw, hot and ragged. Your own lungs worked double time trying to keep up, chest rising and falling with each greedy gasp for oxygen. Your skin was tacky with sweat, the sting of motion and contact still rippling through your body. Every muscle screamed with effort, every nerve buzzing with the high of adrenaline.

You felt alive. On fire.

And you stared at each other, unmoving. That flicker in his eyes-once analytical, maybe even annoyed-had burned down into something molten. Something wicked. Something hungry.

"You wanna fight," he growled, voice like sandpaper and smoke, "or you wanna fuck?"

You didn’t answer.

You grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him down into you like you were daring him to find out.

The clothes went fast. His hands were everywhere, rough and demanding. He yanked your top off so quickly the friction dragged hard across your skin, leaving it tender, raw in spots-but you didn’t care. You were already burning, already writhing beneath the heat rising in your veins. His shirt was next, flying across the room like it had offended him. Skin met skin, fever-hot, slick with sweat.

You didn’t even make it upright. You rolled together across the mat, limbs tangled, lips locked in something closer to a snarl than a kiss. You shoved him back with your forearm; he pulled you down by the waist. The padded floor caught your shoulder as you twisted under him, teeth grazing his jaw. You ground your hips up into his like you were trying to fuse with him, dragging a growl out of his throat.

The need had been simmering since day one-and now it boiled over.

He broke the kiss just long enough to push your bra up and out of the way, rough fingers palming the swell of your breast before his mouth sealed over your nipple. He sucked hard until you gasped, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. You arched into it, one hand buried in his hair.

Then his hand was dragging down, fast and possessive, running over your stomach and dipping under the waistband of your borrowed sweats and underwear in one fluid motion. The cold of the vibranium shocked you as his fingers slid between your legs, bold and greedy. 

"Fuck… you’re wet already."

"Don’t flatter yourself," you panted, nails digging into his waist. "Just.. sweat.." 

He laughed, low and dangerous, then sat back on his knees, eyes devouring you like he was already tasting you in his head. In one sharp motion, he shoved your borrowed sweats down. He didn’t hesitate. One rough yank sent your pants halfway down your thighs, and then he was grabbing your hips, dragging you against him like he was starved for it. You grunted, twisting with him as you rolled over, bodies grappling for dominance even now, forcing your pants off to give your legs a full range of motion. 

You clawed at his skin biting down hard on Bucky's neck, marking him, dragging a sound from deep in his chest that was nothing short of feral. He hissed, teeth bared, his hands fumbling with his own waistband before he shoved his sweats down just far enough to free himself.

You didn’t get a warning. No teasing. No buildup.

He shoved into you with a growl, thick and deep and unforgiving. You gasped, the stretch stealing your breath and making your spine arch. He filled you to the hilt, every inch forcing you open until your walls fluttered around him, squeezing back instinctively. The friction was filthy, the burn sublime, your cunt gripping him with a desperate kind of greed.

"Fuck..." he snarled against your cheek, his voice shredded, ragged with the restraint it was costing him not to completely lose control.

You could feel the power in him, muscles tensed like coiled wire as he bottomed out, holding still just long enough for your body to adjust-but it wasn’t nearly enough. Your hips rolled up, instinctive and greedy, chasing the sensation like you needed more of him. Needed him to move, to wreck you. He responded immediately, a brutal snap of his hips that punched a sharp cry out of your throat, the sound swallowed by the thick, humid air.

You dug your heels into the mat, bracing, pulling him deeper as you arched up into every thrust. Your nails raked down his spine, dragging welts along sweat-slick skin. Your cunt clenched hard around him, squeezing tight like you never wanted to let him go, like your body was just as desperate as he was to keep him buried deep inside. He felt massive, every stroke grinding against your sweet spot, slick and devastating.

"Christ..." you gasped, voice wrecked, torn straight from your chest like gravel. You rocked back against him, eyes fluttering, your whole body a raw, trembling thing.

His breath hit your neck, hot and ragged. "You like that?"

You could barely answer, too strung out on the push and pull of his body-but you weren’t yielding. Not completely. One of your hands wrenched free of his grip and tangled in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to crash your mouth to his. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a challenge. A bite.

He snarled and surged forward, dragging you down to the mat fully, but you fought him for every inch of control-hips rolling up to meet his, mouth dragging along his jaw to nip at his throat, your legs locking tighter around his waist. You bit down hard on the hinge of his shoulder, grinning at the guttural sound it tore from his chest.

His hands found yours again, slamming them above your head, pinning you like a wild thing beneath him. But you didn’t go limp. You writhed, arched, snapped your teeth at his throat like you wanted to devour him.

"Fucking hell," he groaned, voice raw and wrecked. "You want to be on top that bad?"

"And let you have all the fun.." you hissed back, eyes blazing.

When he drove into you again, it wasn’t just lust-it was a challenge met, a battle accepted. A dare between beasts. It was teeth and sweat and the raw scrape of skin on skin. Moans caught between gritted teeth. Fingernails carving stories into flesh. Each thrust came with a brutal rhythm, deep and fast, his hips slamming into you with force that rattled through your bones.

You took it. Gave it back. Your cunt squeezed around him like a vise, greedy, refusing to let him retreat. You met him thrust for thrust, voice hoarse and wild, breath panting out curses and gasps.

"Come on, Barnes. You wanted a fight-fucking take it."

He snarled like an animal, dragging his mouth down your neck as he ground against your sweet spot. "You're gonna be the death of me."

"You should be so lucky," you spat as his teeth meat your skin. 

Your thighs trembled with the effort, but your fire didn’t fade. You rocked up hard, lips dragging along his jaw before sinking your teeth into his neck again, marking him with pride. You felt his cock twitch in response.

"You're not the only one who likes to bite, Barnes," you growled into his ear.

He hissed again, head tipping forward, the movement desperate. His hands fumbled, trying to grab your hips, trying to hold you still as you took control of the rhythm, riding him from beneath with nothing but fury and fire and hunger.

"You’re fuckin’ feral," he panted.

"You love it," you breathed, grinding harder.

"Yeah," he gasped. "Yeah, I fuckin’ do."

You weren’t being fucked. You were fucking him back. And he loved every damn second of it.

His pace turned punishing, hips slamming into yours with an obscene, wet sound. The mat beneath you squeaked with the force of it, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing loud in the gym. You couldn’t stay quiet-not when he was grinding into you just right, hitting that perfect angle with brutal consistency.

Your body jolted with each stroke, every nerve ending flaring as friction sparked raw heat beneath your skin. The stretch had your mouth falling open, your breath coming in faster bursts as your muscles twitched, clenching around him. Heat bloomed at the base of your spine, thick and molten, curling tighter with every brutal snap of his hips until it was all you could do to breathe.

"Fuck-god yes-"

He didn’t stop. Didn’t soften. He just growled, pulled out with a curse, and flipped you over in one effortless move, dragging your hips up until you were on your knees, chest still pressed to the mat.

"Thought you were tough," he rasped, voice scraping hot against your ear.

You barely caught your breath, heart hammering in your chest, your body still twitching with aftershocks, when he grabbed your hips and shoved back inside you from behind in one brutal, claiming thrust. The impact rocked you forward with a gasp, your hands bracing against the mat to keep from collapsing.

"Fuck, Bucky-"

His hips snapped forward, dragging a broken moan from your lips. "Say it again," he growled.

"Fuck, Bucky!"

He was deeper like this-thicker, overwhelming. You choked out a moan as your walls clamped down hard around him, the sound raw and broken. One of his hands wrapped tightly around the back of your neck, keeping you down, the pressure firm but grounding, while the other dragged between your legs with unrelenting purpose. His fingers found your clit and began rubbing ruthless, tight circles that made your entire body jump.

"That’s it. Give it to me," he murmured, low and possessive.

You bit down on your own forearm to stifle the sound building in your throat, but it was useless. The sensation was too much, too fast. The drag of him inside you was merciless-slick and raw, every stroke grinding against your tender walls, forcing you wider with each thrust. The sound of your bodies colliding was obscene, wet and rhythmic, as though he was carving himself into your core with every brutal snap of his hips. He didn’t just fill you-he overwhelmed you, like his cock was made to split you open and stay buried until you forgot anything but the pulse of him pounding into that aching spot deep inside. Your muscles tensed-shoulders, thighs, back-locking up like you were going to snap in half.

"I’m gonna-shit-Bucky, I’m-"

Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train-merciless, sudden, all-consuming. Your vision went white at the edges as stars burst behind your eyelids, a raw scream tearing from your throat. Your body locked up, then convulsed, wave after wave of climax pulsing through you with maddening intensity. You twitched, your thighs quaking, your cunt spasming tight around him as overstimulation clawed at your nerves. A sob caught in your throat as he kept going, dragging every ounce of sensation from you until your muscles gave out entirely.

Behind you, Bucky snarled your name like a curse and a prayer, barely holding on. He slammed into you one final time and froze, his entire body trembling with restraint as your cunt clenched and fluttered around him, milking him with rhythmic, desperate spasms. His head dropped to your back, and for a moment he couldn’t even breathe.

"Fucking-god, you feel unreal," he choked out, hips giving a helpless jerk as he tried not to lose it too soon.

His hips jerked erratically, cock pulsing thick inside you. You felt the twitch and heat of him spilling deep, his release pushing you into another soft, shuddering aftershock. He bit down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave an imprint, muffling his cry as his orgasm tore through him.

"You’re mine," he gasped, nearly inaudible, more instinct than declaration.

Your body gave out first. You slumped to the mat, arms too weak to hold you up. "You..you think you won that fight?" you panted, half-laughing, half-broken.

He followed you down, still buried inside, both of you breathless and slick with sweat. For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the quiet creak of the gym around you.

He sagged over your back for a long moment, still inside you, both of you panting, sweat dripping from his forehead to your spine.

Eventually Bucky pulled out with a groan and flopped beside you, still catching his breath.

Neither of you spoke.

Not yet.

"Think anyone heard that?"

You let out a dry laugh, turning your head slightly where it rested against the mat. "If they didn’t, they’ll see the marks tomorrow."

He let out a rough sound beside you, one arm flung over his eyes like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "Gonna have to bullshit my way through a morning meeting."

"Not my problem," you said, still breathless but smiling. "I don’t recall you complaining."

"I’m not. But if I stand, I’m going to fall."

You snorted, finally shifting enough to flop onto your back, your chest still rising and falling. "You going to get in trouble?"

He rolled his head toward you, expression unreadable but softer around the edges. "Probably. You?"

You exhaled slowly. "Definitely."

A pause stretched between you, thick with the weight of what just happened. But when he passed you your tank, his fingers brushed yours-slow, warm, deliberate. Like he wanted you to notice.

"Same time next week?" he asked, a flicker of something more in his voice.

You met his gaze, smirking.

"Sooner."

TAGS: @ruexj283, @yesiamthatwierd, @trojanaurora, @hextech-bros

No no I have loved this so much I stayed up till 2 reading it 😌 i’m a sucker for a slow burn and your writing is just making me…. well I can’t say. But take your time and thank you for your writing I’ve loved it 😘😘😘😘😘

lessons in lovemaking [part three]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, handjobs, fondling, nudity, fem reader, bucky is touch starved, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, natasha cares, injury, blood, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.9k

A/N: hey if you have dejavu seeing this, it's because the other post is glitched for some reason and some people aren't able to see it, i think it's to do with there being over 30 people on the taglist. i'll have to come up with a solution for that. in the meantime, pls enjoy and hopefully this post is actually visible!. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

"Go for the left."

Kate blinked. "The left?"

"Yes."

She looked from you to Bucky, eyebrows raised like you’d asked her to charge a bear with a toothpick. "We’re talking about the left? The metal freaking arm left?"

"That’s the one."

The look she gave you was flat-out incredulous. "Are you serious? Isn’t that the last place I should be aiming?"

You resisted the urge to sigh. "That’s exactly why you should aim there. Everyone goes for his right. They assume it’s weaker. Bucky knows that. He’s trained to defend that side, conditioned even. But the left? Sure, it’s strong. That doesn’t make it invulnerable. Watch him."

You nodded toward Bucky, shadowboxing in the centre of the mat, relaxed but precise, like a predator keeping his muscles warm. "See how he braces before a punch? That slight weight shift? It’s a habit. Subtle but predictable. It leaves a small window, but just enough. Learn to spot that, and you can drop someone twice your size."

Kate’s expression turned thoughtful, eyes narrowing as she studied Bucky more intently. "Okay… so how do you get good at spotting weaknesses like that?"

"Learn to observe. Don’t rush in swinging. Patience and preparation will win a fight long before your fists do."

Kate nodded slowly, rolling her shoulders. "Alright. Let’s see if I can prove you right."

She took a step forward, then hesitated, glancing back at you with a sheepish grin. "I am a little scared, though—"

You gave her a flat look. "Just go, Kate."

She groaned but turned back toward Bucky, stepping onto the mat with a reluctant sort of determination.

It was late afternoon, and golden light poured through the gym windows in long, drowsy streaks. Dust drifted lazily in the sunbeams, but the air was thick with tension—not the kind that came from training, but from something far more complicated. Natasha and Yelena had thought it hilarious to pair you not only with Kate for sparring but also with Bucky. You had no doubt they were watching from the sidelines, smirking into their water bottles. Those two were always scheming.

Natasha hadn’t said anything to you yet, but then again, you’d been avoiding her like the plague since yesterday’s meeting. She was too sharp, too perceptive not to pick up on the subtle shifts in both your and Bucky’s behaviour. The cracks were already showing, the slightly too-long looks between you and Bucky, the stiffness in your tone whenever his name came up, the defensiveness you thought you’d kept hidden but apparently hadn’t.

You knew you couldn’t dodge her forever. Sooner or later, she’d confront you. And when she did, you’d have to lie—or worse, tell some version of the truth. What that truth even was… you weren’t sure. Not yet.

And Bucky?

You had no idea how to tell him you thought she already knew. That kind of conversation was a minefield, one wrong word and you’d either send him into horrified silence or make him regret every second of the nights spent together. Neither option was appealing.

You exhaled sharply, arms crossed as you watched Kate bounce on the balls of her feet, testing the space between her and Bucky.

He stood still in the centre of the mat, arms relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable. Brooding and unimpressed, as always. He hadn’t looked at you once all day, not properly at least. And yet you couldn’t stop thinking about how you knew exactly what he looked like when he came undone beneath you, fingers tangled in sheets and voice gone rough with need. He had been about as excited as you felt when the ‘teams’ for sparring were announced. You were beginning to suspect some convoluted plot half the compound was in on to see you and Bucky go head to head.

Now, he was back to being the Winter Soldier, being precisely what H.Y.D.R.A trained him to be, stoic, intimidating, unreadable. He had a talent for making his opponents feel beneath him. Unworthy. It was a tactic, you knew that, but it still worked.

Kate circled warily, eyes darting as she tried to read him, every shift in her posture betraying nerves. You watched her movements closely, noting the hesitation, the constant foot adjustments. She was looking for the right moment. You just hoped she’d recognise it when it came.

Much to Yelena and Natasha’s annoyance, you had flipped their little prank back onto them, sending Kate out to spar first, hoping to break her out of that ‘swing first, think later’ style Yelena loved so much.

A shadow moved in the corner of your vision as Yelena strolled up beside you, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between you and the fight. Speak of the devil, and she will appear. 

"You’re staring real hard," she drawled. "What, got money riding on this?"

You didn’t bother looking at her. "She’s your pet project. Remind me again why I’m the one training her?"

"Apprentice," Yelena corrected smoothly.

You blinked. "What?"

She gestured vaguely toward Kate, who was still circling Bucky with the kind of careful precision that told you she was second-guessing herself. "She’s my apprentice, not a pet project. There is a difference."

"Uh-huh," you said flatly, entirely unconvinced. "And yet I’m the one teaching her how to think, instead of just swinging wildly and hoping the universe sorts it out."

Yelena smirked. "Because I am all wham, whack, bang, bam, action! Yes? You are all boring lectures and tactical talk. It is balance. How is she supposed to know how cool and awesome I am without hearing all your boring lectures about battle analysis—"

You turned to her, unimpressed. "Did you just make up sound effects?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said sweetly, then sipped from a water bottle like she hadn’t just made cartoon sound effects with complete sincerity.

Your focus shifted back to the fight as Kate feinted right, then hesitated—again. Bucky wasn’t attacking yet, just watching her with the kind of stillness that would’ve put even you on edge. He was waiting for her to make the first move, to reveal her plan before he committed to a real counter.

"She’s hesitating too much," Yelena observed.

"She’s calculating," you corrected. "That’s what she’s supposed to do."

Yelena made a sceptical noise. "If she waits any longer, he’s just going to knock her flat."

"If she rushes in without a plan, it’ll be the same result."

Bucky shifted—just a subtle test, quick and clean. Kate dodged, but barely. Her stance faltered. Yelena sighed, dragging her hands down her face. "Okay, this is painful to watch. You should just let me handle her—"

“No. I’m trying to teach her to think, not charge in like a wrecking ball.”

"Excuse you," Yelena gasped, touching her chest in mock offence. "I am a very tactical wrecking ball."

You didn’t respond, eyes narrowing. Kate was watching Bucky now—really watching. Good. She sidestepped his next move, then launched into the attack.

A feint to the right. A quick pivot. Just like you’d told her.

Bucky braced for the strike to his right, but it didn’t come.

Kate dipped low, powered off her back foot, and drove her elbow toward his ribs. Clean, sharp, decisive.

Bucky twisted fast, but not fast enough.

Her elbow landed. His breath left in a tight, surprised grunt.

"See?" you muttered, nudging Yelena with an elbow. "She’s learning."

Yelena lifted a brow. "Yeah, yeah. We’ll see if she follows through."

Instead of retreating, Kate followed through, using the momentum to drive her knee upward.

Bucky jerked back, but not far enough. Kate’s knee clipped his chin, snapping his head up just enough for the final blow.

You scoffed. "Give her some credit—"

A sharp smack rang through the gym.

Bucky let out a startled grunt of pain, staggering back, one hand cupping his face. Blood was already leaking between his fingers.

Kate froze, eyes going wide in horror. "Oh my god—Bucky! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—are you okay? Oh god, you’re bleeding—"

Bucky tipped his head back, exhaling sharply through his nose, which only made more blood drip down his lip. “No kidding.”

Yelena snorted beside you. "Okay, I take it back. She might actually be good at this."

Kate was still floundering, hands hovering like she wanted to help but had no idea how. "What do you need—should I get a medic? Ice? Tissues? A priest?"

Bucky shot her a glare, nostrils flaring as more blood dripped down his lip. "Just… just give me a second."

You stepped forward onto the mat. "Well. I’d say she followed through."

Yelena smirked. "Yeah. Maybe a little too well."

Kate turned to you, looking utterly betrayed. "You told me to go for the left!"

"I said to attack the opening on his left, not ‘punch him in the face like you’re trying to knock out a tooth’, but hey, improvisation is an important skill."

Kate groaned. Bucky muttered something low and vile in Russian as he turned toward the exit, blood trailing faintly in his wake.

Even Yelena blinked. “That sounded like a curse, Kate. Possibly an ancient one.”

“Don’t say that!” Kate whined in fear. 

"I’ll handle him," you muttered with a sigh, already following. You paused at the edge of the mat, glancing back at Kate. “You did good. Maybe pull your punches and ease off the full-force murder next time?”

Kate groaned louder. "That was me pulling my punches!"

Yelena’s laughter followed you as you crossed the room, clapping her hands together as she bounced on her toes like an excited child. "Oh, this is fun. We should do this more often."

You pushed through the changing room door and stepped into the cooler air beyond. The space was clean and sterile in that way that only rich tech-billionaire funding could buy. Polished tiles, dark wood lockers with brass fittings, and the faint scent of citrusy cleaner lingering beneath the hum of recessed lights.

The sound of running water guided you to the sinks.

Bucky was hunched over the white porcelain basin, one arm braced on the counter, the other still cupping the lower half of his face. The mirror above caught his reflection, blood-streaked, jaw-tight, brows drawn down in a frustrated knot. Crimson spiralled down the drain, bright against the ceramic.

“You look like a crime scene,” you muttered as you crossed the room.

Bucky let out a sharp breath through his mouth, meeting your comment with a pointed grunt that spoke volumes.

You raised a brow. “Are you going to keep glaring at me like I put out a hit on you?”

“You did,” he muttered flatly.

You rolled your eyes, making a beeline for the paper towel dispenser. You pulled out a few thick, folded sheets and pressed them into his free hand. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” he grumbled.

“Bucky.” You shot him a look, unimpressed. “Sit.”

His jaw tightened like he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he relented, pushing off the counter, and he trudged toward one of the benches in the centre of the room and sat down stiffly, wincing as he tilted his head back.

You crouched in front of him, studying his face. The blood smeared across his upper lip stood out starkly against his skin, but at least it wasn’t gushing anymore. His nose was red, swelling a little but not crooked. Reaching out, you ghosted your fingers over the bridge, careful and light. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

Bucky huffed. “Feels broken.”

“Yeah, well, maybe don’t let Kate punch you in the face next time.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t dignify you with a response.

Shaking your head, you folded a fresh set of paper towels and pressed them lightly against his nose. “Hold this. It'll keep you from dripping all over Stark’s precious floors.”

Bucky took them with a sigh, his metal fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sank to your knees without really thinking about it, watching as Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusting the pressure with careful precision. His shoulders had lost some of their earlier tension, but his posture was still guarded like he was bracing himself for something more than just the dull throb of pain. The quiet hum of the ventilation system filled the space, blending with the distant murmur of voices from the gym beyond.

“Last night, I—” Bucky broke the silence first, his voice slightly nasal from the swelling.

“You fell asleep.” You cut him off gently, offering a faint smile. You didn’t know how much he had actually heard before exhaustion had finally claimed him. Maybe that was for the best. Perhaps it had been a mistake to let your guard down, to speak so openly, to bare your soul so easily. You had told yourself you wouldn’t burden him with your struggles. He already carried enough of his own.

And yet, he had this way of making you feel safe. Too safe.

It was almost ironic. He was supposed to instil fear, his name alone enough to make enemies think twice. And yet, all you saw was a rather sad, damaged, and tired man, his big, mournful puppy-dog eyes carrying the weight of things he could never put into words.

“Yeah. I don’t… remember it happening,” Bucky admitted, frowning slightly as if frustrated with himself. “One second, I was with you, and the next—”

“Did you sleep well, at least?”

He hesitated like he was debating whether to downplay it. But then, finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Best I have in a while.”

Your smile grew just a little. “I’m glad.”

Silence settled again, not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Then, after a beat, Bucky sighed.

“I’m sorry that I don’t talk to you much outside of… lessons.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine, Bucky. You don’t… owe me anything.”

“It’s just… I don’t know how to act,” he admitted, gaze flicking away. “Not with everyone watching. I don’t want them figuring out. I don’t like their attention being all over me.”

Your smile faltered for just a second before you forced it back into place. 

“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, shifting the conversation.

Bucky’s brows pulled together in confusion. “How do you know about that—?”

You shrugged. It was your job to observe. To pick people apart and learn their secrets before they even knew them themselves. “During training, I’ve noticed you favour your right side. You block and punch heavier with it. You were compensating subconsciously because your left side was giving you grief. Have you thought about seeing a physio?”

His lips parted slightly like he hadn’t expected you to catch that. Then his gaze narrowed, a hint of suspicion creeping in.

“Is that why you gave me a massage yesterday?”

You smirked, tilting your head playfully. “Hm. Maybe.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Always two steps ahead, huh?”

You leaned in just a little, eyes glinting with amusement, a witty remark hanging off your tongue—only to dissolve the moment the door swung open.

Steve sauntered in, halting mid-step by the sinks as he took in the scene. You were kneeling between Bucky’s legs, a faint smirk tugging at your mouth while he looked down at you with something dangerously close to a smile—bloody paper towel and all.

Steve’s brows lifted. Confusion crossed his face, mixed with something harder to place, surprise? Suspicion? Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t expecting this.

You jerked back instinctively, hands bracing on your thighs as you turned to face him.

“It’s not broken,” you announced a little too quickly, jerking your chin toward Bucky. “He’ll live. Bit of swelling and a bit of bruising. Nothing that won’t fade.”

Steve blinked, still trying to piece things together. “I didn’t realise you two were… friends?”

You let out a short, sharp laugh, already on your feet and several paces away. “Hear that, Barnes? We’re friends now.”

Bucky—who stiffly sat on the bench, with his hands still braced against his knees—remained utterly rooted in place as if one wrong move would shatter the illusion. His eyes flicked to you, then to Steve, then back to you, a silent plea not to say anything more.

Steve, on the other hand, still looked perplexed. 

“What?” you asked, turning back to the sink and rinsing your hands of the small amount of blood that had smudged across the skin during your brief inspection.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing, I just, uh…” His face twisted slightly like he regretted speaking at all. “I’ve never heard you laugh before. It surprised me, that’s all.”

That stopped you. Cold. The smirk slipped from your face like it had never been there. Classic Steve Rogers. World’s most well-meaning bastard. Saying the worst possible thing with the purest damn intentions.

You hadn’t exactly made yourself the most approachable presence on the team. You kept your distance, never bought into the ‘team bonding’ crap that Stark and Fury constantly tried to shove down your throat. You weren’t here for friendships but to do a job. But something about how he said it—I’ve never heard you laugh before—grated deep. Like your silence was an affliction. Like you were broken because you didn’t play nice like everyone else.

Without thinking, you flicked water in his direction.

He flinched back with a slight grimace. 

“Thanks, Rogers,” you said, bone-dry. Then you turned, walking away without another word.

You could faintly hear Steve’s voice, panicked and confused, coming from behind you as you pushed the door open.

“What? What did I do?” he called to Bucky, his voice trailing.

“That was painful,” Bucky muttered loud enough for you to catch. “You always tell women to smile more, or is that just your opener? Remind me how you bagged Sharon talking like that—”

“That wasn’t what I was saying—!” Steve protested, his words quickly swallowed by the sound of the door snapping shut behind you

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, you probably would laugh more if life hadn’t spent the past few years making sure you forgot how. If it weren’t for how every genuine emotion now felt like an act, something you wielded like a weapon to get what you wanted. The only time you really smiled or laughed anymore was on missions, tools of the trade. Smile here, flirt there, manipulate, mislead, vanish. You could fake it all like second nature, charm so convincing it fooled even yourself sometimes.

Because when it was real, it still felt like a lie.

You stalked back into the gym, trying to push the thoughts aside. Yelena’s sharp eyes caught yours almost immediately. “We’re going to the bar after this. You coming?”

You reached for your gym bag, slinging it over your shoulder without missing a beat. “No,” you answered flatly, prowling to walk toward the door.

“You’re not coming?” Kate had appeared from nowhere at your side, big blue eyes staring up at you.

You glanced down at her, deadpan. “Can you even go? Aren’t you like twelve?”

Kate’s begging expression melted into a playful glare, hands on her hips as you hesitated by the door. “No! I’m in college. I’m not a kid!”

You raised an eyebrow, her defensive tone amusing you. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she shot back, almost proudly.

You grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Ah, barely legal.”

“It’s fine, she’ll be with us!” Yelena chimed in, giving you a pleading look. “Nat is coming, the others too, maybe Kate can buy Bucky a drink as an apology for breaking his nose—”

“Hey! I didn’t break it!” Kate protested, then looked up at you with a fearful expression, voice dipping in volume. “I didn’t, did I?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in dramatically as if giving a speech. “I can already see the headline: ‘Avengers Drunken Antics on Public Display’—.’”

Yelena scowled at you. “It’s fine!” 

You smirked, but the exhaustion from the past few hours still weighed heavily on you. “You’re probably right. I can’t say much, in Russia we had vodka with breakfast.”

“So you’re coming?” Yelena asked one last time, sounding hopeful despite your resistance.

“No.” You said it with finality.  “I’ve seen too much of your face today. I need a break.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, but Kate was already heading towards her bag with a skip in her step. “Fine! More for us then!”

—

The training room was unusually quiet without Yelena’s smartass remarks ricocheting off the walls. Usually, the three of you trained together in the early mornings, but she and Kate were off on some covert infiltration upstate. Childs play for Yelena, really, though she’d taken her duties as a mentor for her little pet project rather seriously. That left just you and Natasha circling each other on the mat. You weren’t exactly thrilled about Yelena’s absence, which meant you were facing the full brunt of Natasha’s wrath alone. What didn’t help was that you hadn’t slept properly in days. You were running on fumes, and it showed. The last week had felt like one long string of wipeouts, each one dragging you down further with no sign of relief.

You ducked beneath a lazy strike, half-hearted at best, and swept your leg toward Natasha’s ribs. She blocked it with her shin like she’d barely noticed.

“Sloppy,” she remarked.

You threw a punch, weak and lazy. Natasha easily caught your wrist, spinning your body and throwing you to the mat. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs. She didn’t even break a sweat. She let out a short laugh, her hair spilling into her face as she looked down at you, amused.

But something was off.

Not in how she fought—no, that was as sharp as ever—but in her expression. Tight-lipped. Smug. And not her usual brand of smug, either. This was different, like she was sitting on a secret and absolutely itching for you to notice. She had that look again. The same one she’d had for the last two weeks. A silent challenge. An arrogant knowing. A game of cat and mouse neither of you had been willing to finish.

You groaned, deciding to cut your losses and pushed yourself off the mat, wiping sweat from your brow.

“There’s obviously something you want to say to me,” you muttered.

Natasha didn’t even pause. She moved in for another strike before you could fully recover, but you caught her forearm and twisted. She resisted effortlessly, that infuriating calm grin spreading across her face again.

“Nope,” she said. “Just… pleased, that’s all.”

“Pleased about what?” you asked cautiously.

Natasha pivoted out of your grip like water slipping through your fingers and swept your legs out from under you with a sharp hook of her foot. You hit the ground again with a dull thud. She didn’t bother offering you a hand up as if half-convinced you’d stay down.

“That I figured out your little secret before everyone else.” Her grin turned vicious. She started to circle you again, tone sing-song and entirely too satisfied. “Took me a while, but once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.”

You rolled up to your feet, levelling her with a look. “What secret?”

You played it cool. Innocent. But you both knew the gig was up. Natasha was like you, trained to spot what others missed, to read the body language no one else even registered. She’d probably clocked you and Bucky the moment you returned from the Gala. She and Yelena hadn’t exactly been subtle about their hunches, either.

She raised a brow. “Oh, come on. You’re really going to make me say it?”

You blinked back at her, expression blank.

“You,” she said, dragging the word out. “And Barnes.”

You deflected with a snort. “Yelena’s theories getting to you?”

“Don’t lie.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “He’s always making those puppy-dog eyes at you when he thinks no one’s looking.”

You barked a laugh, catching her off guard just long enough for you to swing a low kick her way. She dodged it neatly.

“Puppy-dog eyes? I can’t imagine it.” You lied through your teeth. “He always looks like someone kicked him while he was down. That or the brooding.”

Natasha’s smirk sharpened. “And you’re into that? He must be a very good fuck if you’re sticking around this long.”

“We haven’t…” You hesitated with a curse, missing a beat in your footwork. You shook your head, willing your mind to be able to focus on two tasks at once through the haze of fatigue. “Why would I want to fuck Barnes—”

“Considering our line of work, you’re a terrible liar sometimes.” You scowled at the amusement dripping from her voice. 

“It’s not like that between us.” You relented. “Not that it’s any of your business anyway—”

She cut over you, tilting her head. “You’re telling me you two haven’t had sex? God, don’t tell me it’s romance—”

“I’m just helping him feel normal.” You snapped back, hoping to shut her down before it got worse. “H.Y.D.R.A fucked him up, that’s for sure. The same way the Red Room fucked us up.”

Natasha made a face like something had clicked into place in her mind. “Shit.”

Your stomach dropped, movements stuttering as you realised you had unintentionally opened the floodgates. 

“Right,” she murmured, and something about her tone shifted. Not her usual brand of teasing. “You’re not… Never mind.”

You lunged toward her on instinct, catching her wrist with a clumsy grip. The contact was unsteady, your fingers didn’t have the strength they usually did, and Natasha didn’t fight back immediately.

“What?” you asked, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied too quickly, too carefully.

“You’ve said it now,” you pressed, breath short. “Go on.”

