raetides

[raetides]

Oh the way I would BEAATTT THIS PRICK UP OH MY GOOOOOODDDDD, you love her but you can’t show her SHIT FOR IT???????? FFFFFFUUUUUUCCKKK UUUUUUUUUUUUU TOOO HELLLLLLLL

I miss you, I'm sorry

Bucky x Reader AU

Word Count: 10k+

Warnings: Toxic, angst, smut

A/N: I love Gracie, and was like fuck it gonna toss something together based off my fav songs by her

The air feels heavy, even though the room is quiet. You sit cross-legged on your bed, your phone resting beside you, the screen dim and blank. The minutes bleed into each other, but you can’t stop glancing at the clock, as if willing it to rewind to before it all.

It’s been three days. Three days of no texts, no calls, no nothing. That’s how it always goes with Bucky. He’s there, and then he’s not. And every time, you tell yourself it’ll be the last time you wait for him to come back.

It never is.

You hate him for how easy it is to disappear. You hate yourself more for letting him.

The phone rings.

The sharp sound cuts through the haze of your thoughts, and for a moment, your heart skips. You snatch the phone up, seeing his name flash across the screen. The sight of it sends a rush of relief, anger, and something softer, something stupidly hopeful, all at once.

You answer, but don’t say anything.

“Hey.” His voice is quiet, gravelly. Tired.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Hey.”

The silence stretches, brittle and uncomfortable. You can hear him breathing on the other end, steady and soft. It reminds you of the way his breath felt against your skin the last time he stayed over, the last time he let himself get too close before pulling away again.

“I shouldn’t have called,” he mutters finally, his voice tight. “I just… couldn’t sleep.”

You close your eyes. There it is again, the push and pull. The way he says he shouldn’t but always does. The way he drags you back into his orbit every time, knowing you’ll stay.

“What do you want, Bucky?” you ask, keeping your voice steady. It’s a question you’ve asked a hundred times, and you already know the answer.

He exhales sharply, like he’s frustrated—at you, at himself, you’re not sure. “I don’t know.” Another pause. “You were right, okay? About everything. I just…” His voice trails off, and you can picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always does when he’s trying to find the words. “I hate this.”

“Hate what?” you snap, the simmering frustration bubbling to the surface. “Hate that you always come back? Or hate that you can’t figure out what the hell you want?”

He doesn’t answer. He never does when you call him out like this.

The silence makes your chest ache. You shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “You can’t keep doing this, Bucky. You can’t keep pulling me back just to push me away again. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” he whispers. And he sounds so broken, so genuine, that it cracks something inside you. It always does.

You take a shaky breath. “Then why do you do it?”

“I don’t know,” he says again. His voice is quieter now, softer, like he’s afraid of breaking you more than he already has. “Because you’re the only thing that feels real. And I don’t know how to hold onto it without screwing it up.”

Your throat tightens. You wish you didn’t understand. But you do. He’s always been good at giving you just enough to stay, but never enough to feel whole. “Its not enough Buck”

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “But it’s all I’ve got, you're all i truly have."

You sighed running your head through your hair “Do you wanna come over?”

“I’m already on my way”

You don't have to wait long. The sound of his motorcycle pulling up to your place makes your stomach do a little flip, even though you're still mad at him. You hear his heavy boots on the stairs, and then a soft knock at your door.

You take a deep breath before opening it. He's standing there, his hair tousled from the ride, his face tight and tired. He looks at you, and for a moment, it's like all the walls come down. He reaches out, cupping your face with his hand, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice rough. "I'm so fucking sorry."

And just like that, you melt. You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed. His other hand comes up to wrap around your waist, pulling you close. He smells like leather and cigarettes and something uniquely him.

"I missed you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "I hate not seeing you."

"I hate it too," you whisper back. "But you can't keep doing this, Bucky. You can't keep hurting me."

He makes a soft, broken sound. "I know. I'm trying, okay? I'm really trying."

The door closes softly behind them, the click of the lock echoing in the charged silence. Bucky's hand is still cupping your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. You lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed as you breathe him in. He smells like leather and smoke, like home and danger all rolled into one.

