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josiewinters1999 · 3 days ago

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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.

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josiewinters1999 · 4 days ago

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Loki and Bucky (separate) Relationship Headcanons !!

warnings, none at all i promi

note, when i tell y'all i need them BOAF at the same time...

Loki

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Being in a relationship with Loki of all people is NOT for the weak. Especially if you have the same personality as him. Sassy and doesn’t know when to watch his mouth? Oh, you two would be menaces together.

Like, if you ever called him a "drama queen," he will dramatically sigh and say, "Drama king, thank you very much."

If you ever dare to out-sass him, he’ll just squint at you like, "Ah, so this is betrayal." But secretly? He loves it. Someone who can keep up with his wit? Absolutely captivating.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° But I digress! Loki is the king of dramatic declarations for a reason. He'll sweep into a room and declare, "Ah, my beloved! I have longed for you!" even if you just saw him five minutes ago.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ °He constantly tries to fluster you with smooth lines, but the second you turn it around on him, he short-circuits.

"Loki, you’re breathtaking."

"—Wait, what?... I mean! Well, yes, of course I am."

He says barely managing to get his composure back.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° As the God of Mischief, he obviously loves to prank people. But he has a strict rule: You are off-limits. However, if you ever wanted to join in on one of his schemes he'd never deny you 😹

He also likes teaching you magic! Not the dangerous kind, just little illusions so you can mess with people together. A true power couple.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He pretends to be above cuddling, claiming that it's one of the stupid things that mortals do, but yet he clings to you in his sleep like an octopus.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Jealous Loki is hilarious. He won’t get outwardly possessive, but he’ll suddenly be extra touchy or slip in phrases like, "Yes, my darling, the love of my immortal life, my one and only." just to make a point.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He has an unfair advantage in arguments because he’ll just shapeshift into you and mock you in your own voice. "Oh look at me, I’m so adorable when I’m mad—" cue you smacking him with a pillow.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Despite his dramatics, he trusts you more than anyone. He’s not used to being vulnerable, but with you? He can just be—no masks, no tricks, just Loki.

Bucky

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Bucky adores the time he spends with you and is so happy to call you his. He will try to act tuff from time to time, but you see straight through his facade each and every time.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He has a soft spot a mile wide for you. You could ask him to do anything, and he’d grumble about it but do it anyway. "I swear, doll, you’re the only one who could talk me into this."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° Bucky loves hearing you laugh. If he can make you snort? That’s such a win for him😭. He’ll smirk like it’s the best thing he’s done all day.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° The man has dad jokes and grumpy old man energy for days.

"Bucky, did you just say ‘back in my day’ unironically?"

"…Shut up."

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He gets ridiculously flustered if you compliment his smile. "Shut up—No, I’m not smiling. You’re imagining things."

"Yeah okay, James!" You teased poking his side.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° If he’s in a bad mood, you’re one of the only people who can pull him out of it. Everyone else gets grunts and glares, but the second you walk in? He melts.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He pretends he doesn’t get jealous, but his hand will suddenly find your waist if someone flirts with you. Or he’ll just stare at the poor fool until they get the hint.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He likes holding your hand, but he always lets you take his metal one first. He doesn’t even realize it until you lace your fingers together, and then his grip tightens just a little—like he never wants to let go.

He still feels a bit insecure about his robotic limb here and there, but in moments like these, it doesn't even matter. Being near you is all he needs.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° When he wakes up from nightmares, you’re the only thing that grounds him :((. Just your voice or the feeling of your hand on his is enough to bring him back.

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° He’s absolutely wrapped around your finger, and honestly? He wouldn't have it any other way 🫶🏾

additional note ! AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

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josiewinters1999 · 4 days ago

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A Favor

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: lots of pining, eventual fluff, fake dating

notes: had to try my hand at the fake dating trope

summary: you pretend to be Bucky’s girlfriend in order to help his campaign despite your very real feelings for him

“You want me to what?”

Sam can’t hold back his laughter when you look at Bucky like he’s grown a second head after processing the question he has asked you. The man in question stands there with an unamused scowl and a growing sense of embarrassment while waiting for his friend to regain his composure.

“Are you finished?” He snarks sharply, grunting in annoyance when Sam heartily claps his back in his response.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he breathes after wiping away a tear, “go ahead and ask her again.”

“I need you to pretend to be in a relationship with me,” Bucky mutters while refusing to meet your gaze, wishing the floor of your home would simply open up and swallow him whole so that he’d be saved from the humiliation.

“You realize that’s a crazy thing to ask, right?” You retort from your place behind the kitchen island. When you invited the two men over for dinner you hadn’t anticipated being ambushed like this, and you were starting to regret ever getting yourself mixed up with the two heroes.

“I know it is, but Valentina says if I want votes I need to make myself more relatable. Some people still have a hard time separating me from the Winter Soldier, but if they can see me as a normal man with a loving partner they might change their minds.”

“And why can’t Sam be the loving partner?” You rebuff, prompting him to immediately raise his hands in protest.

“Nuh uh, baby. Are you forgetting I’m Captain America? I’m too busy to be playing house with Mr. Congeniality over here.”

“Y/n, you’re the only person that can do this,” Bucky insists, eyes pleading for you to understand, “it would be more believable if it was you since we’re already close.”

“Maybe too damn close,” Sam murmurs under his breath, but both you and Bucky choose to ignore his comment.

“I don’t know,” you drawl, still a bit hesitant to put yourself through a fake relationship, “it feels a bit scummy lying to voters like that.”

“Politicians lie all the time,” Bucky tries to justify, but it’s not very effective in convincing you. “Look, this is something that’s important for me to do, and I will owe you for the rest of my life if you help me. It will only be until the votes are in, and then we can go back to normal.”

Sighing, you let your hands fall onto the counter and gaze thoughtfully at the marble surface as you weigh your options. It really couldn’t be that bad, could it? You’re already fond of Bucky as a friend, so it wouldn’t be so hard to pretend to be in love with him for a few months. What was the harm?

You look up and meet his expectant gaze, and it’s hard not to say yes when the desperation is clear in his eyes. Bucky has always been good at getting you to fold, and this time is no different.

“Alright, I’ll do it,” you finally say, and the grin that spreads across his face almost feels rewarding. He immediately pulls you into his arms for a bone crushing hug and thanks you profusely, but his gratitude falls on deaf ears as you make eye contact with Sam over his shoulder.

The man says nothing, but he doesn’t have to when the mischievous smile on his face speaks for itself. You’ve gotten yourself into deep shit and he knows it.

You just hope you can keep up the facade without revealing how you truly feel.

~~~

Your arrangement with Bucky is simple.

While in public you are to act as in love with him as possible. You hold hands, share innocent pecks, look adoringly into each other’s eyes, and act as if your relationship isn’t a complete sham. When telling stories about each other you make sure to include some bits of truth to make it more believable and easier to remember when prompted. Your arrangement also includes public appearances to important social events, and that’s how you find yourself in your current predicament.

You wouldn’t consider yourself the most extroverted person out there, so you felt extremely out of your element as you donned the nicest dress you owned and accompanied Bucky to a cocktail party hosted by the local mayor. All eyes had been on you the moment you’d walked through the door on his metal arm, and you weren’t sure if you could handle getting this type of attention. This was only your first public appearance as his girlfriend and already were you starting to feel the pressure.

“You doing okay?” Bucky murmurs into your ear before flashing a smile to nearby onlookers.

“I’m starting to regret agreeing to this,” you answer honestly, prompting a genuine chuckle to leave his lips.

“Trust me, it gets easier being in the spotlight after a while.”

You sincerely doubt that, but you don’t get a chance to argue as you’re immediately swarmed by a group of journalists eager to get their questions answered. The lights of their cameras are blinding, and you feel like you’ve been tossed into the lion’s den as they immediately bombard you both with questions.

“Mr. Barnes, is it true you’re running for a position in congress?”

“It is,” he affirms with an easy smile before reciting the practiced lines Valentina had vehemently rehearsed with him. “I have great hopes for this election.”

“Mr. Barnes, may I ask who you have with you tonight?”

“This beautiful woman is my wonderful girlfriend,” Bucky replies while simultaneously pulling you closer to his side. “Y/n has been nothing but supportive of my campaign, and it’s with her support that I’ve found the courage to run.”

“Do you have anything to say to those who doubt Mr. Barnes’s capability to serve in congress?” A woman asks before shoving a microphone in your face. You freeze like a deer caught in headlights as all the focus turns to you, and it takes you a moment to compose yourself before finally willing yourself to answer.

“I think…” you start off with a nervous smile, mind racing as you struggle to come up with the perfect response. Bucky shoots you a subtle look, reminding you of what he’d advised you in the car before you’d arrived. ‘Just be honest.’ “I know that my James is a good man, a strong man who cares deeply for those around him. The American people can put their faith in someone like Bucky because despite all that he has been through, he has never once given up on himself or the people that love him. I have no doubt in my mind that Bucky could help our government for the better.”

More questions are thrown your way that you are happy to answer, but this causes you to miss the clear adoration in Bucky’s eyes as he watches you carry yourself so eloquently in front of all these people. You meant every single word you said, and so had he.

Unbeknownst to either of you, the lines between reality and fiction were already starting to blur when it came to your make believe relationship.

~~~

“So how did you two meet?”

You’re taking part in yet another press junket arranged by Valentina to help the public see Bucky’s humility and make your relationship seem more genuine. This is your third interview of the day, and all you want is to go home so you can put on your coziest pajamas and enjoy a pizza from the comfort of your couch. Public appearances are draining, but Bucky promises you that after this week you won’t be expected to appear on camera as frequently. You’re holding him to that promise because otherwise you might lose your sanity, and Bucky knows how scary you can be when provoked.

“Well, after the Thanos situation had ended and the dust settled, I moved into a new apartment for a fresh start,” Bucky explains truthfully before turning to you with a tender smile. “What I didn’t expect after moving in was to have the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen standing at my door with a plate of cookies to welcome me into the building. I think I thought about her smile for an entire week before finally working up the courage to thank her and invite her over for dinner.”

Though the story Bucky relays to the cameras is mostly true, you’re honestly stunned by the way he chooses to describe you. He must be really desperate for viewers to believe he’s a man in love with the way he speaks as if Cupid’s arrow had struck him the day you two met. You find yourself shifting almost nervously in your seat listening to him talk about how wonderful you are, and you can almost feel your heart trying to escape your ribcage. You know he means none of this, so why does your stomach flip every time he mentions how beautiful you are or how enamored he is with you?

“Would you say your experience was similar?” The interviewer asks, and it takes you a moment to realize they’re talking to you now. You dotingly place a hand on Bucky’s knee then gaze into his eyes with nothing but love and are surprised to see him already looking at you that way.

“From the moment I first introduced myself to James I knew he was different from anyone I’d ever met before. I think I was taken by his eyes when I first saw him, and I still sometimes find myself admiring them when I think he’s not paying attention.”

Though he doesn’t know it, your words are completely true. You could spend hours staring into his eyes and admiring the way they light up when he laughs or smiles. You have it bad for Bucky, really bad, and yet you’ve kept it to yourself throughout the course of your friendship. Despite Sam’s insistence to tell him the truth, you just can’t bring yourself to do it. You love him too much to risk losing his friendship, so you’d made peace with the fact that you’d never be more than just a companion a long time ago. You thought you could survive being his fake girlfriend, but with each day that passes it gets harder and harder not to fall into the fantasy.

“You doing okay?” He asks you after the night is over and you’re free to be yourself in the safety of his car. You’d been quiet ever since leaving the press junket, and Bucky knew you well enough to detect when your mind was becoming overrun.

“I think I’m just tired,” you answer truthfully, “it’s hard to keep up the facade sometimes.”

“I get what you mean,” he chuckles, prompting you to frown. You don’t think he does get what you mean or understand how suffocating it is to act as if your adoration and affection are just for show. “We just have one more event to attend and then we can go back to being friends.”

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, doll?”

