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I don't want no minute man, fuck me for some hours 

tag team bucky and steve (is it a train if its just the two of them?)

I'm talking all day, all night, those men with that super soldier serums, geez you're gonna have to be carried down those stairs because you best believe your legs ain't working after. (they're the kinda freaks that high five after making you come over and over again, like they just won a soccer game or something) I can't stop thinking about the two of them just fucking me up god damn please jesus you think you're done for the night as Steve cleans you up, brushes your hair from your face and gives you soft lingering kisses but nope, Bucky walks in and he's like let's go' and who are you to deny that god what he wants so you're back on top, body aching with exhaustion but its just too good to stop and when you do get a little tired, steve is there to hold you up, he praises you and whispers how good you're doing and how pretty you look all fucked out and how you deserve a treat after making them both feel so good (bucky fucking you from behind, you're on your hands and knees so overstimulated you're crying and steve sits in front of you, holding your face in his hands and wipes your tears, cooing and praising you, keeping you going and kissing your skin cause he knows you and what you want, how you don't want to stop until they do but he knows his baby is tired so he'll make sure to support you even if you're getting ruined) anyway, I can't stop thinking about how much stamina they would both have and how even though I am a weak bitch I could take the both (not in a fight)

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♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ It Will Come Back

₊˚⊹♡ Masterpost in regards to the fic It Will Come Back ₊˚⊹ will contain links to all chapters and extra posts ₊˚⊹ further down, it will have the vibe of the fics as well as songs that inspire/listen to while writing ₊˚⊹ basically just a big posts where I can compile all my thoughts and posts so I give the impression that I'm organised

✮⋆˙ Chapters Prologue One

✮⋆˙ Extras Daisie, I think My Coffee?

✮⋆˙ Inspiration Playlist It Will Come Back- Hozier (Self-Titled Album) Run- Hozier (Self-Titled Album) In A Week- Hozier (Self-Titled Album) Dinner and Diatribes- Hozier (Wasteland, Baby!) Francesca- Hozier (Unreal Unearth) Army Dreamers- Kate Bush (Never For Ever) *this version on youtube Forwards Beckon Rebound- Adrianne Lenker (Songs) Son of Nyx- Hozier (Unreal Unearth) *this version on youtube Sailor Song- Gigi Perez Thick Skull- Paramore (This Is Why)

✮⋆˙ Misc

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I am definitely not thinking about Bucky's first time in around 100 years like he is so sensitive to every touch already, the serum coursing through his veins heightening each brush of your skin, each hitch of your breath as he licks up the column of your neck, the quickening of your heart as his fingers trail over the ribbon on your panties, don't even get me started on how overstimulated he would get as you trail your fingers down his torso, over the waistband of his pants, sliding down the zipper, his cock hot and aching against the seam of his trousers, and when you finally make contact when your fingertips graze the outline of him through his boxers, he quite literally almost busts right there and then, but I am 10000% not thinking about how he would lose his composure the second he slides into you.

Bucky has barely sunk his aching cock in you before he pulls out with a wince, his mouth pulled in a pained frown.

"Buck, what's wrong?" panic floods your body as you begin to sit, pushing yourself up on your elbows. "What's happening?" The heat that had once filled your body as you worked each other up is replaced with ice, and the terror at crossing his boundaries fills your muscles.

Bucky shakes his head, muscles in his jaw tensing as he hisses through his teeth. Every indicator points towards pain. The furrowed brow, closed eyes, tensed jaw, heavy breathing—these are all bad signs, terrible signs, so you begin to move, to slowly pull back from him, afraid to cause any more damage, but his hand on your bare leg stops you. Vibranium fingers dig into the plush flesh, gripping the fat of your thigh as he releases a shaky breath.

"I'm not- I'm fine," Bucky assures, grip on you loosening.

"Are you sure? We don't have to do this. I don't want to pressure you into anything that you-"

"You aren't pressurin' me into anything, sweetheart." His voice is a defeated sigh. "It's just—" he shakes his head. "Really sensitive."

You blink at him for a moment, brain slow to connect the pieces of the puzzle laid before you. Seconds tick by as you finally start to work it out. Your eyes shift between his embarrassed smile, the hand on your thigh, your bare legs and his, frankly intimidatingly, hard cock, pre cum oozing like pearls over perfect pink skin.

Oohhh.

Oh.

"Buck-" you start, a teasing smile creeping across your face.

"Angel, don't." Bucky fixes you with a rather intimidating look, but you press on, no longer daunted by him.

"Bucky..." you press. "Were you gonna com-" You can't say another word as he interrupts, cheeks flushing bright red.

"It's been a long time, okay?" he explains, blush spreading to his ears.

"How long?"

"Longer than you've been alive."

“That long?” You balk. “Even after you coming back and - not even then?”

“When would I have had the time? Between tryna figure out who I am plus meeting and dealing with you, I didn’t really have all that free time to get it on” Bucky explains, fingers creeping up your thigh to squeeze the fat at your hip.

"you did not just say get it on."

“what was i meant to say?”

"i don’t know, anything but that!"

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dilf?- bucky barnes

"Hey, sweetheart." Bucky croons at you as a muscular arm wraps around your waist, pulling you into the side of his body. A light kiss is pressed to your cheek in greeting as you snuggle into the side of the super soldier.