You press yourself against him, feeling the hard planes of his body through his clothes. He's solid and warm and real, and it's been too long since you've felt him like this. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he claims your mouth in a hungry kiss.

You moan into it, your fingers tangling in his hair. He kisses like your fights- fierce and intense, like he's trying to claim every inch of you. You kiss back just as fiercely, your tongue sliding against his as you lose yourself in the feel of him.

He walks you backwards towards the bed, his hands roaming your body as he goes. He breaks the kiss only to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His mouth is back on yours before you can even blink, his hands cupping your breasts through your bra.

You arch into his touch, your nipples hardening under his palms. He groans low in his throat, his hips pressing forward to grind against yours. You can feel his hardness through his jeans, and it makes you ache with need.

He breaks the kiss again, trailing his lips down your neck as his hands work to unclasp your bra. It falls to the floor, joining the growing pile of clothes. He takes a moment to look at you, his eyes dark with desire as they rake over your naked breasts.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he murmurs, his hands cupping the soft mounds. You gasp as his thumbs brush over your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

He leans down, taking one of the hardened peaks into his mouth. You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair as he sucks and licks and nibbles. Your hips buck against his, seeking friction, and he groans around your nipple, the vibrations making you shiver.

He gives the other breast the same attention, lavishing it with kisses and bites until you're writhing beneath him. Only then does he move lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach as he kneels before you.

His hands hook in the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down along with your panties. You step out of them, kicking them aside as he looks up at you from his knees. The sight of him there, kneeling before you like you're a goddess to be worshipped, makes your knees weak.

"Bucky," you breathe, and it's half plea, half prayer.

He grins up at you, a devilish glint in his eyes. "Patience, baby. I'm going to take my time with you."

And then his mouth is on you, his tongue delving between your folds to taste you. You cry out, your head falling back as pleasure crashes over you. He licks and sucks and teases, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place as he devours you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to you as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. Just when you think you can't take anymore, he pulls back, leaving you gasping and empty.

"Bucky, please," you whimper, and he chuckles darkly.

"Please what, baby? Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you pant, looking down at him with desperation in your eyes. "I want you inside me."

He stands up, pulling you flush against him as he captures your mouth in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you even more aroused. His hands grip your ass, kneading the flesh as he grinds his hardness against your bare core.

"Bed," he growls against your lips, and you nod frantically, tugging him towards the mattress.

You tumble onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and desire. He breaks the kiss to sit up, yanking his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. You take a moment to admire the hard planes of his chest, the scars that crisscross his skin like a roadmap of his past.

He crawls back over you, his hips settling between your thighs as he reaches for his belt. You watch, transfixed, as he unbuckles it and shoves his jeans and boxers down, freeing him.

He settles back over you, his head brushing against your entrance. You shudder at the contact, your hips lifting to try and draw him in.

"Tell me you want this," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," you breathe, wrapping your legs around his waist. "I want all of you."

And with that, he thrusts into you, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You cry out at the sudden fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders as you adjust to the stretch.

He pauses for a moment, letting you get used to him. Then he starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. You meet him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to take him deeper.

The bed creaks beneath you as he sets a relentless pace, driving into you again and again. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, burying his face in your neck. "So perfect."

You clench around him in response, and he curses, his hips snapping forward harder.

"I'm gonna come," you gasp, your body tensing beneath him. "Bucky, I'm gonna-"

But he cuts off your words with a kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure as you come undone beneath him. Your body spasms around him, milking him as he follows you over the edge with a hoarse shout of your name.

He collapses on top of you, both of you gasping for breath as the aftershocks of your orgasms roll through you. He presses soft kisses to your neck, your jawline, your lips as you bask in the afterglow.

"I love you," he murmurs against your skin, and you hope it's just not the sex talking.

Later that week, you’re sitting at a bar with Natasha. She watches you nurse your drink, her sharp green eyes narrowing as you tell her what happened.

“He called,” you say, staring down at the condensation on your glass. “And like an idiot, I picked up, and he came over, we had sex and he was gone in the morning”

Natasha doesn’t say anything at first. She just leans back, crossing her arms. “What do you want me to say?” she asks finally. “That he’s going to change? That this time will be different?”