You swallow nervously, opening your mouth only to shut it as you hold back the words you desperately wish to say. You don’t want to complicate things and ruin all of his hard work, it would be selfish of you to muck it up now when he’s so close to the finish line. So instead, you look to him with a halfhearted smile and suggest, “You want to pick up a pizza on the way home?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

~~~

You’re grateful for the fact that the last public event on your itinerary is a birthday party for your very own Captain America. All of the focus is on Sam, and the political journalists are much more interested in his relationship with Bucky than yours. You can breathe without having to worry about being perceived or disturbed, and you don’t mind being old news in the slightest.

Sam finds you outside the banquet hall in the garden gazebo staring contemplatively at the sky a few hours into the party, and he joins you with glasses of champagne in hand.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he notes with a kind smile before handing you your glass. “I’ve been dying to have a real human conversation all night, but these reporters are relentless.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” you joke thoughtfully before taking a sip of the drink. You don’t particularly like champagne, but you appreciate the way the alcohol helps settle your nerves.

“You doing okay?” Sam prompts, genuine concern etched on his features. You know what he’s getting at, and you know he’s aware of just how hard this has all been on you. Sam had been able to shake you down into confessing your feelings for Bucky two years ago after noting your jealousy over the fact that he’d been on a date. He teased you relentlessly for having a crush on the Winter Soldier, but it was all in good faith. Sam had always rooted for you two, but neither of you seemed capable of ever making a move. It was exhausting to watch his two closest friends blindly pine after one another, but he knew better than to intervene and instead chose to be a supportive shoulder for you to lean on.

“After today I’m back to being just a friend,” you state with a wry smile, “and it’s back to square one.”

“You know it would be easier to just tell him how you feel instead of torturing yourself, right?”

“I know,” you sigh pathetically, swirling the remaining champagne around in your glass.

“So why don’t you? I know you never believe me when I say this, but I know for a fact he feels the same way about you. You’re both just too scared of rejection to admit it so you never even try to make a move.”

“I’m not a hero or a politician, and I don’t belong in your world. It’s by pure chance I ended up becoming part of your little team, so I don’t think I’m what Bucky needs.”

“Come on, y/n/n, give yourself a little credit,” Sam comforts while gently nudging your side with his elbow. “You’re an amazing woman with a big heart, and while Bucky may be stupid, he’s definitely not stupid enough to be blind to the fact.”

Laughing softly at Sam’s ability to seamlessly slide in an insult at Bucky’s expense, you nudge him back and say, “Thanks, Sam. You always know just what to say.”

“Trying to steal my girl, Wilson?” A third voice interjects, both of you turning to see Bucky approaching the gazebo with an amused smile.

“Not this time, Barnes,” Sam shoots back playfully before giving you a quick squeeze to his side. “I’ll leave you two alone, but be back inside within the next half hour for cake.”

“You got it, Cap,” you affirm with a salute while Bucky takes his place beside you.

“You ran off on me,” he points out in mock hurt.

“Well, I didn’t want to interrupt the love fest you and Sam were putting on for the reporters,” you jest only for Bucky to roll his eyes.

“You’re hilarious.”

You smile and return your gaze back to the garden, enjoying the silence and the comfort Bucky’s presence brings you. Despite the aching longing that settles in the pit of your stomach every time you’re around him, you appreciate his company. You’d stay his platonic friend forever if it meant always getting to keep him close like this without the risk of losing him.

“You look beautiful,” he says suddenly to break the silence, prompting you to look at him surprise.

“Thanks, but… you know you don’t have to say stuff like that when the cameras aren’t around.”

“I know,” Bucky reiterates softly while taking your hand in his own, “and I don’t need them around to tell you that.”

Your stomach does a flip, but you ignore the racing of your heart and let out a quiet laugh before asking him if he’s had too much to drink. His smile drops for a moment as he falters, but you watch with piqued interest when he lets out a quiet sigh and shifts so that the space between you lessens.

“I haven’t been honest with you,” he says with a repentant frown, looking down at your intertwined hands contemplatively. You swallow nervously and are unsure of where this conversation could be heading, but it seems like it’s serious.

“What is it, Bucky?”

“I didn’t ask you to be my fake girlfriend because it would be easier to pretend with you. I asked because… well, I knew that I wouldn’t have to convince everyone of something that was already true.”

The air feels like it’s buzzing around you while you process his words; you almost can’t believe what you’re hearing, and a part of you is convinced that maybe you’re just misunderstanding him, but the look of complete love and yearning on his face only solidifies the truth in his words.

“So you’re saying you mean it when you tell those reporters that you love me?” You utter in quiet surprise, eyes sparkling under the moonlight when you meet his gaze. “And that I’m the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?”

“Every single word,” he murmurs softly, metal hand coming to rest on your cheek. “I have loved every minute of being your boyfriend, and I don’t want that to end after my campaign is up. I want us to be the real deal, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip to hold back a giddy smile and nearly melt into his touch when he brings your face closer to his own so that your noses brush together. He hesitates for only a moment before finally closing the space between you both and kissing you sweetly. Your arms find their way around his neck as he pulls you impossibly close against him and encapsulates you in his warmth. Underneath the moonlight in the garden gazebo, you and Bucky share your first real kiss.

You feel dazed when you finally break apart, your heart beating a mile a minute and only increasing when Bucky flashes you a grin.

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” he confesses earnestly before stealing another kiss. “I’m sorry it took me this long to finally tell you.”

“I would have waited forever,” you admit sheepishly, effectively outing yourself as a lovesick fool. You allow yourself to rest your head upon his chest while his arms move to wrap around your figure and encase you against him. The music from inside quietly drifts into the garden, and you hum in contentment as Bucky slowly sways you back and forth.

You know if you don’t move now you’ll miss the cake, but there isn’t a single ounce of your spirit that wishes to leave from this spot. Bucky is finally yours, and you can finally be honest about your feelings with the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with for years.

It seems your only worry now will be having to explain to Sam why you missed his cake cutting.

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josiewinters1999 · 6 days ago

Text

Closer To Home V

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 14.6k

Bucky Barnes has always been a man of few words, but his silence is starting to sound like goodbye. You’ve felt the shift—his touch still lingers, his kisses still steal your breath, but something is missing. Something unspoken. Nights spent tangled in his sheets aren’t enough to silence the question that haunts you: Is he staying because he wants to, or because he doesn’t know how to leave?

You love him. You’ve loved him since the beginning. You’ve given him every piece of yourself, waiting for the moment he finally stops holding back. But love alone has never been enough to keep him. And if you ask for more—if you finally demand an answer—will he give you his heart, or will he give you an exit wound?

Trigger Warnings: emotional distress, angst, and relationship struggles, jealousy, and abandonment issues, emotional withdrawal, implied PTSD and survivor’s guilt, explicit sexual content (light dominance, possessiveness, overstimulation, and loss of control), moments of mental and emotional turmoil.

Closer To Home Masterlist

Author’s Note: WELL, that only took fucking forever, huh?! I was stuck with this one cause I didn't wanna put my babies through this, so I'm warning you in advance: it's a sad one. There is a happy ending and there will be more to come tho, cause they are my faves and I already wrote most of the next part. Let me know what you think! B xx

The absence of warmth against your side was what pulled you from sleep. It wasn’t a noise, not the creak of the floorboards or the shuffle of movement—just the missing weight of his vibranium arm draped over your waist. Your body instinctively sought his, reaching out into the space where he should be, but all you found was the lingering heat he left behind.

Blinking groggily, you turned your head, the edges of sleep still clinging to your vision. Bucky stood in the middle of the bedroom, bathed in the dim glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. His broad back was to you, muscles shifting as he pressed his hands to his hips, scanning the room like he was searching for something.

He hadn’t noticed you were awake.

Burrowed in the covers, you let yourself watch, a slow, lazy smile tugging at your lips as you took in the sight of him—naked and utterly unbothered. The smooth expanse of his back, the flex of his arms, the curve of his ass—God, the man was a work of art. And he moved so quietly, his steps barely making a sound as he finally zeroed in on what he was looking for: his clothes, strewn carelessly across the floor from the night before.

You held back a disappointed sigh when he picked up his boxers, sliding them on with quick efficiency, hiding away what you had been thoroughly enjoying. The words left your mouth before you could stop them, still thick with sleep.

“Nooo…” you whined, the sound stretching out lazily as you buried your smile into the pillow.

Bucky startled, turning sharply toward you, his brows lifted in surprise.

You grinned, eyes half-lidded, voice teasingly slow. “I was enjoying the view.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “Jesus, you’re such a perv.”

“And you’re depriving me of my morning entertainment,” you pouted dramatically, propping yourself up. “Can’t a girl ogle you in peace?”

Bucky scoffed, slipping into his sweatpants as you openly mourned the loss of his skin. He closed the distance, stopping right in front of you, his warm hands finding your bare shoulders, thumbs brushing over your collarbone as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze.

“There’s nothing to ogle,” he muttered, feigning modesty.

“Oh, honey,” you sighed, reaching up to cradle his face, fingers tracing along his stubbled jaw. “There’s so much to ogle. And I’m not just talking about your ass…”

Bucky groaned, shaking his head, but the way his lips twitched betrayed him. You could feel the heat blooming across his cheeks, and it made you grin. He was adorable when he got flustered, like he still wasn’t used to the way you looked at him.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but his hands betrayed him, sliding down your back in slow, lazy strokes. His palms ghosted over your waist, your hips, before settling at the curve of your ass, squeezing just enough to make you hum in contentment.

“And yet, you keep groping me.” You arched a brow, biting your lip to contain your grin.

“I’m a weak man,” he admitted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You make it too easy.”

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your bodies pressed close in the stillness of the night. But there was something different about the way he held you. It was still warm, still affectionate—but it wasn’t as effortless as before.

Bucky was pulling away.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a way most people would notice. But you had. You felt it in the hesitation of his touch, the way his fingers brushed over your skin like they were memorizing instead of claiming. The way he would hold you like this, then seem to remember something—something that made his grip loosen instead of tighten.

You told him you loved him, and he hadn’t said it back. Not in those words.

He’d said he cared. He’d said he felt the same. But the words never passed his lips, and the longer they lingered unspoken, the heavier they became, like stones sinking between you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your steady breaths and the faint rustling of fabric as he absently played with the ends of your hair. His fingers traced slow, idle patterns—distracted. Elsewhere.

“Were you sneaking out?” you murmured.

His exhale was slow, measured. “No.”

You hesitated, tilting your head slightly to catch his gaze. “Am I allowed to ask where you were going, then?”

Bucky hummed against your skin, lips skimming along the side of your neck in an unhurried, open-mouthed kiss. It was a distraction—one that might have worked if you weren’t already searching for the cracks forming between you. A pleasant shiver ran down your spine, making your fingers tighten in his hair, but it didn’t ease the hollow ache settling in your chest.

“Just out for a call,” he said, voice low and warm.

You huffed softly, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. “To who?”

“Sam.” Another kiss. Another distraction. “He wants to talk about a trip to D.C.”

Your body stiffened. Just like that, the haze of warmth and sleepiness vanished, replaced by something sharper. Bucky must’ve felt it, because he pulled back, brow lifting slightly as his hands skimmed over your sides in a soothing motion.

“D.C.?” you echoed, your voice sharper now.

His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. “Relax. It’s not for a mission. I don’t know any details yet. Something to do with Sharon.”

Sharon.

You forced your face into something neutral, but the name sliced through you like a blade, leaving something raw in its wake. Sharon Carter.

You didn’t like her. Hell, you didn’t like the idea of Bucky flying off to see her, but you knew better than to voice it.

Saying it out loud would only make you sound… ridiculous. Petty. Jealous. Desperate. And while all of that was true, it wasn’t something you were ready to confront.

So, instead, you exhaled slowly, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw, willing yourself to let it go. “Go on, then.”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you back into his warmth. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You forced a small smile, curling deeper into the covers. “I’ll be waiting.”

But even as you said it, you knew the unease twisting in your chest wasn’t going anywhere.

Sleep eluded you. No matter how many times you shifted, flipped the pillow, or tried to will your mind into silence, it didn’t work. So you gave up.

With a sigh, you pushed back the covers and padded out of the bedroom, your body heavy with exhaustion but your thoughts too restless to let you sink back into unconsciousness. The apartment was quiet, the air still carrying the remnants of Bucky’s warmth.

A note sat on the kitchen counter, the edges curling slightly as if time had already started to wear it down. His handwriting, neat but with the occasional jagged letter, spelled out: Went to grab breakfast. Be back soon.

You stared at it, the words lodging themselves somewhere deep in your chest. Too short. Too impersonal. Something about them felt off, but you shook your head and set the note aside, forcing yourself not to spiral.

This was ridiculous. Everything was fine. Bucky was fine. He wanted confirmation of your feelings, and you had always given him space to process his. Him not saying it back didn’t mean anything—or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. But lately, you weren’t sure if you believed it.

Without him here, you opted for a long shower, letting the hot water chase away the remnants of a sleepless night. By the time you emerged, towel wrapped around you and steam curling in the air, the front door swung open.

Bucky walked in, looking so unfairly good that you almost forgot how to breathe. His hair, slightly longer now, curled at the edges, damp from the morning mist. His blue eyes seemed even brighter against the navy Henley he wore. A pink bakery bag dangled from his vibranium fingers, a Starbucks tray balanced in his other hand, and his phone was pressed to his ear.

“When do you think it’ll happen?” His voice was low, distracted. He kicked the door shut behind him without a second thought, already making his way toward the kitchen where you stood, sipping on a glass of water.

You couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but the pause stretched long, filled with faint static. You leaned against the counter, watching him as he nodded along to whatever was being said.

“I can make it happen,” he finally murmured. “I’ll catch a flight out Wednesday so I can be there after she signs everything.”

Something inside you curled in protest. You turned away, setting your glass in the sink with deliberate care, masking the frown tugging at your lips. You stared out the window, watching the slow trickle of people making their way down the street.

Bucky’s presence warmed your back before you even heard him move. His lips brushed your shoulder first, then a firm squeeze at your waist—his silent way of saying 'hello'. But there was something absent in the gesture, something automatic.

“Hold on a minute,” he said into the phone, pulling it away just far enough to duck down and steal a kiss from your lips. You could taste the chill of the morning on him, the scent of his aftershave lingering. “Got you a bacon, egg, and cheese—and an Americano.”

Your chest squeezed at the ease of it all, because it somehow felt fake. Like he was holding onto a script, playing a part. Ever since that night you had finally cracked, finally told him you loved him, something had shifted. Even the world seemed to be giving you a reprieve—missions were slower, danger a little more distant. Sam had gone home for a bit, and Bucky had been content to let you drag him furniture shopping, helping turn his space into something lived-in.

And yet, you noticed. As much as he seemed to fall into a rhythm, his affections never wavering, he’d become significantly more introspective. You had caught him more times than you’d like to admit staring at you, but not with the soft affection you were used to. It was something else—something heavy. Impersonal. Like he was calculating some kind of risk before he noticed you had seen him and schooled his features back into something resembling the Bucky from before.

Before, you had been too honest. Before, you had let your heart speak before your head could stop it. Before, you had let yourself believe that love—spoken aloud, undeniable—would be enough to keep him steady, to keep him here. But now, you weren’t so sure.

Because ever since that night, something had shifted. He held you close, but there was a hesitation, a quiet space between his words where something unnamed lived. And when he looked at you, sometimes—just for a second—it was as if he was trying to memorize you, as if he was preparing for something neither of you had spoken into existence. Like he was calculating a risk.

Which is why you hated whatever was taking him to Washington. Because deep in your bones, you felt it creeping in—the moment everything changed. The moment he pulled too far away to reach. And you weren’t ready to let him go.

Bucky’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. “Yeah, she’s here. No, she hasn’t had her coffee yet.” He chuckled at whatever was said on the other end, then shot you a teasing glance that made your heart squeeze. “If you wanna risk it…”

You narrowed your eyes as he extended the phone toward you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He wants to talk to you.”

You let out a long-suffering sigh but took the phone anyway, pressing it to your ear. “Morning, Sam.”

“Mrs. Barnes.” His voice dripped with amusement, and you could practically hear the smirk on his face.

Your nose scrunched and you turned away from Bucky, the weight of his gaze overwhelming. “Don’t start.”