You turn to face him, eyes bright and beaming as you look up at your mission partner. It has been six long months of no Bucky and god, did you miss him. Something is different, you squint your eyes as you try to pin point the difference. Eyes the same, arm the same, muscular build that has your cheeks blushing, the same, hair slightly longer than before and not as brown. Grey. There are strands of grey within his hair, albeit no more than a few but they are there.

You blink up at him, starring at the discoloured strands before refocusing on his face. Not a single line marked his skin, not by his eyes or forehead, nothing to indicate he is ageing other than those silver streaks.

"What?" he asks, smirking.

You reach a hand up, fingers combing through tousled tresses.

"You're getting old." You don't mean for it to come out like that like it is a bad thing; in fact, it is far from. Growing old is a luxury that not many people have, not something Bucky has gotten to have, so knowing that he is ageing means he is living, enjoying life, and enjoying that process that everyone is desperate to stop or reverse.

"That's the first thing you say to me?" he chuckles, digging his fingers into your side. "Where are the manners of the kids these days?"

You squirm against his grip, trying to escape his assault on your waist, but you're firmly locked against him.

"That isn't a bad," you try to explain through giggles. “You're turning into a DILF; that's a good thing!"

Bucky stops and looks at you, utterly confused at the foreign word. "DILF?"

"Dad I'd like to fuck."

"Please don't call me that." He sighs, finally releasing you from his embrace.

"Why not? It suits the new you."

"Because I'm not a dad. Why would you call me a dilf? If anything, I'd be a ....." he trails off as he struggles to find the right word.

"I can make you one if you want." you smirk at him, waggling your eyebrows.

"Make me a what? A new kind of name?"

"No, Buck. I can make you a father."

"How.."

You sigh, watching as the joke flies right over his head only to come back and smack him in the face two seconds later. These six months apart have really done numbers on him.

"Ohh," Bucky smirks at your unchanged humour. "You're getting too slick, kid." He wraps his arm around your shoulder to pull you back against him.

"You can make me even slicker if you want"

"Jesus Christ, are you ever not on!"

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sorry for the lack of content as of late (i saw hozier on friday and only just recovered) will have some new stuff soooon xxx ily

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I'm so happy I found a Slavic heritage reader omg, I mean I obviously don't need it to read a fic, I just use my imagination but still, that got me so excited to read it yay (I'm Polish, that's why it made me happy 😊)

eeee i’m so excited you’re happy !!! i don’t usually think too much about the heritage of the reader but i just wanted to make a fic using all the lil customs and cultural quirks that me and my family have (like using different teas for when you’re sick or the superstitions we have) just little things that i think could be super prevalent in bucky’s life in romania

basically, i just wanted to make a self indulgent series and i love that it’s always making other people happy !!! ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

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Got diagnosed by my therapist today for having commitment issues, intimacy issues and daddy issues and as she was saying it I literally thought in my head “ah yes well that makes sense” based off the fan fic I read 🤣🤭😩 It’s why any form of a “I got you, you’re safe, cum for me” or a big strong man who cares for me calling himself daddy is an instant ✨✨✨✨✨ trigger. Just needed to rant that out somewhere, sorry haha 🫣😮‍💨

SCREAM !! literally me !!! bestie this is every type of issue safe zone ! ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

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yk what, i’d let the winter soldier step on the back of my neck with his boot while he fucked me from behind, i’d let that slide

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just came by to say your writings are top tier, i'm currently binge reading some of them and you got me like this:

thanks for sharing your greatness with the internet, lovely person (<3). keep up with the good work, and remember to take good care of yourself.

oh.my.goodness!! stop this is so cute!!!! eee thank you!!!! <3333

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♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ It Will Come Back

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: angst, childhood memories, bucky as the winter soldier, eastern european/slavic heritage reader, does not follow the canonical timeline after bucky is arrested in romania, deviates from canon, childhood memories, implied SA, post war trauma, ~ wc:5.4k ~ not proofread Your grandmother has the gift so why couldn't she see the man in your future?

Chapter One: Don't Give It A Hand

It is said that you must not utter the name of the wolf. Use any other word to describe the beast for its name and title will summon it from the depths of hell. 

1993 Nižepole, FYROM

A clump of wet tea leaves stares at you from within the porcelain cup.

"I see a rock," you answer honestly, pointing a tiny finger at the lump as you swirl it in the leftover liquid. 

A wrinkled hand reaches out and slaps yours, and a harsh voice begins to berate you. "Stop! You're ruining it." 

Your grandmother sits across from you on her wooden stool. Her shoulders hunched and covered tightly in a tartan shawl, a matching headscarf tied beneath her chin in a knotted bow. The years of farm life had worn on her, freckled marr her skin like stars on a clear night sky, lines and wrinkles embedded deep from all the years of love and laughter, stories so woven through her very being that they manifest in flesh.

Her eyes crinkle up as she smiles and gently takes the cup from your hands, knobby fingers like a birch tree cradling the porcelain as though it were a baby chick. She holds it up to the light, trying to discern the pattern from beneath. From where you are sitting, you can't see any light coming through, but Baba is magical—always has been—so maybe she sees something you can't.

She hums, lowering the vessel to eye level and taking another peek. 

"You're going to move away from here—far, far away," she says wistfully, closing one eye to garner a new perspective on the future. "I see a cat." She flits her gaze from the prophetic cup to you and then back to the cup. "There is a tall man, but I can't see his face." 