You shake your head. “No. I just…” You trail off, struggling to put the feeling into words. “I just wish I didn’t miss him so much. I wish I could stop.”

She sighs, leaning forward. “Listen to me,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “He’s not going to fix this. You know that, right? He’s not going to wake up one day and suddenly figure out how to love you the way you deserve. That’s not who he is, you have to know that babe…"

“I know,” you whisper. But the ache in your chest doesn’t go away.

Natasha exhales deeply, tilting her head as if trying to decide whether to push further. Finally, she sets her drink down and leans across the table, her voice quieter but no less serious. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna keep answering when he calls? Keep letting him come over, screw you and your head, and leave like nothing happened?”

You don’t answer, just trace the edge of your glass with your finger. The truth is, you don’t have a plan. You’re not even sure you want one. “He said he loves me, he's never said that before”

Natasha leans back in her chair, crossing her arms as she studies you. Her sharp green eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no satisfaction in her expression. She doesn’t look impressed, doesn’t look relieved, like you’d hoped she might. Instead, her face softens, just slightly, in that way that means she’s about to say something you don’t want to hear.

“Okay,” she says slowly, her voice calm but pointed. “And what does that change?”

Her question hits like a bucket of cold water, and you blink at her, your fingers freezing mid-trace on the rim of your glass. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, so what?” Natasha continues, leaning forward now, her elbows on the table. “He said the words. Great. But what does that actually mean to you? Did it make you feel better? Did it fix anything?”

You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. The truth sits heavy in your chest.

“It’s not enough just to say it,” Natasha presses, her tone still steady but with an edge of frustration. “Love isn’t just words. It’s showing up. It’s consistency. It’s choosing someone, not just when it’s convenient, but every single day. Did he do that? Or did he just say what you’ve been waiting to hear and then disappear again?”

The ache in your chest tightens, and you look down, your fingers clutching the glass like it might hold the answers you’re searching for. “He—he’s trying,” you say weakly, but even you don’t sound convinced.

Natasha lets out a breath, her voice softening again. “Babe… I know you want to believe him. I know you love him. But this?” She gestures vaguely, as if to encompass all of it—your tears, the late-night calls, the endless cycle. “This isn’t what love is supposed to feel like. Love doesn’t leave you questioning your worth every time the sun comes up.”

The words settle over you like a weight, and you swallow hard, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill. You don’t want her to see you cry. Not here. Not like this.

“Nat…” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. But she shakes her head, her expression soft but unyielding.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” she says gently. “I just… I want you to be happy. And you’re not happy right now. You haven’t been for a long time.”

Before you can respond, the stool next to her screeches, and Sam slides into it, his energy a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere between you and Nat. He plunks his beer on the table and gives you a once-over.

“Well, you look like someone stole your puppy,” he says, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

Natasha shoots him a look. “Not the time, Sam.”

“I’m just saying,” he replies, leaning back and gesturing to you. “She’s been sitting here all night, looking like a sad indie song, and you’re just gonna let her wallow?”

You glare at him, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “Do you have something to say, or are you just here to make jokes?”

“Both,” Sam says, taking a sip of his beer before setting it down. “Look, I love you, but this thing with Bucky? It’s killing you, and everyone can see it. Hell, you can see it, but you’re still pretending like it’s gonna work itself out.”

“Sam,” Natasha warns, but he holds up a hand.

“No, let me finish,” he says, his voice more serious now. “I’ve been where you are, okay? Hanging onto something that’s breaking you because you’re scared to let it go. But you know what happens if you keep holding on?” He pauses, meeting your eyes. “You lose yourself. And I don’t want that for you.”

His words hit harder than you expect, and for a moment, all you can do is sit there, blinking back the tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t know how to let him go,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know who I am without him.”

Sam leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Then it’s time to figure that out. Because you deserve better than waiting around for someone who doesn’t see how amazing you are—not someone who only comes around when it’s convenient for him.”

After Sam and Natasha head home, you find yourself walking through the quiet streets, your hands shoved into your coat pockets. The city hums around you, but you feel untethered, like you’re floating between who you are and who you want to be.