She hesitated, her jaw ticking as her gaze drifted down, avoiding yours. The tension in her body softened by degrees, like she’d been carrying the thought for too long and finally decided it wasn’t worth holding onto.

“I just…” she exhaled, slow and controlled, “I worry about you sometimes. I hope you’re not taking on too much.”

You blinked at her, the fog in your head thick and sluggish. “Why do you say that?”

“You know what I mean.”

You knew what she meant, even if it was a truth you’d been hiding from yourself. A truth you didn’t want to look at too closely out of fear of it consuming you whole. A dull ache formed your chest, a lump in your throat as you shook your head. 

You knew Natasha wouldn’t have had any way of knowing those forbidden words you’d uttered to Bucky, the ones he had missed as sleep had pulled him under, the thoughts that haunted you now that you had finally shown them acknowledgement. You felt sick. Rotten to your core. Like maggots and rot festered within, wriggling and twitching beneath the skin, just enough for you to pretend, smile, and continue like normal as your world shattered around you.

“I’m not some broken little girl, Nat,” you said, heat rising behind your words. “I can look after myself.”

“I’m sure of that,” she said softly, and it was the softness that rattled you most. Natasha didn’t do soft unless it mattered. “But… can you look after yourself? Or have you just isolated yourself for so long that you’ve tricked yourself into thinking the only person you can trust is yourself?”

Her voice, the quiet honesty of it, landed harder than any blow she’d dealt all morning.

You looked down, your fists trembling faintly. You flexed your fingers, opening and closing them like the answer might be written in your palms.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t believe you either. You could feel it in the silence between her breaths. Natasha never spoke unless she meant it. She was always calculating like you.

“I just…” she said, the words tentative like they were being picked up and examined before they left her mouth. “I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

She paused, then added with a wry twist of her lips as if to soften the blow, “Or Barnes.”

You snorted, the sound bitter and short. “Since when do you care about Barnes?”

“I don’t,” she said. “Not really. But if he gets attached and this doesn’t go how he hopes, he could spiral. And if you get attached and he panics…”

“I know.”

And you did. You knew it too well. The thought had curled up behind your ribs and sat there, heavy and unwanted, gnawing at you whenever he looked at you like you were something soft. Like you were safe. You didn’t feel like a safe option. 

“Just…” Natasha’s voice was quieter now, more cautious. “Don’t lose yourself trying to fix him.”

You met her eyes, forcing yourself to stay grounded. To not waver. “I’m not damaged.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but you saw how her brow pinched, the subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

You sighed, the weight of your exhaustion peeling every word from your throat like it didn’t want to come willingly. “I’m also not trying to fix him. We’re just… friends. With benefits. Nothing more.”

She gave a slow nod like she was willing to accept that on paper, but in her gut, she wasn’t buying it.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll believe you. Just… don’t go all radio silent on me like you do. I’m here for you, you know?”

You raised a brow, trying for humour but lacking the energy to pull it off entirely. “You getting all sappy on me now?”

“Never.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“Hm. Maybe.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brow. “But don’t tell Yelena. She’ll rip me to fucking shreds over it.”

Despite yourself, you let out a faint, tired laugh.

But it only lasted a second before Natasha lunged again.

You weren’t fast enough this time—your sluggish body didn’t catch up to the signal your brain sent. Her leg swept yours, and the mat slammed into your shoulder before you even realised you were falling. Pain flared, dull and heavy, and you lay there. Breathing hard. Staring up at the ceiling like it might offer you some kind of answer.

Natasha hovered above you, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable.

“Seriously,” she said. “When was the last time you actually slept? You look like shit.”

There it was, the usual cool, snide remark to cushion the fact that she truly cared. Like she knew you’d run like a spooked animal if she showed too much kindness. You didn’t answer right away. Just closed your eyes and let the silence stretch.

Natasha let out a grunt, not the least bit impressed.

—

You would have to warn Bucky that if he kept looking at you like that, the two of you were bound to end up in a whole world of trouble. 

It was bad enough that Natasha was on your tail—worse than that—she’d found the bones in your closet, polished them clean, and lined them up like trophies. You knew she wouldn’t breathe a word to Yelena, or anyone else for that matter, but you could feel a future creeping toward you, one where her tongue slipped. Just once. That’s all it would take.

And Bucky? He wasn’t helping. Not with that look. Not when even Steve Rogers did a double take, brows ticking up as if to say really, Buck? 

You were fresh off a particularly gruelling recon mission at Karpin’s club. No fists were thrown, no bullets dodged, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting. Playing the role of an attractive, naïve dancer took more skill than most people realised. You’d spent the last six weeks prying secrets from Karpin’s greasy fingers. Details about his buyers, how payments were moved, anything useful. He never suspected a thing, too high on his own ego to realise the little thing on his arm was gutting him for intel.

Fury had been unmistakable in his instructions—get the buyers first. If they caught wind that S.H.I.E.L.D was sniffing around, they’d scatter like roaches, and the whole operation would collapse. So you played the waiting game. Carefully. Precisely. Night after night.

Now you just wanted a drink. And a scalding-hot shower. Maybe both at once. Your skin felt like it had absorbed the club, cheap vodka, cigarette smoke, and desperation.

You adjusted the fur coat around your shoulders with a groan, trying to ignore how your dress—if you could even call it that—kept shifting against your skin. Yelena had dubbed the coat your ‘mob wife piece’ after finally watching The Sopranos, and the name had stuck. Your heels were the real punishment, though. Tall, unforgiving, and cursed by whatever sadist designed them.

After every recon job, the standard protocol was to turn in evidence immediately—cameras, bugs, audio mics, and a hand-written report. After six hours of playing pretend, you were scribbling in agonising detail while the evidence collection agent across from you gave you a rather pointed, unamused look. You briefly considered banging your head against the desk.

And, of course, Bucky was watching you. Not subtly. No, he was seated in a glass-walled meeting room across the way, surrounded by agents and Avengers, but his eyes hadn’t left you in a while. He looked like a gambler who’d just hit the jackpot. You watched him watching you, and you forgot to be annoyed for a second. He looked... ravenous. Unapologetically so.

The meeting finally broke. Doors opened. Agents spilled out. That was your cue. Evidence was handed in, and your aching wrist is getting no thanks for its service. The agent slid your report into a folder stamped ‘CLASSIFIED’ in angry red ink. You almost laughed. God, the theatre of it all.

Natasha bumped your shoulder as she sauntered past towards the elevator. 

“Better keep loverboy in check,” she muttered in your ear as she passed. Her smirk was wicked. 

You shot her a scowl.

Bucky was in the crowd, still watching. His gaze wasn’t on your scowl, though. It was lower. Tracing the cling of the gold mesh slip dress, the way it shimmered under the harsh overhead lights. Tacky enough for the job. Tight enough to draw attention. It hugged every curve with intent, and though it wasn’t your usual style, you were beginning to wonder if it might become one.

You hadn’t pegged Bucky for the type who’d go wild for glitter and skin, but judging by the look in his eyes…

Thank god for lessons, or he'd be dealing with a very awkward elevator ride. 

“I think I’ll take the stairs,” you replied, more bitterly than you meant to.

Natasha smirked as the elevator doors began to close, her eyes dancing with amusement and just a hint of sympathy. But it was Bucky’s gaze that lingered until the very last second as if he could memorise the sight of you before the doors cut him off.

You turned sharply on your heel and made for the stairs, the ache in your feet be damned. The heels bit with every step, but you welcomed the sting. It was easier to focus on than the heat lingering after Bucky’s gaze.

Four flights up, your phone dinged.

You didn’t have to check it to know. You already had a feeling. Still, a smirk pulled at your lips as you glanced at the lock screen.

Can I see you tonight?

Bucky had taken to modern tech far better than Steve ever had. Where Steve still asked what a GIF was or accidentally created a new group chat every time he tried to reply, Bucky had easily slipped into the rhythm. 

You thumbed out a reply as you rounded the next flight of stairs.

Aren’t you going out for drinks with the others?

Fridays had become a ritual for the team, provided no one was off saving the world or buried in a mission, so there’d be a few rounds at a bar nearby. Laughter. Cheap beer. Temporary normalcy.

You watched the typing bubble flicker to life… then vanish. Then again. And again.

Not my scene.

A pause.

Is that a no?

You grinned, slowing your steps just a little. You could picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, hovering over the screen like the answer might change everything.

You typed quickly.

I’ll come to your room right now if you ask nicely.

You paused in the stairway, hesitating outside the door for the residential floor where all the apartments were located. Your pulse tapped a little faster beneath your skin.

Another ding.

Please?

That was all it took.

You pushed open the door.

On my way.

—

“I want to try something different,” you murmured against Bucky’s skin, your lips brushing the hollow of his throat as you nuzzled into the warmth of his neck.

It all happened in a blur when you stepped through his door. Heels abandoned at the threshold, your coat sliding from your shoulders like a shrug of tension gone loose. Bucky had lasted all of two seconds, long enough for a strained smile and a greeting muttered through clenched teeth before instinct took over. His hands found your waist. Your back. Your thighs. And then you were in his lap as he stumbled backwards onto the bed, the mattress giving under both your weight and the familiar gravity that always pulled you toward each other.

Mumbled apologies about the scent of alcohol and sweat were lost beneath kisses, the air thick with the smell of him—black coffee from his meeting and that damn aftershave—as you melted into your usual spot atop him.

His rough palm ghosted up the back of your thigh in lazy strokes, the pads of his fingers brushing skin like he already knew it by heart. You blinked up at him, studying the angles of his face, searching for that tell-tale flicker, tightening of his jaw, a furrow between his brows, anything that indicated hesitation or worry. But there was none. Instead, he caught your eye, the touch of vibranium fingers cool and featherlight against your cheek.

“Last time you said that,” he murmured with a low chuckle, “you blindfolded me.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?” You cut back rather smugly, only to be met with a reluctant hum of agreement. “I want to talk about something first.”

Bucky stilled, alert now in that quiet, observant way of his. “What’s that?”

Your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt. “Are you afraid of me touching you?”

He blinked, surprised. “No? Is this a trick question—?”

“Do you like me touching you?”

“Yes.” His answer came easily, without hesitation.

“But you don’t like me touching your cock.”

That gave him pause. The stroking of your thigh faltered. There it was, his jaw ticked, the smallest tension rising between his brows like a storm cloud forming just behind his eyes.

“I don’t…Isn’t that what we’ve been doing these past few months?” His voice was low, cautious.

“You let me touch you near it,” you said gently. “But if I move my hand under your waistband, even just a little, you freeze. You ask me to stop. I just want to know why.”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. He stared at the ceiling instead of at you, like maybe the answer was written there if he looked hard enough.

“There’s no wrong answer,” you whispered. “I’m not upset. I’m not trying to push you. I just want to understand. To help.”

He exhaled slowly, brows knitting in thought. 

“It’s overwhelming, I think,” he said finally. “The added…feeling. On top of everything else that’s already happening.”

“So,” you said slowly, “if it happened in isolation. Nothing else, just that, you’d feel more comfortable? More in control?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I think so.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “Would you be okay with trying today? Right now?”

His eyes finally met yours, a flash of vulnerability behind the steel blue. “Putting me on the spot here, doll…”

Doll. That was a pet name you wouldn’t look too deeply into. Or acknowledge. He didn’t even seem to notice he had said it.

“You can always say no,” you reminded him softly. “That’s the most important rule, always. Either of us can stop at any time. No questions, no pressure, no hard feelings.”

He was quiet momentarily, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching for something. Then he nodded once, steady.

“Let’s do it.”

You paused, holding his gaze. “Are you sure?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a touch wry. “I trusted you when you blindfolded me, didn’t I?” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I don’t see any reason not to trust you now.”

That was all the encouragement you needed.

You slipped off his lap with ease, sinking onto the floor between his knees, the hem of your dress bunching up around your thighs. You blinked up at him expectantly, steady but unhurried. Bucky hesitated, shoulders tensing as his hands hovered uncertainly at his belt. A flicker of embarrassment was behind his eyes, the kind he hadn’t yet learned to hide from you.

You didn’t comment on it. Didn’t tease him for the blush creeping up his neck, or for the way his fingers fumbled slightly as he undid the buckle and began peeling off the layers. You just waited—quiet, patient, allowing him to find his own pace. You didn’t point out the irony of it all, how easily he’d unravel for you, but how nudity still brought hesitation. Like showing skin was somehow more vulnerable than offering up his soul.

His boxers were the last to go, and by the time he slid them down, he was already half-hard, his cock flushed with arousal. The pink tint on his cheeks deepened as his eyes darted away from yours.

You tilted your head, shifting closer until you were kneeling between his legs. The warmth radiating from his thighs drew you in like a hearth. Your hand brushed lightly over his knee in reassurance, and he twitched at the contact.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice more hum than a question.

He nodded, but it was too tight, too instinctive.

You paused.

“Need to hear your words, Bucky. I’m only going to do this if you tell me you’re okay.”

There was a beat of silence, his vibranium hand clenching in the sheets beside him.

“I want this,” he said, voice low but certain, even if his body still trembled faintly beneath you.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow breath.

“You remember what to say if you need to stop?”

He nodded again, more grounded this time. “Yeah. I remember.”

Satisfied, you reached out, your fingers wrapping gently around the base of his cock. You were cautious at first, letting your touch linger without pressure, just the soft drag of skin against skin. A strained groan left him almost immediately, the muscles in his thighs tightening on either side of you.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, watching his face twist with the sensation. His jaw slackened, mouth parted, eyes nearly fluttering closed as you began to stroke him. Slow, deliberate, careful. He was thick and heavy in your hand, already pulsing with anticipation, growing harder by the second. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Not after the nights spent grinding into each other, his arousal pressed tight and insistent through layers of clothing, but still, the reality of him was enough to stir a wicked spark behind your smile.

You pumped him a few more times, watching how easily his composure began to slip. He was already squirming, breaths ragged, his abdomen twitching every time your palm slid down to the base and back up again.

His head fell back, a quiet whimper escaping him as you thumbed over the slit at the head of his cock. He flinched from the contact, one hand flying to your elbow and gripping it like an anchor, his whole body responding to the jolt of pleasure like he’d been struck by lightning.

“How do you feel?” you asked, voice low, almost teasing.

It took him a moment to answer. His lips parted, trying to form words while his chest heaved, his eyes glazed over with ecstasy. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you collected it with your fingers, spreading it down the shaft to ease your rhythm.

“Good,” he finally gasped. “Amazing. Did it always… I don’t remember it feeling—”

His words dissolved into a sharp gasp as you leaned forward and kissed the tip. The contact was featherlight, but it shattered him. His metal hand shot up into your hair, not to pull or direct, but to ground himself, trembling as if the sensation threatened to lift him right out of his skin.

“Oh my god—” He began to whine.

You giggled softly, the warmth of your breath enough to send him over the edge.

Bucky came with a choked moan, his hips jerking as thick, hot ropes spilt over your chin and neck. His thighs trembled with the force of it, his head thrown back as if he couldn’t bear the weight of pleasure crashing through him. You stroked him through it, gentle and slow, coaxing every last pulse from him while he tried and failed to string thoughts together.

As he collapsed back against the mattress, boneless and dazed, you ran a hand up the inside of his thigh, using it as leverage to push yourself upright. His grip on your hair slackened and fell away, his hands lying limp beside him, fingers twitching faintly in the aftershocks.

“I’m gonna clean up,” you hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back, okay?”

He didn’t even open his eyes, just nodded, lips parted, breath still ragged.

“Okay,” he mumbled, voice thick and warm with lingering arousal. “I’ll be right here.”

—

It took only a few minutes to freshen up. You moved on muscle memory, warm water, damp cloth, and a quick sweep of your hair from your neck. You paused before leaving the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel in case he wanted it. 

But when you stepped back into the bedroom, you found he’d already taken care of himself, his boxers pulled back on.

Bucky was sprawled across the mattress like he’d melted into it, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. He looked wrecked—in the best way. Hair tousled, chest rising and falling in a slow, almost dazed rhythm, but his gaze sharpened the second it landed on you. A lazy, crooked grin tugged at his lips as he lifted an arm in a silent invitation, eyes still half-lidded and blown wide with the afterglow.

You climbed into bed beside him, the weight of his body shifting as you curled into the space between his arm and chest. His skin was warm against yours, the hum of his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. You pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his jaw, and his breath hitched as your hand slid over his stomach.

His mouth found yours not long after, lazy and unhurried like neither of you wanted to break the spell. It didn’t stay that way for long. Hunger crept in. Familiar, greedy heat as his mouth parted and his fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch.

And then… you felt him. Again.

Your thigh brushed his hip, and you stilled. Then pulled back, brows arching in playful disbelief. “Already?”

The question hung in the air like a teasing note, half-smirk, half-curiosity.

Bucky’s eyes dipped, lashes fanning over flushed cheeks. He looked momentarily abashed as if he’d been caught red-handed, though the evidence quite literally pressed against your leg.

“It’s the super soldier serum,” he mumbled, the corner of his mouth curling despite himself.

You tilted your head, amusement rising. He was trying to play it cool, but the slight flush on his ears gave him away.

“Oh?” you drawled. “And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?”

His fingers scratched lightly at the back of his neck, a classic tell.

“Steve said something once,” he offered, deliberately vague.

You blinked. Your smile widened, slow and predatory.

“Steve?” you echoed. “You’ve been talking to Steve about this?”

“No!” His protest was immediate and rushed like a man trying to stop a landslide with a broom. “Not exactly,” he amended quickly. “He was talking about Sharon, I guess.”

A laugh bubbled up, and you bit your bottom lip to stifle it, your hand resting lightly on his chest. You could feel the way his heart kicked beneath your palm. Nervous, flustered. Bucky Barnes, caught in the act of oversharing.

“Sharon, huh?” you said innocently, voice tinged with mischief.

His eyes narrowed slightly, catching the shift in your tone. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” you said airily, pretending to inspect the stitching on the pillowcase behind his head. “Just something Yelena said the other day.”

Suspicion flickered in his gaze, but you forged ahead.

“She thinks Steve wasn’t as innocent as we all pegged him. Something about spotting him and Sharon… in a compromising position.”

Bucky snorted, turning his face into your shoulder to muffle the sound. “I wonder what they’d make of this.”

“Oh, I’d never hear the end of it,” you groaned, flopping onto your back with theatrical flair. “They’re already circling like vultures, trying to interrogate me about the gala.”

He shifted beside you, propping himself up slightly on his elbow to get a better look at your face. “And what did you tell them?”

You hesitated. Just long enough for the silence to tighten.

There it was, the flicker of guilt behind your eyes. You could feel it rise like a slow tide in your chest, swelling into your throat. You should tell him. About Natasha’s uncanny perception, the way her gaze had cut straight through you like a knife, and how you’d cracked under pressure with barely a word from her.

But you didn’t. You weren’t sure how he’d take it. Knowing someone else was privy to this—this, your quiet little secret.

“Nothing,” you said, soft but firm, hoping your smile would mask the lie.

His expression didn’t shift dramatically, but you saw his brow furrowed slightly—a quiet sharpening behind the eye.

“Nothing?” he repeated.

“I just…” You sighed, turning to face him properly. The pillow dipped beneath your cheek. “I figured you didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to make things messy.”

He was quiet. His gaze flicked to the ceiling, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “Yeah. It’s probably for the best, isn’t it?”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced by his own words, and you didn’t feel entirely convinced either. 

“It’s up to you,” you said eventually. “Everyone’s image of me is already… well, damaged.” You let out a soft, bitter laugh, fingers twisting idly in the edge of the sheets. “I’m sure this will hardly ruin my reputation. But yours…”

“That seems unfair,” he said, brows drawing together.

“What does?”

“The way they treat you.” Your breath caught slightly, unprepared for its bluntness. You looked at him, and he met your gaze head-on. No hesitation, no irony. Just honesty, raw and unvarnished. And before you could piece together a response, he spoke again. “Do you always do that? Make yourself smaller for other people?”

The question landed like a stone in your gut. You froze, eyes searching his face, almost disbelieving.

He hadn’t said it unkindly. But it lodged deep.

For a moment, you were tempted to laugh it off, to deflect, to be clever. Anything to avoid the sudden, unexpected vulnerability that cracked open inside you like a fault line.

Had he been watching you this whole time? Not just looking, but seeing? Had you been too busy circling Bucky to notice that he circled you in return?

You smiled weakly, wanting to fill the dreadful silence that had settled over the both of you. “I could say the same for you.”

His hand slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him again. You could feel the weight of him against your hip, the heat building between you again.

You let your nose brush his. “Still something to do with the serum?”

Bucky smirked, lips brushing yours. “That… and you.”

You exhaled a breathless laugh, but something about the way his thumbs moved, slow circles against your ribs, made the warmth curl low in your belly again. The mood was shifting. Building. You could feel it.

And then his voice turned quieter. Uncertain.

“I feel bad,” he murmured.

You blinked, drawing back just enough to see the look on his face. 

“Bad?” you repeated, confused.

“For not…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Returning the favour.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped against your skin.

“Bucky,” you said gently, “you don’t have to do everything all at once.”

He frowned, and you could tell he didn’t quite agree. Always so ready to shoulder weight that was never meant to be his. Always prepared to give more than he thought he was allowed to take. He carried guilt like it was just another one of his old injuries that could never quite be healed.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” you added, quieter now. “With information. Or… expectations.”

His eyes searched yours. “But I want to learn.”

“There’s a little more involved in getting a woman to orgasm,” you said, but your tone light as you tried to shake off the weight of his gaze.

“It doesn’t have to be… I just want to make you feel good.”

God. He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Your resolve crumbled.

You rose slowly, coaxing him to sit up with you. Straddling his hips felt natural now, like returning to a familiar place. You took his hand gently, guiding it up over your shoulder over the thin gold strap of your dress.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Then help me take this off.”

His fingers moved with care, grazing over your skin, catching the strap between his thumb and forefinger as he began to ease the dress down your arms. The fabric slid away like a sigh, pooling around your waist, revealing the strapless bra beneath.

You felt him falter, brow furrowing in confusion. “How does this…?”

You turned around on your knees, back to him. “It unclips at the back,” you murmured, sweeping your hair over one shoulder to expose the delicate line of your spine.

“Just three hooks. Here.” You reached behind you, fingertips brushing the clasp.

His fingers met yours, searching as he followed your instructions. A breath escaped him, soft and shallow, before he found the hooks and gently undid them one click at a time.

The tension in your shoulders eased just a fraction. “There you go.”

His hands hovered, uncertain now that your bare back was before him like an empty canvas. You tossed the bra to the floor and reached back, guiding his hands to your waist, then up, encouraging him to cup the full weight of your breasts. He was hesitant at first, the pads of his fingers a little stiff, a little too tense. The contrast of warm flesh and cool vibranium sent a delicious shiver spiralling through you, eliciting a long, satisfied sigh.

That sound seemed to break whatever restraint he was clinging to. His grip shifted, confidence blooming. He began to knead and explore, thumbs brushing experimentally over your nipples. When a vibranium finger flicked one with the barest touch, you let out a soft whine, your back arching to press yourself flush against his chest.

“I think I like this,” he murmured, voice husky at your ear, breath fanning warm across your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, turning slowly to face him again, your balance steady in his palms. His hands slid down to anchor you at the hips.

His gaze lingered, not just on your chest, but on your face. Like he was still processing, still memorising. Desire curled in your gut, a heartbeat between your legs. You fought the urge to reach down, to chase the friction your body was begging for.

Bucky leaned forward and kissed you again. Something in him had shifted. He wasn’t following anymore. He was moving with intent. And when he gently rolled you back onto the pillows, his weight settling above yours, your breath hitched.

You tried to ignore the instinct curling tight in your belly. Tried not to let the familiar feeling of being beneath someone stir that old panic. Like the walls might close in around you. Like control was slipping just a little too far out of reach.

His mouth trailed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, between your breasts, and you squirmed ever-so-slightly beneath him. His tongue flicked out to taste your skin, a soft sound of satisfaction humming against you. He licked a rough stroke over one of your nipples as if it were a primal instinct.

You groaned, one hand gently scratching across his back, the other through his hair. His knee slotted between your thighs, parting them easily, the gold fabric of your dress bunched at your waist. Only a thin slip of lace remained between you. He didn’t look down. He didn’t need to, his lips were still worshipping your chest.

His vibranium hand curved over your knee, pushing you open further, his hips grinding lightly into yours, and that flicker of alarm surged. Too strong to ignore.

You moved fluidly before it could root itself. With practised grace, you flipped the two of you, rolling him onto his back and straddling his hips in a single, breathless motion. He made no protest, just let out a pleased groan as his hands found your thighs.

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in the present. In him. His wide eyes blinking up at you, still caught in the moment.

He didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t ask why you took control again.

And you were grateful.

As you steadied yourself above him, he sat up suddenly, arms sliding around your waist. His mouth pressed a slow kiss to your sternum. He looked up at you, lashes fluttering, nose brushing the curve of your breast.

Your breath caught in your throat.

As he pressed another kiss to your skin, you realised—without a doubt—that maybe this was the single most erotic moment of your life.

Not the act, not the heat of it all but him. The way he looked at you. The gentleness in his hands. The trust humming beneath his skin like a live wire. The way your name might’ve been forming behind his teeth, even if he hadn’t spoken it.

You sank your hands into his hair and pulled him closer.

You were still tangled in each other, the heat between your bodies humming like static, when the apartment door swung open with an easy, unthinking click.

“Hey Buck, you sure you don’t wanna come out with us—?”

The cheerful voice stopped cold. 

Steve.

---

hello! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! i'll only be reblogging on there <3

OH. OH NO. PLSSSS WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

lessons in lovemaking [part three]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, handjobs, fondling, nudity, fem reader, bucky is touch starved, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, natasha cares, injury, blood, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.9k

A/N: hey if you have dejavu seeing this, it's because the other post is glitched for some reason and some people aren't able to see it, i think it's to do with there being over 30 people on the taglist. i'll have to come up with a solution for that. in the meantime, pls enjoy and hopefully this post is actually visible!. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

"Go for the left."

Kate blinked. "The left?"

"Yes."

She looked from you to Bucky, eyebrows raised like you’d asked her to charge a bear with a toothpick. "We’re talking about the left? The metal freaking arm left?"

"That’s the one."

The look she gave you was flat-out incredulous. "Are you serious? Isn’t that the last place I should be aiming?"

You resisted the urge to sigh. "That’s exactly why you should aim there. Everyone goes for his right. They assume it’s weaker. Bucky knows that. He’s trained to defend that side, conditioned even. But the left? Sure, it’s strong. That doesn’t make it invulnerable. Watch him."

You nodded toward Bucky, shadowboxing in the centre of the mat, relaxed but precise, like a predator keeping his muscles warm. "See how he braces before a punch? That slight weight shift? It’s a habit. Subtle but predictable. It leaves a small window, but just enough. Learn to spot that, and you can drop someone twice your size."

Kate’s expression turned thoughtful, eyes narrowing as she studied Bucky more intently. "Okay… so how do you get good at spotting weaknesses like that?"

"Learn to observe. Don’t rush in swinging. Patience and preparation will win a fight long before your fists do."

Kate nodded slowly, rolling her shoulders. "Alright. Let’s see if I can prove you right."

She took a step forward, then hesitated, glancing back at you with a sheepish grin. "I am a little scared, though—"

You gave her a flat look. "Just go, Kate."

She groaned but turned back toward Bucky, stepping onto the mat with a reluctant sort of determination.

It was late afternoon, and golden light poured through the gym windows in long, drowsy streaks. Dust drifted lazily in the sunbeams, but the air was thick with tension—not the kind that came from training, but from something far more complicated. Natasha and Yelena had thought it hilarious to pair you not only with Kate for sparring but also with Bucky. You had no doubt they were watching from the sidelines, smirking into their water bottles. Those two were always scheming.

Natasha hadn’t said anything to you yet, but then again, you’d been avoiding her like the plague since yesterday’s meeting. She was too sharp, too perceptive not to pick up on the subtle shifts in both your and Bucky’s behaviour. The cracks were already showing, the slightly too-long looks between you and Bucky, the stiffness in your tone whenever his name came up, the defensiveness you thought you’d kept hidden but apparently hadn’t.

You knew you couldn’t dodge her forever. Sooner or later, she’d confront you. And when she did, you’d have to lie—or worse, tell some version of the truth. What that truth even was… you weren’t sure. Not yet.

And Bucky?

You had no idea how to tell him you thought she already knew. That kind of conversation was a minefield, one wrong word and you’d either send him into horrified silence or make him regret every second of the nights spent together. Neither option was appealing.

You exhaled sharply, arms crossed as you watched Kate bounce on the balls of her feet, testing the space between her and Bucky.

He stood still in the centre of the mat, arms relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable. Brooding and unimpressed, as always. He hadn’t looked at you once all day, not properly at least. And yet you couldn’t stop thinking about how you knew exactly what he looked like when he came undone beneath you, fingers tangled in sheets and voice gone rough with need. He had been about as excited as you felt when the ‘teams’ for sparring were announced. You were beginning to suspect some convoluted plot half the compound was in on to see you and Bucky go head to head.

Now, he was back to being the Winter Soldier, being precisely what H.Y.D.R.A trained him to be, stoic, intimidating, unreadable. He had a talent for making his opponents feel beneath him. Unworthy. It was a tactic, you knew that, but it still worked.

Kate circled warily, eyes darting as she tried to read him, every shift in her posture betraying nerves. You watched her movements closely, noting the hesitation, the constant foot adjustments. She was looking for the right moment. You just hoped she’d recognise it when it came.

Much to Yelena and Natasha’s annoyance, you had flipped their little prank back onto them, sending Kate out to spar first, hoping to break her out of that ‘swing first, think later’ style Yelena loved so much.

A shadow moved in the corner of your vision as Yelena strolled up beside you, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between you and the fight. Speak of the devil, and she will appear. 

"You’re staring real hard," she drawled. "What, got money riding on this?"

You didn’t bother looking at her. "She’s your pet project. Remind me again why I’m the one training her?"

"Apprentice," Yelena corrected smoothly.

You blinked. "What?"

She gestured vaguely toward Kate, who was still circling Bucky with the kind of careful precision that told you she was second-guessing herself. "She’s my apprentice, not a pet project. There is a difference."

"Uh-huh," you said flatly, entirely unconvinced. "And yet I’m the one teaching her how to think, instead of just swinging wildly and hoping the universe sorts it out."

Yelena smirked. "Because I am all wham, whack, bang, bam, action! Yes? You are all boring lectures and tactical talk. It is balance. How is she supposed to know how cool and awesome I am without hearing all your boring lectures about battle analysis—"

You turned to her, unimpressed. "Did you just make up sound effects?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said sweetly, then sipped from a water bottle like she hadn’t just made cartoon sound effects with complete sincerity.

Your focus shifted back to the fight as Kate feinted right, then hesitated—again. Bucky wasn’t attacking yet, just watching her with the kind of stillness that would’ve put even you on edge. He was waiting for her to make the first move, to reveal her plan before he committed to a real counter.

"She’s hesitating too much," Yelena observed.

"She’s calculating," you corrected. "That’s what she’s supposed to do."

Yelena made a sceptical noise. "If she waits any longer, he’s just going to knock her flat."

"If she rushes in without a plan, it’ll be the same result."

Bucky shifted—just a subtle test, quick and clean. Kate dodged, but barely. Her stance faltered. Yelena sighed, dragging her hands down her face. "Okay, this is painful to watch. You should just let me handle her—"

“No. I’m trying to teach her to think, not charge in like a wrecking ball.”

"Excuse you," Yelena gasped, touching her chest in mock offence. "I am a very tactical wrecking ball."

You didn’t respond, eyes narrowing. Kate was watching Bucky now—really watching. Good. She sidestepped his next move, then launched into the attack.

A feint to the right. A quick pivot. Just like you’d told her.

Bucky braced for the strike to his right, but it didn’t come.

Kate dipped low, powered off her back foot, and drove her elbow toward his ribs. Clean, sharp, decisive.

Bucky twisted fast, but not fast enough.

Her elbow landed. His breath left in a tight, surprised grunt.

"See?" you muttered, nudging Yelena with an elbow. "She’s learning."

Yelena lifted a brow. "Yeah, yeah. We’ll see if she follows through."