Your nose wrinkles at that.

Tall man? Moving away from home? Unlikely. There has never been a desire to get away from your farm. Your home's rolling hills and endless sky are enough for you, and you doubt you will ever want to be anywhere else.  

A cat, maybe. You've always wanted one. 

"There's something else, something sooner, but I don't know- I can't see it." Her voice dissolves into a whisper as your attention shifts.

With your head slung back against the chair, you bask in the mid-spring sun. Heat kisses your exposed skin, and the warm breeze does naught to cool you down, but you enjoy it. You have longed for the heat all winter, wished that the months would be shorter so the sun would come around quicker, and now that it is here, you never want it to leave. The farm is its usual springtime uproar, with birds chirping and bugs humming as they flit from flower to flower. Cowbells ring from the neighbouring field as the cattle graze for lunch, chickens cluck in their roosts, and the dogs across the road bark as a newcomer drives by. You hear the rumble of an engine; the sound of rubber under gravel fills you with excitement at the possibility of a new face or delivery from the main town. 

The dogs bark louder as the car draws nearer, but their howls have a sharper edge, and their snarling is grittier and lower. Fear begins to settle in your chest.

The air shifts, the wind suddenly stops, crickets no longer hum, and birds are eerily quiet. The sound of the engine ceases for a moment, and then there is the crunch of boots on gravel. Your grandmother reaches out to you; her bony fingers wrap around your wrist and tug you forward. Her words are hushed, spat out at a speed you can't understand.

"Listen to me," she tugs on your wrist, and you look at her face.  Terror lies in her furrowed brows, thin lips pursed as her jaw clenches. 

"You need to get inside. Go hide in your cupboard, and don't leave until I get you. I don't care what you hear; stay inside until I come for you." Her words are grave, a direct warning not to disobey her instructions. 

"What's happening?" you whisper, panic rising in your throat. 

She spares a glance at the front gate; the sounds of footsteps are replaced by howling dogs. 

"The wolf is here." 

2015 Bucharest, Romania

A wolf can smell its prey from two-point-four kilometres away. This is a fact.

That is the distance between you and your apartment, exactly two points four, or no more, no less, as stated by the map on your phone.

Your location pings as a small red dot being shared with your friends, who can easily open the application and see that you are almost home, almost safe within the confines of your apartment walls, but you don't know if you will make it home tonight, for there is a wolf standing on the street corner. 

Cloaked entirely in the blackness of night, the outskirts of the streetlight do little to illuminate much beyond the silhouette and glint of canine eyes. It is crouched over in the street, claws digging into the freshly fallen snow as it hurls its guts up, spewing its latest kill into the gutter. Terror slices through you, a sharp winter wind following suit and turning your blood to ice. You need to move, to step back into the darkness before the beast takes notice and begins its hunt. The snow is soft beneath your feet, and the wind is loud enough to cover any sound you make; you might make it out alive. Might cheat death once more. Potentially be more than just a number on a spreadsheet, so you take a step back, gently, carefully, ohh so tentatively to avoid arousing suspicion. Still, as your shoe crunches on powdery snow, the wolf turns. 

In the low light, the beast begins to shift. Standing from the crouch emerges a man as he rises on two legs and stumbles forward, sputtering unintelligible sentences as he lunges through the snow. The creature paces forward, his steps sloppy and belligerent, but he is tall, his gait wide and lengthier than yours, and though you have turned, tried to make a break for the street beyond, a hand clamps down on your wrist. There is no fur, no claws, nothing to resemble a beast beyond the look in his eyes as you are yanked forward. The nauseating stench on him fills your nose; sweat and beer, vinegar and cigarette smoke engulf you as he shoves his face into yours. You attempt to pull back, the bag on your shoulder having slipped off and down to the earth below. 

"Let me go." You grit through clenched teeth, the lump in your throat turning to bile as you breathe in more of the putrid scent. "Get off me." 

The beast smiles, teeth rotted and missing, and you try desperately not to gag. "Where are you going? Do you need someone to take you?" 

"Leave me alone." You tug on your arm, but his grip is locked. "Please." 

You curl your fingers into a fist, nails digging into your palm in a sharp sting, but that is nothing compared to what could come, what you could be facing if you do not make some attempt to fight back.

The beast stumbles forward, his chest pressed against your arm, your hand being placed over the seam of his pants. A scream builds in your chest, your throat tightening painfully against the tears that begin to line your eyes, but before you can make a sound, neither a whine nor whimper, the beast is ripped away from you. 

A second pair of hands is tugging at your shoulders, pulling you back into the shadows of the building as your assailant slides through the snow. 

"It's okay. You're okay." another man's voice fills your head as you are pulled further back. "Just keep walking." 

You shouldn't follow the instructions; for all you know, this was planned. Have someone scare you, then use a second man to lull you into a false sense of safety before you are finally trapped and carted off to where they had planned, but you do as he says. You lean into his hands and let him guide you away, leaving the beast in the snow. 

The hands veer you in the opposite direction, towards the light and sound of a busier street. You want to turn, to face the person who had just pulled you from certain death and thank them, to offer them some kind of reward for the deed they had just committed, but the hands on your shoulders keep pushing forward.

"My bag!" you exclaim, suddenly aware of the lack of weight dragging down your right side. It feels silly to worry about such a thing, but you had your wallet, keys, and phone in that bag; your entire life was in that bag.