Before you realize it, your feet take you to Bucky’s building. You stop at the corner, staring up at the windows. The lights in his apartment are off, but you know he’s there. He’s always there.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out, your heart sinking when you see his name.

Bucky: You up?

The message is simple, familiar, and infuriatingly tempting. Your thumb hovers over the screen.

You: Yes, just leaving the bar.

Bucky: Ill see you in 20.

You see his light flick on.

You: Okay.

You’re sitting in your apartment with Steve. He’d shown up unexpectedly, a bag of bagels in one hand and a concerned look on his face. Now, he’s watching you carefully as you pick at your food, the silence between you growing heavier by the minute.

“I heard about last night,” he says eventually, breaking the stillness.

You glance up, narrowing your eyes. “Natasha?”

“Sam,” he admits with a small smile, but his expression stays serious. “He’s worried about you. We all are.”

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. “I’m fine, Steve.”

“You’re not fine,” he says gently, setting his coffee down on the table. “And it’s okay to not be fine. But you need to stop punishing yourself for wanting more than what Bucky can give you.”

Your chest tightens, and you look away, your voice barely audible. “He’s not a bad person, Steve. He’s just… broken.”

“I know he is,” Steve says softly, his tone patient but firm. “And I know he cares about you, even if he’s too scared to show it. But that doesn’t mean you have to keep hurting yourself to save him.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead, you ask the question that’s been clawing at you for days. “Is he seeing anyone else?”

Steve freezes mid-bite, his jaw tightening. “Yes.”

You nod slowly, your hands trembling as you set your plate down on the coffee table. “Are they… are they having sex?”

Steve’s shoulders sag slightly, and he shakes his head. “No.”

The relief you feel is fleeting, quickly replaced by another ache—something deeper, sharper. “He told me he loves me, y’know,” you whisper, your voice cracking.

That makes Steve freeze completely. He sets his bagel down, staring at you with wide, startled eyes. “He said that?”

You nod, the words pouring out of you now, unfiltered and raw. “He’s never said it before. And I didn’t know what to do. Because it felt… real. For a second, it felt like maybe this time was different. But then he was gone the next morning, like always.”

Steve leans back in his chair, his brow furrowed, like he’s trying to process what you’ve just said. “Did he mean it?” he asks finally, his voice cautious.

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes. “I don’t know, Steve. Does it matter? He says one thing, but everything else he does just…” You trail off, shaking your head.

“It matters,” Steve says firmly, leaning forward. “If he loves you, that’s something. But love isn’t enough if he can’t show it, if he can’t make you feel it.” Steve is quiet for a long moment, his expression pained. “You deserve more than that,” he says finally. “You deserve someone who’s not afraid to fight for you. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re asking for too much just by being yourself.”

-----------

The music is loud, pulsing through the crowded bar in a steady rhythm that matches the pounding in your chest. You're friends are off dancing their cares away, while you sit at a small table near the corner, nursing your drink, half-hidden in the dim lighting. The condensation from the glass drips onto your hand, but you barely notice.

Your eyes keep drifting to him.

Bucky is across the room, his arm slung casually around another woman’s shoulders. She’s laughing, tilting her head toward him like he’s just told her the funniest joke in the world. He looks… relaxed. At ease in a way you haven’t seen in a long time, and it’s like someone’s taken a knife to your chest, twisting it deeper with every passing second.

You force yourself to look away, staring into the amber liquid in your glass like it holds answers to questions you’re too scared to ask. But it doesn’t work. Your gaze flickers back to him, almost involuntarily.

They’re dancing now, swaying to a song you don’t recognize. His hand rests lightly on her hip, his fingers brushing against the fabric of her dress in a way that feels too intimate, too familiar.

And then he kisses her.

Not on the lips, but on her head, his lips lingering against her hair as she leans into him. It’s tender, effortless, the kind of gesture that feels natural, like it belongs to someone who knows how to love without hesitation.

Your chest tightens, and you swallow the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to take another sip of your drink. The bitterness burns your tongue, but it’s nothing compared to the ache spreading through you.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That this doesn’t matter. That he’s made his choice, and it isn’t you.

But the truth is, it matters too much.

You drain the rest of your drink, the cold liquid going down in one sharp swallow. You set the glass down harder than you mean to, the dull thud lost in the noise of the bar.