Instead of retreating, Kate followed through, using the momentum to drive her knee upward.

Bucky jerked back, but not far enough. Kate’s knee clipped his chin, snapping his head up just enough for the final blow.

You scoffed. "Give her some credit—"

A sharp smack rang through the gym.

Bucky let out a startled grunt of pain, staggering back, one hand cupping his face. Blood was already leaking between his fingers.

Kate froze, eyes going wide in horror. "Oh my god—Bucky! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—are you okay? Oh god, you’re bleeding—"

Bucky tipped his head back, exhaling sharply through his nose, which only made more blood drip down his lip. “No kidding.”

Yelena snorted beside you. "Okay, I take it back. She might actually be good at this."

Kate was still floundering, hands hovering like she wanted to help but had no idea how. "What do you need—should I get a medic? Ice? Tissues? A priest?"

Bucky shot her a glare, nostrils flaring as more blood dripped down his lip. "Just… just give me a second."

You stepped forward onto the mat. "Well. I’d say she followed through."

Yelena smirked. "Yeah. Maybe a little too well."

Kate turned to you, looking utterly betrayed. "You told me to go for the left!"

"I said to attack the opening on his left, not ‘punch him in the face like you’re trying to knock out a tooth’, but hey, improvisation is an important skill."

Kate groaned. Bucky muttered something low and vile in Russian as he turned toward the exit, blood trailing faintly in his wake.

Even Yelena blinked. “That sounded like a curse, Kate. Possibly an ancient one.”

“Don’t say that!” Kate whined in fear. 

"I’ll handle him," you muttered with a sigh, already following. You paused at the edge of the mat, glancing back at Kate. “You did good. Maybe pull your punches and ease off the full-force murder next time?”

Kate groaned louder. "That was me pulling my punches!"

Yelena’s laughter followed you as you crossed the room, clapping her hands together as she bounced on her toes like an excited child. "Oh, this is fun. We should do this more often."

You pushed through the changing room door and stepped into the cooler air beyond. The space was clean and sterile in that way that only rich tech-billionaire funding could buy. Polished tiles, dark wood lockers with brass fittings, and the faint scent of citrusy cleaner lingering beneath the hum of recessed lights.

The sound of running water guided you to the sinks.

Bucky was hunched over the white porcelain basin, one arm braced on the counter, the other still cupping the lower half of his face. The mirror above caught his reflection, blood-streaked, jaw-tight, brows drawn down in a frustrated knot. Crimson spiralled down the drain, bright against the ceramic.

“You look like a crime scene,” you muttered as you crossed the room.

Bucky let out a sharp breath through his mouth, meeting your comment with a pointed grunt that spoke volumes.

You raised a brow. “Are you going to keep glaring at me like I put out a hit on you?”

“You did,” he muttered flatly.

You rolled your eyes, making a beeline for the paper towel dispenser. You pulled out a few thick, folded sheets and pressed them into his free hand. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” he grumbled.

“Bucky.” You shot him a look, unimpressed. “Sit.”

His jaw tightened like he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he relented, pushing off the counter, and he trudged toward one of the benches in the centre of the room and sat down stiffly, wincing as he tilted his head back.

You crouched in front of him, studying his face. The blood smeared across his upper lip stood out starkly against his skin, but at least it wasn’t gushing anymore. His nose was red, swelling a little but not crooked. Reaching out, you ghosted your fingers over the bridge, careful and light. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

Bucky huffed. “Feels broken.”

“Yeah, well, maybe don’t let Kate punch you in the face next time.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t dignify you with a response.

Shaking your head, you folded a fresh set of paper towels and pressed them lightly against his nose. “Hold this. It'll keep you from dripping all over Stark’s precious floors.”

Bucky took them with a sigh, his metal fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sank to your knees without really thinking about it, watching as Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusting the pressure with careful precision. His shoulders had lost some of their earlier tension, but his posture was still guarded like he was bracing himself for something more than just the dull throb of pain. The quiet hum of the ventilation system filled the space, blending with the distant murmur of voices from the gym beyond.

“Last night, I—” Bucky broke the silence first, his voice slightly nasal from the swelling.

“You fell asleep.” You cut him off gently, offering a faint smile. You didn’t know how much he had actually heard before exhaustion had finally claimed him. Maybe that was for the best. Perhaps it had been a mistake to let your guard down, to speak so openly, to bare your soul so easily. You had told yourself you wouldn’t burden him with your struggles. He already carried enough of his own.

And yet, he had this way of making you feel safe. Too safe.

It was almost ironic. He was supposed to instil fear, his name alone enough to make enemies think twice. And yet, all you saw was a rather sad, damaged, and tired man, his big, mournful puppy-dog eyes carrying the weight of things he could never put into words.

“Yeah. I don’t… remember it happening,” Bucky admitted, frowning slightly as if frustrated with himself. “One second, I was with you, and the next—”

“Did you sleep well, at least?”

He hesitated like he was debating whether to downplay it. But then, finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Best I have in a while.”

Your smile grew just a little. “I’m glad.”

Silence settled again, not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Then, after a beat, Bucky sighed.

“I’m sorry that I don’t talk to you much outside of… lessons.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine, Bucky. You don’t… owe me anything.”

“It’s just… I don’t know how to act,” he admitted, gaze flicking away. “Not with everyone watching. I don’t want them figuring out. I don’t like their attention being all over me.”

Your smile faltered for just a second before you forced it back into place. 

“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, shifting the conversation.

Bucky’s brows pulled together in confusion. “How do you know about that—?”

You shrugged. It was your job to observe. To pick people apart and learn their secrets before they even knew them themselves. “During training, I’ve noticed you favour your right side. You block and punch heavier with it. You were compensating subconsciously because your left side was giving you grief. Have you thought about seeing a physio?”

His lips parted slightly like he hadn’t expected you to catch that. Then his gaze narrowed, a hint of suspicion creeping in.

“Is that why you gave me a massage yesterday?”

You smirked, tilting your head playfully. “Hm. Maybe.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Always two steps ahead, huh?”

You leaned in just a little, eyes glinting with amusement, a witty remark hanging off your tongue—only to dissolve the moment the door swung open.

Steve sauntered in, halting mid-step by the sinks as he took in the scene. You were kneeling between Bucky’s legs, a faint smirk tugging at your mouth while he looked down at you with something dangerously close to a smile—bloody paper towel and all.

Steve’s brows lifted. Confusion crossed his face, mixed with something harder to place, surprise? Suspicion? Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t expecting this.

You jerked back instinctively, hands bracing on your thighs as you turned to face him.

“It’s not broken,” you announced a little too quickly, jerking your chin toward Bucky. “He’ll live. Bit of swelling and a bit of bruising. Nothing that won’t fade.”

Steve blinked, still trying to piece things together. “I didn’t realise you two were… friends?”

You let out a short, sharp laugh, already on your feet and several paces away. “Hear that, Barnes? We’re friends now.”

Bucky—who stiffly sat on the bench, with his hands still braced against his knees—remained utterly rooted in place as if one wrong move would shatter the illusion. His eyes flicked to you, then to Steve, then back to you, a silent plea not to say anything more.

Steve, on the other hand, still looked perplexed. 

“What?” you asked, turning back to the sink and rinsing your hands of the small amount of blood that had smudged across the skin during your brief inspection.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing, I just, uh…” His face twisted slightly like he regretted speaking at all. “I’ve never heard you laugh before. It surprised me, that’s all.”

That stopped you. Cold. The smirk slipped from your face like it had never been there. Classic Steve Rogers. World’s most well-meaning bastard. Saying the worst possible thing with the purest damn intentions.

You hadn’t exactly made yourself the most approachable presence on the team. You kept your distance, never bought into the ‘team bonding’ crap that Stark and Fury constantly tried to shove down your throat. You weren’t here for friendships but to do a job. But something about how he said it—I’ve never heard you laugh before—grated deep. Like your silence was an affliction. Like you were broken because you didn’t play nice like everyone else.

Without thinking, you flicked water in his direction.

He flinched back with a slight grimace. 

“Thanks, Rogers,” you said, bone-dry. Then you turned, walking away without another word.

You could faintly hear Steve’s voice, panicked and confused, coming from behind you as you pushed the door open.

“What? What did I do?” he called to Bucky, his voice trailing.

“That was painful,” Bucky muttered loud enough for you to catch. “You always tell women to smile more, or is that just your opener? Remind me how you bagged Sharon talking like that—”

“That wasn’t what I was saying—!” Steve protested, his words quickly swallowed by the sound of the door snapping shut behind you

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, you probably would laugh more if life hadn’t spent the past few years making sure you forgot how. If it weren’t for how every genuine emotion now felt like an act, something you wielded like a weapon to get what you wanted. The only time you really smiled or laughed anymore was on missions, tools of the trade. Smile here, flirt there, manipulate, mislead, vanish. You could fake it all like second nature, charm so convincing it fooled even yourself sometimes.

Because when it was real, it still felt like a lie.

You stalked back into the gym, trying to push the thoughts aside. Yelena’s sharp eyes caught yours almost immediately. “We’re going to the bar after this. You coming?”

You reached for your gym bag, slinging it over your shoulder without missing a beat. “No,” you answered flatly, prowling to walk toward the door.

“You’re not coming?” Kate had appeared from nowhere at your side, big blue eyes staring up at you.

You glanced down at her, deadpan. “Can you even go? Aren’t you like twelve?”

Kate’s begging expression melted into a playful glare, hands on her hips as you hesitated by the door. “No! I’m in college. I’m not a kid!”

You raised an eyebrow, her defensive tone amusing you. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she shot back, almost proudly.

You grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Ah, barely legal.”

“It’s fine, she’ll be with us!” Yelena chimed in, giving you a pleading look. “Nat is coming, the others too, maybe Kate can buy Bucky a drink as an apology for breaking his nose—”

“Hey! I didn’t break it!” Kate protested, then looked up at you with a fearful expression, voice dipping in volume. “I didn’t, did I?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in dramatically as if giving a speech. “I can already see the headline: ‘Avengers Drunken Antics on Public Display’—.’”

Yelena scowled at you. “It’s fine!” 

You smirked, but the exhaustion from the past few hours still weighed heavily on you. “You’re probably right. I can’t say much, in Russia we had vodka with breakfast.”

“So you’re coming?” Yelena asked one last time, sounding hopeful despite your resistance.

“No.” You said it with finality.  “I’ve seen too much of your face today. I need a break.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, but Kate was already heading towards her bag with a skip in her step. “Fine! More for us then!”

—

The training room was unusually quiet without Yelena’s smartass remarks ricocheting off the walls. Usually, the three of you trained together in the early mornings, but she and Kate were off on some covert infiltration upstate. Childs play for Yelena, really, though she’d taken her duties as a mentor for her little pet project rather seriously. That left just you and Natasha circling each other on the mat. You weren’t exactly thrilled about Yelena’s absence, which meant you were facing the full brunt of Natasha’s wrath alone. What didn’t help was that you hadn’t slept properly in days. You were running on fumes, and it showed. The last week had felt like one long string of wipeouts, each one dragging you down further with no sign of relief.

You ducked beneath a lazy strike, half-hearted at best, and swept your leg toward Natasha’s ribs. She blocked it with her shin like she’d barely noticed.

“Sloppy,” she remarked.

You threw a punch, weak and lazy. Natasha easily caught your wrist, spinning your body and throwing you to the mat. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs. She didn’t even break a sweat. She let out a short laugh, her hair spilling into her face as she looked down at you, amused.

But something was off.

Not in how she fought—no, that was as sharp as ever—but in her expression. Tight-lipped. Smug. And not her usual brand of smug, either. This was different, like she was sitting on a secret and absolutely itching for you to notice. She had that look again. The same one she’d had for the last two weeks. A silent challenge. An arrogant knowing. A game of cat and mouse neither of you had been willing to finish.

You groaned, deciding to cut your losses and pushed yourself off the mat, wiping sweat from your brow.

“There’s obviously something you want to say to me,” you muttered.

Natasha didn’t even pause. She moved in for another strike before you could fully recover, but you caught her forearm and twisted. She resisted effortlessly, that infuriating calm grin spreading across her face again.

“Nope,” she said. “Just… pleased, that’s all.”

“Pleased about what?” you asked cautiously.

Natasha pivoted out of your grip like water slipping through your fingers and swept your legs out from under you with a sharp hook of her foot. You hit the ground again with a dull thud. She didn’t bother offering you a hand up as if half-convinced you’d stay down.

“That I figured out your little secret before everyone else.” Her grin turned vicious. She started to circle you again, tone sing-song and entirely too satisfied. “Took me a while, but once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.”

You rolled up to your feet, levelling her with a look. “What secret?”

You played it cool. Innocent. But you both knew the gig was up. Natasha was like you, trained to spot what others missed, to read the body language no one else even registered. She’d probably clocked you and Bucky the moment you returned from the Gala. She and Yelena hadn’t exactly been subtle about their hunches, either.

She raised a brow. “Oh, come on. You’re really going to make me say it?”

You blinked back at her, expression blank.

“You,” she said, dragging the word out. “And Barnes.”

You deflected with a snort. “Yelena’s theories getting to you?”

“Don’t lie.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “He’s always making those puppy-dog eyes at you when he thinks no one’s looking.”

You barked a laugh, catching her off guard just long enough for you to swing a low kick her way. She dodged it neatly.

“Puppy-dog eyes? I can’t imagine it.” You lied through your teeth. “He always looks like someone kicked him while he was down. That or the brooding.”

Natasha’s smirk sharpened. “And you’re into that? He must be a very good fuck if you’re sticking around this long.”

“We haven’t…” You hesitated with a curse, missing a beat in your footwork. You shook your head, willing your mind to be able to focus on two tasks at once through the haze of fatigue. “Why would I want to fuck Barnes—”

“Considering our line of work, you’re a terrible liar sometimes.” You scowled at the amusement dripping from her voice. 

“It’s not like that between us.” You relented. “Not that it’s any of your business anyway—”

She cut over you, tilting her head. “You’re telling me you two haven’t had sex? God, don’t tell me it’s romance—”

“I’m just helping him feel normal.” You snapped back, hoping to shut her down before it got worse. “H.Y.D.R.A fucked him up, that’s for sure. The same way the Red Room fucked us up.”

Natasha made a face like something had clicked into place in her mind. “Shit.”

Your stomach dropped, movements stuttering as you realised you had unintentionally opened the floodgates. 

“Right,” she murmured, and something about her tone shifted. Not her usual brand of teasing. “You’re not… Never mind.”

You lunged toward her on instinct, catching her wrist with a clumsy grip. The contact was unsteady, your fingers didn’t have the strength they usually did, and Natasha didn’t fight back immediately.

“What?” you asked, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied too quickly, too carefully.

“You’ve said it now,” you pressed, breath short. “Go on.”

She hesitated, her jaw ticking as her gaze drifted down, avoiding yours. The tension in her body softened by degrees, like she’d been carrying the thought for too long and finally decided it wasn’t worth holding onto.

“I just…” she exhaled, slow and controlled, “I worry about you sometimes. I hope you’re not taking on too much.”

You blinked at her, the fog in your head thick and sluggish. “Why do you say that?”

“You know what I mean.”

You knew what she meant, even if it was a truth you’d been hiding from yourself. A truth you didn’t want to look at too closely out of fear of it consuming you whole. A dull ache formed your chest, a lump in your throat as you shook your head. 

You knew Natasha wouldn’t have had any way of knowing those forbidden words you’d uttered to Bucky, the ones he had missed as sleep had pulled him under, the thoughts that haunted you now that you had finally shown them acknowledgement. You felt sick. Rotten to your core. Like maggots and rot festered within, wriggling and twitching beneath the skin, just enough for you to pretend, smile, and continue like normal as your world shattered around you.

“I’m not some broken little girl, Nat,” you said, heat rising behind your words. “I can look after myself.”

“I’m sure of that,” she said softly, and it was the softness that rattled you most. Natasha didn’t do soft unless it mattered. “But… can you look after yourself? Or have you just isolated yourself for so long that you’ve tricked yourself into thinking the only person you can trust is yourself?”

Her voice, the quiet honesty of it, landed harder than any blow she’d dealt all morning.

You looked down, your fists trembling faintly. You flexed your fingers, opening and closing them like the answer might be written in your palms.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t believe you either. You could feel it in the silence between her breaths. Natasha never spoke unless she meant it. She was always calculating like you.

“I just…” she said, the words tentative like they were being picked up and examined before they left her mouth. “I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

She paused, then added with a wry twist of her lips as if to soften the blow, “Or Barnes.”

You snorted, the sound bitter and short. “Since when do you care about Barnes?”

“I don’t,” she said. “Not really. But if he gets attached and this doesn’t go how he hopes, he could spiral. And if you get attached and he panics…”

“I know.”

And you did. You knew it too well. The thought had curled up behind your ribs and sat there, heavy and unwanted, gnawing at you whenever he looked at you like you were something soft. Like you were safe. You didn’t feel like a safe option. 

“Just…” Natasha’s voice was quieter now, more cautious. “Don’t lose yourself trying to fix him.”

You met her eyes, forcing yourself to stay grounded. To not waver. “I’m not damaged.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but you saw how her brow pinched, the subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

You sighed, the weight of your exhaustion peeling every word from your throat like it didn’t want to come willingly. “I’m also not trying to fix him. We’re just… friends. With benefits. Nothing more.”

She gave a slow nod like she was willing to accept that on paper, but in her gut, she wasn’t buying it.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll believe you. Just… don’t go all radio silent on me like you do. I’m here for you, you know?”

You raised a brow, trying for humour but lacking the energy to pull it off entirely. “You getting all sappy on me now?”

“Never.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“Hm. Maybe.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brow. “But don’t tell Yelena. She’ll rip me to fucking shreds over it.”

Despite yourself, you let out a faint, tired laugh.

But it only lasted a second before Natasha lunged again.

You weren’t fast enough this time—your sluggish body didn’t catch up to the signal your brain sent. Her leg swept yours, and the mat slammed into your shoulder before you even realised you were falling. Pain flared, dull and heavy, and you lay there. Breathing hard. Staring up at the ceiling like it might offer you some kind of answer.

Natasha hovered above you, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable.

“Seriously,” she said. “When was the last time you actually slept? You look like shit.”

There it was, the usual cool, snide remark to cushion the fact that she truly cared. Like she knew you’d run like a spooked animal if she showed too much kindness. You didn’t answer right away. Just closed your eyes and let the silence stretch.

Natasha let out a grunt, not the least bit impressed.

—

You would have to warn Bucky that if he kept looking at you like that, the two of you were bound to end up in a whole world of trouble. 

It was bad enough that Natasha was on your tail—worse than that—she’d found the bones in your closet, polished them clean, and lined them up like trophies. You knew she wouldn’t breathe a word to Yelena, or anyone else for that matter, but you could feel a future creeping toward you, one where her tongue slipped. Just once. That’s all it would take.

And Bucky? He wasn’t helping. Not with that look. Not when even Steve Rogers did a double take, brows ticking up as if to say really, Buck? 

You were fresh off a particularly gruelling recon mission at Karpin’s club. No fists were thrown, no bullets dodged, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting. Playing the role of an attractive, naïve dancer took more skill than most people realised. You’d spent the last six weeks prying secrets from Karpin’s greasy fingers. Details about his buyers, how payments were moved, anything useful. He never suspected a thing, too high on his own ego to realise the little thing on his arm was gutting him for intel.

Fury had been unmistakable in his instructions—get the buyers first. If they caught wind that S.H.I.E.L.D was sniffing around, they’d scatter like roaches, and the whole operation would collapse. So you played the waiting game. Carefully. Precisely. Night after night.

Now you just wanted a drink. And a scalding-hot shower. Maybe both at once. Your skin felt like it had absorbed the club, cheap vodka, cigarette smoke, and desperation.

You adjusted the fur coat around your shoulders with a groan, trying to ignore how your dress—if you could even call it that—kept shifting against your skin. Yelena had dubbed the coat your ‘mob wife piece’ after finally watching The Sopranos, and the name had stuck. Your heels were the real punishment, though. Tall, unforgiving, and cursed by whatever sadist designed them.

After every recon job, the standard protocol was to turn in evidence immediately—cameras, bugs, audio mics, and a hand-written report. After six hours of playing pretend, you were scribbling in agonising detail while the evidence collection agent across from you gave you a rather pointed, unamused look. You briefly considered banging your head against the desk.

And, of course, Bucky was watching you. Not subtly. No, he was seated in a glass-walled meeting room across the way, surrounded by agents and Avengers, but his eyes hadn’t left you in a while. He looked like a gambler who’d just hit the jackpot. You watched him watching you, and you forgot to be annoyed for a second. He looked... ravenous. Unapologetically so.

The meeting finally broke. Doors opened. Agents spilled out. That was your cue. Evidence was handed in, and your aching wrist is getting no thanks for its service. The agent slid your report into a folder stamped ‘CLASSIFIED’ in angry red ink. You almost laughed. God, the theatre of it all.

Natasha bumped your shoulder as she sauntered past towards the elevator. 

“Better keep loverboy in check,” she muttered in your ear as she passed. Her smirk was wicked. 

You shot her a scowl.

Bucky was in the crowd, still watching. His gaze wasn’t on your scowl, though. It was lower. Tracing the cling of the gold mesh slip dress, the way it shimmered under the harsh overhead lights. Tacky enough for the job. Tight enough to draw attention. It hugged every curve with intent, and though it wasn’t your usual style, you were beginning to wonder if it might become one.

You hadn’t pegged Bucky for the type who’d go wild for glitter and skin, but judging by the look in his eyes…

Thank god for lessons, or he'd be dealing with a very awkward elevator ride. 

“I think I’ll take the stairs,” you replied, more bitterly than you meant to.

Natasha smirked as the elevator doors began to close, her eyes dancing with amusement and just a hint of sympathy. But it was Bucky’s gaze that lingered until the very last second as if he could memorise the sight of you before the doors cut him off.

You turned sharply on your heel and made for the stairs, the ache in your feet be damned. The heels bit with every step, but you welcomed the sting. It was easier to focus on than the heat lingering after Bucky’s gaze.

Four flights up, your phone dinged.

You didn’t have to check it to know. You already had a feeling. Still, a smirk pulled at your lips as you glanced at the lock screen.

Can I see you tonight?

Bucky had taken to modern tech far better than Steve ever had. Where Steve still asked what a GIF was or accidentally created a new group chat every time he tried to reply, Bucky had easily slipped into the rhythm. 

You thumbed out a reply as you rounded the next flight of stairs.

Aren’t you going out for drinks with the others?

Fridays had become a ritual for the team, provided no one was off saving the world or buried in a mission, so there’d be a few rounds at a bar nearby. Laughter. Cheap beer. Temporary normalcy.

You watched the typing bubble flicker to life… then vanish. Then again. And again.

Not my scene.

A pause.

Is that a no?

You grinned, slowing your steps just a little. You could picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, hovering over the screen like the answer might change everything.

You typed quickly.

I’ll come to your room right now if you ask nicely.

You paused in the stairway, hesitating outside the door for the residential floor where all the apartments were located. Your pulse tapped a little faster beneath your skin.

Another ding.

Please?

That was all it took.

You pushed open the door.

On my way.

—

“I want to try something different,” you murmured against Bucky’s skin, your lips brushing the hollow of his throat as you nuzzled into the warmth of his neck.

It all happened in a blur when you stepped through his door. Heels abandoned at the threshold, your coat sliding from your shoulders like a shrug of tension gone loose. Bucky had lasted all of two seconds, long enough for a strained smile and a greeting muttered through clenched teeth before instinct took over. His hands found your waist. Your back. Your thighs. And then you were in his lap as he stumbled backwards onto the bed, the mattress giving under both your weight and the familiar gravity that always pulled you toward each other.

Mumbled apologies about the scent of alcohol and sweat were lost beneath kisses, the air thick with the smell of him—black coffee from his meeting and that damn aftershave—as you melted into your usual spot atop him.

His rough palm ghosted up the back of your thigh in lazy strokes, the pads of his fingers brushing skin like he already knew it by heart. You blinked up at him, studying the angles of his face, searching for that tell-tale flicker, tightening of his jaw, a furrow between his brows, anything that indicated hesitation or worry. But there was none. Instead, he caught your eye, the touch of vibranium fingers cool and featherlight against your cheek.

“Last time you said that,” he murmured with a low chuckle, “you blindfolded me.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?” You cut back rather smugly, only to be met with a reluctant hum of agreement. “I want to talk about something first.”

Bucky stilled, alert now in that quiet, observant way of his. “What’s that?”

Your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt. “Are you afraid of me touching you?”

He blinked, surprised. “No? Is this a trick question—?”

“Do you like me touching you?”

“Yes.” His answer came easily, without hesitation.

“But you don’t like me touching your cock.”

That gave him pause. The stroking of your thigh faltered. There it was, his jaw ticked, the smallest tension rising between his brows like a storm cloud forming just behind his eyes.

“I don’t…Isn’t that what we’ve been doing these past few months?” His voice was low, cautious.

“You let me touch you near it,” you said gently. “But if I move my hand under your waistband, even just a little, you freeze. You ask me to stop. I just want to know why.”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. He stared at the ceiling instead of at you, like maybe the answer was written there if he looked hard enough.

“There’s no wrong answer,” you whispered. “I’m not upset. I’m not trying to push you. I just want to understand. To help.”

He exhaled slowly, brows knitting in thought. 

“It’s overwhelming, I think,” he said finally. “The added…feeling. On top of everything else that’s already happening.”

“So,” you said slowly, “if it happened in isolation. Nothing else, just that, you’d feel more comfortable? More in control?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I think so.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “Would you be okay with trying today? Right now?”

His eyes finally met yours, a flash of vulnerability behind the steel blue. “Putting me on the spot here, doll…”

Doll. That was a pet name you wouldn’t look too deeply into. Or acknowledge. He didn’t even seem to notice he had said it.

“You can always say no,” you reminded him softly. “That’s the most important rule, always. Either of us can stop at any time. No questions, no pressure, no hard feelings.”

He was quiet momentarily, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching for something. Then he nodded once, steady.

“Let’s do it.”

You paused, holding his gaze. “Are you sure?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a touch wry. “I trusted you when you blindfolded me, didn’t I?” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I don’t see any reason not to trust you now.”

That was all the encouragement you needed.

You slipped off his lap with ease, sinking onto the floor between his knees, the hem of your dress bunching up around your thighs. You blinked up at him expectantly, steady but unhurried. Bucky hesitated, shoulders tensing as his hands hovered uncertainly at his belt. A flicker of embarrassment was behind his eyes, the kind he hadn’t yet learned to hide from you.

You didn’t comment on it. Didn’t tease him for the blush creeping up his neck, or for the way his fingers fumbled slightly as he undid the buckle and began peeling off the layers. You just waited—quiet, patient, allowing him to find his own pace. You didn’t point out the irony of it all, how easily he’d unravel for you, but how nudity still brought hesitation. Like showing skin was somehow more vulnerable than offering up his soul.

His boxers were the last to go, and by the time he slid them down, he was already half-hard, his cock flushed with arousal. The pink tint on his cheeks deepened as his eyes darted away from yours.

You tilted your head, shifting closer until you were kneeling between his legs. The warmth radiating from his thighs drew you in like a hearth. Your hand brushed lightly over his knee in reassurance, and he twitched at the contact.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice more hum than a question.

He nodded, but it was too tight, too instinctive.

You paused.

“Need to hear your words, Bucky. I’m only going to do this if you tell me you’re okay.”

There was a beat of silence, his vibranium hand clenching in the sheets beside him.

“I want this,” he said, voice low but certain, even if his body still trembled faintly beneath you.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow breath.

“You remember what to say if you need to stop?”

He nodded again, more grounded this time. “Yeah. I remember.”

Satisfied, you reached out, your fingers wrapping gently around the base of his cock. You were cautious at first, letting your touch linger without pressure, just the soft drag of skin against skin. A strained groan left him almost immediately, the muscles in his thighs tightening on either side of you.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, watching his face twist with the sensation. His jaw slackened, mouth parted, eyes nearly fluttering closed as you began to stroke him. Slow, deliberate, careful. He was thick and heavy in your hand, already pulsing with anticipation, growing harder by the second. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Not after the nights spent grinding into each other, his arousal pressed tight and insistent through layers of clothing, but still, the reality of him was enough to stir a wicked spark behind your smile.

You pumped him a few more times, watching how easily his composure began to slip. He was already squirming, breaths ragged, his abdomen twitching every time your palm slid down to the base and back up again.

His head fell back, a quiet whimper escaping him as you thumbed over the slit at the head of his cock. He flinched from the contact, one hand flying to your elbow and gripping it like an anchor, his whole body responding to the jolt of pleasure like he’d been struck by lightning.

“How do you feel?” you asked, voice low, almost teasing.

It took him a moment to answer. His lips parted, trying to form words while his chest heaved, his eyes glazed over with ecstasy. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you collected it with your fingers, spreading it down the shaft to ease your rhythm.

“Good,” he finally gasped. “Amazing. Did it always… I don’t remember it feeling—”

His words dissolved into a sharp gasp as you leaned forward and kissed the tip. The contact was featherlight, but it shattered him. His metal hand shot up into your hair, not to pull or direct, but to ground himself, trembling as if the sensation threatened to lift him right out of his skin.

“Oh my god—” He began to whine.

You giggled softly, the warmth of your breath enough to send him over the edge.

Bucky came with a choked moan, his hips jerking as thick, hot ropes spilt over your chin and neck. His thighs trembled with the force of it, his head thrown back as if he couldn’t bear the weight of pleasure crashing through him. You stroked him through it, gentle and slow, coaxing every last pulse from him while he tried and failed to string thoughts together.

As he collapsed back against the mattress, boneless and dazed, you ran a hand up the inside of his thigh, using it as leverage to push yourself upright. His grip on your hair slackened and fell away, his hands lying limp beside him, fingers twitching faintly in the aftershocks.

“I’m gonna clean up,” you hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back, okay?”

He didn’t even open his eyes, just nodded, lips parted, breath still ragged.

“Okay,” he mumbled, voice thick and warm with lingering arousal. “I’ll be right here.”

—

It took only a few minutes to freshen up. You moved on muscle memory, warm water, damp cloth, and a quick sweep of your hair from your neck. You paused before leaving the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel in case he wanted it. 

But when you stepped back into the bedroom, you found he’d already taken care of himself, his boxers pulled back on.

Bucky was sprawled across the mattress like he’d melted into it, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. He looked wrecked—in the best way. Hair tousled, chest rising and falling in a slow, almost dazed rhythm, but his gaze sharpened the second it landed on you. A lazy, crooked grin tugged at his lips as he lifted an arm in a silent invitation, eyes still half-lidded and blown wide with the afterglow.

You climbed into bed beside him, the weight of his body shifting as you curled into the space between his arm and chest. His skin was warm against yours, the hum of his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. You pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his jaw, and his breath hitched as your hand slid over his stomach.

His mouth found yours not long after, lazy and unhurried like neither of you wanted to break the spell. It didn’t stay that way for long. Hunger crept in. Familiar, greedy heat as his mouth parted and his fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch.

And then… you felt him. Again.

Your thigh brushed his hip, and you stilled. Then pulled back, brows arching in playful disbelief. “Already?”

The question hung in the air like a teasing note, half-smirk, half-curiosity.

Bucky’s eyes dipped, lashes fanning over flushed cheeks. He looked momentarily abashed as if he’d been caught red-handed, though the evidence quite literally pressed against your leg.

“It’s the super soldier serum,” he mumbled, the corner of his mouth curling despite himself.

You tilted your head, amusement rising. He was trying to play it cool, but the slight flush on his ears gave him away.

“Oh?” you drawled. “And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?”

His fingers scratched lightly at the back of his neck, a classic tell.

“Steve said something once,” he offered, deliberately vague.

You blinked. Your smile widened, slow and predatory.

“Steve?” you echoed. “You’ve been talking to Steve about this?”

“No!” His protest was immediate and rushed like a man trying to stop a landslide with a broom. “Not exactly,” he amended quickly. “He was talking about Sharon, I guess.”

A laugh bubbled up, and you bit your bottom lip to stifle it, your hand resting lightly on his chest. You could feel the way his heart kicked beneath your palm. Nervous, flustered. Bucky Barnes, caught in the act of oversharing.