"Got it." Your hero mutters, and you spot the white canvas bag swinging at his side. 

When did he pick that up?

The light of the street stuns you as you step out of the alley. You still, for a moment, reorientate yourself as you feel the pressure of his hands leave you, only to be replaced by the weight of your bag on your shoulder.  Whirling around, your vision blurring momentarily at the sudden spin, you face your saviour. 

"Thank you so much," you whisper, voice shaky as you take deep breaths, the ice-cold air burning your lungs. "Thank you, thank you." 

Another gulp of air stabilises your vision, subsides the tingling in your hands, and begins to even out your heartbeat. 

"I'm so sorry." Apologies are quick to be thrown. "I don't know what would have happened if you- thank you" The words fly out of you as you speak, not pausing to breathe. "I owe you so much. A drink or food or money, I'll give you money." 

You reach into the canvas bag, searching for your wallet, to offer money as a thank you, but a gloved hand on your arm stops you. 

"Are you okay?" the man asks. 

The question gives you pause to truly understand what just happened. Tears sting your eyes, your throat tightens once again, and you begin to feel your bottom lip shake, but now is not the time. You will break down at home, in the sanctity of your own bathroom, not in front of another strange man. 

"Yeah, I think," you swallow the lump in your throat and blink back the tears, your shaking hands wiping your cheeks in case any had fallen free. "Thank you." 

"Do you need to call someone?" 

The offer has you looking up at your hero and are stunned by his appearance. He is handsome, scarily handsome. Chiselled features of sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, piercings blue eyes framed by locks of dark brown hair hidden beneath a scruffy baseball cap. His brows are set in a concerned furrow, his mouth following suit. You stare, unable to make sense that a man so perfect is standing before you and not the leading man in a painting by Eugene Delacroix. 

"I can wait with you?" He presses, dipping his head so as to not seem so imposing. 

You shake your head. "No, I—I don't have anyone to call." A frown tugs at the corner of your mouth. "I can walk home; it's just a block away." 

The man shakes his head. "I'll call you a cab, " he says, raising his hand to signal a taxi. 

"No, no, please." you begin, waving your hands in protest. "I'm fine!" 

A car pulls over as the man flags him down. "I'll pay for it, please." 

"No, I can't accept that-" 

"No. Ma'am, please. Let me get you home safe." His insistence shuts you up, and you find yourself following his instructions as he opens the door of the car and motions for you to get in. 

The taxi is warm and smells of tobacco. The driver is an old man who looks vaguely like an uncle you haven't seen in years. He smiles at you and turns back to your saviour for directions. The man stands on the sidewalk, one arm slung over the top of the car as he leans in and nods to you in the back seat. 

"Take her wherever she needs to go." a gloved hand slips him a decent amount of bills that could cover three of your trips. 

"Ohh, that's…" You're once again shut down by a look from the strange man. You sink into your seat, suddenly feeling like a child being scolded. 

"Please, just get her home safe, " the man implores, glancing at you once more before he pulls away. 

The driver tips his hat with a small "yes, boss" before he pockets the money and pulls away from the curb. 

You turn in your seat, staring out the back window to catch another glimpse of the strange man, but as you look back, you see that the spot he once stood in is empty. Nothing but the swirl of snow. You sink back into the leather, inhaling deeply as you run through the events of the last ten minutes in your mind. Who the fuck was that and why did his eyes look so familiar? 

---

Bucky hates snow—always has and always will. His mother had always scolded him for using that word, her soft voice reminding him that hate is such a strong word that he should use softer, kinder words. That there was no room for hate in his heart. Bucky detests snow. 

There is nothing magical about frozen rain as it pelts against raw skin, covering the world in a dangerous icy slick, freezing the ground so nothing can grow, and turning everything into a white wasteland devoid of any sign of life. He didn't like it as a child and certainly does not like it now. 

His breath is puffs of air into the frozen morning,  the street glowing yellow beneath streetlights, shopfront displays of Christmas trees, and twinkling fairy lights. Bucky thinks for a moment, trying to recall the months of the year and how many of them he had spent in this city if it was almost Christmas. His mind is a jumble of days and weeks, and he cannot pinpoint the exact moment he had come to Bucharest; it would be on a ticket somewhere in his apartment. He should get a calendar and start marking days off. That would be normal. It could lead to the healthy habit of timekeeping, grounding him to the present day whenever he felt the world got too soft beneath his feet. Timekeeping is good, something he wasn't allowed to do back then, and he was never given a chance. 

Bucky scrawls his to-do list of buying a calendar in the top margin of his notebook, followed by a simple 'food; right under it. He had been paid yesterday. Cash in hand for his work as a handyman, carrying supplies up and down stairs on a construction sight. Easy, simple, achievable work. There was no thinking or conversing, simple yes's and no's to even more straightforward questions. It hadn't been hard to find that type of work once he settled into his version of a normal life post-Hydra. There is no shortage of under-the-table work. Employers want to avoid paying benefits and taxes to their team, so they hire drifters and passersby, undocumented people who overstayed visas and travellers looking for some extra cash. Bucky had fit right in, his quiet demeanour hiding him from prying eyes as he worked, head down and mouth shut, just making enough to eat. Never more. There is no need. 