You glance over at him one last time, just to confirm what you already know. He’s still there, his attention focused on her.

But then his eyes shift.

He sees you.

For a split second, your gazes lock across the room, and the weight of his stare pins you in place. His hand pauses on her back, and something flickers in his expression—guilt, maybe, or regret.

You can’t tell, and you’re not sure you want to.

The heat of his gaze follows you as you stand, slipping your bag over your shoulder and making your way toward the door. The noise of the bar fades into the background as you weave through the crowd, your footsteps quick and purposeful.

You don’t look back, but you can feel him watching you, his eyes lingering like a phantom touch that burns even after you’re gone.

The cold night air hits your face as you step outside, and you inhale deeply, trying to push the ache in your chest away.

But it stays. It always stays.

That night, you’re curled up on your couch, a blanket wrapped around you as the city lights flicker through the window. Your phone sits on the coffee table, dark and silent.

Until it’s not.

The screen lights up, and Bucky’s name appears. The voicemail notification lingers like a ghost, and your hand trembles as you reach for it.

You press play, his voice cracking through the silence.

“I know I’ve screwed this up. I know I don’t deserve another chance. But I miss you, and I don’t know how to do this without you. Please… just call me, I’m sorry”

-------

You find him outside on the balcony, leaning heavily against the railing, his shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on him. The cold night air bites at your skin, and the faint glow of the streetlights below casts shadows that dance across his face. He doesn’t turn when you step out. He never does. That’s the thing about Bucky—he always knows you’re there, but he’s mastered the art of pretending not to.

The sound of the sliding door closing behind you feels final, like you’ve just stepped into a space you won’t come back from. Your arms wrap around yourself, a weak defense against the cold—or maybe against him—and you take a hesitant step forward.

“I thought you left,” you say, breaking the fragile quiet. Your voice wavers, as unsure as the ground you’re standing on.

He finally looks over his shoulder, his eyes heavy and rimmed with shadows. He looks wrecked. Tired in a way that no amount of sleep could fix. “Almost did,” he says softly, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the city.

You step closer, your chest tightening at his words, at the way he doesn’t move, doesn’t shift to let you in. “Why didn’t you?”

He shrugs, turning back to the skyline, his fingers gripping the railing. “I haven’t heard from you all week.”

The ache in your chest sharpens at his tone, a flicker of hope you hate sneaking in despite yourself. It’s always like this: just enough vulnerability to keep you tethered. You stop a few feet away, the space between you feeling like a canyon, impossible to bridge.

“This isn’t working,” you say, finally voicing the thought that’s been clawing at you for weeks. “Whatever this is. It’s not working, Bucky.”

He doesn’t react at first, just keeps staring out at the city, like it holds an answer he’s too afraid to look for. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough. “I know.”

The simplicity of his admission steals your breath. It’s not that you didn’t expect it. You did. You’ve been here before, standing on the edge of this same cliff, waiting for the inevitable fall.

“So why are we still here?” you ask, your voice trembling, tinged with a desperation you wish you could hide.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. The motion is frustrated, exhausted, like he’s tired of his own indecision. “Because I don’t know how to stop,” he admits, his words cutting through the night air with brutal honesty.

You take another step closer, close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles turn white as he grips the railing. “Bucky,” you say, your voice soft but breaking. “I need more than this. I need to know if you’re ever going to stop running every time things get hard. Because I can’t keep waiting for you to figure it out.”

He turns to face you then, his blue eyes locking onto yours. There’s something in them—something raw and fragile and so heartbreakingly familiar. For a fleeting second, you think this is it. The moment he’ll finally tell you what you’ve been waiting to hear.

But then he looks away, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know if I can.”

The nausea hits you like a punch, twisting your stomach into knots. You take a shaky step back, wrapping your arms around yourself like it might keep you from falling apart. “Do you even want to try?”

His silence is deafening, an answer in itself.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “I’m standing here, practically begging you to tell me you care, and you can’t even do that.”

“I care,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know I care.”

“Do I?” Your voice rises, anger bubbling to the surface, breaking through the pain. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. You say you care, but you act like I’m something you can pick up and put down whenever it’s convenient for you.”