“We both know it’s inevitable. Anyway, listen, Bucky’s flying out here on Wednesday, and I was thinking—why don’t you come with him? Make it a little trip.”

You tugged at a loose thread on your towel, staring into the white of the fabric until your eyes crossed. You weren’t quite sure this was a good idea. “To D.C.?”

“Yeah. I figure if I have to suffer through Barnes brooding about being away from you for more than forty-eight hours, might as well nip it in the bud before he starts sighing dramatically into the phone like a lovesick teenager.”

A snort of laughter escaped you before you could stop it, disbelief making itself known. “I doubt that’d happen.”

“Oh, it’d happen.”

You bit your lip, your gaze flickering to Bucky, who was busy unpacking the food with a neutral expression you knew was entirely fake. He was listening. He was always listening.

“I mean, I could… I’m just not sure if Bucky would agree,” you offered.

“Agree to what?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard every single word.

“Sam wants me to come with you to D.C. Something about you brooding too much over being away from me,” you smiled, but it didn’t hold as you watched him nod.

On the other side of the line, Sam’s voice caught your attention. “Also, if you do decide to come, I would offer my place, but Sharon’s staying with me for a bit and I’ve only got the one guest bedroom.”

Your brows lifted. “Sharon’s staying with you? As in Sharon Carter?”

“Yeah, just until she can figure out her move back to the U.S. She’s getting her pardon, but things are still a bit messy for her.”

“Things are always messy for her,” you muttered, unable to resist the dig. You didn’t miss the way Bucky’s brow lifted at that, but he stayed silent.

Sam let out a long-suffering sigh. “Look, don’t make it weird. I’m just trying to be a good friend here.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Anyway,” Sam quickly continued before you could push any further, “Come with him. Just book a hotel, and I’ll send you a list of good areas to stay in. Easy.”

You hummed, mulling it over. “I’ll have a chat with him.”

“Pfft, don’t chat. It’s decided, you’re coming.”

“Sam—”

“I’m not taking no for an answer. See you Wednesday, Mrs. Barnes.”

You sighed, defeated, as you hung up and tossed the phone onto the counter.

Bucky was already watching you, arms crossed. “So you’re coming?”

“Only if you want me to,” you shrugged, avoiding his gaze.

“I want you to.”

You weren’t so sure you believed him. –

By the time you landed, Sam was waiting in the parking lot of the airport, arms crossed, that signature smirk already in place. He was dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted T-shirt, and a lightweight jacket—but his eyes gleamed with mischief as they landed on the two of you.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Sam drawled, pushing off the pillar and strolling toward you. “My favorite couple. How was the flight, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes?”

You groaned as Bucky immediately stiffened beside you, his grip tightening around the handle of your suitcase. His reaction was barely noticeable—maybe no one else would have caught it—but you did. Lately, you caught everything.

“Really? We’re starting this now?” you sighed, forcing a lightness into your voice you didn’t quite feel.

Sam shrugged, grinning. “What? I’m just sayin’, y’all are real cozy these days. Ain’t it about time you made an honest man out of him?”

Bucky let out a low grumble but didn’t bother correcting him. He just exhaled, set his jaw, and rolled your suitcase forward without another word, completely ignoring the knowing look Sam shot him.

Something in your stomach twisted. The old Bucky—the one before you’d told him you loved him, before this quiet distance settled between you—would have had a snarky comeback, maybe thrown an arm around you just to make Sam roll his eyes. But now? He just let the comment hang in the air, unchallenged, unacknowledged. Like it didn’t matter.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, past the doubt creeping into the spaces he was leaving behind.

“You’re hilarious, Wilson,” you deadpanned. “Truly, a comedic genius.”

Sam placed a hand over his heart. “I do what I can.”

The three of you made your way out of the airport, Sam and Bucky falling into their usual rhythm—bantering, teasing, Bucky pretending to be exasperated when you could tell he secretly enjoyed it. Except, this time, there was something off. His laughter didn’t reach his eyes the way it used to. His voice was lighter, but not in the effortless way you loved—it was careful. Controlled. Like he was playing a part.

You slid into the backseat of Sam’s truck, the leather cool beneath your fingertips. You weren’t even sure when Bucky had last looked at you, really looked at you.

“So, what do you think?” Sam glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his smirk still firmly in place. “Dinner at mine?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, tilting his head back against the seat, sounding almost relieved at the change of subject. “Sounds good to me. Doll?”

You nodded, turning your gaze to the window as the streets passed you by.

There was no escaping it. Whatever this was—whatever had shifted between you and Bucky—it was following you.

–

You had tried to keep yourself together. You really had. But by the time Sam dropped you both off at the hotel, the weight in your chest had solidified into something unbearable—cold, heavy, and unrelenting. No amount of forced smiles or easy conversation could shake it.

After a shower to wash the grime from the plane ride, you slipped into bed, exhaustion clinging to you in a way that had nothing to do with the flight. You had hours before dinner at Sam’s—hours you could be spending with Bucky. Exploring the city, tangled up together in bed, finally stealing a moment just for the two of you. No missions. No distractions.

The thought of pulling him down beside you, of pressing your lips to his until he remembered what this was supposed to feel like, nearly broke you. Maybe if you kissed him hard enough, if you touched him the way you used to, you could undo whatever this was. Maybe you could take it back. Tell him you’d been wrong. That there was no love, only lust. That it had never been deeper than that. That way, he could stop retreating into himself, stop looking at you like he was waiting for something to break.

But you couldn’t lie to him. And worse—you couldn’t lie to yourself.

So instead, you curled onto your side, clinging to a pillow as if it could hold you together. The sting behind your eyes was relentless, tears slipping free despite how hard you tried to keep them in. You pressed your face into the pillow, muffling the shaky breath that escaped.

The sound of the bathroom door opening barely registered.

“Tired?” Bucky’s voice was rough, a little hoarse from travel, but it still sent something deep inside you twisting painfully.

“Yeah,” you murmured, keeping your back to him. Normally, you would have turned around, let your eyes roam over the sight of him fresh from the shower, hair damp, towel slung low on his hips. But tonight, you stayed still. Because if he saw your face, he’d see your red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracks on your cheek, the truth written all over you.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Is everything okay?”

It was the hesitation in his voice that gutted you the most. The way he asked like he already knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it.

“Sure,” you whispered, nodding stiffly, gripping the covers tighter and pulling them up to your chin. “Just tired from the plane.”

You felt him linger, standing just behind you, close enough that you could hear his steady breathing. But he didn’t push. He didn’t press. He just stood there, silent, before the mattress dipped as he sat on the edge of the bed.

And it hit you all over again—he was right there, but somehow, it still felt like you were miles apart.

–

You should’ve known walking into this was a mistake. You should’ve stayed at the hotel, let whatever happen, happen. Because this? This was torture.

You sat at the table, Bucky to your left, Sam to your right, and Sharon directly in front of you—the perfect storm. You barely touched your food, your grip tightening around your wine glass as they laughed and reminisced, trading stories like they were fond memories instead of fragments of lives torn apart. Steve Rogers. A dingy old car. A kiss. Then Madripoor—how Sharon had ‘saved their ass.’

And Bucky was smiling.

Not the small, weary smiles he’d been giving you lately. This was different—effortless, unguarded. All week, he’d been wound tight, withdrawing, keeping you at a distance. But now, here, with her, he looked… at ease. Like she was giving him something you couldn’t—an understanding, a comfort in the language of battle that felt like home to him, a refuge from the weight of whatever expectations he thought you carried.

You gripped your wine glass tighter, the delicate stem pressing into your palm as you took another sip, focusing on the sharp burn of the alcohol rather than the sound of Sharon’s laugh. It was light, effortless—too damn familiar as she reached out, nudging Bucky’s vibranium arm like she had every right to.

Your jaw locked, a pulse of irritation tightening in your chest as your already crossed legs stiffened further. You were vibrating with anger. It wasn’t even his skin, and still, the sight made something hot and ugly coil in your stomach.

You wanted to slap her hand away. Wanted to tell her to back off. Wanted Bucky to move—just an inch, just enough to show that he felt the weight of her touch the way you did - unpleasantly, unwelcome.

But he didn’t.

“You were such a terrible undercover,” she teased, eyes bright with amusement. “You couldn’t even play a convincing criminal.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I got us in, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and almost got us killed,” she shot back. “I swear, if I hadn’t stepped in—”

“Oh, please,” Sam cut in, rolling his eyes. “Here we go again. Sharon, you act like you were some hero. We handled it.”

“Handled it?” She snorted. “If it wasn’t for me, you two would still be running from bounty hunters in the gutters of Madripoor.”

Bucky smirked. “She’s got a point.”

Your chest tightened.

Bucky’s distance had already been gnawing at you, a slow, relentless ache, and now—watching the easy way he spoke with her, the warmth in his voice—it was too much. Every low chuckle, every lingering glance, every casual brush of Sharon’s fingers against his arm sent another splinter through you.

He’d made no effort to show you were here together since you arrived. No arm around your waist, no glance in your direction, no subtle acknowledgment that you weren’t just someone in the room—you were his. Instead, you felt like an afterthought. Like a shadow. Like a lost puppy trailing behind him, desperate for attention that he wasn’t offering.

It fueled something ugly inside you, something you hated but couldn’t suppress. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t petty or insecure. But tonight, with the weight of everything unsaid pressing into your ribs, your anger and resentment tangled together, twisting into something sharp and unrelenting.

So you stayed quiet. You sipped your wine, kept your eyes down, forced yourself to pretend this wasn’t getting to you. Forced yourself to swallow the lump of frustration in your throat and ignore the irrational sting in your chest.

But the universe had other plans.

“How’s life been treating ya?” Sharon’s voice cut through the air, her lips curling around your name like it was something bitter. “Heard you got promoted to assisting these two. You’ve come a long way since your S.H.I.E.L.D. days.”

Your smile was thin, lifeless. “It’s been fun. I can’t complain. They’re good partners, even though they get on my nerves.”

“I always thought you’d end up in the field eventually. Why haven’t you?”

There was something pointed in her tone, a sharp edge hidden beneath the surface, a provocation instead of a genuine question. You set your glass down with deliberate care, leaning back in your chair, arms folding over your chest. “I prefer research. It’s where I thrive. I can do more for them that way.”

“Guess not all of us are made for the action, right, Buck?”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

Instead, you pushed your glass toward Sam with a curt nod. “Top me up?”

Sam, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. He poured more wine without a word, his eyes flicking between you and Bucky like he could feel the shift in the air. You took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your throat, trying to drown the simmering anger clawing its way to the surface. But it wasn’t enough.

The irritation was already there, curling under your skin, waiting—begging—to spill over.

“How about you, Sharon?” you asked suddenly, slicing clean through whatever bullshit story she’d been spinning. Your gaze flicked down, zeroing in on her hand resting so casually against Bucky’s wrist.

You hadn’t touched him in hours.

The realization hit like a gut punch, leaving something raw and exposed in its wake.

Sharon blinked, caught off guard for a split second before recovering with a practiced ease. “It’s been alright. I got my pardon, so I’m sticking around for a while. Trying to reconnect with family, settle things.”

“Only family?” You tilted your head, your voice deceptively sweet. Dangerous. “No boyfriends, right?”

Sharon hesitated. It was brief, barely noticeable—but you caught it.

“N—”

“Oh, that’s right.” Your smile was slow, deliberate, razor-sharp. “Last time you had someone, it was your aunt’s sloppy seconds.”

The second the words left your mouth, the air changed. The words landed like a gunshot. The silence that followed was suffocating and the tension went from an undercurrent to a crackling, undeniable force, stretching taut between all of you.

Bucky stiffened beside you. Sam let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face. And Sharon? For the first time all night, she had nothing to say.

Sam muttered a quiet “Damn” under his breath, glancing between the two of you like he was watching a bomb tick down.

You barely registered any of it. The only thing you saw was Bucky reaching for you—his hand shifting under the table, hovering just above your thigh, hesitating, then pulling back, his fingers curling into a fist.

The sting of it reverberated through your whole body.

Sharon, to her credit, recovered quickly. She let out a breathy chuckle, shaking her head as she leaned back in her chair. “Didn’t realize we were getting into cheap shots tonight. I would’ve brought popcorn.”

You tilted your head, giving her an easy, sharp smile. “I figured you’d be used to it by now. Considering all that time in Madripoor.”

Her eyes flickered, just for a second, before she smirked. “Well, someone had to get their hands dirty while you sat behind a screen.”

“Right. And exactly how dirty did you get?”

Sam exhaled, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Alright, we are dangerously close to turning this into a bar fight.”

Sharon waved a hand, looking far too pleased with herself. “Oh, relax, Wilson. Just catching up with an old colleague.”

You picked up your wine glass, turning to Sam instead. “You’re right, Sam. This has been fun, but I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

Bucky’s head turned toward you, brows furrowed. “Doll—”

Downing the last of your wine, you pushed your chair back before he could finish, grabbing your purse. “I’ll head back to the hotel. You guys enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Before he could stop you—before he could reach out and make you stay—you walked away, because if you stayed one more second, you weren’t sure you’d be able to breathe.

–

You were out the door before you could second-guess yourself. Coat and purse clutched in one hand, phone gripped tight in the other, you tapped your foot furiously against the pavement, buzzing with too much—anger, jealousy, frustration, and that awful, gnawing ache in your chest. The street was quiet, the air crisp, but all you could hear was the rush of your pulse as you stared down the road, willing headlights to appear.

The door creaked open behind you. Voices drifted through the night, but only one set of footsteps—or rather, the absence of them—told you exactly who was coming after you.

Bucky.

His presence was unmistakable, looming at your side even as you refused to look at him. The warmth radiating from him was just close enough to feel, but not close enough to touch.

“You should go back inside,” you said, your voice not nearly as steady as you wanted. You reached up quickly, swiping at the stray tear that betrayed you, the other hand gripping your phone like a lifeline.

“We’re leaving,” he said, his voice measured, calm. Too calm.

“No,” you corrected, jaw tight. “I’m leaving. You can stay.”

He let out a slow exhale, the kind that meant he was reigning himself in. “Come on, don’t do this.”

“Do what?” You finally turned, eyes burning into him.

“This,” he said, running a hand through his hair, frustration creeping in. “Storming out, making a scene. You didn’t have to go after Sharon like that.”

You barked out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I hurt your girlfriend’s feelings. Not like she didn’t diminish my work right in front of you and you said shit.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” His jaw ticked, his voice sharp, but controlled. “And you’re being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable?” Your head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “Right, of course. Because I’m the problem. Not the way you’ve been acting. Not the way you let her—” You stopped yourself, swallowing down the lump in your throat, shaking your head. “Forget it.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Let her what?”

You scoffed, looking away. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.” His voice was steel now, an edge that would’ve made anyone else back down. But not you. Not when you were already burning.

You turned back to him, fire in your eyes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

For a moment, you were locked in a silent battle that felt heavier than any argument. The weight of his stare pressed into you.

The sound of an approaching car broke the moment, and relief flooded through you so fast it made your legs weak. Without another word, you turned away, your feet dragging as you made your way toward the curb, toward escape.

Then, behind you, the front door creaked open again.

“Buck, you forgot your—”

Sam’s voice cut through the night, but you barely registered it. You didn’t stop, didn’t look back.

The second the car rolled to a stop, you yanked the door open, slid inside, and slammed it shut.

You didn’t wait for Bucky.

You didn’t give yourself the chance to.

–

Your body felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by grief, regret, and something even darker that you didn’t dare name. You sank into the chair by the window, your limbs stiff with exhaustion, your chest hollow with the ache of knowing you might’ve just lost him.

The city stretched before you, lights flickering against the glass, a world moving forward while yours stood painfully still. The fancy bedspread, the romantic bathtub, the room with a view—none of it mattered now. It was all just a cruel backdrop to a moment that felt like the beginning of the end.

You would’ve told yourself I told you so if it didn’t feel so vicious, so mercilessly cutting. But you had known. Of course you had known. It was almost laughable, the way your own heart had resisted, the way your mind had screamed at you to be careful when he first asked for this.

He had wanted it. Begged for it.

Something real, something solid. Something to hold onto when the nightmares came, when the weight of his past became too much. And like a fool, you had given it to him, convinced—desperate—that it would be enough to keep him here. To make him stay.

It hadn’t been.

And worst of all, you couldn’t even be angry at him for it.

He had warned you. So many times.

He was scared—of your devotion, of your belief in him, of the way you saw a man worthy of love when all he saw was a ghost of who he used to be. He was scared of your forgiveness, of your patience, of your kindness. Scared that one day, you would wake up and realize he wasn’t enough.

He had told you. God, he had told you. And you hadn’t listened. Because you were naive enough to believe that love—your love—would be enough.