“Sharon, huh?” you said innocently, voice tinged with mischief.

His eyes narrowed slightly, catching the shift in your tone. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” you said airily, pretending to inspect the stitching on the pillowcase behind his head. “Just something Yelena said the other day.”

Suspicion flickered in his gaze, but you forged ahead.

“She thinks Steve wasn’t as innocent as we all pegged him. Something about spotting him and Sharon… in a compromising position.”

Bucky snorted, turning his face into your shoulder to muffle the sound. “I wonder what they’d make of this.”

“Oh, I’d never hear the end of it,” you groaned, flopping onto your back with theatrical flair. “They’re already circling like vultures, trying to interrogate me about the gala.”

He shifted beside you, propping himself up slightly on his elbow to get a better look at your face. “And what did you tell them?”

You hesitated. Just long enough for the silence to tighten.

There it was, the flicker of guilt behind your eyes. You could feel it rise like a slow tide in your chest, swelling into your throat. You should tell him. About Natasha’s uncanny perception, the way her gaze had cut straight through you like a knife, and how you’d cracked under pressure with barely a word from her.

But you didn’t. You weren’t sure how he’d take it. Knowing someone else was privy to this—this, your quiet little secret.

“Nothing,” you said, soft but firm, hoping your smile would mask the lie.

His expression didn’t shift dramatically, but you saw his brow furrowed slightly—a quiet sharpening behind the eye.

“Nothing?” he repeated.

“I just…” You sighed, turning to face him properly. The pillow dipped beneath your cheek. “I figured you didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to make things messy.”

He was quiet. His gaze flicked to the ceiling, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “Yeah. It’s probably for the best, isn’t it?”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced by his own words, and you didn’t feel entirely convinced either. 

“It’s up to you,” you said eventually. “Everyone’s image of me is already… well, damaged.” You let out a soft, bitter laugh, fingers twisting idly in the edge of the sheets. “I’m sure this will hardly ruin my reputation. But yours…”

“That seems unfair,” he said, brows drawing together.

“What does?”

“The way they treat you.” Your breath caught slightly, unprepared for its bluntness. You looked at him, and he met your gaze head-on. No hesitation, no irony. Just honesty, raw and unvarnished. And before you could piece together a response, he spoke again. “Do you always do that? Make yourself smaller for other people?”

The question landed like a stone in your gut. You froze, eyes searching his face, almost disbelieving.

He hadn’t said it unkindly. But it lodged deep.

For a moment, you were tempted to laugh it off, to deflect, to be clever. Anything to avoid the sudden, unexpected vulnerability that cracked open inside you like a fault line.

Had he been watching you this whole time? Not just looking, but seeing? Had you been too busy circling Bucky to notice that he circled you in return?

You smiled weakly, wanting to fill the dreadful silence that had settled over the both of you. “I could say the same for you.”

His hand slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him again. You could feel the weight of him against your hip, the heat building between you again.

You let your nose brush his. “Still something to do with the serum?”

Bucky smirked, lips brushing yours. “That… and you.”

You exhaled a breathless laugh, but something about the way his thumbs moved, slow circles against your ribs, made the warmth curl low in your belly again. The mood was shifting. Building. You could feel it.

And then his voice turned quieter. Uncertain.

“I feel bad,” he murmured.

You blinked, drawing back just enough to see the look on his face. 

“Bad?” you repeated, confused.

“For not…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Returning the favour.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped against your skin.

“Bucky,” you said gently, “you don’t have to do everything all at once.”

He frowned, and you could tell he didn’t quite agree. Always so ready to shoulder weight that was never meant to be his. Always prepared to give more than he thought he was allowed to take. He carried guilt like it was just another one of his old injuries that could never quite be healed.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” you added, quieter now. “With information. Or… expectations.”

His eyes searched yours. “But I want to learn.”

“There’s a little more involved in getting a woman to orgasm,” you said, but your tone light as you tried to shake off the weight of his gaze.

“It doesn’t have to be… I just want to make you feel good.”

God. He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Your resolve crumbled.

You rose slowly, coaxing him to sit up with you. Straddling his hips felt natural now, like returning to a familiar place. You took his hand gently, guiding it up over your shoulder over the thin gold strap of your dress.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Then help me take this off.”

His fingers moved with care, grazing over your skin, catching the strap between his thumb and forefinger as he began to ease the dress down your arms. The fabric slid away like a sigh, pooling around your waist, revealing the strapless bra beneath.

You felt him falter, brow furrowing in confusion. “How does this…?”

You turned around on your knees, back to him. “It unclips at the back,” you murmured, sweeping your hair over one shoulder to expose the delicate line of your spine.

“Just three hooks. Here.” You reached behind you, fingertips brushing the clasp.

His fingers met yours, searching as he followed your instructions. A breath escaped him, soft and shallow, before he found the hooks and gently undid them one click at a time.

The tension in your shoulders eased just a fraction. “There you go.”

His hands hovered, uncertain now that your bare back was before him like an empty canvas. You tossed the bra to the floor and reached back, guiding his hands to your waist, then up, encouraging him to cup the full weight of your breasts. He was hesitant at first, the pads of his fingers a little stiff, a little too tense. The contrast of warm flesh and cool vibranium sent a delicious shiver spiralling through you, eliciting a long, satisfied sigh.

That sound seemed to break whatever restraint he was clinging to. His grip shifted, confidence blooming. He began to knead and explore, thumbs brushing experimentally over your nipples. When a vibranium finger flicked one with the barest touch, you let out a soft whine, your back arching to press yourself flush against his chest.

“I think I like this,” he murmured, voice husky at your ear, breath fanning warm across your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, turning slowly to face him again, your balance steady in his palms. His hands slid down to anchor you at the hips.

His gaze lingered, not just on your chest, but on your face. Like he was still processing, still memorising. Desire curled in your gut, a heartbeat between your legs. You fought the urge to reach down, to chase the friction your body was begging for.

Bucky leaned forward and kissed you again. Something in him had shifted. He wasn’t following anymore. He was moving with intent. And when he gently rolled you back onto the pillows, his weight settling above yours, your breath hitched.

You tried to ignore the instinct curling tight in your belly. Tried not to let the familiar feeling of being beneath someone stir that old panic. Like the walls might close in around you. Like control was slipping just a little too far out of reach.

His mouth trailed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, between your breasts, and you squirmed ever-so-slightly beneath him. His tongue flicked out to taste your skin, a soft sound of satisfaction humming against you. He licked a rough stroke over one of your nipples as if it were a primal instinct.

You groaned, one hand gently scratching across his back, the other through his hair. His knee slotted between your thighs, parting them easily, the gold fabric of your dress bunched at your waist. Only a thin slip of lace remained between you. He didn’t look down. He didn’t need to, his lips were still worshipping your chest.

His vibranium hand curved over your knee, pushing you open further, his hips grinding lightly into yours, and that flicker of alarm surged. Too strong to ignore.

You moved fluidly before it could root itself. With practised grace, you flipped the two of you, rolling him onto his back and straddling his hips in a single, breathless motion. He made no protest, just let out a pleased groan as his hands found your thighs.

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in the present. In him. His wide eyes blinking up at you, still caught in the moment.

He didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t ask why you took control again.

And you were grateful.

As you steadied yourself above him, he sat up suddenly, arms sliding around your waist. His mouth pressed a slow kiss to your sternum. He looked up at you, lashes fluttering, nose brushing the curve of your breast.

Your breath caught in your throat.

As he pressed another kiss to your skin, you realised—without a doubt—that maybe this was the single most erotic moment of your life.

Not the act, not the heat of it all but him. The way he looked at you. The gentleness in his hands. The trust humming beneath his skin like a live wire. The way your name might’ve been forming behind his teeth, even if he hadn’t spoken it.

You sank your hands into his hair and pulled him closer.

You were still tangled in each other, the heat between your bodies humming like static, when the apartment door swung open with an easy, unthinking click.

“Hey Buck, you sure you don’t wanna come out with us—?”

The cheerful voice stopped cold. 

Steve.

---

hello! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! i'll only be reblogging on there <3

this but bucky x reader

shall I? SHALL. I.

bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky bucky

omg i need another parttttt

Todays Lesson with Bucky: Fingering.

part two to this blurb. I might make this into a little miniseries.

18 + CW's below the cut(fingering, Bucky licking your arousal off of his vibranium fingers, Bucky being a yapper.

“About time!” Steve called once he caught sight of me underneath the hood of my sweater. “Where the hell did you run off to?” 

I’d been gone all day with errands and finally got back to the Avengers Compound a few minutes ago. Truth be told, I’d been trying to avoid Y/N since last night where she palmed my dick on the couch. I wanted nothing more than to bend her over the couch and fuck her but needed to reel it back. If my plan was to work, I needed to take it slow. 

Grumbling at him while flipping the bird, my gaze immediately locked on Y/N who sat at the table in the kitchen. She was watching Sam and Steve act like idiots with a tiny smile. I fell into the seat next to her, those doe eyes looking up at me. 

“Hi,” I smiled at her. 

My heart lurched in my throat when she returned the smile, slowly licking her lips. “Hi yourself. I missed you today.”

“Oh, really? Did you?” I reached a hand underneath the table towards her knee, giving it a squeeze. 

Oh so quietly, I heard her take a deep intake of breath when my fingers grazed over the inside of her thigh. 

“Bucky,” she rushed out. 

Fuck, the way she said my name made my cock swell in my sweats. 

“What is it?” I asked, feigning ignorance. 

I dragged my vibranium hand up farther towards the hem of her dress where I knew her soaked panties awaited me. Her gaze lifted from the table that hid my actions over to the group of guys that suddenly dissipated. They all wandered back to their designated areas of the compound, leaving her and I alone. 

Again. 

“Do you want me to stop?” I asked when she remained silent, stopping my fingers right at the indeed of her thigh, near her pussy. 

I could see her weigh the battle in her mind yet again. Wondering if she should do this. It was evident yesterday that she was innocent in a lot of aspects of her life, especially sexually. It might have been selfish of me, but I wanted to be the only one who gave her these experiences. 

With my free hand, I cupped her chin so I could force her to look me in the eyes. As sick as I was in the head for getting a thrill from the prospect of corrupting her, I wanted to make sure she was completely okay with all of this. I didn’t want to push her into doing something she didn’t want. 

Instead of answering, she spread her legs wider when I squeezed her thigh and I chuckled while breathing in her scent. 

Tangerines. 

“Your body knows what you want, Doll,” I brushed a finger over the center of her pussy, still clothed by those wet panties. 

God, she was soaked. 

“But I need to hear you say it.” 

She bit her bottom lip. “Will it hurt?” 

“No,” I shook her head. “I’ll go slow at first. I don’t want to push you too far.” 

Not yet. 

Still in my grasp around her face, she finally nodded with a quiet please falling from her lips. My cock swelled again in my sweats as my heart lurched in my throat knowing that she was closer to accepting my request without even realizing it. 

“Spread your legs wider for me. Atta girl, just like that,” I praised when she did what she was told. 

Forcing her panties to the side, I gathered all of her wetness and brought it to her clit to draw circles. Her moan was loud so I forced a knuckle between her lips to keep her quiet. 

“Gotta be quiet. I can’t have anyone hear how pretty you sound,” my voice rumbled in my chest as I slipped my finger down her folds again and pressed a finger inside of her. 

I stifled a groan when her walls tighten around my finger almost immediately. 

“So fucking tight.” 

I slowly fucked her with my finger, dragging it in and out, until her teeth dug deep into my knuckle. 

“Do you like that, baby?” I questioned while leaning my forehead against hers. 

All she did was nod, too far gone in her growing orgasm that I could feel because of the way she clenched around my finger. I fought the urge to add another but knew that would be too much for her so I kept telling myself all in due time. 

“Your body comes alive with my touch. Why don’t you let me show you it all?” 

She nodded again and I gripped her chin. 

“You want that?” I couldn’t help the way I felt alive while teasing her. 

She arched her back off the bench seat when my finger curled up inside of her to press against that spot. Internally I smirked to myself because I knew her body more than she did. 

“Please,” she begged. 

I exposed more of her neck to me so I could brush my lips against her pulse point while my finger picked up pace. 

“Will you let me teach you these things?” I spoke my idea into her skin, reveling in the way her skin tasted. 

“Yes,” she yelled out as her orgasm tore through her. 

Her entire body convulsed on the chair next to me and the urge to drag her into my room to fuck her with my cock was strong. Instead I pulled my finger from her cunt to hold them up to the light over head, her arousal glistening. 

Her eyes widened as she came down from her high when she noticed how slick my finger was. I brought it to my lips, lapping up the taste of her like a man starved. 

One hit of her and I was hooked. 

“Bucky, that was-,” she took a deep breath. “Thank you.” 

Brushing my lips over her forehead, I heard her let out a content sigh before I pulled away. 

“Tomorrow night. My room. That’s when our next lesson will be,” I said before rising from the chair to leave the room. 

I made it all of three steps before her voice called after me. “What’s the lesson going to be?” 

Throwing a smirk over my shoulder, I winked. “Hand jobs.”

😩😩😩😩😩

Lakeside Lovers

18+, minors dni

Graphic smut

You're on a walk with Bucky after celebrating a successful mission, outdoor shenanigans ensue.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You were never going to wear heels again, dammit.

Your feet throbbed painfully as you walked down the little dirt path behind the restaurant, your hand clasped in a larger, warmer palm.

"You okay, doll?" an amused chuckle came from your fiance.

Bucky had suggested taking a walk after you had gone out to dinner to celebrate yet another successful mission with the Avengers.

It had been a year since the battle between Steve and Tony happened and it had taken some time, but thankfully the team was able to flesh out all their issues.

The same could surprisingly also be said about the conflict with Tony and Bucky, once Tony finally accepted that Bucky had no control over his actions that led to the death of his parents. They were actually on decent terms, almost friends.

"I'm okay, Buck," you said, smiling over at him, refusing to give in to the ache that the black pumps you were wearing gave you. You wanted to look nice for him.

But unfortunately, Bucky know you like the back of his hand.

"Take your shoes off. I can tell they're bothering you. I'll carry them," Bucky offered, but you refused.

"I'm fine, seriously babe. Don't worry." a reassuring squeeze was given to him.

Between work and daily duties, you never really had an opportunity to dress up, and didn't know when you'd get to again.

Bucky cast a doubtful look but gave a, "Suit yourself," before you continued on.

It was a pretty night, the moonlight the only guide on your walk, and surprisingly there was nobody out there with you both.

There was a little lake with a small pier you both wanted to go to, and you knew it was only a bit further before you could sit and dip your feet in the water.

But when your ankle wobbled again a moment later, Bucky sighed.

"That's it," he huffed, before he quickly bent down and scooped you up, throwing you over his shoulder in a fireman hold.

"Bucky!" you squealed in surprise, fingers clutching his jacket.

You never would be used to his lighting quick reflexes.

"James Buchanan Barnes, put me down!" you said, squirming to try and free yourself, but a firm *slap* to your ass caused you to go quiet as you sucked in a breath.

Oh..

Bucky laughed as he carried you for a moment before he stopped.

There were a few benches by the lake, and he soon set you down on one before kneeling in front of you.

"I'm not gonna let you hurt yourself," he said, grabbing one of your ankles and pulling the heel off, carelessly throwing it behind him.

You protested, but he paid no mind as he did the same with the other one, before locking his arms around your thighs and pulling you to sit at the edge of the bench.

His lips landed on your left knee, left exposed by the short fabric of your dark green dress.

"You look beautiful all the time. And I don't want you in pain." he said, blue eyes looking up through long lashes.

Your heart swelled as it did every time he showed you care. You loved this man with your entire being.

Your fingers began to run through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp.

"I love you, Bucky," you said softly, and he grinned, before landing another kiss to your opposite knee.

"I love you too, doll. And since we're alone, maybe I can show you how much," he said, hands playing with the hem of your dress.

Your eyes were wide. You both were adventurous when it came to sex, but you had never done anything in public before.

Oh well. First time for everything.

"Come here," you said, pulling him to sit on the bench by you, your bodies turned to face each other.

You leaned in and wasted no time in kissing him, the whiskey from dinner still sweet on his lips.

The air was warm and the only sounds around you were the sounds of nature, crickets chirping while the water of the lake lapped at the shore.

It was honestly romantic, and you feel your need for him growing.

Your hands, which had started on his shoulders, soon began to trail down over the soft gray shirt he wore under his black blazer jacket.

It wasn't long before you hit the leather of his belt, and he rumbled against your lips as you began to undo it, the buckle clinking.

"I want to taste you, baby" you whispered against his lips, hand finding and undoing his button and zipper before dipping inside, feeling his hard length beneath the fabric of his underwear.

A grunt escaped him as you cupped him.

"Never gonna say no to that," he joked, causing a laugh to escape as you pulled him out, exposing his cock to the night air.

You never would stop being astounded at his size, and you always secretly wondered if the super soldier serum made...other parts superior as well.

You began stroking him, your thumb swiping at his tip now and again to spread the small head of precum, and Bucky's head leaned back, unable to handle the feeling.

That just gave you easy access, and you quickly leaned in, latching your lips to his neck to leave soft kisses, sucking at the crease where his neck met his shoulder before continuing down, down over his muscular torso and down to where he was exposed.

"Fucking hell," he growled as you let your tongue peek out to lick at him.

His hand came to rest on your back where you were bent over kneeling on the bench, and his breathing quickened as you hollowed your cheeks around his dick, sucking at the tip the way you knew he liked.

You could never get enough of his taste. You never really enjoyed giving head with previous partners, but you couldn't get enough of it with Bucky. You craved it sometimes, to be honest.

"Do you like it?" you pull away to ask, grinning up at his flushed cheeks as you let your tongue come out to play against the notch under his tip.

It caused his hips to jolt and he fisted the fabric of your dress, "You know I do," he huffed, his hand pulling the dress up from the back to expose your black thong. You don't usually go for this kind of underwear but you didn't want panty lines to show through the dress.

He certainly wasn't complaining as his hand came down to roam over your ass cheeks, jaw clenching as you got back to work on his cock, head bobbing as he began to play with you.

He grabbed the thin strap of the thong and moved it aside, causing you to let out a hum of anticipation around him as his warm fingers found your soaking slit from behind.

He ran his fingers up and down, up and down for a moment, cursing at how wet you were already.

A finger sunk in just a bit, causing you to shudder as he said, "I fucking love how easy you get wet for me, doll. You're such a good fucking girl."

The finger left, having just gathered some of the wetness and continued it's journey to where your clit was throbbing.

You couldn't help the moan you let out around him as he circled it, and the vibrations caused his thighs to tense.

The both of you continued, the only sounds besides nature being both of your staggering breaths and the sound of slick flesh.

Before too long though, Bucky couldn't take anymore, and he tangled the fingers of his free hand in your hair to pull you away, his other one three fingers deep in your cunt, his thumb continuing to strum at the little nub.

"I need to fuck you before I come, baby." he said breathlessly.

You nodded as you rose to your knees, dress still around your waist and thong pushed over.

He helped you climb onto his lap, hands gripping your hips with bruising strength, and you knew the next morning you would have his fingerprints on you.

You loved it.

Your arms slid to wrap around his neck as you leaned in to kiss him, both of you exchanging breaths as you began to sink down on him.

You had to go slow so you could adjust to his size, but before long, neither of you could stand it anymore.

His hands controlled the movement of your hips, his coming up to meet you as he fucked into you from below.

"Bucky, please," you whined, thighs shaking as you let him have full control.

Your head began to tilt back, the action causing you to push the breasts into his face.

He took the invitation, one hand leaving to pull the straps of your dress down, taking the top with it and exposing your breasts to the air, nipples perked and waiting for the lips that descended on them.

He loved your breasts, and never left them out any time you both were intimate.

His lips wrapped around one nipple as he fucked you, and you could help the small exhalations of "ah, ah, ah" that left you with each bout of stimulation you received.

Nobody had ever been able to please you like Bucky had, and he reveled in it.

Soon, you were both nearly at your end, Bucky's muscles wound up tight and you were moaning uncontrollably, head still tilted back as your fingers were tangled in his hand.

But there was one thing he needed before you finished.

His hand, the metal one, gently grasped your jaw, pulling you to make eye contact with him.

As soon as you gazes locked on each other, you came, shuddering with a moan as your pupils expanded, tears welling in your eyes at the pleasure.

Bucky couldn't take it anymore, and the wooden bench creaked beneath you both as he fucked into you, shivers of overstimulation wracking your body, before he came. You felt the flooding of his warmth in you, and you sighed in relief, leaning down to kiss him.

Moments passed as he softened within you, and you pulled away from his lips, leaning to rest your forehead against his shoulder as you both caught your breath.

"Well, shit," you said, voice a bit hoarse, "that's one hell of a way to celebrate a successful mission."

Bucky couldn't help but laugh. He didn't know what he did to deserve you. But he did know one thing.

He would never let you go.

I needa fuck something bad i got some pressure built up *bark*

Kiss and Make Up

18+, minors dni

Graphic smut ahead

the aftermath of a fight between you and Bucky ;)

i'm thinking of doing a few final fantasy and red dead redemption 2 one shots as well :) lmk what you think!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The bed was cold.

You rolled over onto your side, thick comforter pulled up to your chin as you curled up. The clock read 1:18am and you sighed. There was a small picture frame by the clock with a photo of you and Bucky from when you first moved in, smiling at each other with his arms around your waist as your palms rested on his chest.

Neither of you remembered what the argument was really about.

Bucky had come home earlier that evening after a meeting with Sam and Joaquin about a mission they had been gathering intel on and he was stressed.

You had tried to get him to talk about it but he had refused, snapping a "Just drop it" at you.

One thing led to another and one shouting match later, he was in the living room sleeping on the couch while you were alone in your king sized bed, eyes wide open, just wishing he was there to keep you warm.

Another 15 minutes passed before you couldn't take it anymore and you stood, blanket wrapped around you shoulders, and padded your way from the bedroom out to the living room where you could see Bucky laying on the couch staring up at the ceiling.

"Bucky," you called softly, slowly making your way to him.

His head turned, eyes becoming soft and a bit sorrowful at the sight of you. He let out a breath before he opened his arms to you with a quit "Come here, angel."

Your lip quivered a bit as you made your way to him, leaning down to lay on top of him with your legs tangling and your chin propping onto his chest.

"I couldn't sleep. I don't like laying in there without you," you told him, fingers clutching into his t-shirt as you shifted.

All you wore was one of his black t-shirts with a pair of dark blue panties, and you felt his warmth seep through to you as you both gazed in each other's eyes.

He let out a sigh, one arm coming to rest on the dip of your spine, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin while the other came up to brush your hair back from your eyes.

"I don't like it either. I'm sorry for snapping at you, baby. It was a tough day and I took it out on you instead of speaking to you," he said, voice soft.

You leaned your head to rest in his palm, giving him a soft smile.

"It's okay. I'm sorry too for not respecting that you weren't ready to talk. I shouldn't have pushed it," you told him.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a soft peck once, twice, a third time.

On the third kiss, your lips stayed locked and you could taste the minty freshness of his toothpaste.

You sat up a bit to reach him better, sliding your legs to straddle his boxer covered hips while his hands slid to your waist.

A shudder ran through you at the coldness of his metal hand, the movement causing you to shift a bit on top of him.

Bucky's tongue slowly ran across your bottom lip and you quickly granted him access with a whimper as your tongues tangled together.

It was instinct that led you to slowly begin rolling your hips against his and he let out a grunt, hips jolting as he began to harden.

You pulled away for a moment to look at him with a small smile, "Take me to our bed, Bucky."

He didn't hesitate in giving you a grin with a "Yes, ma'am" before throwing the blanket covering you both to the floor as he stood with your arms and legs locked around him.

He made his way down the hall like a man on a mission. Once in your room, he threw you on the bed causing you to land with a squeal and a bounce, laughing as he pulled his t-shirt over his head from behind.

You went to do the same but he stopped you with a hand on your shoulder.

"Leave it, doll," he said a bit breathlessly as his eyes roamed over you. "I wanna fuck you in my shirt. Just push it up enough to show me those pretty tits"

You flushed but obeyed, laying back and pushing the shirt up to above your breasts as you gazed up at him.

Bucky loved your body, especially your breasts, and never wasted any time in worshipping them.

Now, for example, he was slowly making his way up the bed towards you like a predator after his prey.

His hands came to rest on your knees where they were bent and he spread them apart, opening your thighs to him as he continued to make his way upwards.

Soon he was eye level with your chest and he didn't waste a moment before leaning in to suck a pert nipple into his mouth, his blue eyes locked onto you.

"Oh.." you gasped, thighs clenching around his hips as one of your hands came to fist in his hair. He knew how sensitive your nipples were and he never passed up a chance to get you squirming.

He gave you a sneaky grin around it before nipping at it with his teeth.

The jolt of pleasure it brought ran from your reddened nipple down to the apex of your thighs and your clit throbbed.

He continued the torture until your breasts were red and sensitive with a large love bite on your sternum between them.

You were slowly working your hips, trying to grind with his as much as possible. Your panties were soaking wet and all you wanted was for him to touch you.

"Bucky," you whined, and reached to grab where his hand was resting on your thigh,"Please."

You guided the hand upward to the damp fabric and saw as his eyes darkened at the feeling.

His hand moved to cup you fully and he ground his palm against you, your jaw dropping open.

"You're such a good fuckin girl" He growled, hand speeding up with the grinding until you couldn't take it.

You were on the edge, shaking like a crazy until Bucky suddenly paused.

Your breaths were heavy as you came down, giving him a frustrated look as your ruined orgasm.

He laughed before saying "Patience," and sat up, hands coming to the waistband of your panties.

With a jerk of his metal hand and a squeak from you, the fabric ripped away and all you could see was a flash of blue as he threw them over his shoulder.

You were ready to berate him but you were stopped when he dived in, lips wrapping around your clit to give a harsh suck as a finger came to your entrance to tease.

"Ohmygod," you whimpered, head leaning back as you arched you spine.

Bucky was good at most things he did whether it be fighting, training or really anything else.

But he was a god at eating pussy.

He feasted on you like you were a glass of water and he was a parched man in the desert.

His finger toyed at the rim of your entrance before sinking in, immediately on the search for that one spot within you that got you every time.

You let out a yelp when he found it, rubbing against it with his finger tip causing you to quiver.

"Please, please, please, baby," you begged, tears in your eyes as he continued his torture.

You could feel the orgasm building again and this time he let you have it, his head bobbing as he sucked at your hard clit.

A yell left you as you came and you clamped down on his finger that was still thrusting into you.

You were still shaking with the aftershocks of it when he gave you one last lick and pulled away.

He grinned down at you, his hair in his eyes and his lips and chin wet.

His hand came from between your thighs to show you the wetness that covered it and he used the other one to work his boxers down, kicking them to the side.

He grasped his hard cock with his wet hand, using your cum to lubricate himself and holy fuck was it hot.

"Bucky, c'mon," you whined as he scrambled into place, his dick coming to rest between the lips of your pussy.

"What is it, doll?" he asked teasingly as he began to grind the head of his dick against you, letting it slide against your oversensitive clit. Your hips jolted with every brush, "What do you need?"

You continued to squirm underneath him and glared up at him.

"I need you to fuck me." you said firmly, causing him to laugh at your neediness.

"Your wish is my command," he said before notching himself at your entrance.

You both let out a breath of relief as he slid inside, bare skin to bare skin.

As his hips began to move your hands came under his arms to rest on his back and he let out a groan as your nails dug into the skin on his back, raking red lines down the length of it.

"You feel so fuckin good. I could live in you forever," Bucky ground our, one hand holding himself up while the other grasped at the headboard.

You were letting out soft gasps with each thrust he gave you and you knew your hips would be sore from taking the impact of how hard he was taking you, but you loved it. You loved when you would bruise and he would spend time after trailing kisses over the skin.

His pelvis was slapping your clit with each thrust and before long you felt the heat rise in you again, your body beginning to quiver as your orgasm rose.

"Bucky, I'm close baby, please," you told him with a strained voice, grabbing for his hand that was holding the headboard and bringing it between you, "Please touch me."

Now that the headboard was no longer being held you could heard the wood of it smacking the wall and you only hoped that his super soldier strength wouldn't cause it to damage the walls again.

It's happened before.

He brought his fingers to your lips for you to suck on before trailing them down to your hard bud, rubbing circles into it roughly and causing you to cry out.

Your pussy tightened around him as your orgasm overtook you, your spine arching and your nails digging into his shoulders.

He let out a groan at the feeling of you tightening around him, his balls drawing up, and before long he too released.

You hummed in contentedness as you felt him spurt within you, warmth filling you.

He slid out once he was soft, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips before moving to lay beside you.

You moved to lay on his chest, his arms around you as you traced at the lines of his abs.

"I hate fighting with you, angel. But if this is the result, we may have to more often," he joked, causing you to laugh.

Before long, the both of you were asleep in each other's arms, legs entwined once more where you belonged.

ooooohhhhhh lawwwwddddddddd i need it.

Fᵤcₖ ₜₕₐₜ ₐₜₜᵢₜᵤdₑ ₒᵤₜₜₐ Yₒᵤ

Bucky's overprotective, reader has no sense of awareness. It's been a long day...with a lot of angsty hormones.

warnings: angst, unprotected sex, choking, shower sex 🤭

"Oh, fuck off Bucky," I scoff, storming down the hallway to my room. He follows me, quick to grab me and pin me to the wall. I let out a huff of annoyance, trying to wiggle myself out of his grasp. "Can you lose the attitude? You can't just storm off whenever we need to have a conversation," he says calmly, fighting off the urge to yell. I roll my eyes clenching my jaw. "Yeah, you don't get to decide what I do with my spare time, Barnes. I work with you, and that's it. You don't get to act all overprotective every time I have a guy over." I say firmly, pushing him off of me. "You know it's not about that," he says, following me into my room. I turn to face him, shrugging my coat off. "Yeah? Then what's it fucking about?" I say sarcastically, draping the coat over my bed. He leans against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. "He tried to kill you. Remember that? I told you he was dangerous, and you couldn't give a shit." He says, letting out a sigh. I roll my eyes as I take my shoes off, throwing my socks into the laundry basket at the corner of the room. "I remember that you brought a girl over the other day when I told you that she was bad news. So don't try to act like you're a saint either. I can handle myself fine," I huff, unzipping my pants, sliding them down my legs. His glare stays focused on my face, sucking in a breath. I aggressively open my bottom drawer, shuffling around for a pair of shorts. He says nothing for a moment, attention trained on my annoyed expression. "If you are just going to keep grilling me then just leave James. I don't need you to do your protective thing on me," I say, pulling my shirt over my head, throwing it into the basket. I glance over at him to see a very annoyed glare on his face; however, the moonlight casts a beautiful glow over his face which makes my legs a little weak. I swallow, opening the drawer to my shirts. I pick up a t-shirt, pulling it over my head. "Wearing my shirts now?" He asks, a smirk tugging at the edge of his perfect lips.

I look down at the material, confused. "Then fucking take it back, I don't want it," I yell, pulling it over my head. I glare at him as I walk over to shove it into his chest, letting out a huff. I leave the room, slamming the bathroom door shut as I groan in frustration. Maybe a shower could help me let off some steam, the long day mixed with Bucky's antics pushing me over the edge. I aggressively turn the water on, pulling my shorts and panties down my legs. I step out of them, kicking them to the corner as I unclasp my bra, huffing when I can't get it unclasped. I feel tears start to prickle at the edges of my eyes as I let out a sniffle, stepping into the shower. I let out a sigh of relief as the water started to cascade down my body, slowly running my hands down my hair. I continue onto my routine, thoughts swirling in my mind. This day had been utterly infuriating. People moving too slow, entitled assholes cutting me off. It was one of those days where you question if there is a God that wants you to feel pain. To top it off-- Bucky had been irritatingly overprotective lately. And boy did I want to fuck that annoying smirk off his face every second of the day. As I washed the last bit of conditioner out of my hair, however, I felt a pair of strong hands twirl me around, pinning me to the wall. I let out a gasp as my eyes find Bucky's blue ones, face flushing. "What the fuck are you doing-" I groan squirming in his hold. He leans down to kiss me hungrily, silencing my questions. What the fuck is happening right now?