“Stop,” he says, his voice suddenly firm, his eyes snapping back to yours. There’s something desperate in his tone, something pleading that makes your breath hitch. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do this.”

“No, Bucky.” You shake your head, your voice trembling with fury and heartbreak. “You just don’t want to. And there’s a difference.”

The words hang between you, heavy and suffocating. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, but then he stops. His eyes dart back to the city skyline, and you see it—the war he’s waging with himself, the battle between what he wants and what he’s too scared to reach for.

“Say something,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of the moment. “Say anything.”

“I’m seeing someone,” he says suddenly, his hands gripping the railing so tightly you half expect it to snap. The words hit like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs.

The world around you tilts. Your hands tremble as you take a step back. “Of course you are,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. The bitter laugh that follows feels like it belongs to someone else. “I’m done.”

You turn toward the sliding door, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might shatter. Your hand trembles as you reach for the handle, pausing for just a second, hoping—praying—he’ll stop you. That he’ll fight.

But the silence stretches on, heavier and colder than the night air.

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s still standing there, staring down at the city like he’s already let you go.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to slide the door open and step back inside. The warmth of the apartment hits you like a slap, but it does nothing to ease the chill in your chest.

The door slides shut with a quiet thud.

And Bucky doesn’t follow.

You’d just moved into a new apartment, one that wasn't tainted with all the places he'd touched, places he'd been. It made things easier it wasn't the reason for your move but it helped. Natasha had decided you were both done unpacking for the night so naturally she had dragged you to a party. Steve’s place, of course. The apartment was alive with the energy of too many people crammed into too little space. Natasha had disappeared into a circle of friends near the kitchen, leaving you to nurse your drink in a corner. That’s when you noticed him.

Bucky.

He was leaning against the wall, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Dark hair falling into his eyes, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder despite the heat of the crowded room. He didn’t see you at first, but when he did, his gaze lingered just long enough to make your pulse race.

You told yourself you wouldn’t approach him, but an hour later, you were pressed against the wall in Steve’s hallway, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t get close enough. It was messy, impulsive, and thrilling.

“We probably shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, your breath catching as his mouth moved against your collarbone.

He’d laughed softly, his voice low and rough. “Yeah. Probably not.”

Neither of you stopped.

There were moments after that—moments that felt like everything you’d ever wanted. Late nights in his apartment, the room dimly lit by the glow of the city outside. He’d lie next to you, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your arm as you talked about everything and nothing.

He’d tell you about his childhood, the things he rarely told anyone. The weight of his past. And you’d listen, feeling like you were peeling back layers of him that no one else had ever seen.

“You don’t have to fix me,” he’d murmured once, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I like being around you.”

You’d smiled, brushing his hair back from his face. “I’m not trying to fix you, Bucky.”

And in those moments, you weren’t lying.

But then there were the other moments. The ones where he pulled away so fast it left you reeling.

You remember the first time he didn’t text you back. It wasn’t just hours—it was days. Days of overanalyzing every word you’d said to him the last time you saw him. Days of your stomach twisting every time your phone buzzed, only for it to not be him.

When he finally did text, it was so casual it made you want to scream.

“Hey. You good?”

No apology. No explanation. Just like that, he was back. And you let him back in because you didn’t know how not to.

And then there was the jealousy. The way you’d catch him talking to someone else at a party, his body language so open and inviting in a way it rarely was with you. You hated how it made you feel, the bitterness that bubbled up, the way you wanted to pull him aside and demand to know if he cared about you at all.

But you didn’t. You never did.

“Do you even want to move on?” Wanda asks, her tone soft but pointed. “Or is this just who you are now?”

You blink at her, her words cutting through the haze of your thoughts. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

She sighs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “You deserve better, you know that, right?”

The door swings open, and Natasha walks in, dropping her bag on the counter. She gives you a look, one that’s equal parts sympathetic and exasperated.

“Let me guess,” she says, crossing her arms. “You’re thinking about him again.”

You don’t answer, but the way your jaw tightens is enough for her to roll her eyes. “You know he’s not good for you. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I don’t know,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. “Maybe because it’s not that simple.”