And now, here you were. The irony of it all nearly made you laugh. The first time you ever truly fought felt like it would also be your last. You had feared this moment from the beginning.

You pressed the heels of your palms against your tired eyes, trying to stop the spiral before it completely consumed you. Stupid. Stubborn. Naive. You never should’ve let him convince you. Never should’ve let yourself believe he wouldn’t run the second things got too real.

The soft click of the hotel door unlocking shattered your thoughts, sending your pulse hammering against your ribs.

You held your breath.

You didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the city outside, watching the world move on like your heart wasn’t currently breaking into a million sharp pieces. The lights of D.C. flickered and blurred through the film of tears gathering in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet. Not in front of him.

Bucky’s footsteps were slow, measured, like he was testing the waters. Like he knew the wrong move would shatter whatever fragile thing was still holding you both together.

For a long, painful moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—his voice rang out, rough and low. “You left.”

It wasn’t accusatory. Wasn’t even angry. Just... dejected.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your pants, nails biting into your palm. “Yeah,” you said, barely above a whisper.

"You didn’t have to," he argued, softer this time.

A humorless laugh scraped its way out of your throat. “Right. I should’ve just sat there while she took her little digs at me, while you let her.”

In the window’s reflection, you caught the subtle furrow of his brows. "I didn’t—"

"You didn’t stop her," you cut in, voice sharp with hurt, shaky fingers pulling at the loose thread on the arm of the armchair. "You didn’t say a damn thing."

Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand down his face, but even that felt controlled—too careful. Like he was holding something back. “I wasn’t taking her side.”

"Sure felt like it," you muttered, voice thick with emotion.

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to argue, but he hesitated. Searching for the right words. That flicker of doubt was enough to send a fresh wave of anguish crashing over you. Your chest ached so deeply, you thought it might cave in.

Letting out a sharp, shaky exhale, you wiped at your cheek, but the tears wouldn’t stop now. Hot and relentless, they spilled over, carving burning trails down your face. You hadn’t even noticed they started falling.

“I’m tired, Buck,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath. “I—I’m sorry I put this on you. All these feelings, all these expectations—” Your lips trembled, and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to steady, to breathe. "You told me this was a lot. I should’ve listened. This is not on you.”

“Doll—”

“I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have taken all of this space. In your life.” Your chest ached as you forced the words out, each one a sharp-edged truth. “It’s my fault we’re here.”

Here you were, absolving him again. Letting him off the hook, as if that would dull the sting, as if it would fill the hollow ache spreading inside you. You had wanted—desperately—to prove to him, to yourself, that you could be good for him. That you could be enough. And you meant it. You never wanted to add to his burden.

But your heart didn’t care about intentions. It had its own plans.

“But you shouldn’t have forced me,” your voice cracked. Your breath hitched as the truth clawed its way out. The emotion swelled, sharp and raw, spilling out like an open wound.

Your head dropped into your hands, fingers digging into your scalp, desperate for something—anything—to ground you. “You shouldn’t have asked me to tell you I loved you when you weren’t sure you were ready for it.”

A sharp sob tore through you—too sudden, too raw to contain.

Humiliation burned beneath your skin, prickling hot and unbearable. Unraveling in front of him, breaking in front of him—it was too much. Your body trembled with the sheer effort of holding yourself together, of not crumbling completely under the weight of it all.

“Can you—” You gulped, suddenly unable to sit still. The walls were closing in. The air felt too thick, your skin too tight. You shot out of your chair, stumbling back like distance could somehow lessen the hurt. “Can you leave, please?Can you stay with Sam? I don’t… I don’t want you to see this again.” Your hands swiped furiously at your wet cheeks, as if that could erase everything he had seen.

Still, you hadn’t looked at him. But you saw his boots—motionless. A few feet away. Unmoving. Like he was rooted to the spot.

“I’ll get you an Uber,” you offered numbly, your voice hollow. “Or I’ll get you a room, they have my card at the front desk.”

“No.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, your shoulders caving in under the weight of his refusal. “Please. I want to be alone.”

“No.”

The second time, it was firmer. Unyielding.

Frustration cracked through the grief. You snapped, voice shaking, “Bucky. I’m begging you. It’s hard enough to keep myself together as it is.”

“Then don’t.”

Your breath hitched.

For the first time, you turned to face him fully.

His jaw was clenched tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides like he was physically stopping himself from reaching for you. His whole body was wound so tight, he looked like he might snap in two if he moved the wrong way. But it was his eyes—stormy, tortured, desperate—that sent a shiver down your spine.

It was like they were begging. Like something inside him was splintering apart right in front of you.

“Don’t?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t what?”

His throat bobbed, his fingers flexing at his sides. The words weren’t coming easy—like he had to force them past whatever wall had been built between you.

“Don’t keep yourself together,” he rasped, voice hoarse and raw. “Don’t hide it from me.”

Anger burned its way through the hurt. You hadn’t meant to fight him—not really. You didn’t want to surrender to the ugliest part of yourself, the part that wanted to scream at him, to tell him how unfair it was. That he made you love him. That he let you have him, only to pull himself away.

You didn’t want to say it.

But the words came anyway.

“Is that something you need?” you bit out, blinking hard against the wetness in your eyes, surprising even yourself with the venom in your voice. “To see me in pain because of you? Does it help?”

Bucky flinched like you had struck him, but he didn’t turn away. Instead, he shook his head, something breaking through the torment in his expression as he whispered, “Don’t—don’t push me away.”

You laughed. Hollow and tired.

"I’m not! I am holding on for dear life. But you’re here, right?" Sarcasm oozed from your words. "Just like you’ve been for the past few weeks? Just like you were tonight, when I needed you?"

Guilt flashed across his face. But you didn’t let him interrupt. Not this time.

"You haven’t been here," you accused, the words raw and painful. "Not really. And I don’t know if you even want to be."

His lips parted, but nothing came out.

No reassurances. No denials.

Just silence.

A fresh stubborn tear slipped down your cheek, and you hated yourself for it.

"You don’t even see it, do you?" Your breath trembled. "How you keep me just close enough to feel like I matter, but never close enough to be sure. You show up, you sleep in my bed, you kiss me like—God, like you want me, like you care—and you touch me like— like you own me. Like you’re mine.”

Your voice broke.

Bucky’s hands, flesh and metal, twitched violently. His fingers curled, then released. Like his own goddamn body was screaming at him to touch you. To reach for you. To hold on. And he wouldn’t let himself.

"But then I see you looking at me," you continued. "Like, you’re trying to figure out when your window for leaving is. When our time is up."

Bucky inhaled sharply, like he had just been punched in the gut.

His entire body jerked forward.

Like he almost reached for you.

Like he forgot.

"I—" Shaking his head, frustration flickered in his stormy eyes. "I don’t know how to do this," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "How to… be happy. Settled."

"Is that why you pulled away? Because you feel guilty about being happy?"

His silence was answer enough.

"Why?"

Bucky’s gaze dropped to the floor, jaw clenching. You saw it—the moment his shoulders caved, as if the weight of everything he’d ever carried had finally grown too heavy.

"Because… because it feels like I’m moving on from everything." His voice was barely there. "From Steve, from… them. The people I hurt. The ones I lost.” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. You could see his lips were dry, clinging to each other as he spoke. "It feels like I’m leaving them behind. Like being happy with you is—"

"So you think being miserable is some kind of penance?"

The truth settled uncomfortably between you.

"That’s not what I’m doing—"

"Isn’t it?" you asked, softer now. Not even when it hurt you, could you truly be angry at him. "I can see you torturing yourself. Like this somehow balances it all out. Like it pays some stupid karmic debt you think you owe to the universe."

A muscle feathered in his jaw. His hands were trembling at his sides, and you ached to go over. To close your hand around them and soothe the storm. You didn’t.

"Do you… do you even care about me?"

His head snapped up. The sharpness of his gaze was cutting, the blue burning like fire.

"How could you ask that?" Bucky rasped, but his voice cracked, like it was breaking him open just to say it. He pressed forward, his hands lifted—hovering near you—but instead of touching, he dragged them roughly through his hair. "I do—God, I do, doll. I care so fucking much—"

He sucked in a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling erratically. "Then why are you treating that like it’s a crime?"

Bucky shook his head, his breath hitching as he took one step back—and then another, like he couldn’t trust himself to be near you.

"Because what if I mess this up?" His voice was a whisper now, rough and ragged. "What if I let myself have this—have you—and then I fuck up?”

His hands were shaking. His entire body was tense, rigid. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, like he was physically trying to hold himself together.

"Look at you," he choked out, his voice breaking. "You’re already hurt, and it’s my fault.”

“I am not made of glass.”

Bucky laughed, bitter. “Look at my history. Every relationship I’ve ever had has ended in disaster. I either outlive people or they leave or…” His breath caught. “Or I hurt them. Like I’m hurting you now.”

"Bucky… Love isn’t just the good parts. Love… really fucking sucks, most of the time. Because it hurts when the person you love is gone, it hurts when they don’t love you back, it hurts when they don’t want the same things as you. You, of all people, should know that."

Hurt flashed across his features, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. “That’s not fair.”

You shook your head, a fresh tear slipping down your cheek. “What’s not fair is that I told you I loved you, but I still don’t know if you love me back.”

His entire body stiffened. Like the words hit him somewhere deep. “Loved?”

“Nothing’s changed,” you smiled through the tears. “I don't think it ever will. I’m… not even sure I can even love anyone else. You can rest assured there'll always be someone out there who loves you. But... I don't want to be another burden in your already heavy load. If this... if this is over—” you inhaled sharply, too tired to fight back your tears, “then at least let me cry about it without thinking I've added more to your hurt.”

“Over?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it. A warning. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“What is there to break up?” Your shoulders lifted, tension pulling you up by the spine, keeping you tightly coiled. “We never even started. It's been months and I still don’t know what this is. Look, Buck, it’s okay. Really. We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to make it worse than it already is. You’re… you’re free to go if you want. I won’t hold it against you—”

Bucky shook his head, stepping closer, his hands twitching to grab you but wasn’t sure if he had the right. “Quit talking like you’re leaving and sparing me from something.”

The sharpness in his voice took you by surprise, and you flinched, arms coming up to wrap around yourself.

The movement seemed to snap something in him. Before you could retreat any further, his hands shot out, grabbed your arms, his grip strong, grounding and he pulled you closer until you had to tip your head back to look at him. “You think I don’t love you?”

You exhaled shakily, eyes darting anywhere but his eyes. His lips, his temple, the cut of his jaw… anywhere but the blue that seemed to pull you in. “I don’t know.”

"I don’t—” His voice broke, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was trying to force himself to hold it together. "I don’t know how to love someone without being terrified that I’ll lose them.”

His hand left your arms and hovered over the sides of you. He hesitated and then finally both hands slid down the sides of your head until he could cup your cheeks tightly, thumbs brushing over the tracks of tears. "But don’t you ever—ever—think for a goddamn second that I don’t love you."

The words ripped out of him, shaky and uneven. His fingers swiped under your eyes, his breath coming fast and heavy—like the weight of saying it out loud was too much, too real.

Your breath caught in your throat and he searched your face, looking for an answer to a question he hadn’t voiced.

Bucky’s grip tightened, just enough for you to feel the desperation in his touch. “I love you, okay? I love you in a way that scares the hell out of me. I love you so much it makes me sick thinking about what happens if I mess this up. If I lose you.” He swallowed hard, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. “I know I’ve been distant. Shit, I know I’ve been a coward. But don’t walk away from me, doll. Please.”

Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, and Bucky watched you, his own eyes glassy, his breathing uneven. “If you need me to say it again, I will. I love you. I love you.”

You let out a choked sound, a sob mixed with a disbelieving laugh. “Then stop acting like you’re just waiting to walk away.”

Bucky seemed to stop breaking.

Before before he could think, his arms slid down and around you in a tight, bruising hug—pulling you toward him so fast it made you gasp when you collided with his chest.

One hand cradled the back of your head, the other locked around your waist, anchoring you to him. His cheek pressed against the crown of your head. His grip was desperate.

When he spoke again, his voice was rough with emotion. “Please, don’t give up on me. I will fight for this. For you. Just—just tell me how. Tell me what I need to do.”

You swallowed hard, your whole body trembling, the cage of his arms not enough to settle the cracks in your foundation. “I don't want you to fight, Buck. You've done enough fighting for a lifetime... I just want you to stop running.”

His breath came unsteady, uneven—like he was grasping for control, like your words had struck a chord buried deep, like you had unearthed a truth no one else had ever dared to see.

You shifted, pressing your cheek to his chest, feeling the warmth of him, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His lips found the top of your head first, lingering there as he breathed you in, like he was grounding himself in your presence.

Then he moved—feverish, desperate—trailing downward. A firm press to your temple, a slow drag of his mouth along your hairline, the heated imprint of his lips brushing over your cheekbone. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t careful. Every kiss landed like a silent plea, a confession woven into the way his lips chased your skin.

His mouth pressed to your cheek, then lower, grazing the curve of your jaw, the column of your throat. A shudder ran through him, his breath hot and uneven as he mapped a frantic path across your skin, like he could make up for every moment he’d hesitated, every time he’d pulled away.

And then—his hands framed your face, tilting your head up, and before you could take another breath, his lips crashed into yours. There was nothing hesitant about it. No slow build, no caution. Just raw, unfiltered hunger. He kissed you like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers, like he needed to feel you, to claim you, to prove to himself you were still here.

His kiss deepened, insistent, tongue gliding into your mouth with a possessive quality, as if he was trying to consume you, body and soul, with the force of it. His hands, still gripping you with a desperation that bordered on frantic, slid down your sides, tightening around your waist. Every kiss, every brush of his lips against yours, was a silent plea, a confession he couldn’t put into words.

Hands to his chest, you could feel the tension in his body, like he was fighting to control something inside himself. His mouth never stopped moving against yours, as if he feared losing the taste of you. His thumb grazed the edge of your jaw, his touch tender but desperate, his other hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

The heat between you both intensified, every moment stretching longer, heavier. His lips trailed down to your neck again, kissing you with the same urgency, and you could feel the tension in his grip, the way his body tightened.

It was a desperate kind of connection, raw and unguarded. His mouth tore from yours, just for a second, long enough for him to drop lower, hands finding the backs of your thighs, fingers digging in, his grip possessive. The metal arm coiled around your neck, not in restraint, but as if anchoring himself to you—like letting go wasn’t an option. With effortless strength, he lifted you, your legs instinctively locking around his waist as your breath hitched.

“Bucky—” His name barely left your lips before he stole it, kissing you again, harder, needier, swallowing the sharp gasp you made when your back hit the wall.

His face buried against your throat, breath ragged, lips finding the curve of your collarbone before trailing lower. The scrape of stubble burned in the best way, and when his teeth grazed your skin—testing, teasing—you trembled.

Heat pooled low in your center and you welcomed the bruising grip of both his hands. It was the roughest he’s ever been with you–like finally, after all of your attempts at showing him, he realized he could really hold on to you. It was glorious. Overwhelming. Life-changing.

“I want—” he rasped, his voice rough, before he gulped down the words.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, the sound vibrating against your chest. “What?,” you breathed, encouraging him to continue. “Tell me.”

His metal hand slid beneath your shirt, the chilled vibranium skimming your ribs. The contrast of heat and cold sent a shudder through you, and you arched into him, chasing his touch. He made a sound, almost guttural, and pressed closer—like he could crawl inside you if he just tried hard enough.

“I want you closer,” he confessed, hips pressing forward against your center and you choked, swearing under your breath. “Can’t get close enough,” he cried out, voice tortured, and you felt it—his desperation, his need, his devotion seeping into every frantic touch.

“Inside,” you gasped between kisses, a whiny, pathetic little sound escaping when you felt how hard he was under his pants. “Get inside me.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he hesitated, forehead pressing to yours as if grounding himself. “Okay,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut, his hand leaving your body to find the back of your neck. “Okay. Hold on to me.”

You felt his fingers tighten as he held you close to him, your breaths mingling. Then, with a groan, he moved—metal arm securing you against him as he moved with purpose toward the bed.

The world tilted as he laid you down, your back hitting the mattress before he followed you down like gravity itself pulled him to you. His metal hand spread wide over your ribs as he settled beside you, grounding you, while his flesh fingers traced a slow, reverent path up your thigh, leaving fire in their wake.

“Undress me,” you urged him, impatient, the emptiness between your legs, where he was supposed to be, growing heavier the longer he stalled.