The weight of the notes sits heavy in his pocket, and he knows he should have gone into the market yesterday to blend into the crowd, but as the day wound down, his anxiety did the opposite. The racing in his chest at being recognised spun him into a frenzy of shortened breaths and darkening vision. The roaring in his ears as his blood rushed through his veins became all too similar to the machines that had been used on him, the pressure in his mind building and building until all he could think about was smashing his head against the wall until he cracked his skull, the blood spilling and tension easing but as the minutes passed, the cold tiles of the bathroom soothing his clammy skin, did his heart return to normal, breathing intense and laboured but even, the roaring dulling until he felt like Bucky again. A very blurry and fragmented Bucky, but Bucky nonetheless. His stomach begins to growl, his hunger becoming nausea as the time between meals stretches further, and he is reminded why he had decided to face the world. 

Food. 

---

"I need you to watch him." your manager whispers as she passes behind you, her arms full of boxed muffins. 

"Who?" you follow her as she rounds the corner of the bakery department, throwing the stock on the silver bench. You quickly scan the area around your workspace, spotting no one other than your coworker who is busy decorating a cake.

"There's a guy in the bread aisle; he looks weird." is the only explanation as she begins to scan each small box, the scanner unit in her hand chirping after each successful read. 

"Why me?" you groan, fingers working on tightening your apron strings. "I don't wanna watch some creepy guy." 

Your boss stops, places her hands flat on the counter and fixes you with a look of mild annoyance. The muscles in her jaw twitch as she takes in a breath. 

"Just go. Pretend to fill stock, readjust tags, just make sure he pays for whatever he takes." 

You wait a moment, debating whether or not to turn this into an argument and whether the subsequent unpaid overtime you might have to do would be worth it to not watch a potential shoplifter. But you value sleep and time alone, and doing unpaid work is not worth the mild inconvenience it would be if you had to talk to the guy, so you sigh and throw your head back dramatically, resigning to the orders of your boss. 

She shouts a sung thank you as you walk away; your only acknowledgement of her gratitude is a raised hand as you walk into the aforementioned aisle. 

The shop's bright white fluorescent lights reflect off the grey linoleum with a harsh glare, smothering the cavernous warehouse in a mildly offputting, ever-present light. Smooth, bulbous black security cameras hang over the ends of each aisle, deterring most thieves; however, some still try to push their luck. Towards the end of the aisle, the suspected man stands in front of the packaged loaves. Oh. You've seen him before, a few times, actually within the past few weeks. He had become a frequent shopper, always quiet and polite, and never once struck you as someone who would try to steal, though his current ensemble did scream thief! Dark jeans, heavy black boots, a green jacket, and a black baseball hat slung low over his eyebrows. You watch as his gloved hands trace over the labels, mouth moving as he silently sounds out the vowels. He turns the bread over, weighing it before his head snaps towards you. 

Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden movement. There have been very few moments in life when you felt as though the ground would crumble away beneath you. Honestly, you can count them on one hand, but so far, the man in front of you has been present for two of them. Those familiar blue eyes stare back at you, and you cannot move. 

It's not fear but something so remarkably close that freezes you to your spot. It is not an emotion you can name. It is something you haven't felt before, but the tightness in your throat has you categorising it with the bad emotions, the ones that make you want to curl up in your bed and hide from the world, the ones that make you feel small again. 

The man takes a tentative step towards you—just one, no more—not as if he wants to get closer, just open up his body for conversation. You swallow, knowing he is about to speak, but the rock in your throat makes it impossible. 

He holds up the loaf of bread in his gloved hands and asks, "Do you know which bread keeps the longest?"  There is a hint of an American accent you had not heard a few nights ago. 

You shook your head. "I can ask if you would like?" the Romanian strangely formal on your tongue. 

He shakes his head, a tight smile appearing briefly before he turns on his heels and walks out of the aisle. 

A shaky breath escapes you as you fold over. Hands on your knees as you open your mouth, gulping air down and down into your body, the oxygen chasing away the static slowly creeping along your limbs. A nervous response your body has enacted for as long as you can remember, but it always goes away with a few deep breaths, the electricity turning back to blood and rushing through your body usually. When you were younger, you often panicked that if that static got to your heart, it would override your entire body, turning your muscles into electrical wires. You would become part robot, part human, and that fear had only been exacerbated after witnessing the man in your barn. His metal arm glinting in the low light sent shivers down your spine at the genuine fear your young brain conjured up, but that had to be a dream; there was no plausible explanation for that. Who has a metal arm? 

Another deep breath has your body relaxing, the tightness in your muscles easing away, but it does not stop your mind from racing. You hadn't had a moment to sit and think about that man from the other night; the second you got home, you had been bombarded with emails from your aunt, unanswered calls from your manager and an inbox from a friend you had not spoken to since moving away. There was not a single second where you sat and processed the events and the possible outcome of what could have happened, and if you are being honest with yourself, there never will be. You don't want to open that, to tear a small hole open to inspect inside, because if you open that gash, it would undoubtedly undo the rest of the hastily sutured wounds you have, and there is no time for that. No time to think about your home, your parents, your grandmother, the life you left behind, no time for anything other than moving forward. To keep pushing, to keep living. 

"Are you okay?" your boss asks, her hand sliding up your back to rest between your shoulder blades. 

Another deep breath in. 

"Yeah, just tired." You lie and stand, your vision darkening temporarily at the sudden movement. "Just saw someone I thought I knew." 

---

You see your hero two more times in store before you work up the nerve to say something. 