“Actually, it is,” Natasha retorts, her voice sharp. “You stop calling him. You stop answering when he calls. You stop letting him treat you like an afterthought.”

“Nat—” Wanda starts, her tone soothing, but Natasha holds up a hand.

“No, she needs to hear this.” She looks at you again, her expression softening just slightly. “I know you care about him. But caring about him isn’t enough if he doesn’t care about you the same way. At some point, you have to start putting yourself first.”

You glance away, her words hitting too close to home.

“I don’t get you,” you’d once said your voice trembling with frustration. “One minute you’re here, and it feels like—like maybe this could be something. And the next, you’re gone.”

He’d run a hand through his hair, pacing the room. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is, Bucky,” you’d said, your voice rising. “You either want me, or you don’t. So which is it?”

He’d stopped then, turning to look at you. And the look on his face—it wasn’t anger or indifference. It was fear.

“I don’t know,” he’d said finally, his voice breaking.

And that was the worst part.

“You’re spiraling,” Sam said. He wasn’t harsh about it, but he didn’t sugarcoat it either. “This isn’t love. It’s self-destruction.”

Even as you think it, your phone buzzes on the coffee table. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, pulling everyone’s attention. You glance at the screen, and your heart skips when you see his name. Just his name—no message preview, no context, just him.

Wanda notices, her brow furrowing as she leans forward. “Don’t,” she says softly, but there’s a weight behind the word, a plea. “You’ll just end up back where you started.”

You stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the notification. The silence in the room grows heavier, charged with unspoken tension. Your chest tightens as your mind races. It would be so easy. Just one tap, and he’d be there again. One tap, and you’d hear his voice, feel the pull that always brings you back.

“I just…” Your voice falters, your eyes flickering to Wanda and then to Sam, who watches you with a mix of concern and frustration. “What if this time it’s different?”

Sam lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand over his face. ��You think this time is different? Come on. What’s he going to say that he hasn’t already said a hundred times before?”

“It’s not about what he says,” Wanda interjects, her voice gentle but firm. “It’s about what he does. And what has he done, really, except hurt you?”

You look back at the screen. The notification is still there, a glaring reminder of the mess you can’t seem to escape. Your thumb presses down slightly, not enough to open it but enough to feel the weight of the choice.

“But I love him,” you whisper. The words tumble out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered.

Sam exhales sharply, standing up from the chair and pacing across the room. “Yeah, we know. Everyone knows. But does he love you? Because if he does, he’s got a real shitty way of showing it.”

You flinch at his tone, the harshness cutting through your defenses. “He does love me,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to him.

“Then where is he?” Sam snaps, turning to face you. “Why isn’t he here, fighting for you instead of blowing up your phone every time he feels lonely? Why is it always you doing the heavy lifting?”

Wanda places a hand on Sam’s arm, pulling him back gently. “Sam…”

“No, I need to say it,” he says, his voice softer now but still firm. “Love isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s not supposed to feel like you’re drowning every damn day just to keep him afloat.”

The bar is too loud, too crowded, and too filled with memories of Bucky for you to feel at ease. But you’re here because it’s Steve’s birthday, and Natasha had insisted. And of course you came it was Steve.

You’re leaning against the bar, talking to a man you barely know. His smile is easy, his laugh smooth, and even though you’re trying to focus on him, you can feel Bucky’s eyes on you. From across the room, his gaze burns into your back, searing through your dress like a brand.

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for a split second. The tension in his jaw, the way his drink sits untouched in his hand—it’s the most emotion he’s shown all night. But it’s not enough to stop you.

If he wants to act like he doesn’t care, you’ll give him something to not care about.

The man beside you leans in, his hand brushing against your arm as he says something you don’t quite catch over the noise. You laugh, even though you barely hear the joke. You laugh because you know Bucky is watching.

It doesn’t take long for him to snap.

Before you realize what’s happening, his hand is on your wrist. Firm but not rough, his grip sends a jolt through you. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice low and clipped.

“Excuse me?” You pull back, glaring at him, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

“We’re leaving,” he says, not looking at you, not giving the man beside you so much as a glance.

“Bucky—” you start, but he’s already pulling you through the crowd, weaving between bodies with single-minded determination.