Bewildered, I do the only thing I had ever really wanted to do. Kiss him back. My hands finally snaked out of his hold, reaching up to grasp the back of his neck to pull him closer. He groans into my mouth, chest flush to mine. "I'm gonna fuck that attitude out of you sweetheart," he growls, pulling my body closer to his. I whine into his mouth as he lifts my hips to wrap around his torso, kissing down my jaw line to my neck. My eyes roll to the back of my head as his cock throbs at my entrance, hand sneaking down to rub the tip against my clit. I let out a whiney moan, head resting against the wall as he sucks hickies along my collarbone. Just when I was about to tell him to fuck me, he thrusts in, dick coated in my needy wetness. "Shit-" I moan, nails leaving little crescents on his toned back. He groans against my neck, thrusting into me at a relentless pace. "Deeper, please," I moan out, ragged breaths adding to the steam of the water. He obliges, pulling all the way out before thrusting all the way back in. I let out a scream clenching around his dick. Suddenly, his hand wraps around my neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. A silent warning that he could do absolutely whatever he wanted to. I wanted to slap that smirk right off of his face when my pussy clenched around him at the sensation of metal to skin. "You gonna cum baby?" He groans, tongue poking out to wet his lips. I was too fucked-out to answer, a quiet moan slipping from my mouth at his words. He thrusts faster, tip kissing my g-spot beautifully. My chest rises a falls at a quick pace, the coil in my tummy on the verge of snapping. It didn't take long for Bucky to notice my eyes fluttering closed, forehead resting on his to know I was close. He kisses me feverishly, swallowing my moans as my body start to shake in touch. My eyes roll to the back of my head, body going weak in his arms. I pant against his neck, hands wrapping around his neck as he gently sets me down. "I'm still mad at you," I whisper, closing my eyes as I rest my head on the cool tile.

"It's okay, I can just make you forget." He says cooly, sinking to his knees.

I mean wow. I just. wow.

ₚᵣₒbₗₑₘ ₛₒₗᵥₑᵣ

what if fantasies could really come to life?

warnings: sex fantasies, oral (fem!rec), fingering (fem!rec), heaving makeouts, and prob more let me know what I'm missing <3

"god, please James, feel's so good," I whine, head falling back against the back of the couch. My fingers dance through the short strands of his hair, eyes fluttering down to meet his lustful gaze between my legs. I bite my lip, relishing in the feeling of his skillful tongue against my sopping core. His hands are gentle, yet firm as they keep my thighs open and atop his shoulders. His tongue moves quicker against my folds as legs start to shake violently around his head. "fuck! please, please, pl-"

"Y/n? You okay?" Bucky asks, staring me down. I blink and refocus, stirring the pasta sauce that was tempted to burn. He remains leaned on the counter, setting down his beer. "Yeah sorry," I sigh, leaning over to grab some spices. I open and sprinkle a little into the pot one by one, enjoying the hum of music in the background. It was always easy like this--with Bucky. Silence was never awkward, and often enough words wouldn't need to be spoken to know how one another felt. But this time? This time he definitely wouldn't know what was going on inside my head. I hope. "Do you want me to take over?" He asks, walking to the other side of me to pour the pasta in the boiling water. God, he really is that innocent isn't he? I could think of a few way he could take over but "it's fine, I got it." With a smile on my face. He returns the small smile, something that rarely slipped out. Bucky was closed off, which would make since after everything -- but not so much with me. Before, when we first decided to share an apartment because he needed better decoration skills, and I needed someone to make sure it was organized, he would only force a smile if he had to. But on nights like these, when it was just the two of us after a long day-- his smile felt like it was reserved for me. Maybe that's what started my fantasies in the first place.

He grabs the pasta, pouring it into the boiling water. He moves effortlessly around the kitchen, grabbing a spatula and a strainer. I watch him in awe, moving my spoon in slow circles in the sauce. When he returns to the pot, his hand flex's has he stirs, the sight making me drool, literally. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, clearing my throat. I focus on the sauce, and turn the heat off. I grab a spoon and dip it in before bringing it to my mouth, taking in the flavors. "Is it good?" He asks, glancing over at me. I have to look away, those blue eyes making me weaker. "Yeah, you wanna try?" I dip the spoon in again as to give it to him. He takes it and brings it to his mouth. I groan internally, dirty thoughts clouding my senses. He hums in approval, setting the spoon down in the sink. "Delicious," he says, stirring the pot of pasta. I swallow hard, clenching my thighs together. I mutter a small thanks, grabbing some plates and forks. He pours the sauce in the pasta, glancing over his shoulder as I set down our plates on the island bar. He leans over the counter, placing portions on the plates as I fix up a salad. All of this was in silence, a comfortable one for him, but aching and desperate for me. Dinner was the same. My chewing came to a stop when I looked over at his beautiful form, he wasn't sloppy at all when he ate. He was careful, deliberate, savoring every bite. And so what if my mind started to wander? It's not my fault really, he's such a tease.

He kisses me, lifting me up onto the island, helping my anxious hands unbutton my shirt. "Relax, sweetheart. We got all night," he whispers into my ear, vibranium hand snaking down to rub my covered clit. I whine into his mouth, wrapping my arm around his neck to bring him impossibly closer, the other clenching white knuckles against the cool marble. I kiss him feverishly, grasping at his shirt, hair, everything. He gets my shirt unbuttoned, throwing it on the floor. He helps me shimmy my panties off, hands sliding up my legs, waist-

"What are you thinking about?" Bucky's voice brings me out of my daze, and suddenly I realized that I was just in a button up shirt and panties. I swallow my bite and glance at him. He's finished already, casually sipping a beer. Now this? This was too much. My thighs clench together again, which didn't seem to go unnoticed by the man beside me. "You ask a lot of questions," I say cooly, sipping my drink. "You never ask Sam this many questions," I state. His eyebrow raises as he sets his drink down. "Do you only talk to Dr. Raynor?" He asks, a playful smirk on his face. "No." Maybe I answered that too quickly. Or too harshly. Or maybe both. "Sorry," I say quickly, standing up to gather the plates. I sigh as I set them in the sink, washing out my cup. He comes up behind me and takes a plate. I make room for him, setting the cup in the dishwasher. "I don't like talking to Dr. Raynor," I finally say, picking up a fork. "Why?" As his voice always been this raspy? "Because I don't feel like talking about my problems with her. It's not like she can fix them." I say with a huff, taking his plate to put in the washer. He hums, finishing off the other utensils. "You can talk to me you know," he says, turning off the water. I exhale sharply, "I already told you about...my problems." I groan, going to sit on the couch. "Yeah, that's why I know you've got something else on your mind." He says with a smile, going to sit in the armchair. I roll my eyes, bringing my knees to my chest. His gaze stays locked on my figure, blue eyes searching for mine. I bite my lip, clenching my thighs together. "I don't wanna talk about it." I say quietly, looking out the window. It's silent for a moment, the faint sound of the dishwasher filling the apartment.

"Why don't you show me then?" He says calmly, sipping his beer. My head whips back to him, my feet returning to the floor. "What?" I gasp, giving him a confused look. He smirks at me, setting his beer bottle down on the coffee table. "Just come here," he says with a small smile. I swallow, slowly standing up. I eye him suspiciously as he keeps his eyes on my face. I walk to stand before him, crossing my hands over my chest. "Look, I told you I'm fin-" he pulls my gently down into his lap, his ever piercing gaze still locked onto my eyes. I let out a shaky breath, uncrossing my hands to stabilize myself on his shoulders. God, I should have worn more than just panties, because in this position? Fuck, their soaking. "You're beautiful, you know that?" He says quietly, moving a strand of hair behind my ear. My face flushes, eyes avoiding his gaze. "Why do you do this to me?" I ask, eyes meeting his gaze again. He gives me an innocent look, placing his hands on my waist. "Gonna have to be specific sweetheart," he grins, vibranium hand shifting with a mechanic whirr as his hold tightens. I roll my eyes, biting my lip. God, I want to kiss him so bad. "I don't wanna look like...I'm obsessed or something, you know?" I say quietly, hands firm on his shoulders. He smiles at me, hand reaching up to caress my cheek. "Who would think that?" He asks, taking my hand in his vibranium one to bring it to his lips. He kisses the back of my hand softly, eyes trained on mine. "You know, you've got quite the staring problem," I smile. "So I've been told," he responds, with a playful look in his eyes. I hum in agreement, swallowing hard. I sigh, tongue poking out to wet my lips. Before I can even get a word out, he steals the words right out of my mouth. "Can I kiss you? I want to kiss you," he says, hand trailing up to the back of my neck.

I let out a small gasp, hands reaching around to play with his hair. "You want to kiss me?" I ask quietly, staring into his blue eyes. He smiles, cupping the back of my neck to bring me closer. I hesitate, just for a moment to consider the consequences. As I leaned in all the way, I couldn't really think of any. The kiss started off slow, like the moment was being savored. It felt like a daydream, I was kissing my roommate, James Bucky Barnes and fuck did it feel amazing. And then, like he became impatient and desperate, the kiss turned feverish. Tongue dancing, teeth grazing, swollen lips kind of kissing. I moaned, no, actually whined into the kiss, leaning back as to force him forward, the ever-present bulge pressing right onto my excuse for panties. He gently bites down on my bottom lip, pulling away as it releases back with a soft pop! I let out labored breaths, the need in my stomach growing by the second. "Has it ever occurred, that I may be obsessed with you?" he says, eyes full of lust. My lips tremble, wetness threating to seep through my panties. "Fuck," I whine, reconnecting my lips with his. My fingers find my buttons, shakily unclasping each one. Swiftly, he replaces my fingers with his own, kissing down my jaw. I moan softly, biting my lip. He gets it unbuttoned, slowly, torturously, sliding it down my arms, keeping eye contact all the while. I sigh as it hits the floor, hands finding themselves on his thighs. Bra-less. How could I have forgotten I went bra-less too? It's like I was begging to get fucked.

My nipples harden at the sudden coolness, goosebumps rising on my skin. He leans down, pursing his lips together. He lets out a gentle blow of air over them, a sharp exhale leaving my throat. "Sensitive," he mutters, hands reaching up to cup my breasts. The sensations were different- right one under the cool touch of metal, the left warm from the flesh of human. "Shit, that feels so good James," I groan, eyes meeting where he touched. His soft lips connect with the hardened bud, a gasp leaving my lips. My thighs try to clamp together, however his own made sure I couldn't as my slick seeped through my panties. He lets his tongue swirl around the bud before sucking gently, letting it go with a pop! as he moves to the next one. Impatiently, my hand reaches down to his throbbing bulge, helping him relieve some pressure. He groans, kissing up my chest to my collarbone. My fingers find his jeans, undoing the button. He kisses up my jaw, softly sucking at the skin below my ear. Unzipping his jeans, he stops my hand with his. "Let me look at you first," he says, leaning back. I bite my lip, taking a deep breath. "Want me to take those off?" He asks, fingers slipping under the sides of my panties. I nod, standing up, in between his legs. He leans forward, leaving kisses down my thigh has he slides them off antagonizingly slow. I step out of them, shivering as he places them on the edge of the chair. He sets his hands on my waist, slowly spinning me around before pulling me back down into his lap. Oh.

I nearly moan at the bugle pressing into my ass, the wetness in-between my legs practically soaking his jeans. God why is he still in his clothes? "Hey, why do I have to be naked when you're--shit..." his vibranium hand slithers down my front, ghosting over my aching core. My head falls back against his shoulder, hands gripping the sides of the chair. My eyes flutter shut as he applies pressure to my clit, the cold metal sending jolts through my body. I let out a whine, biting my lip as he rubs slow circles, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. My legs begin to tremble, desperate to close around his hand, (which would fail to stop his movements anyways) but his thighs continued to spread my legs open. His movements only increased in speed, yet somehow still gentle. Moans slipped from my throat, desperate pleas of his name mixed with labored breaths at his movements. It didn't take long for the coil to snap, crying out as my body shakes in his touch. I rested my head on his shoulder as I caught my breath, my firm hold on the chair's arms releasing as the ringing in my ears dissipated. He leans down to capture my lips in a kiss, smiling as my eyes fluttered shut. "You okay sweetheart?" he asks softly, lifting me up into his arms. I nod, keeping my eyes shut. He walks to his bedroom, placing me on the bed. As he starts to stand up, I reach out and grab his shirt, pulling him on top of me.

"Wasn't done with you yet," I whisper, kissing him feverishly. He hums into the kiss, surprised. "Not too tired?" he asks, pulling his shirt off to be discarded onto the floor. "Not for you," I giggle, wrapping my arms around his neck.

OH MY LORD I NEED THIS MAN!!

Freak Like Me

Bucky x reader

Summary: You got banned from playing music in the training room for a reason, and when an unexpected song plays during your workout, Bucky finds out why.

Word Count: 2311

Thought I'd give you guys something a little more spicy! Hope you enjoy :)

You walked down the hall of the Avengers tower toward the training room, and it was uncharacteristically quiet. You knew a lot of the Avengers had meetings today, but you didn’t think everyone did. You were glad though, because you didn’t really like working out with other people and you could play whatever music you wanted over the speakers.

You listened to a little bit of everything, and that was true for working out too. The music would go from rap, to pop, to rock, and while you didn’t blink an eye, everyone else hated it. So, naturally, you got banned from playing music when everyone else was in there.

You walked around the corner into the training room and came to a stop. Bucky was inside warming up on the treadmill. Of course someone had to be in there, and of course it had to be Bucky. He of all people would be most likely to hate your music.

You hadn’t brought your headphones, and you thought about going back to get them when Bucky looked your way.

“Hey, y/n,” he said, turning off the treadmill.

“Oh, hey Bucky,” you said, realizing it probably looked like you were standing there staring at him.

You walked in and set your stuff down, plugging in your phone by the benches because you forgot to charge it last night.

“What are you hitting today,” Bucky asked.

“Steve is making me do his leg workout,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“Yikes, have fun with that.”

Bucky walked over to pick up some weights as you were trying to decide whether or not to ask if you could play music. You assumed he would say no, but decided to ask him anyway.

“Hey Buck, is it cool if I play music?”

“Yeah, go ‘head,” he said, surprising you.

“Oh, okay cool.” You went to your settings to connect your phone to the speakers, then pressed shuffle on your workout playlist. The first song that started playing was an old rock song, so you were hoping Bucky wouldn’t regret saying yes too much. Then, you walked over to the other side of the training room to get set up.

Your playlist went through a bunch of different genres, but thankfully, Bucky didn’t seem to mind. You were both just minding your own business and doing your own thing.

A little bit later, a new song started playing and you heard Bucky call over to you.

“Hey, I actually know this one,” he said, with a proud smile on his face.

You just laughed, listening to the music and realizing it was Put Your Head on My Shoulder by Paul Anka. It would’ve came out after the 40s, but apparently Bucky still knew it.

But then, you started thinking, this song would not be on your workout playlist. Your eyes went wide when you realized what song it actually was. Freak by Doja Cat.

You quickly reached down for your phone to change the song, only to realize it was still plugged in on the other side of the room. Plus, you couldn’t just change the one song Bucky said he knew without him being suspicious.

You started to freak out, knowing the song would definitely make him uncomfortable, when the music paused for a brief moment. You held your breath for what was coming next.

“Freak like me. You want a good girl that does bad things (to you).”

You looked at Bucky, and you couldn’t see his face because he had his back facing you, but he had stopped in the middle of his workout. You started over to get your phone when he turned around.

“What the heck is this?” he asked, a mix of confusion and horror on his face.

You stopped, trying to figure out how to answer, when the song kept going.

“Tied him down to my queen bed. Tease him just enough to hate me. Tied it tight enough he can’t break free.”

You scurried over to the benches and grabbed your phone, quickly skipping the song. You tried to play it cool, but Bucky was already walking over to you.

“So, is this why you got banned from playing music? You play songs about sex?”

You sighed. “No, they just don’t like that I play so many different genres,” you said, your face heating up.

He just hummed in response, still staring at you with his steel blue eyes.

“And here I was, thinking that you were so innocent,” he said, smirking.

“It’s – just a good song,” you replied, trying to defend yourself. Your face was bright red at this point, and you knew he was loving this, making you squirm.

“So, which one of the guys are you wanting to tie down to your bed, hmm?”

Your jaw dropped, face flushing as you tried to figure out how to respond to that.

“No one,” you said, “it’s just a catchy song.”

“Right,” he responded, his smile getting a little bigger. You knew he was never going to let this go.

“Well, I’m gonna go back to my workout,” you said, walking past him. But before you could get very far, he grabbed your arm and turned you toward him in one quick motion. You were now standing chest to chest, your faces just inches apart.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you played that song on purpose. I mean, we are the only two people in the tower for another couple hours,” he said, his voice low and deeper than it was before, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your jaw dropped slightly once again, trying to figure out if he was being serious or not. Your heart was thumping in your chest, and you hated to admit it, but him pulling you towards him and talking in that voice was making you insanely turned on.

You opened your mouth, but when nothing came out, Bucky’s smirk just got bigger.

“I – I didn’t play that on purpose,” was all you could say.

Finally, Bucky broke character and started to laugh, dropping his hand from your arm. Your skin was still tingling where his hand had been.

“I’m just messing with you y/n,” he said, laughing. “You should’ve seen your face though!”

You stood there in shock as he walked away, trying to wrap your head around what had just happened. You walked back to the other side of the room, but you weren’t able to focus on the rest of your workout. You didn’t dare look over toward Bucky, so you had no idea that his gaze kept shifting to you, distracted from his own workout.

You finished your workout as quickly as possible and made a beeline for the door, grabbing your phone and not saying a word to Bucky as you practically ran out the door.

You were halfway down the hallway before you finally felt like you could breathe again. You didn’t realize how you had basically been holding your breath that whole time. You got back to your room and quickly jumped in the shower, just wanting to relax after how worked up you were.

You stepped out of the shower when you realized you forgot to grab clothes to change into. You sighed, trying not to focus on how nothing seemed to be going your way today. You just wrapped your towel around you after drying off and walked out of the bathroom to your room.

You were halfway down the hallway before you looked up and stopped dead in your tracks. Bucky was standing outside the door to your room.

And you were standing in front of him in nothing but a little towel. Could this day get any weirder?

“Uhh, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Sorry I just – was gonna apologize, but – seems like you’re really trying to get my attention now,” he said, a smirk plastered on his face yet again.

You sighed, determined to not let him get under your skin this time. Maybe you’d have a little fun with him.

“And what if I am?” you said, giving him a smirk of your own.

His smirk turned into a brief second of shock, and you could tell he was caught off guard.

You sauntered down the hallway, walking right past him into your room, but not before running your hand along his arm as you walked past. You could feel his eyes on you as you walked into your room, not bothering to close the door.

You walked over to your dresser, bending over to get clothes out, knowing your towel was long enough to cover you, but not quite long enough to keep Bucky from going a little crazy. You made sure to pick out the tiniest pair of shorts you own and a cropped baby tee.

You turned around grabbing the top of your towel like you were going to drop it at any second. His face was bright red and he looked like a deer in headlights. Man was this fun.

“You standing there hoping for a show, or can I get dressed in peace?”

“Oh, uh – sorry,” he mumbled. He pointed at the door, “do you want me to, uh – never mind,” he put his head down and practically ran the other way.

You tried so hard not to bust out laughing as you went over and shut the door.

Once you put on your clothes, you walked back down to the kitchen to get something to eat. Conveniently, Bucky was right there, sitting at the island.

“Hey Buck,” you said, flashing him a smile.

He looked you up and down, obviously liking what you were wearing.

“Hey,” he finally managed to get out.

“Are you gonna make something for lunch,” you asked him.

“Uhh, yeah I was gonna make some eggs.”

“Oooh, that sounds good, maybe I’ll make some too.” You walked over to the drawer with the pans, exaggerating every movement as you bent over. You knew he was going insane.

“Do you want me to just make yours too,” you asked, not bothering to turn around. You set the pan on the stove, finally turning around when he didn’t answer you.

That’s when you realized he was right behind you, looking at you with a deep intensity in his eyes. He had been so flustered, you didn’t expect him to do anything about it.

He slowly leaned forward, arms grabbing the counter on either side of you, trapping you in place.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Umm, making eggs,” you said, slowly.

“Are you tryna’ kill me, doll?”

The nickname made your stomach flutter.

“I was joking earlier,” he said, “I never thought you’d do it back.”

“And what makes you think I’m joking?” you responded.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I’ve never seen you wear so little clothes around the tower.”

“I was still hot from my workout,” you said, shrugging.

“Oh, trust me, I am too,” he said, lifting his eyebrows.

Bucky didn’t back up, and neither did you.

He looked down at you, his voice rough with restraint. “You keep playing with fire, doll.”

You tilted your head, meeting his stare without flinching. “Maybe I like the heat.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched as his eyes darkened. For a moment, neither of you moved—until he reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered against your cheek, trailing lightly down your jaw.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured.

“Good,” you whispered, your voice breathy.

And that was all it took. He leaned in fast, pressing his lips to yours with a force that stole your breath. One hand gripped the counter beside you, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. You gasped into the kiss, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and he took that opportunity to deepen it—his lips moving hungrily against yours like he’d been waiting for this for far too long.

When you finally pulled apart for air, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“Still want eggs?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You smiled, shaking your head. “Not really.”

Bucky’s smirk returned, but this time it was laced with something deeper—need, maybe, or anticipation. He backed you gently out of the kitchen, never breaking eye contact.

“Then come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s see how hot things can really get.”

And just like that, lunch was officially off the menu.

--

The next morning, you woke up tangled in warm sheets—and even warmer arms.

Bucky was still fast asleep behind you, his chest pressed to your back, metal arm draped lazily over your waist. His steady breathing tickled the back of your neck, and you smiled, remembering the very unexpected turn your day had taken.

You shifted slightly, and his grip tightened instinctively, pulling you even closer. “Mmm… don’t move,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“I thought super soldiers didn’t need this much rest,” you teased softly.

His lips brushed your shoulder. “They don’t,” he murmured. “But if it means waking up next to you like this…I’ll gladly pretend to be human.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin and reached behind you to ruffle his hair. “You’re such a sap.”

He grinned against your skin. “Only for you.”

Your phone buzzed from the nightstand, a text from Nat lighting up the screen:

You forgot to clean the pan from your “egg-making” session yesterday. Sloppy cover story, y/n.

You groaned and hid your face in the pillow as Bucky peeked at the message over your shoulder.

“So… busted?” he asked.

You sighed. “So busted.”

He laughed, pulling you closer again. “Worth it.”

And you had to admit—it really, really was.

OML i need bucky in the forest rn

In The Woods

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Rating: NSFW

Word Count: 8,769

Warnings: Smut, excessive camping details (not sorry), felatio, teasing, idiots to lovers, and Bucky being a whole slut.

Listening to: Love You Madly by Cake

Summary: You like camping and Bucky does not understand why, so he tags along on your next trip.

Author's Note: THIS IS A REPOST. And it's my work, I can do what I want with it. So, if this is giving you that deja vu feeling, it's because I posted this on 01/23/23 at 5:30pm CST. only time I'm warning about that.. if I do another.. we're calling it a Repost Party. LFG.

Shaking your head as you swallowed the mouthful of cheap red wine, you finally were able to say, “You are so fucking wrong.”

“Camping is boring and miserable,” Bucky said with a shrug, then glared at you, “Doesn’t matter how you try to dress it up; not having access to a toilet just isn’t how I spend my downtime.”

“Okay, first: gross,” you say as you set the now empty glass down. You lean forward and wave at the bartender before turning back to Bucky and explaining, “Your only experience was in the dark ages or during Dubya-Dubya two. Neither of which is what I do, and I have a great time, even without indoor plumbing.”

By the time you were leaving the bar and heading back to the compound, Bucky was going to be joining you on your next solo camping trip. You weren’t quite sure how this happened, but it is what it is. 

You really did love camping and went as often as you could, usually on solo trips. Getting away from the compound and all the nonsense it involved was a necessity. If you could, you’d live in the woods, but you didn’t have that option yet. Your big dream was building your own cabin, and you knew you’d get to that eventually as long as you didn’t die on a mission. For now, going out to the land that Tony let you use every couple of weeks was enough to take the edge off and make the superhero nonsense worth it. 

🐌

Stiffly sitting in the passenger seat, Bucky was nervous. He’d seen how little you’d packed, the majority of which was food, and didn’t think he’d be able to endure a whole weekend in the middle of the woods. Sleeping on the ground wouldn’t be an issue, but he didn’t know how you managed to get everything you needed into such a small backpack. 

The loud music that you were singing along to wasn’t bad, though. Plus, you had packed enough alcohol for both of you to drink, even getting some Asgardian stuff from Thor so Bucky could ‘properly enjoy camping’, as you put it. He wasn’t even sure how this had started, but he’d agreed, and it was too late to go back now.

You tapped the steering wheel, dancing a little in your seat. Bucky had never seen you like this, and it was why he was nervous. You always seemed to be in a better mood when you came back from these trips, but not like the giddy creature sitting next to him currently speeding down the highway. 

He didn’t mind; if anything, he liked seeing a new side to you after working with you for so long, but it had him worrying about screwing this up or making it weird. On the very unlikely chance that he enjoyed this, he didn’t want to make it, so he couldn’t come again. Not as often as you went, but maybe a couple of times in the summer would be nice, assuming that camping with you wasn’t as awful as his other experiences. 

Toward the end of the drive, you pulled off to take him to your usual lunch spot: some sketchy-looking drive-in on the side of the almost deserted highway. Bucky didn’t realize drive-ins were still a thing or that you’d insist on going. 

“What do you want?” you asked, grinning as you turned down the music for the first time since starting the trip. 

Bucky shrugged, “A couple burgers? Doesn’t look like they have much else.”

Ordering enough food to feed two super soldiers, even though Bucky was the only one in the car, he was taken aback by how quickly you ate. Finishing two cheeseburgers and your own bag of fries before him, you were back on the road, still happily sipping on the strawberry shake you’d ordered. 

Bucky had anticipated trying to make small talk or gossiping, but you didn’t seem interested in that. The first time you’d spoken to him since gassing up the car was asking what he wanted for lunch, almost four hours into the trip. His expectations had been tossed aside as he tried to enjoy the music and not have to force conversation. 

🐌

Pulling off the dirt road and parking the car, you turned to Bucky and smiled as you killed the engine and got out. You didn’t bother locking the doors; no one else was around out here. Tony had a house a couple of miles south, but you stayed far away from that. No need to give Morgan ideas about the fort you were building. Maybe when she got a little older, Tony would let you take her out and build one of her own. That was how you learned all this stuff, and you had been going camping with your family since you were able to walk.

You connected one of your earbuds, popped it in your ear, and pulled open the hatch on the back of your car. Shouldering your backpack, you left the food in the back of the car since it was cool outside and started walking to a spot that would work for the tent. You didn’t want to freak Bucky out by making him sleep outside without a tent, even if he’d slept in worse places. Better to make this as user-friendly as you can for his first time camping for fun. 

“What’s the plan?” Bucky asked as he walked a little ahead of you. 

He sounded uncomfortable and was walking too fast. Nothing about being out here was about moving that fast. You had to run around like an idiot and jump off buildings to earn a paycheck, so you had no intention of moving faster than a casual stroll until you were back at work. 

You sighed before you said, “No plan, really. Need to get the things setup; then I’m going to go work on my fort.”

It didn’t take long to set up the tent, even with Bucky trying to take over. Any time he would reach to grab one of the rods or a stake, you let him have it. If he wanted to rush through things, that was his problem. Eventually, he’d see that it was about enjoying the process and not getting as much done as possible. You weren’t interested in mindfulness or living in the moment, but you did like moving at a more natural pace and not being shot at. 

Once the tent was done, Bucky looked over at you like he was awaiting orders. He brushed his hands off on his pants before he asked, “What next?”

You zipped the tent up after grabbing the gear you’d need: your ax, pocket knife, folding saw, and a bundle of cord. With your eyebrows raised, you walked past him and patted his shoulder, “Whatever you want, big boy.”

He turned but didn’t follow you as he asked more silly questions, “Where are you going?”

“Fort time!” you shouted, holding your ax over your head as you walked into the woods, putting your other earbud in.

Your fort was less than 200 feet from where you’d set up camp, but you did need to do some maintenance before picking what to work on first. A few of the supports were loose, and you needed to be cautious about how much of the cord you used. You had certain rules about fort building and camping that you’d picked up from your dad, namely: only bring what you need, no going back for extra, don’t leave nature worse than before you were there, and don’t cut down any trees if you can avoid it.

By the time you got the maintenance done, you were looking for deadfall and not finding much. Making larger and larger circles around your fort, you were getting worried. It was fall, and you never used every dead tree. Other animals and plants in the woods needed the deadfall, and it was important to leave some behind. 

You had planned on redoing the roof this weekend, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Confused, you walked back to where you’d set up camp and saw something you hadn’t expected. The closer you got, the more interested you were: Bucky was chopping wood. 

Pulling your earbuds out, you popped them in the case and then shoved them in your pocket as the disappearing deadfall mystery was quickly solved. You stopped near Bucky and watched as he split the last long piece in half. Not going to be working on your fort at all this time or for a while.

As he bent to pull one half over the spot he’d chosen to use as a chopping block, he finally noticed you. Standing up and nodding at you, he said, “Figured you’d be at your treehouse for a while.”

“It’s a fort, and, uh….” you didn’t want to discourage him but weren’t sure how to explain that he’d completely stripped a rather large area of an important resource. Exhaling sharply, you tried to think of how your dad would have handled this. 

Bucky looked concerned as he asked, “Something wrong?”

“No, not really, just—” you sighed. He wasn’t going to be coming out here again anyway. No point in raining on his parade since it wasn't the end of the world. Shaking your head, you said, “It’s nothing, just finished sooner than I thought.”

“That’s good,” he said, and you could see him getting ready to ask another question. 

Cutting him off, you put your sharp and pointy things away except for your pocket knife and said, “I’m gonna go out on the lake for a while.”

Bucky gave up on being a lumberjack, slamming your larger ax into a log before following you, “It’s too cold to go swimming, isn’t it?”

“Not going swimming,” you said, pointing at the shed Tony had let you put up out here, “Canoe.”

“Oh. Have fun,” Bucky said, sounding less than pleased as you walked away again. 

Bucky had insisted that he knew how to do this, and it was pretty obvious he didn’t know how to relax. You had even gone as far as listing some different activities for him to do, which he seemed somewhat interested in. You didn’t think he’d want to do things together, but maybe you’d been wrong. 

Shrugging it off, Bucky was a grown-ass man who had proved he was more than capable of asking for what he wanted. You didn’t need to coddle him if he didn’t have the balls to ask to join you while you looked up. Staring up at the sky, regardless of the time, was the best. If you had your music and something nice to think about, even better.

🐌

Bucky stepped on the last rock, pushing it down into the ground as much as he could before taking a seat on one of the larger logs he’d found. Looking out at the lake for at least the hundredth time, he saw your canoe and you lying down in it. He didn’t think anything was wrong or that you’d fallen asleep, but he didn’t understand why you’d lay in a canoe in the middle of a lake for this long. Maybe he had intruded or ruined something, but you were too polite to say anything. 

Instead of staring at you, which felt an awful lot like spying or peeping, he started stacking up the wood he’d cut again in a better spot and a little neater this time. If you weren’t back when he was done with that, then he’d go down to the shore and see if he could get your attention. 

Bucky didn’t like this. The fresh air and knowing that there wasn’t anything out here, but a bunch of squirrels and birds was great and all, but what was he supposed to do? Yes, you’d explained a number of things he could do, and you’d offered to show him some stuff, but he’d turned it all down. He didn’t want to encroach on your alone time and thought that was the right decision. 

Now that he was out here, he could feel how much he was imposing on you. Clearly, coming out here was something you did alone. He didn’t even remember how the stupid argument had started or how it led to him stacking old, dead wood in a pile for a second time, but he knew why he did this. Bucky was usually able to ignore his feelings, even though he wasn’t supposed to, but being out here with you had him dealing with something he had been avoiding. 

It’s the same reason he’d argue with you at the bar or hope he got paired with you on missions. He was too old for any of this and knew that he was not your type. You’d definitely had eyes for Steve, or you did at one point. Bucky and Steve had always been very different physically. Not that Bucky even bothered getting bent out of shape over this; he was past all that stuff now, even if certain parts of him disagreed with his complacency. 