The original plan was as follows:

Step one: Introduce yourself.

Step two: Say thank you for the other night and apologise for taking so long to say thank you

Step three: Ask him out for coffee as a thank you (and not because he is possibly the most stunning man you have ever seen) 

However, like all good plans, yours goes to waste the second you see him standing in the bread aisle. 

"This bread is really good even if you keep it in the freezer." you slide up to him, a loaf of bread in hand, an attempt to be smooth and start a conversation. 

A side glance is spared your way. His jaw is clenched, but upon seeing you, it relaxes. He turns his head, his eyes finding yours for a split second before glancing at the bread in your hand. 

"Sorry?" 

Oh. 

Your cheeks heat in embarrassment. Have you got the wrong guy? Is this not the man you have thought of for the past week? The man who had saved you from certain doom? 

"The last time you were here, you asked which bread would keep the longest, and I didn't have an answer." You hold the bread up a little higher. "But now I do." 

Should you mention the incident in the alley?

Confusion furrows his brows, but he accepts the loaf nonetheless. "Thank you."

But there is no sincerity in his words. He is cautious about avoiding touching you despite wearing gloves, his fingers digging into the paper bag with gentle strength. He takes a step back, eyes squinting as though trying to figure out your motive behind the gesture and continues to back away before swiftly turning for the register, not another word spoken. 

A heavy sigh leaves you. All the air in your lungs had turned to lead for the duration of the conversation. 

Yes, You should have mentioned the incident in the alley. 

---

"Thank you," a smooth voice says from your left. You quickly turn to find the source, unsure if it's a customer or coworker, and are pleasantly surprised to see your illusive hero standing beside you.

You stand, brushing your hands on your apron, suddenly aware of how grimy and dirty your uniform is. "For?" the question comes out a little harsher than you intend. 

He shifts uncomfortably at your tone. "The bread, earlier in the week." 

"That's okay. I'm just doing my job." You're quick to correct the bitterness you had just spilt with a quick smile. "I'm glad it worked out." 

There is an unusual jitteriness to him. Usually, he is still and calm, like a man made of marble, as he analyses the stock, but today, he is fidgety. His fingers twitch at his side,  and his eyes search for something in the space between you. You think he is going to speak as he parts his lips, but he doesn't. 

You fill the gap. "You probably don't-"

"I just wanted to" 

The two of you awkwardly talk over the other as you realise you both want to say something. 

"Sorry. You finish what you were saying." He holds out his gloved hand as a gesture to keep talking. 

"It was nothing, I just—It's not important." You quickly dismiss yourself, not sure if you want to open that can of worms. If he has yet to mention it, surely he doesn't remember. 

The man looks like he wants to say something but stops himself and takes another direction. "I just wanted to say thank you. I'm Bucky." A gloved hand is extended, and you take it without a second thought. The leather is warm against your frozen fingers as you introduce yourself. 

Maybe you'll just let it go and start afresh. Close that wound completely and get the healing over and done with. 

"Lovely to meet you, Bucky. If you ever need anything, come find me." You've made this offer to many customers and thought nothing more of it but as he lets go of your hand and bids you farewell, you hope that isn't the last you see of him.

---

It's not.

Bucky becomes a frequent shopper. Having been seen maybe twice a fortnight, it is now once a week, with increasing conversation each time your paths cross. 

It starts with small hellos as you stock the aisles he is in, both of you watching each other as you navigate the small space; then he starts to ask about your day, comments on the weather, and the busyness of the square outside. Small talk to break the ice and ease him into conversations. He wants to talk to you despite every cell in his body telling him to run and hide from the potential threat; he can't stop himself as he smiles at you. 

"Do you like fruit?" he asks rather abruptly one day as he watches you stock the apple display. 

The question gives you pause, and he worries he has said the wrong thing or made a mistake, but your smile eases his anxiety. 

"I like fruit," you nod, attention on him but hands still working to stack. "Why?" 

Bucky is still determining why he asked the question. He has been looking at foods that increase memory and brain health, so that could be where it came from, but there is another part of him, something smaller and buried a little deeper, that wants to get to know you. He knows of you, has seen you in the store and saved you from that freak that one time, but other than that, you are just the pretty store clerk who he can't seem to forget about. 

"I've read that fruit can help with memory and was going to ask if you had any favourites I might try."  That works.

"Well, watermelon is my favourite, but I don't think that helps the brain a lot, so I think after that, it might be rasp-ber-ry?" you struggle to pronounce the word in Romanian, your tongue slipping over the constants. 

"Raspberries?' Bucky answers in English, having already known your native language just by the way you pronounce certain words. 

"Oh, you speak English?" you turn towards him, eyes wide as the familiar language catches you off guard.

"Better than Romanian." a small chuckle escapes him before he can help it. "We can stick to it if its easier."

Your eyes narrow as if trying to figure out who you are talking to. Bucky wants to laugh at that and encourage you to try. Let him know if you work it out so he can figure it out, too. 

"I've heard plums are pretty good, too." he watches as you bite down on your bottom lip, pulling the flesh into your mouth for a second. "You know-" 

Bucky stiffens, heart beginning to race. There are too many variables as to where this conversation is headed. 

"I know you, " you say, brows crinkling ever so slightly. You helped me that one night. I'm not sure if you remember." 

A huffed breath leaves Bucky as his muscles relax. Not the direction he dreaded. Good. He nods and leans against the stand. 