“Maybe we should slow down,” he shook his head, hovering above you, six feet of super soldier clouding your vision, pressing you down, invading your senses. You could feel his hand, teasing the edge of your pants, and you wanted him to rip it. “Let me– let make love to you.”

“Is that what you want?” You asked, seeking his mouth for a searing kiss, and he had to wrap your hands around your neck to force you to break it, both of you breathless and panting. “If that’s what you want then I’ll let you take your time. Is it? Do you want it slow?”

“I don’t know, I don–” Bucky said through his teeth. “No. No.”

Your hand reached for the one of his that hovered hesitantly over the buttons of your pants and you dragged it between your legs, where you were sure he could feel your warmth. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth pulling his bottom lip into his mouth like he was waging a war inside him, trying to decide between going slow, being careful, and something else, something he hadn’t allowed himself with you yet.

The sound that tore from Bucky’s throat made every hair on your body stand on end. It was raw, primal—like he was barely holding himself together, barely restraining the violent desperation thrumming through his veins. And then he was on you, crawling over your body, pressing you down into the mattress, his knee shoving between your thighs, forcing your legs apart.

The weight of him, heavy and warm, sank into you, stole the air from your lungs. Your eyes fluttered shut, chest rising and falling in a rapid, uneven rhythm as you tried—tried—to keep yourself from splintering apart beneath him. Maybe if you closed your eyes, if you didn’t look up at him like this, you could pretend you weren’t already coming undone.

Bucky leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, voice nothing more than a husky rasp. “Wanna know what I want?”

A shudder racked through you at the way his knee pressed tighter against your center, the friction making your hips roll up to chase the sensation, fingers twisting into his shirt.

His hands were already at your jeans, fingers working the zipper down, slipping beneath the waistband as he dragged the fabric lower. “I wanna ruin you.”

You stopped breathing.

“I wanna—” He faltered, his voice hoarse, almost pained.

“Yeah?” Your voice was barely a whisper, hoarse with want. Your fingers twisted into his shirt, yanking him closer, but no matter how much of him you took, it still wasn’t enough. You were drowning in him, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

His eyes, dark and consuming, burned into yours, the blue almost swallowed by blown-out pupils. “So you never want anyone else. So you never leave.”

The words sent a violent tremor through your core, your entire body aching with the sheer intensity of him, the possessiveness in his voice curling around you like a vice.

His hands tightened, wrapping around the waist of your jeans, yanking them down in one firm pull, the fabric dragging off your heated skin. The cold air of the room hit you all at once, raising goosebumps, but the way Bucky’s hands followed the path of your exposed skin, warm and reverent, made you forget everything else.

His touch was possessive, reverent, like he was worshipping the way you fit against his palm. The next thing you knew, your shirt was gone, your bra undone, and you followed every nudge of his hands without question, arching when he needed you to, pliant beneath his ministrations.

His touch burned—traced the plush curve of your ass, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your breasts. You felt stripped bare under his gaze, not just physically, but completely, like he was seeing you through to your soul. His hands roamed, memorizing, before his fingers brushed over your nipples, metal and flesh teasing over the sensitive peaks, sending a jolt of pleasure down your spine.

You were speechless. Mute, save for the sound of your own labored breathing. No teasing. No back and forth. No playful banter to lighten the moment. Just him, devouring you with his touch, his eyes, his sheer presence. This wasn’t the usual rhythm you’d fallen into with him—this wasn’t the flirtation, the teasing, the game of pushing each other to the edge before finally breaking.

This was different. He was different.

Uncharted.

You had been with Bucky before, had laughed with him in bed, teased him until he lost control, pushed each other until you were both teetering on the edge of pleasure—but this? This was a different version of him. Of you. This was Bucky taking. Claiming.

There was something unrelenting about the way he looked at you, something single-minded in his focus. Like nothing else existed outside of this room. Outside of you. It was unnerving. It was intoxicating.

You barely noticed when the last of your clothes disappeared. When his followed. When you were suddenly maneuvered further up the bed, his hands firm, taking what he wanted, what was his.

His skin was hot, firm, pressing against every part of you. His hands were less gentle now, rougher, gripping, kneading, owning. A fresh wave of need pulsed between your legs, slick and desperate, and you gasped his name, reaching for skin, needing more of him.

“James.”

He didn’t answer.

He was already moving down, kneeling in front of your bent knees, reaching for a pillow. His metal fingers wrapped around your ankles, the grip possessive, guiding them up until they rested on his shoulder.

“Keep them up, sweetheart,” he ordered, voice thick with command. Your stomach twisted, anticipation and nerves tightening low in your belly as you obeyed, trembling when his vibranium hand ran over the smooth skin of your calf, all the way to your ankle.

“What’s happening?” you rasped, reaching out, your palm smoothing over the firm muscle of his thigh. You could see him now—see all of him. The strong cut of his shoulders, the sculpted lines of his chest, the hard planes of muscle leading down to his waist, the deep v-line that framed his cock, thick and aching between his thighs.

You were so distracted—so consumed by the sight of him—that you barely processed what he was doing until his hands gripped your ankle and pulled you up, lifting you, shoving the pillow beneath you.

Realization hit you like a lightning strike.

“Wait, Buck—”

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” His voice was deeper now, raspier like gravel. “As far as you can.”

The way he tapped your hip—gentle, coaxing, but expectant—sent shivers rolling down your spine. He’d never been this firm with you before, never this authoritative. You hesitated for only a second, nerves fluttering in your belly as you shifted, knees starting to close on instinct.

Bucky waited. He didn’t push, didn’t rush—just watched. Jaw tight. Eyes dark. Waiting. Patient. Certain that you would listen.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to relax, to give him what he wanted. And when you finally opened up, when your thighs parted, wide and willing, he breathed—like he’d been waiting for you to give yourself to him like this.

Your own breath stuttered when his gaze zeroed in between your thighs. You clenched around nothing, your body already reacting to the sheer intensity of his attention, to the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected him to be like this. This wasn’t just sex. This was ownership in a way he never had before.

“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, reverent. “All for me.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, overwhelmed, breath coming in short gasps.

And then—

His mouth was on you.

The first drag of his tongue was slow, deliberate, a firm, unrelenting glide over your slit that made your entire body jolt. A sharp noise tore from your lips, your hands flying to his hair before you even realized what you were doing.

Your back arched off the bed.

“Bucky—”

Your thighs instinctively snapped shut, a desperate moan tearing from your lips at the unexpected shock of pleasure.

He pulled back, and the sound that followed—the filthy, wet pop—made your jaw drop. You barely restrained yourself from rolling your hips up, chasing his mouth, already desperate to feel more.

Bucky hummed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the vibration making you shiver.

“James,” he murmured against the inside of your thigh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there, his tongue soothing over where his teeth had nipped. His voice was low, commanding, sinful. “Your James when I’m between your legs, remember?”

Your breath hitched, chest heaving. His voice alone had you unraveling—low and dark, smooth as silk, dripping in authority.

“Y-yes, yes, I’m sorry—”

“Open.” His vibranium fingers tapped your hip, patient but insistent.

You hesitated, your heart hammering.

“Wait, wait, give me a second,” you stammered, shaking. “I—I wasn’t ready…”

You weren’t.

Of all the times you had been with Bucky—hot, desperate, overwhelming—you had never done this. He had never taken you apart like this. You had felt his hands, his cock, the sheer force of his body claiming yours. But his mouth—

His mouth on your cunt—

It was too much.

Bucky pulled back just slightly, brows furrowing, the intensity in his eyes softening. “Should I not…?”

“No, no, that’s not—it’s not that,” you rushed out, shaking your head, your entire body already aching for him again. “Please, I want it, I just—fuck.”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting. The words felt thick in your throat, raw, real in a way that sent another pulse of heat between your legs. “I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

That he was going to do it. That he even wanted it.

His expression darkened, something possessive settling over him like a storm rolling in.

“You didn’t know? That I want you?” he murmured, voice a breath away from a growl. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, slow, deliberate, hooking under your knees. He urged them open again, spreading you wide for him. Your cheeks were ablaze. His gaze never left yours, watching, waiting, demanding.

“That I wanna make you mine?”

Your breath caught, your nails dragging over the back of his head, gripping, needing.

“I am yours,” you whispered, voice breaking over the truth of it.

Bucky exhaled sharply, the words hitting something deep inside him, something unshakable.

“Not in every way.” His nose brushed against the slick heat of your slit, and you whimpered, your hips jerking, your legs trembling in his grip. “Not yet.”

Then he pressed his mouth fully against you, the flat of his tongue dipping into your soaked entrance, unrelenting. Your entire body seized, pleasure slamming through you like lightning, sharp and searing, robbing you of breath.

Bucky groaned—deep and wrecked—like the taste of you was something sacred, something he had been starving for. His hands flexed against your thighs, gripping harder, holding you still.

“But you will be,” he murmured, words slurring against you, breath hot, tongue teasing.

One slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. Your thighs twitched, but his hands tightened, keeping you spread open for him.

His tongue flicked over you again, this time more insistent, more focused, more intentional.

“It’s inevitable, sweetheart,” he mused, his voice a low vibration against your core, before dragging his tongue over you again, dipping into you, savoring.

You gasped, fisting the sheets.

“Made for me,” he murmured. His grip on you tightened as he buried himself between your legs, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking, teasing, owning. “Every part of you.”

You sobbed his name, back arching.

“That’s why I had to know,” he said, voice thick, ragged, vibrating against you, filling every space inside you.

“How you taste. How you feel.” Another slow lick, another deep groan from him, another whimper from you. “Because it’s you and me, isn’t it?”

Your whole body was trembling now, breath shallow, eyes unfocused.

“You’re mine, and I’m yours,” he rasped.

You didn’t know how long he stayed between your legs.

Time ceased to exist, reality blurred at the edges, and all that was left was him.

His arms were locked under and around your thighs, strong and unyielding, pulling you closer, keeping you pinned beneath the relentless heat of his mouth, working you through your second peak, then your third—dragging it out until you were wrecked. The pillow beneath your hips tilted you just right, letting him feast on you without resistance, without space, without break. He worked you over with a hunger that bordered on obsession, like he was determined to know every shudder, every whimper, every broken sob of his name.

Every flick of his tongue, every slow, sinful suck at your clit was answered with a different noise—your gasps, your hitched moans, the choked-off pleas that melted into incoherence. Your hands were tangled in his hair, fingers tightening, pulling, but it only spurred him on. The deeper you buried your nails in his scalp, the deeper he pressed into you, dragging his tongue through your slick heat, slow and ravenous.

When you finally unraveled—violently, desperately—you didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt the damp heat of your own tears on your cheeks.

“B-baby,” you sobbed, wrecked beyond recognition, voice cracking on the plea, your legs kicking uselessly against his iron grip. Your back arched off the mattress, your body twisting, shaking everywhere, lost in the intensity of it, your thighs clamping uselessly around his head as he refused to let you go.

He hummed, the vibration of it making your body seize.

“Please, please, James,” you called his name, hoping it’d snap him out of it. “Bucky, come on, please—”

He groaned against you, a filthy, starved sound, and his lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking, tongue teasing, pressure building and building—

You came so hard your vision blanked.

Everything inside you shattered, pleasure so sharp and deep it broke you.

Your body couldn’t take anymore. You were spent, overstimulated, your mind blank, floating between pleasure and exhaustion. The release had hit you like a tidal wave, and it hadn’t stopped, pulling you under, drowning you in sensation, your limbs shaking violently beneath his grip.

“F-fuck, stop, stop, s-stop, please!” you begged, foot pressing weakly against his shoulder, trying to push him off.

He finally relented, coming up with a gasp, like he’d been underwater and he’d finally managed to climb to the surface.

It dawned on you, then, that this wasn’t about pleasure. He wasn’t just tasting you for the first time. He was consuming you.

Mapping every inch of you with his tongue, etching himself into you, branding you from the inside out. And you hadn’t realized—hadn’t even noticed—that he was just as lost in it as you were.

You didn’t see the way his hands were shaking, how his shoulders trembled from the force of holding himself back. You hadn’t registered the choked, wrecked groans spilling from his throat every time he buried his tongue deeper, pressing into you, like the taste of you was breaking him.

Not until he finally pulled back.

Not until he crawled over you, dog tags dragging over your skin and raising goosebumps along the way.

That was when you saw it—the way he was shaking just as bad as you were, his lips kiss-swollen and wet, his pupils blown wide and wild as they raked over you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his mouth was on yours—hot, deep, claiming.

And oh, god—

You could taste yourself on his tongue.

Bucky groaned, pressing impossibly closer, his body covering yours, his cock heavy, leaking and pressing between your aching slit, sinking you into the mattress like there would never be enough of you to sate him.

“Baby—” you murmured against his lips, dizzy, trembling, still trying to recover, but he swallowed the sound whole, kissing you harder, his hands tangling in your hair, tilting your head back so he could take more.

You barely recognized him like this.

Wild. Uncontrolled.

Starving.

He braced himself on his elbows, his nose brushing yours, his mouth still wet with you, his breath hot as it fanned across your lips. He was vibrating with barely contained energy and you could see it, deep in the blue of his eyes, there was something else, something he hadn’t gotten a handle on, clawing its way up to the surface.

His thumb wiped at the tear tracks on your cheeks and you swallowed hard, reaching up to wrap a hand around his wrist, trying to soothe his and your own tremors, still struggling to catch your breath, still spinning, your body too weak to do anything but let him devour you with his gaze. Your thighs, weak, pressed against his sides.

Your hands trembled as they slid over the slick rigid curve of his back, across the unyielding strength of his shoulders and down to his chest. His heart was hammering under your palm, thundering like a war drum, wild and unrelenting.

“You’re shaking.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching as he gulped in air, like he was drowning. His vibranium hand clenched against the crown of your head, fingers twisting into your hair, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“Can I—” His voice was strained, like he barely had the air to form the words. He grinded against you, needy, and you shivered.

“Yes,” you whispered before he could finish. The word was soft but firm, a reassurance, a promise. You shifted beneath him, wrapping your legs fully around his waist, pulling him closer. One arm curled around his neck, your other hand still pressed firmly over his heart.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.

You obeyed, though it took everything in you not to look down as he reached between your bodies. The first nudge of his tip had a gasp spilling from your lips, the slow, aching press of him sending a shiver down your spine.

His forehead dropped against yours, breath uneven as he eased in, the slickness of your wetness and his tongue making it effortless for his cock to split you open.

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, his jaw clenching so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. “Look at you. Always take me so well… made for me, weren’t you, doll?”

“F-fuck, yes, yes,” you gasped, your head pressing back into the mattress.

With the pillow beneath your hips, the angle felt different—deeper, somehow, like he was carving himself into you, and it made your mind swim.

“Yes what?”

“I was made for you,” you nodded, head thrashing as your hips rolled up to meet his. His whole body shuddered.

“Wha the fuck, how are you’re so deep,” you sobbed, overwhelmed. “Holy fuck, I’m–”

Bucky let out a sharp exhale, pulling back and pressing in again, slow, deliberate, pushing deeper inch by inch until he bottomed out. The stretch of him filled you to the brim, stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs, every thought from your head, until there was nothing but him.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, shaking, nails scraping his scalp. You forced your eyes open, desperate to see him—

And the sight wrecked you.

His pupils were blown wide, his expression stricken, like something inside of him was breaking apart piece by piece. His body taut like a bowstring about to snap, his breath labored, rattling like it was hurting him to hold it in.

He thrust into you, deep and sharp, hard, his hands gripping at your waist, your thighs, anywhere he could hold onto. His rhythm was frantic, uneven, like he was chasing something he couldn’t catch, something just out of reach. Every drag of him against your walls, every wet slap of skin on skin, every sound ripped from your lips only seemed to unravel him further.

He was gone.

“J-James—” you called, swallowing against the lump in your throat, but he wasn’t listening.

His head dropped against your shoulder, lips pressing into your throat, his breath ragged, body trembling. He pushed your leg up, pressing it to his shoulder and you yelped when he thrust again, and then again, and again, the force behind it pushing both of you up the bed, skin slick with sweat gliding, his movements stuttering—

“Tell me something,” he ground out, his voice cracking like he was holding onto something fragile, something slipping right through his fingers. “Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“You want me?”

“Yes, baby–”

He needed something from you.

Something more than just this.

This wasn’t just about needing you physically—it was something clawing at him from the inside out. He needed proof. Reassurance. A vow sealed in the way your bodies tangled, in the words you breathed against his skin.

“You won’t leave again?”

“I didn’t–”

“Don’t leave m–” And then he thrust so sharply—quick, deep, pushing the air from your lungs, making your whole body tighten beneath him.