Instead of bothering you, he would figure out how to entertain himself. Once you come back, he’d even suggest that you camp how you normally would and just pretend he wasn’t there, making this as easy on you as possible. He knew you didn’t use a tent; you probably slept in your treehouse, so he could take the tent. If you needed the tent, then he was fine sleeping in the car. 

By the time you were dragging your canoe on shore and flipping it over, Bucky had made up his mind about how to fix this: he’d leave. You didn’t need him here, and he didn’t want to force you. At some point tonight, he’d bring up having you call someone to come get him; it was for the best.

🐌

Walking back to the tent, you were growing concerned. Bucky was sitting on a log and staring at the small fire he’d made, looking like he was about to cry or throw up; it was hard to tell with him sometimes. 

As you got closer, he looked up and had a tight, forced smile on his face before going back to the fire. The sun hadn’t gone down yet, but if he liked fire, then you weren’t going to complain about the nice coal base he was making.

“How’s it going?” you asked, hoping that he wasn’t as miserable as he looked.

Bucky cleared his throat before replying, “Good.”

Lies and slander, you thought as you went to the tent. Kneeling at the entrance, you grabbed your backpack and started digging. Pulling out your basic cooking stuff and the two compact chairs you’d purchased for this trip, you headed back to the fire. You set everything on the ground and started putting the first chair together as you said optimistically, “You got enough wood for a week out here.”

“Yeah…” he said as he turned and looked at the impressive stack anxiously.

“It’ll get used, no worries,” you said as you finished one chair and moved on to the next. Once you had both done, you picked them up and walked over to Bucky. Tapping the log he was sitting on with your foot, you held a chair out as you asked, “Hungry?”

Thankfully he took the chair, and when you pulled out the cooking grate from the pouch, he was curious again. It was almost like being with a kid with all the questions he asked, but when the steaks were brought out, he was back to being a very hungry super soldier. 

“I don’t normally bring this kinda food, but it’s a nice break,” you said as you arranged the coals and put the grate over a good spot. 

“What do you normally eat out here?” he asked, leaning forward and watching as you seasoned both steaks before putting them on the fire. 

Wiping your hands off on the towel tied to your belt, you shrugged, “Dehydrated stuff, like an MRE, or I’ll fish.”

Once he had food in him, Bucky seemed less sullen. You didn’t want to pester him about his feelings; you knew better than that. He never came back from therapy in a good mood, and you were far from a psychiatrist. Chatting a little as he kept the fire going, you were mostly silent as the sun started to go down. 

Slapping your hands on your knees after a long stretch of silence, you leaned forward and asked, “The sun's finally going down. Do you want the surprise or a drink first?”

He didn’t reply right away, narrowing his eyes at you before he said, “Not to be rude, but I’d rather not have any surprises.”

“Same time, then,” you said cheerily, not letting his perpetual bad mood affect you as you got up to go to the car. 

It was parked a decent way away from where you’d set things up, but it was a nice walk. You grabbed the two paper bags; one had the alcohol, and the other you’d hidden from Bucky. Even if he was being a grump about this, you still wanted to do the little stuff your parents and friends did. Never anything too crazy, but whenever you had someone new, then what you had in the other bag was necessary, along with alcohol if they were an adult. The first time camping wasn’t always pleasant for some people who weren’t used to being outside all night, but you’d yet to find someone immune to this particular treat. On your way back, you grabbed a nice stick and debated on whether or not you should tell Bucky about what you’d named the stick.

Handing him the flask of Asgardian liquor, you took out your bottle of wine but put the other paper bag next to your chair away from him. Bucky was watching you closely, and you grinned, “What?”

“Just get it over with,” he said, leaning back too hard in the nylon and aluminum chair and making it creak ominously.

“Nope, you don’t want to enjoy this, so now you can suffer,” you said as you grabbed Pierre, the stick, and started sharpening the tip. Was this a bit much? Yes. Was it also entirely necessary? Absolutely. The look on his face alone made it worth it as you sharpened Pierre. 

Before he was able to panic about what you might do with a sharpened stick, you were digging in the bag next to you. Pulling out two marshmallows, you couldn’t fight the smirk as you stuck them on the pointy end of Pierre. Then you grabbed a graham cracker, snapped it in half, and broke off a piece of chocolate. Setting the almost s’more on the log you’d been using as a small table before holding the stick over the fire. 

You could feel his gaze boring into you as he tried to pretend like he wasn’t dying to ask what you were doing. It took a few minutes of tense silence before the marshmallows were ready. Adjusting your hold on the stick so you could use the two halves of graham cracker to get all the gooey, toasted marshmallow off, you placed the finished s’more on the log before starting the process all over again. 

Once the second one was done, you glanced over at Bucky and giggled. His eyes darted from the s’more on the log up to your face, and he looked so guilty; it was priceless. You let him sulk as you counted to ten in your head before grabbing your bottle of wine. After taking a long drink, you caved and held out the first s’more. He’d had plenty of time to give in, and that wasn’t going to happen, so you took pity on him.

When he didn’t move, you said, “Try it.”

Still silent, he cautiously took the s’more and turned it a few times as he studied it before glancing back at you. You were almost halfway done with yours, leaning back as you happily chewed. Bucky brought it to his face to smell it when you’d finished yours. Before making another s’more for yourself, you got up to grab your Bluetooth speaker from your backpack. 

Sitting back down, you pulled your phone out and got it set up so you wouldn’t have to endure any more of this silence. You didn’t normally listen to music when you were out here and loved how quiet it was, but with him, this felt like torture. Any time you started thinking, he’d sigh or adjust in his seat, and your thoughts would be back on him. Letting your mind drift when Bucky was here wouldn’t end well.  

As difficult as Bucky could be, you thought he was still likable. Maybe too likable. You could never pin down what it was about him because it was never the same thing. One day it would be his eyes; the next, his voice when he’d yell at someone or make little grunting noises while running; then, by the afternoon, it’d be his thighs. You didn’t try to analyze this, just did your best not to make it weird while you were working and enjoy the view, which had been spectacular today. Today it was his back. Perfectly toned, the shirt he’d worn did nothing to hide what was underneath, and it had been on your mind while you stared at the clouds in the canoe. 

🐌

A couple of hours later and you were probably drunk as you finished giggling through another story. Bucky was considering taking the bottle of wine away from you, but he was feeling the effects of the Asgardian liquor and wanted at least two more s’mores. Making them didn’t seem hard, but he wanted the ones you made and didn’t think you’d cooperate without your wine. 

It wasn’t lost on him that you didn’t bring the steak and sweet things out with you but had done this specifically for him. He knew that trying to get someone to come pick him up had been a bad idea, and he was happy he hadn’t done anything other than think about it. 

“But the best thing—nope, sorry,” you cut yourself off, reaching into the paper bag to grab more marshmallows. Then you added, speaking more to yourself or possibly the marshmallows, “Forgot who I was with, and he doesn’t need to know about that.”

“Just tell me,” Bucky said, knowing he shouldn’t take another sip but did anyway. He didn’t get to drink this often and missed this feeling when the sharp edges of reality started getting soft and dull. Screwing the cap back on the flask, he pointed out, “You told me about the skinny dipping and leeches on some guy's balls. Not sure what you could say that could be worse than that.”

You groaned as you held the marshmallows over the fire, “Fine, but you don’t get to be weird about it.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, shaking his head. Bucky wanted to know now because you hadn’t had any qualms about telling him anything else once you started talking. 

Taking a deep breath, you started, “Probably my favorite thing to do when I’m camping is…yeah, I can’t tell you. We aren’t those kinda friends.”

“You have to now,” Bucky said, keeping an eye on the marshmallows, so you didn’t burn them again, “Otherwise, I won’t go camping with you anymore.”

“You don’t want to be camping now,” you said, carefully turning the stick, so the marshmallows heated up evenly, “And after I tell you this, you’ll probably want to leave.”

Bucky was getting more curious and not able to hide it like he usually could. Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he stared at you and waited. 

You finished making him another s’more, then grabbed the half-drunk second bottle of wine. Glaring at him as you uncorked it and took a generous drink, then you jumped right in, “Sex in the woods. The first time was in high school. I was camping with some friends, we had some alcohol, and one thing led to another….”

This was worse than the leech story but in a very different way. Bucky needed to adjust how he was sitting, and you kept talking, “It’s the one thing I miss about before being recruited. Just going camping with some friends, getting shit-faced, and absolutely railed against a tree.”

Pointedly staring at the fire and trying to keep his face neutral, Bucky didn’t know what to say. He knew that some people on the team had their fun, but even after all the progress he’d made, that was one thing he hadn’t rekindled. Taking care of himself when things came up was one thing, but trying to find someone never seemed right, like he didn’t deserve it. 

He also had the same reasons that the others did: dating was impossible. Tony had Pepper, Nat was with Bruce, Thor had Jane, Wanda Vision, Clint was married, and even Steve had found someone, but no one who was still single tried to date civilians. It would never work, and he felt uncomfortable lying about his age. 

“Too much for you, Buckethead?” you asked, ripping Bucky out of his thoughts.

“What did you—no, just don’t have anything to add to the conversation,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as uncomfortable as he felt. 

Then you gasped, holding your hand over your mouth before saying in a scandalized voice, “You’ve never—”

“I have!” he shouted, realizing that he needed to end this before it got worse. Leaning toward you, he said in a carefully controlled voice, “Just not like that.”

You thought for a moment before you hesitantly said, “But, you’ve done it since… you know, coming back.”

“It’s none of your business, but no, I haven’t,” he said, not sure why he offered that information. 

“Why not?” you asked, looking offended at the mere idea that someone would refrain from sexual activity after being a human weapon for half a century.

All Bucky did was shake his head and focus on the fire. When he reached to grab a couple more logs, you said, “Nothing wrong with it. I guess unless you already have someone, once you're an Avenger, getting laid just isn’t an option.”

That had his mind trying to put something together, but he was buzzed and couldn’t figure it out right away. Bucky knew that the pieces were all there, but they didn’t fit together, and he had no idea what this particular puzzle was supposed to be. 

He hadn’t noticed how long you’d both been quiet until you started talking again, “Not that it’s any of my business, but you’d be surprised how many options you have. Agents alone, it’s staggering.”

Not what he had expected, but he wasn’t too drunk to be rude, “Could say the same about you.”

“Pfft, no man wants to get manhandled,” you said, and if Bucky wasn’t mistaken, there was something like hurt in your voice. 

The pieces were starting to come together, and he knew that letting you think like this about yourself wasn’t right. Adjusting in his chair, s’more uneaten in his hand, Bucky said, “Among the agents, maybe, but I’ve heard a few things.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know about Steve, and he only said that to be nice,” you said, grabbing the wine again. 

Bucky knew for a fact that Steve had not been trying to be nice when you were put on the spot at that party a few months ago. Steve had felt awful about not asking you out when Natasha had told your secret. 

Steve was happy, but Bucky knew that if the two of you were single at the same time, Steve wouldn’t hesitate. It wasn’t until you’d been asked why you didn’t bring a date to that party and Natasha had done what she did that Steve said anything, but this had the final pieces of the puzzle falling into place. 

“Not just Steve,” Bucky offered cryptically, not sure why he didn’t just come out and say what he wanted to say. 

You seemed to be thinking, scrunching your nose before you asked, “Loki?”

Bucky shrugged; he didn’t know much about Loki but wouldn’t put it past him if you asked. He registered that he hadn’t been the first single person you’d thought of but did his best to keep that to himself. After avoiding even a quick look in your direction, he heard your giggle and started to panic. 

“Not happening, Buckingham,” you said as you grabbed your phone. The song changed abruptly before you added, “I don’t need your charity.”

“Charity?” Bucky asked, but you were standing and picking up your bottle of wine. When you grabbed your phone and the speaker, Bucky was up and said, “You aren’t running off again. You’ve had too much—”

“You aren’t the boss of me,” you said confidently as you almost dropped your phone. Shoving it in your pocket, you added, “I’m going to the dock and look up.”

🐌

You didn’t know how long you’d been laying on the dock with Bucky, but you also weren’t thinking about time right now. After you’d gotten comfortable, you were enjoying the music, singing along quietly to yourself. 

“Didn’t know you could sing,” Bucky said, but it didn’t sound like he was talking to you. 

“I can’t,” you said but went back to it. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care about much right now. Even Bucky following you down here, insisting that he was keeping an eye on you, didn’t matter. He didn’t lay down right away either, just stood for a little while, but when he did, he was close enough that you could feel his warmth even though he wasn’t touching you. It was nice, but you were trying not to think about it.

“Was it just Steve?” Bucky asked; apparently, he was determined not to enjoy this. 

You didn’t know what he was asking, so you answered his question with a question, “Just Steve, what?”

He touched you. Nothing weird, but it still felt weird as he nudged you with his elbow and said, “You know.”

“Oh,” you sighed, and the wine made it seem like a great idea, to be honest, “No, but I don’t really think about that stuff unless, uh… yeah.”

Not being able to see his doofy face made this easier to talk about, but it was still not something you wanted to do. You couldn’t believe you were actually having this conversation with Bucky. 

“Same,” he said like you were at a sleepover and enjoying some girl talk. He didn’t stop either, adding in an almost wistful tone, “But sometimes….”

“Sometimes what?” you asked, probably faster than you should have. 

He chuckled before he answered bashfully, “I dunno. Sometimes things pop into your head… um… during that.”

You nearly fell off the dock. You sat up and, with a wicked grin, asked, “James Buchanan Barnes, have you had impure thoughts about one of your teammates?”

He glared up at you and said defiantly, “Yeah. So have you, now lose the judgemental tone.”

“Who?” you asked, desperate to find out you weren’t above begging, “You gotta tell me.” You weren't thinking anything other than getting some juicy gossip now. Better than getting your hopes up for no reason. 

“You really wanna know?” he asked, not able to look at you as he sat up. 

Bucky was so close now, even though you’d been closer, just not on a dock, at night, alone. You knew he’d ask you the same thing once he gave it up, and you did not have a good answer. He’d been the only interest you’d had for a while. The whole thing with Steve, which was strange to have brought up out of nowhere, had just been an excuse. You didn’t want to give Nat any good information, so you picked tall, blond, and taken. Steve was nice enough, but he was not Bucky.

Bending his knees and wrapping his arms around them, he was staring straight ahead as he said, “Not sure I should tell you.”

“Tease,” you hissed before laying back down. You didn’t want to seem like you were actually mad. You were thankful he’d spared your feelings as you added dismissively, “But suit yourself.”

You had reached for your phone when he leaned over and said, “Is saying ‘I’d rather show you’ too cheesy or—hmph.”

Not hesitating, the second those four words left his mouth, you were jerking him down to kiss him. It was friggin’ glorious like you were drowning in him. When he pulled back, a strange, almost dazed look on his face, you thought you’d turn into mud and seep through the boards of the dock and dissolve in the lake. 

He searched your eyes for a moment before he asked, “So… who was yours?”

He’s an idiot, you thought as you said, “You’re an idiot.”

“And you have terrible taste in men,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away. 

Even in the moonlight, you could see his eyes darting down to your lips. You didn’t want to try to figure this out or sort out what you’d do after tonight; you had a better idea. Holding your hand up, you tapped his forehead before slowly dragging your finger down the bridge of his nose to his lips as you said, “I do, but I’ve come to terms with it.”

He spoke as you traced along his jaw, “This is probably a bad idea.”

“And he’s grumpy again,” you sighed after talking to the lake, pushing yourself up and snatching your stuff before turning and walking back to land. 

You could hear him scrambling to get up and nearly falling into the frigid water, but he didn’t, so you kept walking. It didn’t take him long to catch up to you, and then he was talking fast, “I’m not grumpy. I just don’t want to make working together weird.”

“It’s been weird the whole time,” you point out before stopping. He was a few feet away, and you gave him a thorough once-over before you asked, “Were you lying?”

He looked genuinely stunned, and it took him a moment before he shook his head, “No, were you?”

“No,” you replied immediately. Bucky couldn’t even look at you, his head turned away, but you weren’t backing down as you took a step toward him and asked, “Then what’s the problem, Buckle?”

It was like he was having an argument with himself, and you were thoroughly entertained by how you could almost tell what he was thinking by his expressions. Closing the distance, you knew nothing was going to come of this, and you just wanted to push him a little further before going back to the fire. You’d both laugh about this later as you whispered, “C’mon, show me how a girl’s supposed to be treated.”

His face was slack as he slowly turned his head to look at you. A fraction of a second before you were going to shove his shoulder and start laughing this tension off, he grabbed you. His hands kept you in place as he kissed the life out of you. Kissing him again, but this time because he started it, was better. You didn’t think dissolving in the lake was a good way to go anymore, but turning into mud on this path would be perfect. 

Bucky pulled away to take a breath, his hands still on either side of your face as he said, “Steve’s gonna kill me.”

“Steve never stood a chance,” you shot back, enjoying the pained expression on Bucky’s face. 

Guiding you backward as he spoke, “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you asked, grinning up at him. 

“Givin’ me ideas, doll,” he said as your back hit a tree. He didn’t stop moving, though, pressing you against it as he rested his forehead against yours and whispered, “This isn’t going to be just tonight.”

“Yeah?” you were practically vibrating with excitement, drinking in every word he said. 

“Or this trip,” he added, your knees starting to feel weak. He pressed his lips to yours before he asked, “That work for you?”

All you managed was a dreamy, distant-sounding, “Uh huh.”

“You’re all mine,” Bucky said, barely loud enough for you to hear, but you heard it. 

You weren’t able to reply as he scooped you up. Leaning against the tree as your legs wrapped around his waist, you moaned into his mouth as he kissed you again. His lips parted, and even if this was all that happened, it was easily the best you’d ever had on a camping trip. 

Your tongue circled his as your hands found the back of his head. He broke the kiss again, but only to start kissing your neck, his stubble only adding to your pleasure. Head falling back against the tree, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying, “Please don’t stop.”

Bucky chuckled as he moved a little higher, nipping your earlobe before he said, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it, “Wasn’t planning on it. You sold me on this camping stuff.”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, pulling his head back to kiss him again before you demanded, “Lose the shirt.”

You didn’t loosen your legs when his hands left you, leaning against the tree and gripping him with your thighs. Bucky smirked as he pulled his shirt off and tossed it behind him onto the path. When his arms were around you again, you barely noticed he was carrying you. You were too busy running your hands along as much of his back as you could reach, and it was better than you’d imagined in the canoe earlier. 

Once you noticed you weren’t still against a tree, you were pulling your own shirt over your head and dropping it somewhere behind Bucky as he walked. He groaned again, taking his eyes off of the dimly lit path to stare at your sports bra, which had been a mistake. 

As he tripped, Bucky managed to turn so that he landed on his back instead of you while you unhooked your legs and placed your hands on his chest. It was only a few seconds, but with all the training you’d both had, not getting hurt from falling on the ground was easy. 

He didn’t miss a beat, pulling you down on top of him as soon as he landed. Planting one hand on your ass and the other on the back of your head, but you didn’t let him kiss your lips again as you asked, “You okay?”

“Never been better,” he said against your neck before trailing kisses lower. 

The hand on the back of your head moved between your shoulder blades, and you couldn’t help but giggle. He was pinching and pulling at the back of your sports bra like it would magically open for him when it was a pullover. 

Pushing yourself up, shaking your head as you pulled it over your head. When you looked down at Bucky he was staring at your tits like he hadn’t seen any in a long time, and you realized he probably hadn’t seen any in person for maybe seventy years. His appreciative leering was sweet. 

You took his right hand, lifting it to your lips before wrapping them around his middle finger. His hips lurched as his jaw dropped, but he regained control of himself enough to say, “You are asking for trouble, doll.”

With a pop, you pulled his finger from his mouth before joking, “Keep calling me that, and I’ll ruin your life.”

“It’s yours to ruin,” he said, pulling you down before he saw your reaction. 

It was hard to think with him kissing and sucking on your tits, but you still heard what he’d said. All the strange almost-feeling things he’d said were rattling around in your head as his left hand grabbed your ass firmly and his right was teasing your nipple. You tried to shake it off. He couldn’t have meant it. Bucky, like Steve, still said weird shit like they were back in the 40s, and you were just going to assume that this was one of those things. It was probably some old-fashioned version of dirty talk. People used to mate for life back then, but he couldn’t mean any of this. 

You arched your back as you adjusted your hips, making sure that he was distracted before you started to move. He moaned against your skin, which helped clear your mind. Taking one of your nipples into his mouth and the hand on your ass moved lower, your eyes fluttered closed. This was better than you imagined.

Grinding against him, you realized one key part was missing from this: his dick. You started moving lower, thinking maybe that was the issue, and still nothing but his jeans. Giggling as you wondered if Bucky needed little blue pills, you wouldn’t care if he did; this was more fun than you’d had in a long time. 

Even if he couldn’t get hard, maybe it was psychological, you knew a few ways you could still make sure he felt good. Sitting up, you slid down and knelt between his legs. His head popped up and he looked so confused. With a grin, you kissed the center of his chest, then moved to give him a taste of his own medicine. Some guys felt nothing from this, while others would lose their minds; Bucky was part of the latter group. 

Sealing your lips and slowly licking around his nipple, you heard him slam his vibranium fist against the ground as he gasped. You sucked hard, and his other hand left your shoulder to rip at the grass. Since you were only getting positive feedback, you decided to push your luck and gently tug with your teeth. Bucky’s back arched as he let out a shuddering moan. 

“You are too much fun,” you whisper before pressing your lips a little lower. 

He was panting as you kissed lower, then he asked, “Where do ya think your goin’?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, your hands already on his pants. 

Making quick work of the button fly, you gently kissed just above the band of his boxer briefs. Bucky’s hands were pressed against his forehead, then he gasped and lifted his head. He got up on his elbows as you jerked at his jeans, and he was smirking at you. 

He raised his hips, making it easier for you to get up on your knees to pull his jeans off, but you were distracted almost immediately. Bucky’s pants, barely halfway down his thighs, stopped moving as you understood why you hadn’t felt anything. It was like a present for being cool if his dick didn’t work, and you rarely got to enjoy good karma. 

“Something wrong, doll?” Bucky asked, and you remembered that he was there. 

Looking up with wide eyes, you shook your head and tried to say two things at once but managed to jumble them, “Nothing’s good—fuck, I mean, I’m good, nothing’s wrong.” You shot him a big smile, but he was worried now. 

He pushed himself up, grabbing your hands before you could finish unleashing the beast, and he said so gently, “We don’t have to—”

“I am keenly aware of what I want to do, James,” you cut him off, and in a moment of unhealthy hubris, you also grabbed his dick. This was meant to prove your point, but it was ruined when you realized it was too thick to get your hand around, and you hissed, “Fucking hell….”

Bucky tensed up the second you touched him and said in a strained voice, “You’re in… charge, so… don’t—oh, damnit, don’tworryaboutme.”

All your life, you’d made a point of doing things for other people, and not because you were supposed to or some misguided idea about wanting to be a good person; you enjoyed making people happy. As you tried to wrap your head around this situation, like your hand around his cock, you couldn’t resist this as an idea started to form in your head, and you ran with it. 

You loosened your grip before starting to stroke him gently over his boxer briefs. Bucky’s hands were in the dirt again, which meant he wasn’t touching you any time soon, so why not play with him a little? Leaning close, you ran your nose along the shell of his ear as you asked, “I’m in charge?”

He nodded vigorously as he muttered, “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want….” you repeated his words as your hand ran over his length, and he moaned again. You kissed him just below his ear before you whispered, “I think I’d rather show you what I want.” 

He gasped when you shoved at his chest but fell backward like a sack of potatoes. You didn’t bother trying to get his pants off now, they weren’t in your way as you bowed between his legs. Planting your knees further apart, so you didn’t feel as bunched up, you pressed your lips to the obscene bulge under the fabric. 

“Fuck,” Bucky gasped. 

His back arched again as you kissed up his length to the base. You’d had an idea that he might be packing some serious equipment, but it paled in comparison to how responsive he was to your attention. You’d barely done anything, and he was breathing harder than he did after running at full speed. 

Kissing your way back up his shaft, you had your hands on his thighs, squeezing them and feeling the firm muscles underneath. His legs were a recurring favorite for you, and finally, being able to touch them like this was enough to ruin your underwear. Sliding them higher, you pushed your fingertips under the hem of his boxer briefs. 

You teased the skin there as you said, “Tell me what you’d think about.”

“What?” he asked, covering his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

Delving a little further and running a finger over the head of his cock had his rapt attention. In a second, he was propped up on his elbows and torn between what your hand was doing and your face. You didn’t mind, he was supposed to enjoy this, but you wondered if you could have your cake and hear it tell you dirty things too. 

“You said things would pop into your head sometimes, and I want to know what kind of ideas you had,” you explained, your hand completely inside the leg of his boxer briefs as you continued to barely touch his cock. 

He shook his head absently as he said, “Nothing like this.”

“Better or wor—”

“This is so much better,” he cut you off, and you giggled at how quickly he spoke. 

Getting your hand underneath his cock, you wrapped your fingers around it as best you could. Slowly, you started stroking him properly as you asked, “What do you like, Bucky?”

He was focused on your hand moving inside his boxer briefs as he answered in barely more than a whisper, “You… just you.”

Well, you hadn’t expected that, but you were in too deep now. Not faltering your movement, you pushed your luck as far as you wanted to and said as lightly as you could, “You really need to stop saying stuff like that.”

As he answered, you started working his full length, and he seemed to lose focus, “Can’t help it… Oh, shit, you have no idea what you do to me.”

You had a pretty good idea but didn’t want to point that out. If he was the type to say a bunch of dramatic shit during, then you just needed to remember it was just words, and he didn’t mean it. 

With your free hand, you pulled the fabric up and wondered if you had died and gone to pretty dick heaven. Angling his cock, you leaned close and swirled your tongue around the head. 

Bucky made a strangled noise before slapping a hand over his mouth. You looked up to see his panicked expression as he leaned on one elbow. With a wicked grin, you opened your mouth and flicked your tongue where the head of his cock flared out before you said, “Make all the noise you want. No one’s around to hear you but me.”

He shook his head, keeping his mouth covered, and you couldn’t help yourself, “Bet you make all sorts of fun noises.”

His brow furrowed as you gently took the tip in your mouth again, slipping your tongue in a circle and tasting his precum. You kissed him again before you asked, “Isn’t your room soundproof?”

The realization on his face was glorious. He seemed to forget about covering his mouth as his arm fell back to the ground, a knowing smirk on his face. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for a reply, and he didn’t disappoint, “They told me it was.”

You did enjoy his inability to handle anything you’d done to him so far, but the faint hint of a Bucky with control over himself was like something out of one of your fantasies. Dragging your bottom lip between your teeth as you thought about how best to approach this, you arched a brow as you said, “Would be fun to test if it worked.”

“Wha—oh, my God!” Bucky was going to ask you something, but you cut him off, and he ended up shouting. 

Taking him as far as you could quickly and gagging when he hit the back of your throat abruptly, you weren’t able to see what happened, but you could hear it. Bucky hit the ground with a thud, followed by what had to be his fists again slamming into the ground and digging his fingers into it. 

When you’d done this before, one hand around the bottom was enough but not with Bucky. As you started to bob your head, both hands stroking what you couldn’t get into your mouth, you weren’t going to stop unless he started making scary sounds. 

“Shi—holy, fuckmewhat—oh, Christ—” and on and on he went as he squirmed. 

His hips mindlessly rutted as he tore at the ground, and his legs flexed around you. It wasn’t until he stopped making noise that you knew the fun was probably close to over. Bucky was panting again, grunting with each exhale as his cock got even harder, and you knew he was going to cum soon. Not how you wanted this to go if it happened, but you knew that this wasn’t about you right now. 

Focused on making sure he’d thoroughly enjoy this, you slid one hand lower and cupped his balls, gently at first, just to see how he’d react. When he let out a loud moan, and you felt them tighten, you started to massage them, and Bucky seemed to snap. 

“I-I-I… not like thi—pleasepleasepleaseplea-Ohh fuuuck!” he shouted as his back arched high off the ground. 

His cock throbbed in your hand and mouth as he came. You took everything he had, surprised that it didn’t taste as bad as you remembered cum tasting. All things considered, taking his load in the mouth was one thing but what you did next might have been a bit much. 

Before you’d been able to pull off, he was up and dragging you off his dick. Bucky cupped your cheeks and kissed your lips. You kept them closed, but he wasn’t having it, nearly growling against your lips, “Kiss me.”

You did the only logical thing: you swallowed. It made what seemed like a deafening gulping sound, and Bucky pulled back. He had the strangest look on his face, and you tried to lighten the mood by grinning as you asked, “So… you having fun?”

Still staring at you like you’d suddenly turned into a reverse mermaid, where the bottoms are legs, and the top is a fish, you were getting nervous. You placed a hand on his, not hiding the concern in your voice, and asked, “You okay?”

He shook his head, looking away from you as he took a deep breath. This was an improvement until he nodded and looked at you again before he said, “Next time, don’t swallow it.”

🖤🖤🖤

Fuck everything. If you want to get tagged, let me know (comment, ask, message). I'm going to cut it off at 15, so first cum first served.

<3 hel.

oh my. we love a steamy scene

the art of pretending [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x agent!reader

being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, shower sex, unprotected sex, fingering, forced proximity, one bed, kissing, enemies to lovers-ish?, sexual tension, sparring, mentor bucky, bickering, insults, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, bucky has issues, protective bucky, slut shaming (not from bucky), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 12.4k

A/N: hi! this is for some requests i received (one and two). i combined two of the requests because they were pretty similar, hope thats okay and i hope you enjoy! this took me... so long to write. i hope it doesn't flop <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You had two goals for the night: get shitfaced and get railed. So, catching your asshole boyfriend wrist-deep in some girl’s panties, doing the kind of finger work he never even bothered to learn for you, wasn’t part of your itinerary.

You could’ve cried, you could’ve begged, or collapsed into a sad cliché with a tub of ice cream and Sex and the City reruns. But no, you had a mission, and one mission alone. Get so unbelievably drunk on whatever you could get your hands on, so drunk in fact that you wanted to black out before midnight and preferably unconscious until sunset the next day.

Tony’s penthouse parties weren’t usually your scene. Too many sleazy rich men with superiority complexes, trophy wives sipping champagne through botoxed grins, and a carousel of extras that Stark always vehemently denied were hookers. What you did know was that, being an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D., your name was always on the list, and tonight, free top-shelf booze felt like divine intervention.

You just had to get in, get drunk, and avoid eye contact with your co-workers long enough to pull off a quiet mental breakdown and ignore the fact that you were rather underdressed for the type of party Stark was hosting. Scantily clad club clothing clashed hard with the pearls and Prada crowd.

A few raised brows and vague greetings followed you as you slithered through the gathering. 

But you held back a groan when you spotted the trio parked at the bar: Yelena, Steve, and Bucky. Great. The Greek god chorus of shame, in all their sculpted, judgmental glory. They looked just as uncomfortable as you felt, loitering by the bar instead of mingling with Stark’s circus.

You ignored their stares and made a beeline for the shelves behind the bartender—some poor kid who looked far too green for this gig. He gave you a look of dismay as you grabbed a bottle of tequila without asking. Slamming down a shot glass, you poured with shaky hands and knocked it back with the elegance of a car crash.

You barely registered the silence that followed until you glanced up and saw the stunned expressions staring back at you.

Yelena was the first to speak. “What happened to you? You never come to these things.”

You poured another shot. “Free drinks,” you muttered, then downed it, already lining up the next. No salt. No lime. Just pain, raw and unfiltered, sliding down your throat.

“I thought you were going out with your boyfriend?” She continued to press, while Steve looked rather scandalised as he watched you swallow back your third shot in a row with a shudder. 

Yelena reached over and snatched the bottle from your hand before you could pour again. “You should slow down.”

​​You blinked at her, teeth gritted, blood thrumming loud in your ears. She meant well. Of course she did. You’d always gotten along—ever since she’d been assigned as your mentor in your early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. You two had clicked effortlessly. It was all a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s long-term strategy to make field missions run smoother and reduce casualties. Avengers were paired with up-and-coming agents to pass down their experience and training, with the hope that one day, those hard-earned skills would save lives.