"I know, I didn't want to say anything in case you were…I didn't wanna scare ya."  

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you turn back to stack the apples in your hands. The silence has his heart racing, this time for an entirely different reason. 

"Can I take you out as a thank you?" you ask suddenly, staring at the produce under your hands.

Bucky jolts, the fruit beneath his elbow shifting at the surprise, but he quickly catches them. The mechanics in his arm whirs, and he hopes to God, you didn't hear it. 

"Me?" 

"No. The other man who saved me." you joke, and Bucky notices the blush that begins to creep along your cheeks. 

Bucky laughs. "Uh, sure."

"If you want." You are quick to amend. 

"I want to," he reassures you, not wanting to cast doubt on his desire to go out with you. "I just haven't gone out in a long time," 

"Me neither," you shrug, leaning on the plastic create. "It's just a thank you. You don't have to dress up, I swear." 

Bucky wets his lips, pulling the bottom one between his teeth as he deliberates. "Sure." 

Your eyes narrow suspiciously. "I can give you my number?" 

"I don't have a phone." 

"I can meet you here?" The offer is sincere and you don't look too perturbed by the fact he doesn't have a phone. 

There are a lot of things missing from Bucky's life—a phone, a proper house, friends, family, his sane mind. However, something is pulling him towards you. He isn't entirely sure what it is, where it has come from, or what will happen if he starts a friendship with you, but there is something so deep within him—the same gut feeling he had when he saw Steve on the bridge all those months ago—that is pulling him towards you now. 

He squares his shoulders before asking. "What time?"

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civil war era! bucky absolutely freaking the fuck out before you come over to his apartment for the first time. like this man is losing it, he’s running around throwing out old newspapers and food wrappers, he’s desperately trying to arrange the room into something that is more than a halfway house. he’s buying scented candles at the store, plucking flowers from bushes as he races home all to try and make his hovel into a home. it works (kinda) he manages to make up the bed (mattress on the floor) the couch is cleared off paper scraps he had been scrawling on, a bunch of daisies sit in an empty soup can on the kitchen counter, a vanilla scented candle is lit on the small coffee table in the centre of the room. it’s not perfect but it’s miles off from what he has started with.

he want to impress you so bad. wants you think good of him, that he isn’t a bum living on the streets so he panicked a little; well a lot.

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honest to god, HAND ON THE BIBLE, what do i have to do to meet sebastian stan!? like where are all these people meeting him?? who’s dick do i have to suck? cause like wtf

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inspo: prompt three from this post

“Fuck, you turn me on so much.” Bucky groans and throws his head back, breathing ragged.

Your hands stop their work, fingers bloody as you hold the gauze against the wound to his ribs. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you?" you screech, quickly refocusing your thoughts and press harder against the bleeding gash.

"You just, fuck. It's just you." Bucky whines, and you don't know if it is pain or some weird, sick pleasure he is feeling. "You were so hot screamin' at me."

"Jesus Christ, James." you huff, no longer thinking of berating him further for his ridiculous actions in battle. "You... I can't even tell you off now."

Bucky smirks and shifts, grimacing at the pain radiating through his side. "Come here." he holds up his arm and beckons you with two bloody fingers.

"No, I'm not playing into your weird shit, Barnes." You glare at your partner. "You're bleeding, I need to secure the wound."

"I'm gonna be fine. Just come 'ere, baby." the name has your scowl softening.

You hold one hand to his abdomen, keeping pressure as the blood slows, and lean towards him, weight braced on your free arm. "that's my girl." he praises, words breathy.

Bucky slides his hand to the nape of your neck, securing his fingers in your hair. Your faces now inches apart, he lets his eyes slip shut. "I'm gonna to be fine, sweetheart. You worry too much."

"You don't worry enough."

"That's why I've got you. You stress enough for the both of us."

Bucky leans forward and presses his mouth to yours, the kiss slow and sloppy as tries not to move unnecessarily while his body stitches itself back up. His lips move languidly against yours, tongue brushing against your bottom lip in a way that is too casual for the impending doom you have just escaped from. You pull away, the taste of blood on your tongue, and frown at Bucky, his grin lazy and stupid.

"I'm serious. You turn me on so much."

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I done took the whole dick and blew my back out-bucky barnes

The whole team is hyper-aware of the current state of your relationship with the ex-assassin, but when you come down to breakfast the next morning, your gait is slower and more careful than usual; the team is worried and thinks the worst.

"Was it the training yesterday?" Steve fusses as he reaches for the painkillers in the first aid kit above the fridge

"This was because of the run, wasn't it?" Sam narrows his eyes at you.

"What did I say about you pushing yourself?" Tony sighs and taps on his watch, ordering Friday to begin a complete body exam.

Wanda is next to fret, her fingers trailing down your arm with red whorls of magic that make your skin feel staticky. There is no way to answer the team's concerns, nothing you can say to dissuade their worries, so you nod and smile, feeling the ache in your body, but it is not because of any of them. The reason for your pain was still in his room, showering the evidence away after working you to the bone throughout the night. Bucky had been lazy last night, opting to let you take control, and it's not as though you had complained at all; in fact, you were over the moon that your partner had decided to let go of the reigns and lie back, let you on top to fuck yourself silly on his cock while he watched. He loved nothing more than getting to witness his gorgeous and smart girl be reduced to nothing but a crying mess of his name and pleas as you begged to cum, to have him cum, to have something happen because your thighs were beginning to hurt. You didn't think about the after, how you would be unable to walk in the morning, how your lower back would pinch and ache with each stretch; there were no other thoughts in your head aside from Bucky.