Then again.

And again.

Each movement came with a noise, a sharp exhale, a choked-off sound, something fractured, something beyond his control.

Bucky let out a sound—something low and strangled, you felt it in your bones. His hands were shaking, his grip bruising.

You knew it before he did.

His whole body locked up, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow gasps. His eyes were wild, unfocused, his lips parted, but no air seemed to be enough. He was panicking.

You felt the tremors wracking through him, his grip on your hip bruising now, his cock twitching inside you, his thrusts growing frantic, desperate, like he was fighting to stay here, in this moment with you, fighting against whatever storm was raging inside of him.

He had lost himself in you, and now he was spiraling.

“Bucky—Bucky, stop,” you gasped, voice urgent.

You cupped his face, your touch firm but gentle despite the chaotic energy rolling off him in waves, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones, coaxing him back to you, back to himself.

“Baby, James,” you called, louder, pulling him to the surface. “Look at me. Come back to me. Come on, honey, come back to me.”

His whole body shook. He sucked in a stuttering breath, his chest heaving, and finally—

His eyes flickered open.

And god, he looked so lost.

Blue eyes wide, glassy, unfocused, his lips parted like he was about to speak, but no words came out, only a shaky exhale.

“Bucky,” you whispered, relieved, tilting his chin until he was fully looking at you. “It’s okay, ‘you’re okay. You’re not alone,” you whispered, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, over the curve of his jaw, soft, grounding. “I’ve got you. I’m right here, Bucky.”

His breath hitched.

You pressed your forehead against his, noses brushing, keeping him anchored to you, letting him feel you, letting him hear you. “Breathe with me,” you murmured, voice gentle, coaxing.

One breath in.

One breath out.

His chest rose sharply, fell again, but you held him there, hands warm, voice soft, whispering his name like a lifeline, one after the other until he exhaled.

His grip loosened, his muscles uncoiling one by one, his weight settling over you, solid and real, no longer fighting, no longer lost. You felt the moment he let go, the moment the tension bled from his body. You wrapped your arms around him, threading fingers through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, soothing, comforting.

“You’re safe,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the damp skin of his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

For a long time, he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t pull out, the mess between your legs sticky and uncomfortable even though he hadn’t finished and by the time he finally moved, bracing his weight on unsteady forearms, you were sore.

When he looked at you, something inside of him had shifted. You swore you could see it. The way he was looking at you, like you were something sacred, something steady, something he never thought he could have. Like home. And now you were it for him.

His fingers trembled as he reached for your face, brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek, tracing the curve of your lips as if he needed to convince himself you were really here.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was hoarse.

You turned into his touch, catching his palm in yours, pressing a kiss to the center of it. “I’m here.”

His throat bobbed again. His forehead dropped against yours, his breath warm against your lips as he exhaled, slow, measured, steady.

“I—I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice barely there.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head, your fingers tracing slow, comforting lines down his spine.

A sharp exhale. A quiet, broken sound that he swallowed down before it could form into something more. His hand tightened around yours.

"Will you do something for me?" You reached up, brushing the damp hair from his forehead before your fingers found the familiar chain around his neck. His dog tags. He hadn’t taken them off. You could still feel the sore spot on your chest, where the weight of him had imprinted them into your skin. Branded you. You were sure his name had somehow found its way into your skin like a tattoo. The thought made your breath hitch, made something twist in your stomach.

Your fingers closed around the tags, feeling the warmth of the metal against your palm. "Tell me your name?"

His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t question you.

"Bucky," he breathed. His lips were dry, sticking together until his tongue darted out to wet them.

"Full name. Please," you coaxed, fingertips dragging along the chain.

He swallowed, the movement thick, but his gaze remained steady. "James Buchanan Barnes."

"Good," you murmured, leaning up to brush your nose against his, the tight squeeze around your heart easing slightly. "Your rank."

His jaw clenched. "It’s not—" He shook his head, frustration flickering through the blue of his eyes. "It’s not like that anymore. I’m not—"

"I know, my love." Your thumbs caressed his cheeks, grounding him, guiding him. "I’m not worried about that… I’m trying to help. Your rank, please."

A slow inhale. A heavy exhale.

"Sergeant James Barnes."

"Good," you whispered. "And where are we?”

“Washington.”

Pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, you squeezed him into a hug. “You're here. You're with me. You’re safe."

His arms wrapped around you then, pulling you in, holding you close like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing, whispering reassurances against his temple.

"What happened?" you asked gently.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I don’t... I don’t know,” he rasped, his voice unsteady. “I just—” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “I couldn’t get close enough. I tried, but it wasn’t— I don’t know how to explain it. It was like my chest was too tight, my head too full, my body—fuck, my body wouldn’t settle. I just... I got lost in you.”

Your heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in his voice, at the way he trembled against you. You cradled the back of his head, anchoring him, holding him steady. “I think you got overstimulated,” you said gently, your lips brushing against his hair. “Too much sensation all at once.”

He didn’t respond right away, but you felt his small nod against your neck, his breath still uneven.

“We should maybe talk about it later,” you offered. “Find a way to help ground you when it happens.”

A long silence stretched between you before he finally murmured, “Yeah. Yeah, that might help.”

Your hands traced gentle patterns along his back, feeling some of the tension still locked in his muscles. “There’s something else,” you said, shifting just enough to meet his eyes. “Buck... is there something you need from me, baby? I don’t want to trigger you, but—” You hesitated, searching his face. “—you were trying to do something to me, get something, and I’m not sure what.”

His jaw tensed, and for a moment, you thought he might shut down. But then he took a slow breath, his eyes dark and heavy with something unspoken. “You told me once this was something you couldn’t walk away from. But you left,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “At the house, you left. And I thought... I thought you realized I wasn’t worth it. I thought I lost you. Then, when we talked, it felt like no matter what I said, I couldn’t hold on to you. You were the only person who ever chose me, scars and all... and I was losing you.” He exhaled, long and slow. “I was scared. And I think—I think I was trying to make you stay. To... I don’t know. Brand you as mine. If you were mine, then you couldn’t leave. Something like that.”

His words cracked you open, and emotion crawled up your throat, thick and suffocating. There had already been too many breakdowns tonight, too much emotion spilling over, but you couldn’t stop the way your chest ached for him.

“Bucky,” you mumbled, shifting slightly, your leg sliding up the back of his thigh, needing to ground yourself in him. “I’m gonna say something, and you can take your time with it, okay?”

He nodded, silent.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. “When I left, it wasn’t because I wanted to. It was because I was hurting. I was so scared I was losing you—to your fear, to that fucking bitch Sharon—” he huffed out a laugh, and you pinched his waist. “—that I couldn’t even think straight.” You shook your head, fingers tightening in his hair. “You were pulling away, and I wasn’t sure if... if loving you would be enough. For you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and wounded, but you pressed on before he could interrupt, blinking up at the ceiling, too afraid to look at him. “But I want to be your person. I want to be yours for the rest of our lives if you’ll have me. I really do.”

His breath hitched, and you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “So this is the part you can't get scared about, okay?” You nodded, closing your eyes. “I’m talking stupid-ass marriage and babies if that’s what forever means to you. Or any other version of it. Not now, because we have so much to figure out still, but… this is it, for me.”

“And I don’t ever want to force your hand. I will never force you into anything, do you understand that?” You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing over the faint stubble. “I will ask for what I need, I will lay it all out, but I will never demand something from you that you’re not ready to give.”

You couldn’t help the next part, the jealous part of you still shaken from earlier. “And if you wanted to leave me for that bitch, I’d call you a dumbass and probably punch you and cry myself to sleep for the rest of my life, but if it truly made you happy... I wouldn’t stop you.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to yours, his breathing uneven, the hint of a smile pulling on the corners of his lips. “Stop talking about Sharon while I’m still inside you.”

“Fine.” You shifted, huffing, annoyed, and he groaned. “Ignore everything I just told you and focus on that.”

He finally laughed then, and you felt yourself relax a little, relieved. “We’re so fucked up,” you breathed out, a mixture of a laugh and a sob, and you squeezed him, your body a cage around his. “Truly, it’s amazing we even got this far.”

“Well, you chose to fall in love with a brainwashed assassin,” he accused, and you laughed again, this time a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Former assassin. Current traumatized hunk. And I did, god, I really did,” you nodded, nuzzling his neck. “And I’d do it again. And again, and again.”

“Good thing there’s only one of me. And only one of you. Only have to go through it once.”

“As many times as it takes, Bucky.”

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josiewinters1999 · 6 days ago

Text

pisces ♓️

dark!Bucky Barnes x reader: Your ex boyfriend is determined to make your birthday a happy one. (AU where Bucky doesn’t disappear during the snap)

Content warnings: stalking, abusive relationship, unwanted touching, 18+ only.

“Happy Birthday, doll.”

Away.

You had to get away, and you had to get away now.

You held onto the bouquet with shaky hands as he passed it to you, gripping onto it for dear life. You didn’t want it. As a matter of fact, a bouquet from your ex boyfriend was the last thing you wanted to be in possession of, but it was helping to ground you at the very least. Tears pooled at the corners of your eyes, slowly streaming down your face as you shook. You took several steps backwards. Bucky stared at you with wide eyes. Surprised, and not in a good way.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to cry. I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

Why was he always so surprised that you were afraid of him? He had spent months following you, terrorizing you, and he still had the audacity to look hurt because you were afraid of him. He moved closer towards you. You continued to walk backwards, trying your best to avoid him. He kept pace with you, stepping forward as you stepped away. You began to slowly circle the room, a strange little dance. It felt like you were facing off with a wild animal. A coyote, a wolf. Something capricious, yet very predictable all at once. Something that could hurt you.

Something that would.

“I could’ve. God knows I could’ve. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“Bucky, you’re sick.”

He narrowed his eyes, a look of disgust on his face. He stopped moving for a moment. He took a deep breath, as if you were testing his patience. “Sick? You’re calling me sick?”

“Please go away. Please just go away,” you begged.

“Insulting me on our special day?”

March tenth. Your special day. Your birthday, and evidently Bucky’s, too—except he was turning one hundred and seven (you would never get over that), and you were turning twenty eight. Your shared birthday was something you bonded over when you were together, something you yourself found cute at one point in time.

Not so much anymore.

You dug your fingernails into the plastic wrapping surrounding the bouquet, making a crinkling noise. “I won’t tell anyone you were here. Please.”

He laughed then, a dry laugh. A mean laugh. Mocking.

“Who exactly are you going to tell?”

“Bucky, please just—”

“Who do you have left?” he asked, tilting his head to one side. “It’s been just me and you for so long now. Who are you gonna tell?”

He observed you carefully as you digested his words. They felt like a punch to the gut. You could feel your face grow hot as you stared at each other.

It had been several years since your family and friends first disappeared into thin air. “The snap, the blip,” whatever it was called—it was a cruel twist of fate, and it completely destroyed your life. You met Bucky shortly after you lost everyone; the quiet guy that frequented your favorite coffee shop. He would eventually become your saving grace, the one constant you could rely on. Your friendship slowly turned into something more, and you spent your past several birthdays together.

If there was one thing Bucky understood, it was grief. Losing everything. Along with your birthday, it was what bonded you together initially, that shared loneliness. Your relationship was unique. Different. It had serious depth to it, something you knew you wouldn’t be able to replicate with anyone else. You were practically inseparable. You may not have had anyone else, but at least you had Bucky. Your best friend, your boyfriend. He was your everything.

But you would come to find that intensity wasn’t always a good thing.

When you started to process your grief and truly try to live life again, rather than be happy for you, Bucky slowly became more and more controlling. Jealous. He suffocated you; sabotaging your new friendships, discouraging you from pursuing your goals. He hadn’t seen it coming when you finally broke up with him, and he certainly didn’t take rejection well. He had been harassing you for almost a full year now.

“Who else do you have but me?” he snapped. “You would be completely alone if it wasn’t for me. Not one person on this earth cares about you more than I do. No one. If not for me, you could disappear and no one would even know you existed. No one would care. No one but me.”

Any and all fear suddenly evaporated from your being at his words, at the smug expression on his face; replaced by pure and unadulterated rage. Hatred. All the pent up anger from losing those closest to you bubbled up to the surface. You couldn’t contain yourself as you dropped the bouquet on the floor, lunging at him. “I hate you!” you screamed, shoving him, clawing at his face.

He jumped back in surprise, easily grabbing hold of your wrists. He backpedaled, wide eyed and panicking. Bucky hated when you were angry with him. He couldn’t stand it.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it.” He pulled you into a hug, shushing you as you sobbed. “Please don’t be upset with me. Please don’t cry.”

He held you in his arms as you slowly sank down to the floor.

“I hate you,” you repeated, your voice muffled in the crook of his neck.

He sighed, resting his hand on the back of your head. “No, you don’t,” he said. “No, you don’t. That’s what you hate.”

You wanted to scream. You were both silent for a while, catching your breath.

“Happy Birthday, doll. I love you.”

He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead.

“I truly do.”

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josiewinters1999 · 8 days ago

Text

What if...?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected sex. Dirty talk. Slight Angst.

Summary: Bucky navigates his insecurities and guilt from his past as he grows closer to his new neighbor, a nurse.

Word Count: About 7.9k.

She knew exactly who he was the first time they bumped into each other when she ran toward the stairs of her apartment building, and he suddenly emerged from them, lost in thought. He wasn’t wearing his gloves, and the glint of metal was pretty noticeable when he reached out to grab her elbow to prevent her from falling backward. The touch was brief, since he retired his hand promptly when he was sure she would not fall, and his blue eyes revealing something akin to regret.

“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered in a low voice as he retracted his hand, tucking it into his jacket.

“Oh, don’t be,” she responded, lifting the corners of her lips just slightly as she waved her hand dismissively. “I should’ve been more careful. The elevator’s out, and I was in such a hurry… ugh. We always tell the kids not to run in hallways and stairs because accidents can happen, and here I am sprinting-" She cut herself off, realizing she was rambling, and gave an embarrassed smile. “Anyway… hi. I’m Y/n, I just moved in yesterday.” She declared, offering her hand.

He reached out in a firm but gentle grip. “James Barnes, but most people call me Bucky.”

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, and as she straightened her nurse uniform, she bit her lip. Handsome. The cute wrinkles that creased the corners of his striking blue eyes, were the kind that hinted at a man who had both smiled and seen more than his fair share of hardship, and it was hard not to notice. His body was the epitome of perfection. She mentally slapped herself for staring. “Well, Bucky, I’m running late for work, so I need to go, but I’ll see you around. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

He nodded, watching as she hurried down the stairs, her uniform swaying slightly with her steps. He just stood there, rooted to the spot for a moment longer than he should have, replaying the soft smile on her lips.

The days after that encounter passed in a blur of awkward run-ins. Each time, she greeted him with the same soft smile and each time, Bucky found himself lost in thoughts he hadn’t allowed himself in years.

It started with a polite nod, maybe a fleeting smile. Then came the casual exchanges—small talk about the weather, their days, even the occasional joke about the quirks of their shared building. Before he realized it, those brief moments had become something he looked forward to. It felt so easy to talk to her, and her laughter always seemed to come just when he needed to hear it. Sometimes, he’d catch her gaze lingering on him a second too long before she looked away, and it was enough to make him wonder if maybe, she felt the same pull that he did.

-----

One evening, as they both stood waiting for the elevator, she quirked a brow at him. "You know, Bucky, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were following me." She teased.

He blinked, caught off guard, but the playful glint in her eyes made him relax. He let out a small chuckle. "Well… I could say the same about you." She laughed, and once again, the sound made him feel almost normal.

His therapist had been telling him for months that he was alone, and isolated, and that he needed to socialize, and form connections. She had even suggested dating, but every time he tried, it hadn’t gone well. The interactions felt awkward and forced, and he often found an excuse to leave early, or worse, sometimes he didn’t even bother with an excuse, just walking out of there without a word.

There was something about her that set her apart, mostly the ease with which their conversations flowed. He wasn’t the type to talk much, often keeping things curt and to the point, but she had this way of making the silence between them feel comfortable, never pushing him to share more than he wanted. He didn’t have to try so hard to keep up with standard appearances.