But everything changed when they reassigned you.

You’d been told it was to ‘broaden your skillset’, that it was about growth, adaptability, and learning from different leadership styles. What they didn’t say was that it would mean training under James Buchanan Barnes, aka Mr. No-Praise-All-Pain.

You’d tried. Really. At first, you gave it your all. Took his criticism, bit your tongue, pushed harder. But Bucky didn’t bend. He didn’t compliment. Didn’t guide. He just judged, cold and final, like every failure confirmed whatever low expectations he had of you.

Five months of that, and you were drowning. You begged for reassignment—back to Yelena, to Natasha, to anyone—but were denied every time. Some higher-up probably thought your mutual disdain was ‘motivating’, like locking two angry wolves in a cage and expecting them not to rip each other’s throats out.

And now here he was. Bucky Barnes. His suit jacket was slung carelessly over the back of his bar stool, his tie loosened just enough to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His dress shirt clung to his muscular frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those unfairly defined forearms and the gleam of vibranium wrapped around a bottle of beer. His expression was stony, but familiar—stern brow, mouth set in a tight line, like he was already displeased with you and you hadn’t even said a word yet.

That look. That look you couldn’t stand.

Disappointment, or maybe pity. You couldn’t tell. Either way, it made your skin itch.

You wanted to punch him in his sullen, pouty face.

Instead, you laughed bitterly and reached for the bottle again, only for Yelena to hold it further away, firm.

“I said slow down,” she warned.

You made a face at Yelena. “Uh, you can’t talk. I saw you do shots out of a candle holder once.”

She didn’t even blink.

“Yes. And you called me messy. So I stopped.” She turned away just long enough to vanish the tequila bottle from sight like some sleight-of-hand magician. “This is me returning the favour. Stop it. You’re being messy.”

You barked out a harsh laugh and rubbed a hand down your face, smearing frustration across your cheeks. “You know what’s messy? My boyfriend. Well—ex-boyfriend.”

Across the bar, Bucky shook his head and muttered something low under his breath. You didn’t catch it, but you were sure it was vile because even Steve glanced over at him in disbelief, his eyebrows climbing high. Great. Judgment from Captain Morality and the Tin Soldier. Just what you needed.

Yelena sighed, already exhausted. “What did he do this time?”

You could tell she was reaching the end of her patience, and honestly, it was fair. She’d been your reluctant witness through the entire tragic saga of your love life. Two and a half years of emotional landmines and loser boyfriends who all somehow managed to be worse than the last. It was impressive, in a bleak kind of way.

You gestured vaguely, your expression somewhere between rage and disbelief. “I was supposed to meet him at some sleazy club downtown, his buddy was DJing—-fucking terrible DJ by the way. I’d barely walked in the door when I caught him in a back booth, fingering some girl who wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it!”

Yelena’s lips pursed. Steve stared like he’d never heard someone use the word ‘fingering’ out loud before.

“What did you do?” Yelena asked, her voice low, careful.

“Oh, the usual,” you said sweetly. “I punched him. Hard. He hit the floor like a sack of shit. Then I stepped on his hand until I felt something snap.”

Steve choked on his beer, coughing violently into his elbow. Bucky just watched you with the world's best poker face, a slight clench in his jaw muscles. 

You smiled at Steve, feral and unbothered. “Don’t worry, Cap. He won’t be playing DJ with anyone’s body parts anytime soon.”

Yelena gave a low whistle, somewhere between impressed and alarmed. “You actually broke his hand?”

“Felt like justice.” You shrugged. “Plus, he was always texting with that hand. Two birds, one stomp.”

“That’s assault,” Steve managed, his voice slightly strangled.

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “We’ve all done worse.”

Across the bar, Bucky finally spoke, his voice gravel-edged and unimpressed. “And now you’re here, drinking like a lunatic in front of half the team. Real graceful recovery.”

Your shoulders tensed, that familiar heat creeping up your spine.

“I’m not showing up for training tomorrow,” you said flatly. “Hell, I don’t plan on being conscious tomorrow.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “It’s going on your report.”

Your mid-year report. Just another excuse for Bucky to publicly drag you, whining to the higher-ups about what a terrible mentee you were. How you needed to ‘apply yourself’, ‘show initiative’, or whatever corporate nonsense they lapped up. And of course, those same higher-ups were always looking for a reason to cut dead weight. One misstep, and you were done.

“Of course it is,” you snapped, spinning on your heel. “You miserable, ancient cunt.”

Steve choked on his beer again.

Without another word, you reached behind the overwhelmed bartender, who looked about five seconds from quitting, and grabbed the nearest bottle. You didn’t even look at the label. You stormed off with tequila already burning in your veins and spite lighting the way. 

—

You were leaning casually against the wall outside the gym’s changing rooms, dressed in workout gear that was probably a little more flattering than necessary. Tight enough to flatter your waist, breathable enough to pass as practical. Around you, the low hum of chatter buzzed from a small group of fellow agents. You were killing time before your dreaded one-on-one training session with Barnes.

Theo leaned a shoulder beside yours, towelling sweat from the back of his neck. He’d been an agent about as long as you had—charming, competent, and a little too easy to get along with. The two of you were part of that unofficial after-hours crew: drinks on Fridays, complaints about the job, stumbling home tipsy and hungover texts on Saturday mornings.

“You’re on sparring duty all week too?” Theo asked, glancing at you with mock pity. “I swear Rogers gets off on making me eat mat.”

“I know what you mean. Barnes definitely loves making me suffer,” you replied with a grimace. “That man has a personal vendetta against me.”

Theo grinned, tossing the towel over his shoulder, and he gave you a playful sidelong look. “When I get knocked on my ass, promise you’ll kiss it better?”

You arched a brow, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. “Careful. I’m starting to think you’re flirting with me.”

“Starting to?” he shot back, unfazed. “Let me make it clearer. If I don’t get my ass handed to me by Rogers, I’ll buy you a drink Friday.”

You leaned back against the wall, arms folding over your chest. “And if Rogers wins?”

Theo leaned in, voice low and smooth as his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lingering just a moment too long. “Then I’ll buy you two,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to respond. Flattered, a little surprised, already mentally debating whether it was worth shaving your legs, when a voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

“Agent. You’re late.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. That gravel-edged tone, sharpened with disapproval, could only belong to one man.

Bucky stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, jaw set like granite. His black compression shirt clung to every sculpted line of his chest, joggers slung low on his hips in a way that really shouldn't have been legal. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a combat simulation and into a fitness magazine.

But the expression on his face? Full-on battlefield.

That signature scowl was locked in place, thunderclouds brewing behind his eyes as he stared straight past you, straight at Theo. Typical. You hadn’t even done anything, yet somehow, he already looked pissed.

“Training doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.” You reminded him.

He didn’t seem interested in whatever argument you were about to make, and he turned on his heel without another word.

You sighed, uncrossing your arms as you pushed off the wall and flashed Theo an apologetic smile. 

Jogging to catch up, your boots thudding against the hallway floor, you called after Bucky. “You know, there’s this really neat thing called a schedule. Maybe try sticking to it?”

He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. “You could use the extra time.”

You scoffed in disbelief at his audacity. Classic Barnes, gruelling, joyless, always ready with a critique and never a compliment. He’d made it his mission to grind you down, one scathing remark at a time. And yet, you knew you were one of the top agents. The higher-ups had told you as much in your mid-year review, even going so far as to say that your mentorship with Barnes was working brilliantly. You hadn’t bothered correcting them, though it irritated more than you liked to admit. All your hard work, and somehow, he got the credit.

Bucky didn’t stop until you were both inside one of the gym’s private sparring rooms. The door clicked shut behind you. No audience. No distractions. Just him and you and the electric tension that always seemed to spark the moment you were alone together.

“Seriously, Barnes, what’s your problem today?”

Bucky stepped onto the mat, gesturing for you to follow.

“You’re here to train, not flirt in the hallway.”

You barely resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Bucky always had a problem whenever your love life even breathed into the conversation. Said it was irrelevant. Unprofessional. A distraction.

Back when Yelena was your partner, the two of you used to spar and gossip at the same time, her dodging your punches while you gave dramatic play-by-plays of whatever your latest fling had done to you in bed the night before. She lived for it. Bucky? Not so much.

He’d cut the conversation short every time. Couldn’t even stand the sight of you laughing a little too long with someone else. He’d yank you away with some bullshit excuse like, ‘distractions on the field will get you killed’, or ‘do I need to report you for slacking off?’ Like you were breaking protocol instead of just being a human being.

You stepped into position across from him, tightening your stance, heat already prickling beneath your skin. From the glare he was giving you, he looked ready to fight. Good. So were you.

“Are you always such an asshole,” you said, voice flat, “or is that just a special little treat you save for me?”

He gave you a look, deadpan and infuriating. “Only when I’m working with someone who’s constantly late, distracted, or hungover.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose and threw a lazy jab, just to shut him up. He deflected it with a flick of his wrist like he could’ve done it in his sleep.

“And yet,” you muttered, circling to your right, “you wrote me a glowing mid-year report.”

His hand faltered for a split second. It was brief, but you caught it, a crack in the armour he hid behind.

“So you read it,” he replied, already shifting back into motion.

“Hard not to. Maria practically quoted it word for word at me in the hallway.”

His mouth flattened. “It was accurate.”

You scoffed and came at him again, this time with more force, a blow aimed at his jaw. He blocked with ease, catching your wrist mid-air and twisting just enough to tip your balance. You staggered, caught yourself, then stepped back with a glare.

“‘Most adaptive mentee in the current program,’” you quoted, circling him again.

A jab. He blocked it.

“‘Performs under pressure.’”

You followed up with a low kick aimed at his calf. He side-stepped like you were moving in slow motion.

“‘Good instincts in the field.’”

Another punch, this one he met palm to palm, stopping your momentum cold. You grit your teeth and shoved him off.

“‘Promising.’” You swept your foot in a feint and then struck at his ribs. He pivoted out of reach, breath barely changed. “‘Capable.’”

He lunged this time, arm out, trying to lock your elbow, but you twisted under it, ducking away, the mat skimming under your feet.

“‘Excellent recall.’” 

You squared off again, eyes locked on his.

“Why the hell,” you asked, low and angry, “are you always such an asshole to my face when you’re singing my praises behind my back?”

He didn’t answer right away, moving like a shadow around you, eyes locked on yours. 

“As much as it pains me,” he finally spoke, tone flat, “you are my best mentee. Even if I dislike you personally, I felt your report should reflect that.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown. That was… probably the most praise you’d ever got from him—buried beneath the usual bullshit, sure, but praise nonetheless. On a good day, you might get a grunted ‘good’ if you were lucky. Most of the time, training with Bucky was just an endless list of everything you were doing wrong, punctuated by a jab to the ribs for emphasis.

“Do you always make your compliments sound like insults?”

“It wasn’t a compliment. Just the truth.”

You threw a kick toward his side, fast and impulsive. He caught your ankle and held it, grip firm around your calf for a second too long. His vibranium fingers were cold, even through the fabric of your leggings. You could’ve sworn they tightened around the muscle just a fraction as your eyes swept up to give him a look of disbelief. But instead of pulling away, you leaned into the moment and used the hold for balance. You pivoted hard on your grounded foot, letting the captured leg swing inward. Then you launched yourself forward, hooking your other leg around his waist, aiming to bring him down with you.

For a half-second, it worked. His balance shifted. Your hips were flush against him, legs locked tight around his torso as you twisted your weight, trying to drag him off his feet.

With a grunt, he straightened, twisted, and you suddenly found yourself airborne.

You hit the mat hard, slamming against it with a thud that knocked the breath out of you. The ceiling lights above blurred for a second as the impact rattled through your spine. His shadow hovered for a beat, chest rising with exertion, jaw clenched.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just stared down at you, maybe it was the oncoming concussion you probably just suffered, but you could’ve sworn there was a flash of concern in his eyes.

“Next time, I won’t let it slide if you don’t turn up because you’re hungover.” He wiped a forearm across his brow.

“How do you know my heart wasn’t broken?” You asked, shaking off the blow as you rose to your feet once more, feet finding their usual stance.

He arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Don’t you have sympathy for me?” you asked, somewhere between a joke and a challenge.

“I wouldn’t call it sympathy,” he said coolly. “More like pity.”

That stung more than you cared to admit. You rolled your shoulders, stepping in again. Your guard was up, but there was a crack in it now, frustration flaring under your skin.

“I can’t imagine you were actually that sad about it.” Bucky bit out, not even bothering to hide his annoyance now. “Don’t you have a new fling every other week? Sure sounded like you were lining up another one in the hallway.”

“Oh wow,” you drawled, voice harsh. “Slut shaming? This isn’t the 1940s, Barnes.”

“It’s not my fault who you choose to date.”

You exhaled, long and low. The tension between you had teeth now, gnawing at the air. “Y’know, for someone who hates me, you sure pay a lot of attention.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, fists flexing at his sides, poker-faced.

You waited, ready to shoulder any insult he laid on you. You could see irritation simmering under his skin, jaw ticking, knuckles white.

“I think you should take a lap or two around the room.” He huffed finally. “Your blocks are late, your punches are soft, and your stance is a joke. Try warming up before you embarrass both of us.”

You grinned back at him, though it was closer to baring your teeth than a show of amusement. “But I’m still your best mentee, huh?”

“Let’s make it five laps then.”

You gave him a lazy salute and turned for the edge of the mat.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

As you jogged the first lap, footsteps echoing lightly in the private room, you could feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement and watching you like a hawk, like a fuse lit, waiting.

And damn it, you ran a little faster because of it.

—

If you’d known how this mission was going to turn out, you would’ve called in sick. Faked a family emergency. Broken your own damn leg. Anything to avoid being stuck alone with Bucky Barnes in a freezing H.Y.D.R.A. bunker from hell. You’d even considered whispering a desperate prayer to whatever all-seeing god might be listening—or hell, maybe begging Stephen Strange to yank you into an alternate universe where this wasn’t your reality.

Gunfire rattled somewhere outside the cement walls, and you imagined your fellow agents in the middle of all the fun, chucking grenades, dodging bullets, living the dream. Meanwhile, you were practically glued at the hip with Sergeant Sunshine, babysitting an ancient Soviet-era computer that looked like it still ran on dial-up.

You were perched on the edge of a desk, legs swinging, having shoved aside a mountain of dusty files scribbled in Russian. All completely useless to you.

“What is it with H.Y.D.R.A. and brutalist architecture?” you muttered, eyeing the thick ceiling. “Why does concrete get them so hard?”

“I can’t concentrate with all your whining.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s literally the first thing I’ve said in ten minutes, Barnes.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even throw you one of his signature grunts. Just kept clicking away like the keyboard had wronged him personally, eyes narrowed at the screen as if trying to decode the goddamn Rosetta Stone.

You groaned and rolled your head back, staring up at the ceiling.

More concrete.

You weren’t usually this unbearable on missions, but this? This whole situation felt like a personal attack. You’d been mid-flirt with Theo on the quinjet (who had been very committed to making bedroom eyes at you) when they’d called out team assignments. The second you heard your name paired with Barnes, tasked with data extraction while everyone else got to blow things up, you’d spun around to glare at him.

He’d been sitting there in his usual cold, statue-like stillness beside Steve, as if this wasn’t a death sentence. You’d stormed over, demanded if he knew anything. He just shrugged and muttered something about ‘higher-ups’.

The walls shook suddenly—another explosion—and dust drifted from the ceiling. You blinked it out of your lashes and slid lazily off the desk, sauntering over to where Bucky hunched at the terminal.

“Can you hurry it up? At this rate, they’re going to bury us alive in here.”

“Give me a second,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

You leaned in slightly, eyeing the screen. A wall of Cyrillic met you, completely unreadable. You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that left your lips.

“Remind me again why we’re the ones doing this? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to send someone who actually speaks Russian to help you? Or, I don’t know, someone who has the patience to teach you how to use a flash drive?”

He didn’t answer, just kept typing and clicking, as if the keys owed him money.

You crossed your arms, scowling. The only thing more miserable than being stuck in a concrete crypt was being stuck in one with him. When he was distracted, like now, he forgot to wear that usual look of thinly veiled disappointment. His brow furrowed in focus, lips twitching as he muttered to himself in low, clipped Russian. He looked—God help you—human. Not like the cold-hearted pain-in-your-ass who’d spent the last six months tearing you down. But like someone thoughtful. Careful. Quietly brilliant.

And stupidly, stupidly attractive.

You hated how your eyes lingered on the way his rolled-up sleeves hugged his forearms. The way the shadows danced over his cheekbones and the little groove between his brows. The way that little furrow deepened when something didn’t go his way, like he was trying to wrestle the entire world into submission with sheer concentration alone.

It would’ve been easier if he were just awful. Easier if you didn’t catch glimpses of something else beneath the gruffness. Something that made your chest tighten a little when you weren’t focusing. 

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes to the screen. What was wrong with you?

The download bar finally appeared on the screen, crawling forward at a snail’s pace. You exhaled loudly, half in relief, half in impatience. 

“About time,” you muttered.

He shot you a look, cold and flat. “You wanna do it?”

You turned your back on him, pacing the room. Your nerves were coiled tight, the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions growing louder. The base was a pressure cooker and the damn download bar still hovered at 34%.

While you were busy taking your own turn brooding, the heavy metal door at the far end of the room slammed open with a deafening clang, nearly launching you out of your skin. Three armed H.Y.D.R.A. agents stormed in, rifles raised, eyes locked on target.

So much for the diversion. Clearly, it hadn’t been enough—or worse, H.Y.D.R.A. had seen through it. They must’ve realised it wasn’t a full-blown William-the-Conqueror-style invasion, just a cleverly dressed-up distraction.

“Company,” Bucky muttered, pulling his sidearm in one smooth motion.

You were already moving, instincts kicking in before your brain could catch up. You dove low, sliding across the slick concrete floor as a hail of bullets tore through the room. You grabbed the nearest overturned chair, dragging it into place just in time as metal pinged and sparked against it.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. A single, precise shot rang out, dropping the first H.Y.D.R.A. agent without a flinch. You didn’t stop to think. You surged forward, catching the second agent by surprise, your knee slamming into his gut with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. He doubled over, right into the crack of your gun butt across his temple. He crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the floor.

Then you saw the third.

Rifle up.

Aimed right at you.

“Get down!”

The shout was raw, sharp enough to slice through the chaos. You barely had time to turn your head before a body crashed into yours. His arm slammed into your torso, hurling you sideways just as the trigger was pulled.

The shot cracked like thunder.

Your back hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor. Pain flared along your shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the sound that followed, the harsh, guttural grunt that tore out of Bucky’s throat.

You twisted around.

He was down, gasping, clutching at his side and blood already soaking through the black fabric of his suit.

You scrambled back to him just as the final agent aimed again. Snarling, you fired three quick shots into the bastard’s chest before he collapsed in a heap.

The air went still for only a moment, then the ground trembled violently before you had a chance to assess the damage done to Bucky. Chunks of the ceiling cracked and began to rain down. Concrete groaned like a beast waking from a long sleep.

You turned to the computer, some unreadable symbols flashing across the screen, but you were quick enough to decipher that it meant the download was complete. Snatching the flash drive, you spun back to Bucky, who was trying to sit up, blood spilling between his fingers as he pressed them hard against the wound in his side.

“Get up,” you barked, crouching beside him. “We need to move, Barnes!”

—

The two of you had spent nearly two damn hours stumbling through the snow-blanketed mountainside, following the rough coordinates burned into your mind from the mission briefing. By the time the cabin finally came into view—half-buried in the snow, smoke long gone from the chimney—you were soaked to the bone and one more smart comment away from throttling him.

The escape had been messy, the H.Y.D.R.A base nearly becoming your tomb. You’d been forced to bolt through a collapsing back corridor, dragging the injured super soldier along with the last of your adrenaline. Between the debris, the gunfire, and the growing dark stain across his side, you weren’t sure how either of you had made it out. Worse still, you’d missed the quinjet extraction window by twenty minutes. The skies had turned black with storm clouds, wind howling across the range as ice and snow stung your cheeks. The base had finally picked up your call for aid on the mission-assigned satellite phone, but due to zero visibility and increased H.Y.D.R.A activity in the area, the replacement quinjet wouldn’t arrive until first light.

Which meant you were stuck together. In the cold. For the whole night.

The safehouse, at least, was still intact. A small timber cabin tucked between trees, barely standing but just enough. It had a lounge no bigger than a broom closet, a wood-burning stove long dead and cold, a bathroom you prayed had running water, and a single bedroom with a mattress that looked like it had seen better decades.

Your breath misted in the air as you slammed the door behind you, the wind nearly ripping the handle from your grip. Bucky collapsed onto the torn couch by the stove without a word, letting out a low groan that he probably thought you didn’t hear.

You should’ve made starting the fire your first priority. But one look at the blood soaking through Bucky’s side made that choice for you.

Now, kneeling between his legs with the remnants of the first-aid kit splayed out on the coffee table, whoever had been here last hadn’t restocked it properly. You glared up at Bucky as he shifted under your touch again. “Stop squirming.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you hissed, dabbing antiseptic across the wound with a gauze pad. “You keep flinching.”

“Because you’re digging in like you’re trying to punish me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” you muttered.

He scoffed, muscles twitching beneath your hands as you pressed down. “Are you always this demanding?”

“Are you always this whiny?”

His glare was instant, eyes narrowed. “Is it your goal to piss everyone off?”

“I’m a fucking delight, and you know that.”

He gave you a deadpan look. “I think you’re mistaken. I definitely don’t like you.”

You lifted your brows, trying to keep your voice light despite the roiling mix of emotions spilling out. “You say that like you didn’t just take a bullet for me.”

You hadn’t even had the time to process it when it happened. The crash of his body slamming into yours, the sound of the gunshot, and the sickening thud of him hitting the ground. But now, with him sitting across from you, shirt dark with blood and a fresh gash still weeping crimson, the weight of it began to settle in.

He took a bullet for you.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Part of you expected him to twist it somehow, to throw it back in your face as some kind of lesson that you were careless. That you’d left an opening. That he had to clean up your mess. You were already bracing for it, the sting of snide remarks spread over weeks like salt in a wound, little digs during training about how you ‘owe him one’ or how ‘distractions get people killed’.

And yet... he hadn’t said any of that.

Instead, he just shrugged, wincing slightly. “I heal faster because of the serum,” he muttered, voice gruff but quieter than usual. “I’ll be back on the field faster than you ever could.”

You stared at him.

At the stubborn line of his jaw, the tight press of his lips as he tried not to show how much pain he was in. The way his hand gripped his side was too tight. The blood beneath his fingernails.

Why had he done that?

You weren’t always the easiest to get along with. You’d spent months pushing each other’s buttons, arguing, fighting, constantly locked in a cold war of insults and bruises. So why? Why would he throw himself into a bullet’s path for you?

It was hard not to feel... something. Flattered, maybe. A little shocked. And, against your better judgment, grateful. You didn’t want to be grateful—not to him, of all people—but your stomach wrenched every time you replayed the moment in your head.

You didn’t ask him to do it. And yet, he did.

And now he was pretending it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t made a split-second decision to put your life before his own. What if that bullet had hit a little higher? His heart? His throat? His skull?

“Sure,” you drawled, trying to cover for your sudden silence. “Great excuse.”

“It’s the truth.” He muttered. 

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the floor and said nothing.

Which, somehow, said everything.

You stared at him for a moment longer, shaking your head as you tossed the bloodied gauze into the small bin beside the couch. The cold was starting to settle into your bones, your fingers stiff with it.

“Whatever. I’m going to try to find some firewood before we freeze to death.”

He glanced toward the boarded-up window, ice clinging to the edges. “You sure there’s any left out there?”

“Nope.” You pulled on your jacket. “But I’d rather get eaten by a bear than stay in here with you.”

You were halfway to the door before you paused, glancing over your shoulder.

“Can you get to that bed yourself, or do you need me to do that for you, too, super soldier?”

His answer came quickly, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

You couldn’t deny the nausea in your stomach. Not from worry. Definitely not that. Just frustration. That’s all it was.

The wind nearly ripped the door from your hands as you stepped outside. Snow came in sideways, biting at your skin the second you crossed the threshold. You tugged your jacket tighter and trudged into the blizzard, squinting against the blur of white.

The woodshed was exactly where the briefing had said it’d be, about ten feet from the side of the cabin, half-hidden by trees. Or at least, had been. What you found instead was a crooked mess of collapsed timber and broken beams. Snow had settled deep into the heap, and every piece of wood you managed to drag free was soaked, the logs heavy with ice and rot.

You swore, breath clouding in the air.

You searched anyway, fingers numb, arms shaking. You tried the back of the cabin. Nothing. Even the branches scattered beneath the trees were too damp. No kindling, no dry bark, not even a damn pinecone. The cold was sinking deeper now, crawling down your spine and settling like an anchor in your chest. You didn’t want to push further into the wilderness, not in this weather and not with H.Y.D.R.A. agents crawling all over the mountainside. 

By the time you stumbled back inside and forced the door closed again, you could hardly feel your fingers or toes. Every limb ached like they were five seconds away from turning purple and black from frostbite. The cabin felt just as cold as the outside, but it was a momentary relief to be out of the wind that cut through your thick layers.

Bucky was on the bed, half-sitting up against the wall, the blanket pulled low across his hips. His eyes flicked up as you entered, taking in your dripping hair and shaking hands.

"Let me guess," he muttered. "No luck?"

You didn’t answer right away, just peeled your jacket off and dropped it near the door with a wet splat. “Everything’s soaked. The shed’s collapsed.”

He exhaled through his nose, chest deflating with the effort. “You’re freezing.”

You ignored him, stomping the snow off your boots. “I’ll live.”

“Not if you keep acting like a damn idiot.”

You turned to glare at him. “I’m sorry, which one of us got shot again?”

You crouched down, your knees protesting as you bent to untie your boots, but your fingers were too stiff, trembling from the cold. The laces had frozen slightly, the knots tight and uncooperative. You hissed through your teeth, fumbling and cursing under your breath as you tugged uselessly at them.

Bucky watched from the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn’t move to help, but you could feel his eyes on you. He tilted his head slightly and gave you a look that was half-concerned, half-exasperated, like you did this to yourself.

With a final frustrated yank, you freed your boot and kicked it off, followed quickly by the other. A damp string of muttered profanities trailed from your lips as you scrambled back to your feet, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. 

“Which one of us,” Bucky spoke pointedly, breath fogging in the air between you, “went outside to play in a blizzard and came back looking like a drowned rat?”

You were shivering now, teeth on the verge of chattering, but you still squared your shoulders and stared him down, as defiant as ever. A bead of melted snow trailed down your temple. He stared right back.

“Get over here,” he said finally.

“Excuse me?”

“You need to warm up.” His tone was flat, too practical. “And the bed’s the only warm place in this shithole.”

“Oh, now you care about my well-being?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Just lifted the edge of the blanket.

You hesitated, eyeing the small mattress like it might bite you. "You’re the worst."

"And you’re still standing in wet clothes. Take them off and get in."

Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“Not all of them,” he said, eyes rolling. “Just the top layer before you die of hypothermia. Stop being dramatic.”

With a theatrical sigh for good measure, you peeled off your wet sweater, leaving the thermal shirt beneath and then your pants. You did not check to see if he was watching you shivering in your underwear, cheeks flushed. You padded toward the bed like it was a walk to your own execution, hesitating again at the edge.

You tried—really tried—not to let your eyes linger on the broad plane of his chest, but it was impossible not to. His shirt was rumpled and half-untucked, the hem tugged up where he’d peeled it back to expose the bandage on his side. The white gauze was already marred with deep red, blooming in uneven patches that made you pause with something halfway between guilt and concern. Your gaze drifted to the sharp curve of his waist, the ridge of muscle visible beneath the bloodied wrappings. 

It was distracting. 

He was distracting.

But what you tried hardest not to think about was the bed. Specifically, how absurdly small the mattress looked with him sitting on it, shoulders nearly brushing both edges. There was no way you’d both fit. You’d be pressed against him. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, knee to thigh. 

You swallowed hard and told yourself not to think about it.

But you were already thinking about it.

“Don’t make it weird,” Bucky muttered.

“I’m not making it weird.”

He let out a low, tired huff, the kind that told you he was in pain but too stubborn to say it. You rolled your eyes in reply, more at yourself than him, and climbed in carefully, slipping beneath the blanket with a reluctant shiver. The bed was warmer than expected. Or rather, he was. Bucky radiated heat like a furnace, the kind that seeped into your skin and made your limbs relax before your mind could catch up. You hovered near the edge of the mattress, body stiff, spine straight like it might help you keep your distance. But it was a hopeless attempt. The bed was tiny—criminally small, really—and with him taking up so much space, there was nowhere to go but closer. One wrong move and you’d be on the floor.

“God, you’re warm,” you muttered into the pillow, trying not to sound too affected.

“Serum,” he replied shortly, his voice rough with exhaustion.

Slowly, inch by inch, you gave in. The chill in the air made it too easy to justify. You shifted toward him, the blanket tugging between you as your arm brushed against his. Then your hip. Then your thigh. Until, somehow, your bodies were nearly flush. 

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word.

And that somehow made it worse.

The silence settled between you, heavy and warm and intimate, like the air itself had thickened. You could hear his breathing, steady, but a little too deliberate. You could see his chest rise and fall from the corner of your eye. And worse, you could feel him. Every inch of him. The solid line of muscle at your side. The way your knees had somehow locked together under the blanket. How your forearm grazed his with every breath you took.

You needed a distraction. Desperately.

Reaching over to the nightstand, you snatched up the battered satellite phone, almost too quickly. The cold metal was jarring against your palm. For a moment, you considered activating the self-destruct protocol and blowing both of you up to end your shared misery. You flicked it on, the screen’s pale light casting long shadows across the room and across him.

Your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.

He was already staring at the ceiling, the faint furrow between his brows still present even in rest. His profile was defined in the low light, long lashes, strong nose, and the stubble on his jaw catching just a hint of light.

You forced yourself to look back at the tiny screen to check for any new updates.

Nothing. You were well and truly in for the night.

You scrolled to the mission briefing instead, flicking through the files to pass time, anything to distract you.

And then you saw it.

There, buried under the pre-mission notes, weather expectations, and extraction protocol, was a small addendum in the personnel request section.

Operation HARVEST: Agent Barnes, James B.Requested field partner: Agent 00149. Request approved.

You stared at it, the room suddenly quieter than it had been all night. 

That was your agent number.

He asked for you.

The same man who had spent the last six months grunting his way through every interaction, who seemed perpetually annoyed by your existence, who had made a point never to give you more than an ounce of credit, had explicitly asked to be paired with you.

You felt your throat tighten.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, as if he could sense your world shattering around you. His voice was low, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion 

You didn’t answer right away. You sat there, still curled under the heavy covers. The warmth of his body was helping, yes—but your blood was starting to simmer for a very different reason.

You turned slowly, holding the satellite phone up between your fingers.

“You want to tell me why it says on the briefing notes that you requested me as your partner for this mission?”

Bucky blinked once. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“I asked you on the quinjet if you knew anything,” you went on, voice harsh now. “You told me it was a higher-up’s decision. You lied to my face.”

Bucky sighed through his nose, already bracing himself as he sat up straighter against the headboard. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Didn’t matter?” you scoffed, pushing yourself to your knees to face him, ignoring the goosebumps that rose as the blankets fell from your shoulders. “You picked me. You had me assigned to a mission with you, just the two of us, didn’t tell me, and then lied about it.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You did lie.”

He dragged a hand down his face, slow and weary, but there was tension in the movement, an edge of frustration barely restrained. “I didn’t want you partnered with the other guys, alright?”

You faltered, unsure if you heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“No, you can’t just say that and not explain—”

“Fine!” He groaned, exasperated. His eyes dropped away from yours, fixing instead on a knot in the cabin’s dark wood wall. “I heard them talking. Theo and a few of the other agents.”

“What?” you asked, voice tight. “What were they saying about me?”

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and awful.

“Just say it,” you bit out.

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And it hit you square in the chest, something dark and protective burning behind his eyes. But it was reluctant, too, as if he hated that he was about to say it out loud.

His voice was low and rough when it came. “That you’re easy. That it’d be simple to get you into bed because you’re always asking for it. That you’re a slut. I gave them a piece of my mind and reported them, but I still don’t want you around them.”