You catch Natasha's smirk from across the island. Her face is hidden by the coffee cup as she clocks you, the way you had waddled in and the stupid dumb grin you wore. You shake your head at her, silently begging the assassin to stay quiet as Steve hands you a sheet of paracetamol. The redhead shrugs and returns to sipping her coffee, soundlessly promising to keep your secret.

"Hey sweetheart, next time could you take it easy cause my legs-" Bucky's voice floats into the kitchen before he rounds the corner but as he does, his mouth snaps shut upon acknowledging the rest of the team. "Hey."

You crinkle your face in embarrassment, dropping your head as the shame washes over you. There is a moment of silence before the kitchen erupts in a chorus of disgusted cries.

"Aww, come on! I was actually worried about you!"

"You two are disgusting, you know that."

"I'm putting a lock on both your doors; no more nighttime shenanigans."

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you offering?- bucky barnes unhinged!avenger reader x bucky

a/n: this was the first draft of smash (in a loving way) which is why some lines are the same.

Moving day swiftly degenerated into chaos as more and more boxes were unloaded from the truck. Theoretically, Steve and Bucky should not have that many possessions, seeing as neither of them had lived very long lives in the new century; however, as box after box is carried in, you realise you couldn't be further off base.

Steve shouts down the hall, alerting you of their arrival (having smacked headfirst into you with a box full of record hours earlier, you had developed the system of very loudly announcing yourselves before walking into narrow spaces). You turn to the hallway, ready to semi-jokingly tell Steve off for all the free labour he had managed to squeeze of you, but your brain short circuits as Bucky walks in. The long-sleeved shirt had turned up in has long since been discarded. Instead, he is sporting a black tank top showcasing a stunning display of his muscled arms and shoulders. Unable to look away, you follow the veins along muscled forearms, sweat glistening in the afternoon sun, vibranium fingers humming as they glide over the tops of the box, his hair pulled back in a bun sitting low at the nape of his neck and those godforsaken strands that hang over his eyes leave you thinking about the way they would feel brushing over your thighs.

"You're drooling." You jump, startled by Steve's amused whisper, as he stands behind you, cast iron pot in his hands.

"Ha.Ha." The retort is weak, mind too preoccupied with thoughts of your friend to conjure a coherent sentence.

"Seriously. You gotta bit'a...." Steve wipes the side of his mouth with his thumb, smirk growing as he continues to tease.

"You need to get outta here before I punch you in the face." you whirl on him, warning through clenched teeth. "I will fight you, old man."

He backs away, raising his hands in defeat. "Kids these days, can't take a joke."

-----

An Ikea flatpack sits on the floor of the living room. The name and instructions unreadable as the three of your stare a the unbuilt couch frame.

"You bought a box?" Bucky turns to Steve, brows raised as he gestures to the floor.

"It's a sofa, Buck. We just need to build it." the former sighs, crouching down to examine the slip of paper it came with. "We just need to learn Swedish."

Bucky follows suit and squats, grumbling something about knowing 30 languages but unable to put together a stupid piece of furniture.

You debate joining them, adding a new brain to the equation, but as if it were your turn to take that single cell passed between the three of you, you reach for your laptop and begin your search.

30 minutes later, the frame is complete. The cushions, however, are nowhere to be found.

"Did you not order them?" you ask, eyes still trained on the screen as the two super soldiers stare at the incomplete project.

"I didn't know I was meant to!" Steve is quick to defend his mistake. "If you buy the couch, it comes with it."

It's not a completely irrational thought. It's common sense really. You buy a couch it must come with cushions, so why didn't this one?

Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So we have one bed and couch frame? Where am I meant to sleep, Steve?"

"You can sleep with me." You mumble as you scroll through ikea website, searching for the accompanying pillows.

"Is that you offering?" Bucky asks, and for a second, you are confused by the question, but as you look up from the screen, you find both men staring at you. Ah, the super hearing caused by the super serum. Super.

"Offering what?" you play dumb, biting down on the tip of your thumb, hoping he can't hear your heart slamming in your chest.

"Just thought you were offerin' to have me sleep with you but I guess I heard wrong." Bucky smirks and shrugs. "Guess ill have to take all this " he begins to flex, making an obvious show of his muscles. "and sleep on the floor."

You bite down on your finger in a futile attempt to hide the smile that is forming. "Guess so."

Bucky frowns, sad, wide puppy eyes staring at you. "Come on, doll. Don't make me beg."

Heat flashes through you and your heart picks up speed again. "You can beg for it, Barnes, doesn't mean I'll let ya' " your voice shakes a little, but you can hide it behind a smug chuckle.

Bucky's tongue darts out to wet his lips as he begins to retort but Steve's cough stops you both. The Captain's face is crinkled in disgust as he stares.

"Could you save this till I'm not in the room?"

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Hi, I found your fic on ao3 (It will come back) and I tell you one thing-love the idea of a Slavic reader!

-we’ll probably because I’m from Poland ;)

omg heeeyyy (slay that you came from ao3) fellow slavic girlies unite! feel free to send me some polish customs and traditions cause I only really know my own (macedonian) but I would love to be able to incorporate more cultures ily xx