But the attraction wasn’t just about comfort. No, he wanted her.

He caught himself watching her more often than he cared to admit. She was exactly his type—soft, curvy in all the right places. And he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to touch her, to trace his hands over her body, to feel her warmth beneath his fingertips.

But every time he got close to asking her out, fear crept in, locking the words in his throat. Fear of rejection. Of being too damaged. Of her seeing the parts of him he was ashamed of. And so, he always stopped himself.

Tonight felt different, though. There was something in her playful approach that made the fear feel less suffocating, less overwhelming. The elevator doors opened, and as they stepped inside, Bucky turned to her with his heart hammering in his chest. He could barely believe he was about to do this.

"Can I ask you something?" he murmured.

She glanced at him. "Yeah?"

He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment as he stood before her, and almost panicked. This wasn’t something he was used to. He could fight gruesome battles, survive impossible odds, flip a fucking armored truck with a tug of his arm… but asking someone out? That felt like a whole different battlefield. It was terrifying in a way those other things weren’t.

For a moment, he almost backpedaled. His mind scrambled, desperately searching for something else to say, some way to deflect his intentions and change the subject. But nothing came. He was stuck. He’d already opened his mouth, and there was no way to retreat now without looking like a fool.

So taking a deep breath, he jumped.

“Would you like to grab dinner with me sometime?” The words came out gruffly. For a second, the doubt crept inside his brain, making him wonder if he’d just made a mistake.

But her eyes widened in surprise before lighting up, and the smile that spread across her face eased the knot on his stomach.

“Oh, I’d love to! It’d be fun to do something outside the building for a change. We run into each other so much, that I actually have thought about asking you to hang out, but you always seemed rushed, like you couldn’t wait to leave... I’m glad that’s not the case.” She leaned in slightly, and her voice dropped to a playful whisper. “You know, we can be neighbors and friends. There’s nothing in the building rules against it.”

Bucky blinked, and his heart sank at the word friends. He forced one of the practiced, uncomfortable smiles his therapist suggested. Friendzoned -a term he’d only recently discovered- wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but he hadn’t spelled it out, either. Of course she thought he was just trying to be friendly, he hadn’t given her a fucking hint of his real intentions. He hadn’t flirted, hadn’t made even the slightest move to swoon her.

The old him would’ve had no trouble conveying his interest. He would’ve been smooth and confident, knowing exactly how to charm her and make his intentions clear. But he wasn’t that guy anymore. He hadn’t done this in decades, and the rules seemed to have shifted in ways he didn’t fully understand. Hell, he had shifted. He sighed.

“Um-” he started, hesitant. “Just to be clear…” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering to hers. “I meant it… as a date. Not just neighbors or friends grabbing a bite.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond, still processing his words. And then, something clicked. Heat crept up her neck as her smile turned thoughtful. He wasn’t asking because they lived in the same building or because they ran into each other so often. He wanted to spend time with her because he was interested.

"Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize… I mean…” she stumbled with her words, “I didn’t know you meant it like that." She has had her fair share of men in her life but being honest with herself, in a million years, she wouldn’t have guessed someone like him would be asking her out. Not Bucky, the quiet, handsome, brooding neighbor with the sharp jawline and the weight of a thousand untold stories in his eyes. For months, she had brushed off the little moments between them as neighborly interactions, and nothing more. It had been easier that way. Safer, maybe. But now, standing here, the truth of his intentions was undeniable.

Her smile softened, "Well, I’m glad you clarified." she finally said. "And yeah, Bucky. I’d like that, a lot."

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he’d been holding his breath and had just now allowed himself to exhale. A faint smile crept onto his lips, one that actually reached his eyes, softening the hardened edges he usually carried.

"Great," he murmured. "I’ll, uh, figure something out."

They shared one last look before the elevator doors opened, and as they stepped out, his heart was still racing but this time, it wasn’t from fear.

------

The first date had been simple. He brought her flowers, a small, hesitant gesture that made her eyes light up. They went to a bistro and talked about life, interests, and the kind of things you only share when you feel a certain sense of safety with someone. Bucky never said more than necessary, but she learned to read the way his eyes softened when he listened, the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when she said something that caught him off guard. It was as easy and comfortable as their previous interactions, and yet, in the back of his mind, there was always the whisper: do you even deserve this?

The second date was at the small café on the corner of their building. There had been more laughter this time, and the conversation flowed even more easily. As they sat across from each other, their knees brushed under the table. It was subtle, almost unintentional. When it happened again, neither of them moved away.

They walked back in a comfortable silence. When they reached her door, she turned to face him and for a moment the space between them felt heavier, thick with the weight of everything unsaid.

His hand hovered just near her lower back, not quite touching, but close enough that she felt the warmth of his body through the fabric of her dress. For a brief second, she thought he might pull her closer to break that last sliver of space between them, but he didn’t. His hand lingered for just a moment longer before falling away.

Bucky’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips, and his brows furrowed slightly before looking away, almost as if chastising himself. His old-fashioned upbringing, perhaps, held him back and kept him from making the move she half-expected, the one she wanted.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly, in a rougher tone than usual. His tired eyes lingered on hers just a little too long, as if he were still debating, still fighting the pull to act on the desire he was clearly feeling.

She nodded, trying to ignore the flutter on her chest and to respect his boundaries, even though her hands itched to reach for him, to pull him closer and start what he wouldn’t. “Goodnight, Bucky,” she replied softly, her own voice betraying the emotions swirling beneath the surface.

They stood there for a heartbeat longer, and the short distance between their doors now felt like miles. He gave her a small, almost hesitant smile, then turned toward his apartment, and the silence between them somehow felt louder now.

By the time the third date approached, Bucky’s nerves were starting to get the better of him. He didn’t want to ruin this. The cocky Sergeant Barnes -the man who hadn’t yet turned into a walking nightmare- would’ve laughed at him. That version of himself had been bold, self-assured, the type of man who could sweep a woman off her feet without a second thought. He’d have taken the lead with ease, knowing exactly how to handle the situation. But that man was long gone, buried beneath the weight of all he had done, all he had become.

Before leaving for the date, he poured himself an imperial pint of asgardian ale. Just enough to give him a buzz, to take the edge off. Standing there, glass in hand, he caught his reflection in the window and sighed. Could she see it, the darkness? The scars left behind from being Hydra’s puppet? And even if she didn’t... how long until she did?

You don’t deserve this, the voice whispered again, unrelenting.

------

That night, after dinner, they found themselves in her living room, two untouched coffee cups growing cold on the table beside them. The dim light softened the space around them, creating an intimate cocoon that made their conversation flow effortlessly. Yet, beneath the easy chatter, Bucky’s doubts lingered. He couldn’t shake the feeling that any move forward could shatter the delicate balance between them.

He’d been raised with a sense of propriety, a rhythm to follow when it came to courting. There was a dance to it, an unspoken set of rules about when to advance and when to hold back. The trouble now was figuring out how much to let himself move forward, how far to let this go before the weight of his past dragged him under again.

As their conversation naturally ebbed into silence, he noticed her gaze flicker to his lips, lingering just a bit longer than usual. His pulse quickened. She was giving him a sign, even if she hadn’t meant to. For a brief moment, he hesitated, but the look in her eyes, and the ale still running through his system urged him forward.

He leaned in slightly, and their knees brushed. The warmth of her body drew him closer. His hand hovered near her arm, and she responded getting closer, parting her lips ever so slightly as if inviting him in without saying a word.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the distance between them, as his heart pounded in his chest. The kiss was meant to be soft and chaste, but all restraint flew out the window the second their lips touched.

His hand slipped to the small of her back, pulling her closer, and the kiss grew hungrier, more urgent, as if months of longing were unraveling in that single moment. With a gentle, almost teasing flick of his tongue against her lower lip, he urged her to open her mouth. She complied, parting her lips as she allowed him in, and things turned molten. His tongue slid against hers, and the heat spiraled when she let out a quiet, breathless moan. The sound sent a jolt of desire straight to his cock, pushing him further. His metal hand remained firm on her back, pulling her as close as possible, while the other slipped into her hair. She responded eagerly, gliding her fingers up his chest and tangling in his now messy hair, tugging him closer as if she couldn’t get enough. The kiss was all-consuming, urgent, and messy, as months of tension finally broke free. Eventually, they slowly pulled apart, their heavy breaths mingling in the charged air between them. His gaze dropped to her lips, now swollen and flushed, and he felt the undeniable pull to dive back in.

Then he noticed it.

His vibranium hand had slid down to her waist and was gripping harder than he intended. Much harder. He swallowed and looked at it, realizing what he had done. His hand, still gripping tightly, could have harmed her. He sighed, as the frustration and self-reproach tugged at him, unable to find a balance between his longing and his fear of hurting her.

She caught the sigh, and her eyes followed his downward gaze until they landed on his hand, still gripping her waist. And then it clicked, she understood. It wasn’t just the pressure of his hand; it was everything behind it. The strength he was constantly aware of, the control he had to maintain, the fear of hurting someone he cared about without meaning to. It wasn’t just about this moment, it was about everything he carried with him.

Instead of pulling away, she did the opposite. She shifted slightly, pressing closer into his hand, reassuring him. With that small gesture, she was telling him she trusted him, she wasn’t fragile, and she wasn’t going to break. He didn’t need to hold back with her.

He exhaled softly, and a question escaped his lips, one that had been lingering in his mind for far too long. “Have you ever thought how things would have been if we had met under different circumstances?” he wondered.

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Different how?” she asked, leaning in a little, searching his eyes.

Bucky took a breath, and his gaze drifted again as if he were caught somewhere between the past and the present. “I mean… if I hadn’t been…” He trailed off for a second, a shadow crossing his expression. “If I didn’t become what I am. If I’d been just… me.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper, as though speaking the words out loud might break something fragile between them.

She stayed quiet, giving him the space he needed, her hand resting gently on his arm, a subtle reassurance.

“I think about it sometimes,” he admitted, and his eyes were distant, fixed on a point somewhere beyond her. “If we’d met before all the... before everything.” His lips pressed into a thin line, guilt flickering behind his blue eyes. “Maybe in another time, I could’ve been just a guy. Someone who didn’t have…” He paused, still pressing his vibranium hand against her back. “Someone that wouldn’t have been so messed up. Someone normal and approachable.”

Her heart clenched at the weight of his words. “Bucky-“ she started, but he shook his head slightly as if to wave off her sympathy.

“I don’t know,” he continued. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve…” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

Without hesitation, she entwined their fingers, squeezing gently. “You do deserve this,” she said firmly as she met his gaze. She wasn’t going to let him retreat into the dark place where his self-deprecation lived. “You deserve to be happy, Buck. You’re a good man.” She sighed and shifted beside him, resting her head against the couch as she considered his previous words, and then, an idea popped up.

“Let’s see… if I had been born before 1920, I’d probably still be a nurse.” Her lips curved into a small smile as she looked at him sideways, eyes gleaming in the dim light. She watched his reaction closely, and her heart thumped a little faster as she waited. “I’d have enlisted to work in a field hospital. And… who knows, maybe we could have met when you were serving.” She let the thought linger in the air, light and playful, hoping it would lift the mood.

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly, and then he tilted his head, with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He shifted closer to her without even realizing, with his hand still resting lightly on her waist. “You would’ve been responsible for making sure I was fit for duty,” he mused, his tone was a little lighter now as if the idea of an alternate history didn’t seem so bad. “Keeping an eye on me, seeing my injuries, maybe even patching me up yourself.” He added with a playful edge, allowing himself to immerse in the scenario.

She grinned, shaking her head, eyes twinkling as she imagined the scene. “Oh, from what I heard about you, I doubt you would have visited the hospital very often, Sarge,” she teased, nudging his knee with hers playfully, a grin tugging at her lips.

Bucky chuckled, as his thumb began tracing slow, soothing circles on her back, a gesture she was growing fond of. “Probably not,” he agreed, leaning in slightly, “But I would’ve noticed you from afar. Even if I had no reason to be there, you would’ve stood out.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as her fingers absentmindedly brushed the back of his hand, and a smile played on her lips as she waited for his answer.

Bucky glanced down at their intertwined hands, his rough, calloused fingers brushing against her softer ones. He looked back up at her. “Because you’re beautiful,” he said simply as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Beautiful, me? Pfft!” She laughed softly, with a playful spark in her eyes. “But... now that I think about it, pin-up girls were a thing when you were serving, weren’t they?”

Bucky leaned back into the couch, pulling her with him, wrapping his arm firmer around her waist, with a slow grin. “Yeah, well, nurses were definitely included in the ‘interesting’ category too,” he teased. His eyes flicked down, tracing the curves of her body as his hand tightened slightly around her waist, making her feel self-conscious. “Especially ones with curves like yours.”

She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head, but before she could say anything, Bucky continued, his voice lower now, with a bit more serious tone. “You’d have been popular among the guys in camp, you know. They’d have been lining up, falling over themselves to get your attention.” He paused, flicking his gaze back to hers. “But trust me, I would’ve noticed you first. And I wouldn’t have let anyone else have a shot.”

Her cheeks heated as she tucked her legs beneath her, giving him a playful nudge. “Oh, so you would’ve asked me out?” she teased.

Bucky turned slightly toward her, sliding down slowly the hand resting on her arm, brushing her skin in soft, teasing strokes. “Oh, I wouldn’t have just asked,” he said with a smirk. “I’d have made sure you had no reason to say no.”

She felt her heart quicken at the subtle heat in his voice, the playful edge giving way to something more intense. Her breath hitched slightly, and she bit her lip as she gazed up at him. “Is that so?” she murmured. “And how would you have done that?” She leaned in a little, brushing her shoulder against his, closing the small space between them. “How was the game back then? Brought flowers? Invited me to dance?”

“Both, probably,” he murmured, resting his hand on her thigh, grazing the fabric of her dress with his thumb in slow, deliberate motions. “Flowers, because they’re classic... and dancing, because it’s intimate.”

“Well,” she whispered, leaning her head toward him, lips just inches from his ear, “I guess I would’ve let you court me, Sarge. Tell me about a date with you.”

Bucky’s hand tightened slightly on her thigh, just enough to make her heart race. His stubbled cheek brushed against hers as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin. “Saturday night,” he whispered, barely grazing his lips on the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine, “dinner at the Officers’ Club, followed by a slow dance... and then back to my quarters for a proper goodnight kiss.”

Her breath hitched, and her pulse quickened as the warmth of his breath and the weight of his words settled in her brain. She could feel the tension thickening in the air, and then, with almost a trembling voice, she teased, “Only a kiss?”

Bucky smirked against her skin, hovering his lips near her ear. “Maybe more than just a kiss,” he rasped, low and full of promise, “but only if you wanted it too.”

She arched an eyebrow, curving her lips into a teasing smile. “Hmm, I dunno, Sergeant Barnes... things were done more properly back then, right? No sex before marriage, and all that stuff?”

He let out a low chuckle, already inching his hand higher up her thigh. “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, with a teasing edge. “I would've waited until our wedding night…” His hand slid beneath the fabric of her dress, fingers grazing the soft skin of her thigh. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have thought about it. Every. Single. Day.” He leaned in again as he whispered. “How you’d look... how you’d feel... imagining all the ways I’d finally get to touch you.” His breath was warm against her skin, and the words, heavy with tension.

“Is that so?” she murmured, sliding her fingers up his chest, gripping his collar just enough to keep him close. “You think you could’ve waited?”

His hand tightened again on her thigh. “I would’ve tried... but I don’t think you would’ve made it easy.” Bucky’s playful tone faded into something more serious, and his voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Would you have let me… let me have you like that?”

She swallowed, gripping his shirt tighter as she looked up into his eyes, feeling the pull toward him in a way that left her defenseless. “I-” her voice faltered, but she managed to find her words. “Yeah, Bucky... I would’ve.”

Bucky’s vibranium hand, firm but tender, climbed from her waist tracing a slow, deliberate path up her spine. He then reached upfront for the little buttons at the neckline of her dress, being careful and bold as he unfastened them, one by one. Each undone button revealed more of her skin to his darkened gaze, and the way he looked at her made her feel exposed in a way that went beyond the physical. “I would’ve taken care of you,” he murmured, brushing his lips on her collarbone. “Made sure no one else got close to you.”