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

Your breath caught, the sting behind your eyes immediate and hot. You blinked once. Twice. The words echoed, raw and ugly, and for a second, all you could do was try not to let them settle too deep. Not to let them stick.

You weren’t naïve. You knew you didn’t sleep around any more than anyone else your age. You knew that if the situation were flipped, if you were a man, no one would bat an eye. And still, the weight of it settled heavy in your gut, all twisted up with something darker. Dread. Shame. Fury. And under it all… that sick, crawling feeling that maybe Bucky had said something. Given them reason to think they could say it. That maybe he thought the same thing deep down.

That, maybe, to him, you were just some mess he had to clean up.

The words came fast, your voice shaking. “And what, you thought you’d ride in and defend me like some white knight? You know I could easily drop Theo, I could easily drop any of those assholes!” Bucky blinked, caught off guard, but you were already going, bitter heat rising in your throat like bile.

“You thought that would make it better?” you snapped. “You think that helps? They’re probably all laughing behind my back about how I can’t defend myself—”

“I wasn’t going to stand there and let them talk about you like that!”

“Why?” you demanded. “Because you didn’t want to hear it? Or because you’ve thought the same fucking thing?”

His eyes flared with disbelief, maybe even insult.

“I would never think of you that way,” he barked, and his voice cracked like thunder. “Let alone say it out loud. Because I’m not an asshole. Not like those guys you date.”

You laughed, blunt and hollow. “Why do you care who I date?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t come up with any words, but to your surprise, he exploded before you. “Maybe because you deserve better!” he shouted, the words ripping out of him before he could take them back.

The silence after that was suffocating.

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest, a strange cocktail of feelings in your stomach that you didn’t care to identify. He sat there, breathing hard, his hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to speak again.

“Jesus,” you muttered. You weren’t foolish enough to believe him, to fall victim to whatever joke he was trying to play. “Give me a break.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled this time. 

You turned your face away. “Oh yeah? Like you could do any better? Don’t be ridiculous.”

His breath hitched, like you’d slapped him. You could feel him shift beside you under the covers.

“You really think that?” Bucky asked in disbelief.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But Bucky didn’t let it stay quiet.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked, voice low and rough, as if the words had been caged for too long in his throat. “Fine.”

You turned back toward him, uncertain what expression you were even wearing anymore.

“I’ve liked you since the first damn time I saw you,” he said. “Group training. You were paired with some agent twice your size, and you still knocked him on his ass.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I thought you were… brilliant. And sharp. And confident. And yeah, beautiful too. You had this way of looking right through people—through me—and it scared the shit out of me. When they assigned me to mentor you, I panicked,” he said, with a dry, bitter laugh. “I thought if I pretended, if I was distant, if I acted cold, I could make it go away. Trick myself out of it.”

“But it just got worse,” he went on. “Every time I saw you smiling at some sleaze who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, every time I had to watch you flirt with some smug asshole agents, I wanted to break something. Because it should’ve been me.”

You shook your head slowly, stunned. “Bucky…”

“I hated watching you get your heart broken over and over again,” he said. “Hated seeing you walk into training after pretending like nothing happened. You didn’t deserve that. Not when I knew I could treat you better if I just had the fucking guts to say something.”

Your ribs felt suddenly too small for your body, bones pressing into your lungs.

“And now we’re stuck on a mountainside,” he said, his voice softer, hoarser, “and I’m here bleeding in a bed with you, still lying to you, still trying to act like it doesn’t kill me every time you look at me like I’m just your mentor who you hate.”

You gaped in stunned silence, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Bucky watched you expectantly.

No. No, that couldn’t be what he meant. Not really.

“I don’t know what kind of cruel joke you’re playing on me,” you finally said, voice shaking, fingers knotted in the sheets. “I don’t get it. You’ve spent this whole time being…”

“I’m being serious,” he said, eyes locked on you. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I’ve fucked this up too many times. But I swear on my life, I’m not playing a game.”

You stared at him, blinking hard. “So what, this entire time you’ve been an asshole because you were what, pretending? Pretending that you didn’t like me, pretending that you weren’t jealous, when you could’ve just talked to me?”

His silence was immediate. Heavy. It told you everything you needed to know.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your mind was spinning, flipping through every memory like a film reel: his cold shoulder, his clipped instructions, the scowls when you joked with someone else, the way he always hovered a few steps too close in combat zones. The way he always caught you when you fell. There had been moments. Tiny fractures in his mask. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The time he bandaged your hand without a word, but so gently it had made your throat tighten. The night you caught him staring at you across the gym like he was in pain.

How had you missed it?

“I need to…” You whispered, slumping back under the sheets, pulling the blanket higher around yourself as if it might guard you from the ache in your ribs. “We should sleep. It’s late. Evac’s coming once the sun is up.”

He didn’t protest. He just nodded once, jaw tight.

Neither of you said another word.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

—

You hadn’t seen much of Bucky since you were both airlifted off the mountain.

He’d been recovering from his wound, officially. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was avoiding you. No texts. No nods in the hallway. No eye contact across the cafeteria. Just cold silence.

Coward.

You’d spent the past week half-waiting for him to come to his senses. The other half had been consumed wondering what the hell you’d do if he did. Because yes, you found him infuriating. Yes, he was emotionally constipated and moody and had the charm of a brick wall. But he was also gorgeous in that tortured-soul, sharp-jawed, arms-too-big-for-his-shirts kind of way. He cared about you, in his own twisted Bucky way. He’d taken a bullet for you. Defended you. Chose you.

And now he was just… gone.

You were leaning against the wall at the edge of the main gym, arms crossed, purposefully not looking at Theo and the other assholes you had suspected Bucky had been right about, when you heard footsteps and someone cleared their throat beside you.

Yelena stood beside you, her smirk suspiciously wider than usual.

You turned, brows knitting in apprehension. “Hey.”

“Congratulations,” 

“For what?” You replied hesitantly, watching as her brows lifted in delighted surprise. 

“You haven’t heard?” Her voice was alarmingly gleeful, like she was especially thrilled to be the bearer of whatever news she was about to lay upon you. “Barnes finally accepted your mentor transfer request.”

Your heart flatlined for a second. 

“What?”

Yelena, oblivious to your distress, continued to dig further. “I don’t know what you did to him up on that mountain, but… damn. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“I didn’t ask for a mentor transfer,” you muttered, dread settling in your chest.

Yelena’s expression faltered. “Oh. Well, you have one now. You’re with Thor. They tried to pawn you off onto me, but you know, got my hands busy with the new group coming in—”

“Thor?!” You snapped, interrupting her spiel, “He’s a drunk! And he’s not even here half the time, too busy in Asgard—”

Yelena gave you a helpless shrug, and that’s when the doors to the gym opened and in walked the ghost of your week-long frustration.

Bucky was in full training gear, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, compression shirt clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was ruffled, pushed back half-heartedly like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it, a few strands falling into his eyes. The corded muscles of his arms were on full display, the glint of his vibranium arm catching the light with every step. He looked unfairly good, carved from grief and sleepless nights. But it was the way he wouldn’t look at you that struck harder than anything else. His jaw was tight, lips set in a permanent pout, that brooding scowl etched so deep it felt deliberate. He looked everywhere but at you, like you weren’t even there. 

Your blood boiled.

Without a word, you peeled yourself from the wall and marched toward him. He spotted you mid-stride, his posture tensing like he was preparing for impact.

“Hey—” he started.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, voice low and venom-laced.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the other agents filtering in behind you. A few of them had already glanced over curiously, settling in for whatever show was about to unfold.

“Too late,” you hissed. “You requested a mentor transfer for me without even telling me?”

“I thought it was what you wanted.” You both knew he was lying, and he refused to meet your eye. This wasn’t about what you wanted. It was about him feeling embarrassed after his outburst on the mountain. 

“Oh, really?” You stepped closer. “Because I don’t remember asking you to make my career decisions for me.”

“I was doing you a favour.”

“Yeah? Maybe try talking to me like a normal fucking person, and then I’ll tell you what I want.”

His eyes flickered up, stormy blues locking onto your face. “And what is it you want?”

You stared him down, tilting your head slightly, weighing the war going on inside you.

You.

I want you.

The thought was immediate, impulsive, and so painfully real it made your chest ache. But you shoved it down, crushed it before it could breathe. No. That was stupid. Why the hell would you want him—this man-child who’d ghosted you for a week, who’d spent the last six months acting like every word out of your mouth was a personal offence, who seemed to find joy in making you feel like nothing?

But then again… maybe you both had been trying so hard to deny the truth, burying something under six months of thinly veiled insults and sparring matches that got too rough. Maybe he was pushing you away because he didn’t trust himself to keep it professional. And maybe you were just as bad, biting back, rising to the bait, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered or the way his voice softened when you were actually hurt.

You had to know if it was real.

The shuffle of movement and muffled chatter around you signalled the start of group training, slicing through your heated stand-off. Agents around you began to pair off, leaving you and Bucky still locked in place, face to face, breath mingling.

You lifted your chin. “Be my sparring partner?” you asked, voice loud enough for the others to hear, but eyes fixed solely on him.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, tight-lipped, like he’d been waiting for the invitation all along.

You squared off on the mat, bouncing on your toes, adrenaline already coiling in your veins. Bucky moved like a soldier, controlled, fluid, annoyingly graceful.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he muttered as you circled.

“I’m not,” you said, “Just testing a theory.”

He raised a brow. “What theory?”

You lunged, caught his arm, and twisted into a low grapple—just enough to draw him in.

His chest brushed yours. His breath hitched.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

Your lips crashed against his mid-motion, stealing the next move right off his tongue. You felt him freeze, just for a heartbeat, before his hands twitched at your waist like he didn’t know whether to shove you away or pull you in. You felt the tension roll off him in waves. The way his body reacted was instinct. Shock. Hunger. 

His movements hesitated, and to your delight, despite the entire gym watching, he began to kiss you back. 

And that hesitation?

It was all you needed.

You shifted fast, breaking the kiss, then ducking low, hooking your leg behind his knee as you spun. In one fluid motion, you swept his legs out from under him and used the twist of your momentum to pull him down with you. He stumbled, off-balance, and you moved like lightning, hips snapping around his waist, thighs locking tight. You rotated with the drop, forcing him onto his back as you rolled with the momentum.

He hit the mat hard.

You were straddling him, thighs clamped around his ribs, palms flat on his chest. You smirked down at him, panting. 

Bucky stared up at you, winded, stunned, and very, very pinned. “That was dirty.”

You leaned down, your face just inches from his again. “So was your little mentor stunt. Call it even.”

Throughout the room, the entire gym was dead silent, staring. You gracefully dismounted him and marched off the mat, but Bucky scrambled up and followed you.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” you snapped as he caught up beside you.

“You can’t just kiss me and then walk away like that!”

“Why not?”

“You kissed me to mess with me.”

“I kissed you to see if you meant what you said on the mountain.”

The two of you burst through the gym doors and into the hallway. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Bucky’s heavy footsteps were right behind you, his presence unmistakable, all coiled frustration and breathless anger.

A few agents stood frozen near the water station, others lingering by the mission board, all of them caught mid-conversation as they turned to witness the fallout. You were aware of the eyes on you, the awkward silence that followed, but you didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them gossip.

You stormed past them without pause as Bucky chased you like a dog on a leash that was just about to snap.

“You just kissed me in the middle of sparring,” he shouted after you, voice ragged and accusing. “In front of everyone. Is this a joke to you?” 

You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. The elevator was too slow, too exposed. Instead, you veered to the stairwell and shoved the door open with enough force that it bounced off the wall. The clanging echo followed you as you started up, two steps at a time.

“Oh my god, would you just shut up already?” you snapped over your shoulder, breath catching as your hand slid along the metal railing, spiralling up the concrete stairwell. 

Behind you, Bucky cursed under his breath. “It was unfair.”

He reached for you and just missed your wrist. You yanked it away before he could try again, your skin buzzing with the ghost of contact.

“Isn’t that what you taught me to do? Use anything to my advantage?” you bit out, pushing through the next door as you reached your floor. The hall here was quieter and dimmer. You passed rows of familiar doors. Your apartment was at the end of the corridor, and every step toward it made your pulse throb louder in your ears. “What, you have a problem with me using my assets against you?

“Assets, huh? You know, you really are unbelievable—”

You let out an exasperated groan, cutting him back. “You kissed me back.”

That stopped him.

His boots scraped the floor as he slowed a few paces behind you, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock.

“What?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned your key in the door. The metal clicked, and you pushed it open with a little more care this time.

“You kissed me back,” you repeated softly, almost to yourself this time and stepped inside. 

Bucky barged in after you.

“You don’t understand—I’m… I’m trying to protect you!” His voice followed you into the room, desperate. 

You kicked off your shoes without looking at him. “I don’t need protecting.”

“Would you just listen for once—” he snapped, shutting the door behind him. 

You rolled your eyes and started pulling off your shirt, tossing it onto your bed and turned to face him, arms crossed. “I am listening, you’re the one not listening to me.”

Bucky stood just inside the door, like he hadn’t decided whether to walk out or burn the whole damn building down. 

“I shouldn’t have told you that on the mountain, it was unprofessional of me.” His voice cracked as his words poured out faster than it seemed he could stop them, emotion thick in every syllable. “I requested the mentor switch because I don’t trust myself to keep pretending. I can’t control myself around you!”

You padded barefoot across the room to the small bathroom.

“How am I supposed to go on training you?” He muttered, gesturing vaguely in your direction. He was repeating himself now, rambling like a crazed man completely oblivious to your actions. “You pull that stunt in the middle of training, humiliate both of us in front of the others, and then act like it meant nothing? Jesus, I can’t even think straight when you—”

You peeled your leggings off and let it fall to the floor behind you.

“—and don’t even get me started on that assets comment! What the hell does that even mean? You can’t just go around weaponising your—”

You unclasped your bra and bent to turn on the shower. The hiss of water filled the room, steam already curling up the mirror.

“—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You just, what? Decided to tackle and kiss me like it was some kind of training tactic?! That’s not even…Are you using my confession against me? God, you’re impossible, I swear—”

He looked up.

And stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-breath.

There you were, back turned, steam catching on the bare curve of your spine and trailing over the lines of your thighs, standing in nothing but your underwear.

His words died in his throat like a car slamming into a wall.

Mouth slightly open. Eyes locked. 

You glanced at him over your shoulder, saw the exact moment it hit him and raised a brow, feigning casual curiosity as you stepped toward the open shower door, letting the foggy heat billow around your legs.

“You joining me?” you asked sweetly. “Sure sounds like you need to cool off.”

He said nothing.

Just stared.

Like you’d just knocked the wind out of him for the second time that day. Just that haunted, hungry look in his eyes like he was trying to figure out if he’d died and gone to hell. Or heaven.

His mouth opened, like he had something to say, some half-assed rebuttal, some snarky comeback.

But no words came out.

Only a low, helpless breath.

“I wasn’t using it against you.” You clarified as you dragged your underwear down your legs, tossing them somewhere across the room. “I was seeing if you meant what you said.”

You stepped nto the shower, leaving him stood stunned in the bathroom doorway. A soft sigh slipped from your lips as warm water poured down your shoulders and back, washing away the dull ache in your muscles. For a moment, you simply stood there, facing the stream, eyes closed, the patter of droplets against your scalp soothing like white noise in a storm.

Then came the soft rattle of the shower door behind you. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was him.

The subtle swish of movement was followed by the cool press of metal against your waist, his vibranium arm snaking around you, cool against the heat of the water and your flushed skin. Goosebumps prickled instantly across your stomach, nipples peaking at the contrast.

You turned slowly, steam swirling around you in thick waves as you met Bucky’s eyes. His wet hair was slicked against his neck, droplets clinging to the dark strands and sliding down his jawline. Beads of water traced the line of his throat and the rise of his Adam’s apple, disappearing over the muscle of his chest. His hands found your hips, warm and solid, the grip almost possessive.

You tried not to look down, tried not to let your eyes drift to the answer to a question you’d been too proud to ask. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you stepped into him, letting your palms slide up the hard planes of his chest, past his dogtags and looped around the back of his neck.

“I think this is going to do the opposite of cooling me down,” he muttered, voice husky, half-lost beneath the steady rhythm of water hitting tile.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, and then you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

Your mouths crashed together like you’d both been holding back for too long. Hungry. Desperate. Sloppy. The water only made it messier, lips sliding, catching, breath hissing as teeth grazed. He kissed like he needed to claim this moment before the world snapped back into place. You returned the kiss with equal urgency, fingers threading into his wet hair, tugging, needing more.

His hands slid down your back, firm, sure, guiding you until your spine pressed against the slick wall of the shower. You wrapped a leg around his hip, instinctive, needy, and he growled softly into your mouth as his hand dropped to support your thigh, holding you steady. You ground your hips into him, once, twice. His grip tightened, and the next thing you knew, he was lifting you, hands firm on your ass as he carried you effortlessly from the shower. The bathroom was thick with steam, fog curling along the edges of the mirror and dripping from the ceiling. Water trailed down both of you, soaking the tiles as he strode across the room.

Your back met the edge of the counter with a soft thud, followed by the chill of the fogged-up mirror behind you. The coolness shocked your skin and made your spine arch sharply, drawing a low noise from your throat. Bucky didn’t miss a beat. He was still kissing you, still swallowing your gasp as his hands ran down your thighs and urged them further apart.

He stepped in, slotting himself between your legs, his body flush against yours. The sensation of him made your head spin. Water from the still-running shower continued to hiss in the background, steam billowing out and filling the room like a cocoon. You were both soaked, skin slick and glistening, lips swollen, breaths short. Your fingers found the back of his neck again, anchoring yourself as he kissed you deeper, slower now, like he was savouring every second.

His hands slid down your hips and tugged you forward until your thighs bracketed his waist. You felt his cock, solid and insistent, pulsing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and your breath caught.

“I think I’ve dreamt of this moment.” He confessed between kisses, before consuming you again.

It took little resistance for him to push into you in one smooth motion. You weren’t just drenched from the shower. Your whole body sang from the shock of it, a strangled sound tearing from your throat as your fingers fisted in his wet hair. His mouth tore from yours with a ragged gasp, trailing down your jaw, your neck, leaving fire in his wake. Bucky braced a hand behind you on the counter, the other gripping your thigh, steadying you as his hips began to move precise and relentless.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this?” he muttered into the curve of your neck, voice wrecked. His lips brushed against your pulse, the edge of his teeth grazing the skin like he was half a second from losing control. “How many nights I told myself I couldn’t touch you... shouldn’t want you, couldn’t have you.”

You let out a breathless laugh that quickly turned into a gasp as his hips snapped forward again. 

“Keep going,” you rasped, one hand clawing up the curve of his back, the other buried in his hair. “Don’t stop.”

His only reply was a low, broken groan against your skin, like he was coming apart just from the feel of you wrapped around him. You locked your ankles behind him and rocked your hips forward, drawing him deeper. A spark of pleasure flared up your spine, making your head fall back against the fogged-up mirror..

“I tried so fucking hard to keep my distance.” He chuckled low against your collarbone, though the sound was strained, caught between shallow pants and a raw groan of need. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His vibranium hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with gentle strokes, and your body jolted in response. An uncontrollable whimper left you as your thighs trembled around him.

“I’ve been dying to hear those sounds from you.” Bucky panted against your ear. 

You pressed closer to him, shaking legs tightening around his waist as you pursued his fingers. He chuckled at your poorly hidden desperation, chest vibrating from the sound. As his fingers swirled, cock pumping in and out, you felt your body clench involuntarily around him, drawing a moan from him. 

“Fuck, Bucky, ” you breathed, barely able to form the word as your pleasure surged, unrelenting and dizzying. “If I’d known this was what you were holding back, I would’ve pushed harder.”

Bucky’s rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming uneven and desperate, chasing the high he could feel coiling tighter in both of you. Your raw moans echoed around the small bathroom, rising above the hiss of the shower and the frantic beat of the slap of wet skin. Your climax broke over you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, legs trembling as you whimpered, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure tore through you like lightning, leaving your nerves sparking in its wake.

With a guttural groan muffled against your neck, Bucky followed you over the edge. You felt him twitch inside you, warmth spreading as he spilt into you, his hips stuttering erratically as he buried himself as deep as he could go. His arms tightened around you, as though he needed to hold you close to keep himself grounded.

For a long, breathless moment, you stayed like that. Tangled together, trembling, the heat of the afterglow. The water still rained behind you, forgotten, as you both came down slowly, limbs heavy and slick with sweat and steam. Then, slowly, Bucky lifted his head to look at you. His hair was plastered to his forehead in wet strands, water trailing down the lines of his cheekbones and along his jaw. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched yours with a mix of dazed satisfaction and something else. A flicker of awe, maybe. Or disbelief.

You gave him a slow, wicked smirk and reached up to brush a dripping lock of hair off his brow, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I need you to pull that transfer request, by the way,” you murmured, voice low and rough with breath. “There is no way in hell I’m training with Thor.”

His lips twitched, a hoarse laugh escaping him, short and surprised. But the fire in his gaze didn’t fade. If anything, it darkened.

“I’ll pull it…” he said, voice thick with promise as his hands slid back down to your waist, “…when I’m done with you.”

From the way his fingers gripped your hips, you had a feeling that wouldn’t be anytime soon. 

---

hello! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to be notified when i post please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications!

when you just finished one of the most beautiful fics ever written and you see that the author has a masterlist full of other fics

why not right there…?

I ran so that I could share this with you because it made me think of how flustered chubby baker Bucky would get when he saw it!!

Summary: Teasing Bucky is always worth the consequences.

Pairing: Chubby!Baker Bucky x Reader

AN: Unbetad drabble. Part of the Sweeter than Sugar Series.

"Peach," Bucky whispers, rubbing the back of his neck as a blush blooms across his round cheeks. "I—this isn't fair. You know you can't do this to me. I can't handle this."

You hide a smug smirk behind your champagne flute. He's right. It's not fair. But he started it when he showed up to your work party wearing a new black three-piece suit, tailored to his large body, the material highlighting every inch of his physique.

Bucky in his jeans and apron is enough to drive you wild. Bucky in a suit, wearing that cologne is rendering you senseless, teetering the edge of feral and needy.

How can he expect you to behave when he looks so damn good?

So you may have been teasing him here and there as a way to distract yourself from this boring party.

Your gaze travels past his long hair sweeping across the nape of his neck and across his strong jawline enhanced his thick beard. God he's spent so much time between your thighs, you know exactly how that beard feels on your soft skin.

Just imagining the graze of it on your back as he chains kisses down your spine--feeling it against your neck as he murmurs just one more, one more Peach has your panties soaked.

"Bucky I need you so bad. If we were home, I'd beg you to fuck me. Beg you to let me suck your cock. You taste so good, did you know that? So good." You murmur, reveling in this shiver sliding down his spine, your hand flexing, gripping his muscular thighs tighter. Your voice drowning out everyone else in the room, he can only focus on you. "I hate feeling empty. Need you to stretch me out and fuck me the way you know I like. I'm going to feel you inside me for days, aren't I?"

Unable to resist him for another second, you set your drink down and lean over in your chair, placing one hand on his thick thigh, the other sliding around his throat pulling him towards until your lips are touching the shell of his ear. Inhaling the masculine scent of his smokey cedar, bergamot, and lemon cologne, you let out a soft moan.

You know he's slowly becoming feral the longer you talk, you can sense it in the way he's gone still, his chest barely rising, his hands clenchimh into fists. He's so damn close to edge and you know exactly how to push him over.

"You'll do that for me Bucky wont you? Keep me nice and full, leave me swollen and dripping because my little pussy couldn't take anymore."

Bucky can't breathe. His lungs seizing in his chest. Fuck, fuck. You're barely touching him, the sounds your salacious, dirty thoughts ringing in his ear are going to make him lose control in the middle of your work party.

He wants that, wants you.

A ravenous hunger swells up inside him, drowning out every thought except all the ways he's going to utterly consume you. Destroy you. Make you sob and plead and scream for more. Giving you every inch he has, giving you all of his attention until you can't move without feeling on you, inside you.

Bucky turns his head, his nose bumps into yours and he grabs the back of your neck in a loose hold. His deep blue eyes darkening as they pierce through you.

"Peach," he starts, his baritone deepening to a gravely, lust-filled tone. "I'm giving you one minute to find an empty room. It could be an office, a fucking closet. I really don't give a fuck where because by the time I countdown to one, I'm going to be inside you." Bucky tilts your face up, his lips hovering over your parted mouth, his gaze never wavering from your face. "Understand?"

You nod, excitement and anticipation rushing through your veins as a pulse of pure need throbs between your thighs.

You feel his lips curve into a smile.

"Good girl. You have 59 seconds."

Oh wow. this is just. wow.

A beefy!Bucky happy trail.

That’s it.

That’s the post.

I did not ask to be attacked on this Sinday. In my house. In front of my innocent followers. Also.....NSFW thoughts below. But soft NSFW.

Rain patters against the window, creating a soft steady drum that fills the peaceful, hushed room.

All you hear is his heartbeat under your ear, his warm skin on your cheek, your hand tracing along the firm planes of his stomach. You know each scar and mole on his body, a story written on his skin, your own personal map of Bucky.

It’s been hours of the two you wrapped around each other. You never want to leave this bed, the soft linen sheets tangled around his waist, your own bare legs stretched out next to him. You giggle when you realize that he’s snagged every sheet. Again.

Bucky is a blanket hog-no matter how many duvets and sheets you layer on at night, they all end up around him-you don’t complain, he’s warm enough to make up for it.

Any protest about you needing just one sheet Bucky withering away when he draws you into his side tucking you right under his bearded chin, a heavy warm arm draped over your waist, his deep voice in your ear, all sleepy and disoriented, mumbling that you’re just too far away, bunny, c’mere, I’m cold without ya.

Today has been one of those rare lazy days. No missions, no work, no phones, you turned off them before anyone could call. No need to make excuses for why you wanna stay in, you can save that for tomorrow. Sorry Sam, no brunch today, no Scott, you can’t borrow Bucky’s arm for Cassie’s show and tell.

The rain continues to drum on the rooftop; the skies fading to cloudy azure blues and grays, the light in the room dimming, as you continue to trace your finger up and down his belly. Across the soft tawny hair trailing to his growing bulge that’s not quite hidden by the heap of sheets gathered around his legs.

The pads of your fingers find the vein running down his stomach and you press softly, grazing it with the edge of your nail. His quiet hiss draws your eyes up, past his heaving flushed chest to his face.

Oh.

Bucky is giving you that look. The one that sends you spiraling headfirst into the abyss, the one that will have you agreeing to do anything if he just keeps looking at you like that.

He’s gazing at you, love and adoration darkening his blue eyes. He always says you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

And when his blue eyes settle on your face, his breath shuddering and he stares at you, enraptured as if he could fall to his knees and worship the ground you walk on.

When he can’t keep his hands off of you for more than a minute, when he seeks you out in a room full of people, drawn to your smile, your eyes, your laugh.

When he tilts your chin up, just to get a closer look and maybe sneak a kiss or two....well you have to believe him. How can you argue with that?

“Whatchu thinkin’ about Bunny,” he enquires, voice rough, gravelly breaking the silence, his hand drifting over the small of your back. You shiver at the feel of his calloused fingers on your skin.

Pursing your lips, your playful eyes flit between his relaxed face and the tent between his legs. “You.”

A grin stretches across his face, his bearded cheeks creasing as it widens until the corners of his eyes crinkle. You trace the vein down, down, down, unhurried, hearing the small hitch in his breath as you push your hand under the sheets, keeping you from him.

Flicking them away, you lick your lips at the sight of him. Hard and throbbing, a long vein making its way to the red, swollen tip. You draw your thumb across his head, smearing drops of precum down his shaft with a twist of your wrist.

Bucky chokes out your name when you do it again, his cock twitching under your light touch. Glancing back up at him, his blue eyes nearly black with lust and need, his lips parted as he takes a deep breath in.

You preen, your giant super-soldier coming undone at your touch is well-it’s intoxicating especially when you make him groan, his hips lifting off the bed as you stroke him.

“Thinking about how much I want you inside me, stretching me until I can’t take anymore,” you confess.

“Hold on, hold on,” Bucky reaches down, his fingers closing around your wrist. “That feels too good,” he chuckles, needing you to stop because if you keep touching him the way you are, this is going to be over before he can take care of you the way you deserve.

And Bucky never lets you down.

“Get on top and use me, bunny,” he states, his hands folding behind his head. "If you can handle all this," he jokes.

You narrow your eyes at him. You can handle him, maybe. Damn, he's big. The last time he pinned you down and fucked you swore he was in your chest, unable to even scream as he pounded you. You may have passed out. Yeah, you can handle him.

You swing your leg over his large thigh, grabbing his shaft with one hand, bracing yourself as you ease down his thick cock. “Oh fuck,” you gasp, feeling the slight burn as you take him in, your silken walls stretching around him.

It always takes a minute to get used to him, each inch makes you feel so full, soft mewls slip past your lips as he disappears inside you. Slapping your hands on his chest, you drop your head, breathing through your nose. He’s so deep, so deep, all you can feel is him.

Bucky smooths his hands up your thighs, massaging small circles with his thumbs, “take your time sweet girl, doing so good,” he praises.

You circle your hips, nails clawing at his chest at the first burst of sensations. He lets you set the pace, a slow steady rhythm that builds until you’re bouncing on him, your tits sway in front of his face, his hands running up and down and your thighs as he continues to praise you for taking him so well, fuck you feel so good bunny, you’re so tight bunny, you feel so soft, so good, that’s my girl.

Your legs burn, muscles shaking as you chase your high, you slip forward, your hands sliding up to his shoulders. You’re so close, but you can’t move fast enough, tears prick your eyes as you try. “Bucky please’-” you cry out.

“You need me, don’t you, Bunny?” he murmurs.

Bucky sits up, pulling you into his chest, your nipples brushing over his sweat-laced skin with each frantic roll of your hips. You place your hands on his back, biting down on his shoulder. All you can think is how good you feel, so good, drowning in pleasure as you let him take control. His massive arms wrap around your body as he meets your thrusts, pounding up into your fluttering walls, the bed shaking and creaking.

“Bucky, fuck, oh fuck yes right there, right-oh fuck,” you rasp out, a bead of sweat rolling your spine.

Bucky sweeps his lips across your shoulder, peppering kissing along your neck, nipping and sucking bruises on your throat, you’ll proudly wear his marks for days his steady deep pace making you cry out. His name slurred on your tongue as the spring gets tighter and tighter.

Bucky wrenches your head back, biting your throat until you whimper his tongue soothing the small marks left behind. His feral eyes roaming over your pretty face with pride. He’s not going to stop until he sees you fall apart.

“I got you, bunny. Let go for me, go on, I got you,” he grunts, his lips slotting over yours. His grip tightens when a deep thrust hits your sweet spot so hard your body goes rigid.

“There you go, cum for me, cum for me,” he chants, his needy words muffled as he deepens the kiss, the feel of his wet tongue gliding past your parted lips drives you over the edge.

You keen, a high thin sound that makes Bucky smirk, your slick walls clenching over his cock, greedily pulling him back. Your hips jerking rapidly over him as your orgasm hits you, the tight spring coiling in your belly shatters.

Bucky groans in your ear, clutching you to his warm body as he pounds into your spasming cunt. It’s too much, yet you want more, the potent pressure building again. His face buried in your neck as his thrusts become erratic, warmth spreading in your pussy as he cums, his fingers rubbing your clit, “one more, bunny, need ya to cum one more time, “breathed into your skin until you wantonly sob, your body trembling as another weaker orgasm washes you over.

“Good girl,” he pants, lifting his head up, his lips moving over your jaw. More soft kisses peppered along your skin, his mouth slotting over yours passionately, languidly until you’re dizzy.

Breaking the kiss with a pleased sigh, he leans back on the sheets, keeping you flush against him, arranging your limp body over his.

“Let’s stay like this,” he hums when you sit up. “I’ll get you cleaned up and fed in a minute, just wanna feel you wrapped around me, bunny.”

You can do that. All night if he wants.

You smile, laying back on his chest, you card your fingers through his damp hair. The sounds of the rain pelting on the rooftop fading away as you listen to his deep voice telling you how much he loves you.