Her body leaned instinctively toward him, craving the closeness as her free hand ran up his arm, tracing the firm muscles beneath his shirt. “No one else would’ve mattered,” she whispered.

With a swift, deliberate motion, the hand on her neckline slid down and snaked behind her, grasping her ass and pulling her fully into his lap. She gasped as her hips pressed against his, feeling exactly how much he wanted her. “Every night,” he growled with need, “I would’ve made sure you were mine.” His eyes were ablaze with raw desire as he tightened his grip holding her firmly against his groin.

Her pulse raced, and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them, and his mouth crashed into hers in a searing kiss. His other hand slid higher up her thigh, teasing the edge of her panties, brushing the soft skin. A soft moan escaped her lips, muffled by the kiss, and when he broke it, his lips found the curve of her neck.

“So only one kiss, huh?” she chuckled in a breathed tone, and her voice trembled with anticipation as her hips instinctively rocked against his.

Bucky inhaled deeply against her skin, trailing hot kisses toward her breasts. “Well, I would've kissed you every chance I got but believe me, that wouldn’t have been enough...” His words were thick with promise, and his breath was hot against her skin. He pressed his erection harder against her, slipping his hand between them, tracing her slick heat over her underwear with his fingers. The breathless gasp that escaped her was all the encouragement he needed. “… that wouldn’t have been fucking enough.” he whispered against her skin, his voice low and filled with hunger, as his fingers moved with purpose, leaving no doubt about what he wanted.

She bit her lip, and her voice was soft but laced with playful intent as she fed into the fantasy they were weaving. “Well, if we had ourselves a little house with a white fence, I’d have waited for you to come home every day in a frilly apron,” she locked her eyes onto his, and a teasing smile tugged at her lips as she added, “with nothing underneath.”

The image she painted made Bucky’s breath hitch, and his grip tightened around her ass. His eyes nearly rolled back, his imagination spiraling into wild possibilities. “Damn.” His voice was laced with lust. “If I could’ve had you waiting for me like that,” he murmured, gripping her tighter, fingers digging into her skin as his restraint began to falter “I’d have come home early every damn day just to take advantage of you.” His lips brushed the swell of her breasts, and the heat between them spiraled as his imagination ran wild, pulling her impossibly closer while teasing over her soaked panties.

Her gaze flicked from his lips back to his darkened eyes. “Oh yeah?” she challenged, in a sultry whisper. “Right there on the kitchen table?”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, and the raw desire in his eyes nearly swallowed her whole. “Hell yes, right there on the kitchen table,” he growled, his vibranium hand gripping her ass harder, possessively. “I’d bend you over it, flip up that little apron, and bury myself inside you until you screamed my name for the whole damn neighborhood to hear.” He confessed without a hint of shame or remorse.

Her body reacted instantly, pressing her hips hard against the teasing hand hovering over her clothed pussy. A soft, almost desperate whimper escaped her lips. His hand answered her need by slipping her panties aside, slowly sinking his fingers into her pussy, stretching her with deliberate, agonizing precision.

She let out a shaky breath, and her playful tone faltered as her body betrayed her. “How kinky,” she managed to tease, biting her lip as she met his gaze.

Bucky inhaled sharply, savoring the way she responded to him, moving his hand with more purpose now. “Kinky enough to have you blushing for days,” he growled, grazing his teeth up to her jawline before dragging his lips slowly up to brush against hers. His fingers kept sliding deeper inside her with slow, deliberate strokes. “And when the milkman came the next morning…” The hand on her ass squeezed the supple skin harder, pulling her even close against him, while the other continued its relentless torment between her legs. “...you’d be so sore from the night before, you wouldn’t even be able to stand straight. Couldn’t look anyone in the eye without blushing, remembering just how loud you screamed.”

She moaned at his statement, totally immersed in the fantasy. “Fuck, that sounds… so good, Buck.” She managed to say, as her voice trembled with want. She bit her lip again, locking eyes with him and starting to ground herself shamelessly against his fingers, as the pressure built quickly inside her. “But... would you only fuck me at the kitchen table when coming back? What about… other creative places? Like the back porch, under the shade of the bindweed?”

Bucky's eyes closed as her suggestion sparked a flood of heated thoughts. “Absolutely," he growled. He pushed his fingers knuckle-deep inside her, while his thumb circled her swollen clit, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. “I’d lift that sexy little apron right up, spread your legs wide open, and fuck you right there under the bindweeds," he murmured, brushing her ear, each word laced with dark promise. "And you'd moan my name, scream it, while everyone else thinks we’re just having a quiet afternoon tea."

The combination of his filthy words and the relentless pressure of his fingers sent her body trembling with anticipation, and her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. "Bucky…" she moaned softly, tightening her grip on him, desperate for everything he was giving her. Her hips bucked uncontrollably against his hand, and her breath hitched as his fingers curled inside her, hitting just the right spot that sent waves of pleasure radiating through her body. The pleasure kept building inside her, tightening, and coiling until every nerve in her body felt alive.

He felt the signals and growled, moving faster now, each stroke deliberate and calculated as his forehead pressed against hers. “I’d made sure no one could ever touch you the way I did,” he muttered, his voice low and possessive. "Every inch of you, mine." He punctuated the last words with hard, rhythmic rubs at one side of her clit and that was all she needed for the climax to hit her, a wave of intense pleasure crashing through her entire body. Her moans turned into soft cries as she buried her face on his neck, trembling violently as his hand continued to work her through it, prolonging her ecstasy.

When her body came down from her high, Bucky slowly withdrew his fingers. Panting, she looked at him and saw the raw, unbridled desire burning in his blue eyes. Without hesitation, she leaned in, finding his stubbled jaw with her lips, trailing soft, hungry kisses down his neck, nipping and sucking against his skin while her hand wandered lower and lower on his abdomen, finally unbuttoning his pants with deliberate slowness, venturing inside his underwear.

The moment her fingers brushed against his cock, he tensed and groaned. “W-wait,” he rasped, thick with need and restraint. His hand held hers firmly, keeping her from going further.

Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion, her lips still hovering near his neck. “Why?” she murmured, “I want to make you feel good too. You deserve it, Bucky,” she whispered, her words full of tenderness and desire.

Bucky let out a low, shaky breath with a hint of frustration. He knew he had to come clean. “I want it too, trust me,” he muttered, strained. “But it’s been so long... too long. If you touch me now…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “Let me lead,” he whispered. He leaned in to kiss her, deep and slow, pouring all his pent-up desire into the kiss.

She sighed softly, pulling back just enough to reach for the hem of her dress, slipping it over her head in one fluid motion. The fabric lifted away from her body, leaving her sitting in only her bra and panties as the dress was tossed to the side of the couch.

Bucky’s gaze darkened as he took her in, and his hands instinctively roamed over her bare skin. But then he groaned again softly, almost painfully, pausing as his grip tightened around her waist. “What happened to let me lead?” he rasped with restraint.

She parted her lips to respond with a half-hearted apology, but before she could, his hands were already sliding down her body, reclaiming control. His fingers traced her bra straps, slipping them off her shoulders with excruciating slowness. “I need to do it my way,” he murmured in a low growl as he leaned in, brushing her ear with his lips. “If you don’t behave... this ends before we even begin.”

The meaning of his earlier words hit her then. He wasn’t just leading to take his time with her; he was fighting to keep from losing control, from coming right there in his pants. Her teasing grin faltered, replaced with a softer expression. “Oh,” she whispered with understanding. “Sorry, I didn’t realize…” Her fingers gently grazed his cheek. “I didn’t mean to push you.” And then he saw the guilt on her face.

Bucky tensed slightly, inwardly cursing himself for letting his vulnerability slip. His masculine pride stung. Great job. Way to cool the mood. He forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers in an attempt to brush off the tension. “It’s alright,” he muttered, but the strain in his voice betrayed him. His fingers dug into her hips just a little, “I just... got worked up faster than I expected.” He exhaled shakily, trying to ease the tension. Then he started to move.

As his fingers worked at the clasp of her bra, slow and deliberate, he broke the silence with a low murmur thick with desire. “You know… I liked you from the moment we bumped into each other on the stairs,” he confessed, meeting her gaze. “I still remember the way you looked at me, even after I knocked you off balance and grabbed your arm. No gloves, metal hand out in the open… but you didn’t flinch.”

When her bra fell away, his gaze dropped to her exposed breasts, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. His flesh hand cupped her gently, brushing his thumb over her nipple in a slow, teasing motion.

“I loved how your uniform looked on you then,” he continued, as his tone grew huskier and his vibranium hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer. “I still do. Every time I see you in it, it makes it hard to focus on anything else.”

His thumb continued its slow teasing, but then his expression shifted, and a flicker of doubt crossed his face. His voice dropped, and a hint of regret slipped into his words. “I wish I’d asked you out sooner. The old me… he would've handled this better. Would’ve known exactly how to-”

“Stop,” She cut him off before he could finish, threading her fingers through his hair as she pulled him closer. “The moment of ‘what if’ has already passed. I don't want the man you used to be, Bucky.” Her lips brushed against his jaw, “I want you. Not someone I never knew.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them fixing his gaze on hers. She wasn’t looking for the version of him with the effortless charm and swagger. She never did. She wanted him, baggage, scars, and everything else.

A slow, shaky breath escaped his lips, “You don’t know how much that means,” he muttered, brushing his lips against her jaw, then down to her neck. His movements were soft at first, but as her nails scrapped softly at his scalp, urging him on, the hesitation melted away.

His mouth found hers again, kissing her hard, moving his hands with more confidence again. “I’ve wanted this... you,” he rasped, his breath hot against her skin. “For so damn long.” She responded with a moan, arching into him as he took full control.

He groaned, unable to hold back any longer. He gently shifted her off his lap, laying her down on the couch, leaving his hands on her hips for a moment before he stood. His breathing was heavy, and though his chest tightened with familiar insecurities, especially about his arm, he pushed forward.

His fingers moved to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. As the fabric fell to the floor, his eyes darted to her face, half-expecting some flicker of hesitation or doubt. Instead, her gaze roamed over him, dark with desire as her eyes took in the hard lines of his chest. “Damn... you’re perfect.” Her voice came out breathy and soft. Swallowing hard, Bucky quickly slid his pants and boxers down in one smooth motion, kicking them aside. Now fully bare before her, he stood there, chest rising and falling as her gaze lingered on him. He could see her eyes focused on his size for a brief moment, her lips parting as she let out a soft, breathless sound. The way she looked at him -no hesitation, only hunger- made his insecurities, the doubts about his scars, his arm, everything, to retract to a far corner of his mind.

Without a word, he climbed on top of her, positioning himself between her legs. His hands trailed down her sides, gripping her hips firmly as he pulled her closer. Slowly, he guided his cock to her slick pussy, teasing her as he coated his shaft with her wetness. A low, rumbling groan escaped his lips as he playfully rubbed the tip of his cock against her clit.

She reacted instantly, writhing beneath him. “Bucky…” she moaned softly, tilting up her hips toward him, aching for more.

He moved slowly, sliding inside her inch by inch, pausing as soon as he was fully sheathed, giving her a moment to adjust. Her body clenched tightly around him, and a gasp escaped her lips as her nails dug into his shoulders as he waited. Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, the feeling of his cock filling her was completely overwhelming.

He pulled back slightly, then pushed forward again, slowly and deliberately, testing her response. She bit her lip, eyes fluttering shut as she struggled to find her breath, her thighs trembling around his hips with each thrust.

“Fuck, Bucky,” she managed to whisper breathlessly, her voice barely audible but heavy with surprise and awe. “You’re big. I’ve never- oh, God!”

Her words sparked something deep within him, the mixture of pleasure-pain igniting a fire he could barely contain. A low growl rumbled in his throat as his control began to slip. His hands moved to the back of her thighs, gripping them firmly just beneath her knees, then in one swift motion, he lifted her legs, spreading her wider as he started to thrust deeper, hitting spots that made her eyes fly open, a strangled moan escaping her lips. “Bucky… oh my God,” she gasped again, her voice trembling as she struggled to take all of him.

Encouraged by her reaction, he picked up the pace, thrusts growing harder and faster, losing himself in the haze of lust that overtook him. He pulled her thighs higher, spreading her wider, driving into her with relentless force. Each thrust was deeper and rougher, and her moans quickly turned into desperate, breathless cries of pleasure.

The sound of her moans, the way she cried out his name, only fueled him further. “You like that?” he growled, in a low and ragged voice as he thrust into her again, deeper, harder. Her slick heat gripped him tighter and pulled him deeper with every movement, making his pulse race. “Look at me, Doll. You like it rough?”

Her body arched beneath him, her hands scrambling for something to hold onto as the force of his thrusts tore through her body. “Yes! Bucky… fuck! Don’t stop,” she moaned, her voice breaking as he kept his relentless, punishing pace.

“Oh, I won’t stop,” he growled, pulling out of her with a slick sound, only to flip her over onto her stomach in one swift motion. His hands gripped her hips roughly, pulling her ass up and positioning her on all fours before she had time to catch her breath.

Before she could process the shift, Bucky slammed back into her, filling her completely. She gasped, and her fingers clutched at the couch cushions as he drove into her from behind, with an unrelenting pace. “Is this what you wanted, hm?” he rasped, his flesh hand sliding up her back before grabbing a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back slightly as he rammed against her, thrusting deep and hard.

She let out a scream of pleasure as he pounded into her. “Yes! Oh God, yes,” she cried, her body helpless under his rough control.

Bucky grunted with each powerful thrust, tightening his grip on her hair, digging his metal fingers into her hip, guiding her back onto him. The angle allowed him to go even deeper, kissing her cervix with every heavy push of his hips. Her broken moans only spurred him on, so he kept the rhythm of their bodies frantic and primal, skin slapping against skin in a lewd symphony.

He released her hair and grabbed both her hips, yanking her back onto his cock with force, losing himself in the haze of lust. “Come for me,” he growled, his hand coming down on her ass with a sharp smack, making her gasp.

Before she could recover, his fingers slid between her legs, finding her clit. He circled it with firm, deliberate pressure as he leaned over her, thrusting still deeper. “I want you to fucking come all over me, Doll.” The moment his fingers touched her, her body responded, hips bucking involuntarily as her breath hitched. The pressure building inside her hit its peak, and with a loud, desperate moan, she shattered beneath him, trembling violently as she came.

The tight, pulsing grip of her body sent Bucky over the edge. “Fuck,” he ground out, as his muscles locked when the pleasure slammed into him, sharp and all-consuming. He buried himself deep with a final, shuddering thrust, thick warmth spilling inside her as his body tensed and jerked, caught in the force of his orgasm. A ragged gasp left his lips as he pressed his forehead to her back, riding out the aftershocks while the last tremors of pleasure rippled through their bodies.

The room was filled with the sound of their heavy breathing, their bodies still trembling, slick with sweat as they tried to come down from the high. Bucky stayed inside her a moment longer, moving his fingers in slow, lazy circles over her clit, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure as her body pulsed beneath him.

But as the haze of bliss began to fade, his mind caught up with his body, and a flicker of doubt creeping in. Had he been… too much?

Slowly, he withdrew, and the sudden cool air contrasted with the heat their bodies have shared. His hand slid up to her shoulder, gently, almost hesitant. “Are you okay?” His voice was low, uncertain.

She turned her head slightly, pressing her cheek into the cushion as her hooded eyes found his. “Better than okay,” she murmured. “That was... perfect, Buck.”

He exhaled, feeling the tension in his body ease a little, but as always, his mind refused to quiet. What if she was trying to play it cool after being on the receiving end of nearly eighty years of pent-up frustration?

Sensing his unease, she shifted, sitting up on the couch. Her hands cradled his face, gently brushing her thumbs against his skin. He looked almost miserable for someone who had, minutes ago, been nothing short of a god of intercourse.

“You didn’t hurt me, Bucky,” she said. “I meant it when I said it was perfect. Stop overthinking. It was the best I’ve ever had.” Her cheeks heated as she realized the weight of her words, but she didn’t back down. “I mean it,” she added, as her gaze dropped for a moment.

The tension in his body slowly began to melt away as he absorbed her words. His breathing steadied, and the storm of doubts in his mind started to quiet. He looked down, feeling a pang of guilt for letting his insecurities creep in precisely in that moment. Running a hand through his messy hair, he shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to ruin… I just- I get in my head sometimes.”

She gave him a gentle smile, brushing her fingers on his scruffy cheek again. “You didn’t ruin anything, Bucky, not even close. If anything, the only thing you’ll have to atone for is setting the bar pretty high.” she winked.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile and he exhaled deeply, feeling how the weight on his chest finally lifted. Without saying anything else, he reached up, gently cupping her cheek, brushing softly over her skin in a silent gesture of gratitude.

They stayed like that for a while, comforted on each other’s caresses. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full of understanding, unspoken promises, and the certainty that, somehow, they were exactly where they were meant to be.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

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