By the time you reach his apartment, you’re seething. He slams the door shut behind you, the sound echoing through the dimly lit space.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, crossing your arms.

“My problem?” he fires back, pacing across the room like a caged animal. “My problem is you acting like that guy meant anything to you!”

“Oh, and you would know what means something to me, right?” You take a step closer, your voice rising. “Because you’re so good at showing me how much I mean to you.”

He stops, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t turn this on me.”

“Why not? It’s always about you, isn’t it, Bucky? What you want, what you feel. You drag me into your mess every time, and I let you, because I—”

You stop yourself, your breath catching.

“Because you what?” he demands, his voice sharp.

“Because I care about you!” you yell, your chest heaving. “And all you ever do is hurt me for it.”

His face twists, like your words hit him somewhere deep. For a moment, you think he’s going to say something, that he’s going to explain or apologize or do something, but instead, he grabs a plate from the counter and hurls it against the wall. The sharp crash reverberates through the room, the pieces scattering across the floor like jagged confessions neither of you are ready to face.

You flinch at the sound, but the fire in your chest burns brighter, fueled by the chaos. “Oh, real mature, Bucky. Breaking dishes? That’s your solution? Just break things until you don’t have to feel anything anymore?”

He grabs another plate, his hand trembling as he grips it, his knuckles white. His voice breaks as he yells, “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t know I’m screwing this up? That I don’t hate myself for it?”

“Then stop!” you shout back, your voice raw and cracking under the weight of it all. “Stop hurting me, stop dragging me back, stop—just stop!”

The plate shakes in his hand, and for a second, you think he’s going to throw it again. Instead, he slams it down on the counter with a hollow thud. His shoulders slump as he leans over it, his head bowed like he’s trying to hold himself together. His breathing is ragged, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly you think it might break under the strain.

“I don’t know how,” he whispers finally, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

The vulnerability in his voice slices through you, but it’s not enough. Not this time. The ache in your chest is unbearable, your heart breaking as you look at the man you love and realize he’ll never love you the way you need him to.

“Then let me go, Bucky,” you say, your voice trembling but resolute. “If you can’t give me what I need, let me go.”

He finally turns to face you, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I can’t,” he says, his voice breaking like the plates he just shattered. “I don’t want to let you go.”

Your chest tightens, the pain twisting deeper with every word. “Aren’t you seeing someone?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

He shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “She’s not you,” he says, his voice trembling. “They’re never you.”

The admission stuns you into silence for a moment. The tears you’ve been holding back spill over, hot and heavy. “Then why can’t you give me that, Bucky?” you whisper, your voice shaking with anger and grief. “Why can you give it to them but not to me? Why is it always me who’s left bleeding for you? It’s not fair—I give you everything! And you just take, take, take! What’s left of me after this?”

Your words hang between you, raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t even try to apologize. He just stares at you, his eyes wide and desperate, like he’s drowning in the mess he’s made.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. His touch is rough, almost frantic, his fingers trembling against your skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

And before you can say anything, before you can even catch your breath, his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is desperate and messy, his tears mixing with yours as he pulls you closer like he’s afraid to let go. His hands shake as they cup your face, his lips pressing against yours with a fierceness that makes your knees weak.

You hate how easily you give in, how quickly your hands find their way to his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. The anger and pain and longing all bleed together in that kiss, every unspoken word, every broken promise, every piece of you he’s taken without giving anything back.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. “But I can’t lose you. Please… don’t leave me.” He whispers his voice trembling

Your heart shatters all over again. “Okay”

Bucky’s hands tighten on your arms, his breath warm and uneven against your face. His lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching yours for something—permission, maybe, or forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. You don’t give it to him, but you don’t pull away either.

Instead, your hands move on their own, sliding up his chest and curling into the fabric of his shirt. The tension between you snaps like a live wire as he closes the distance again, his mouth crashing against yours with a desperation that leaves no room for hesitation.

The kiss deepens, his lips parting yours, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His hands roam down your sides, fingers gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. You press closer, your body molding to his as the frustration and anger between you melt into something darker, hotter, and infinitely more consuming.

Bucky backs you up until your hips hit the edge of the counter, the cool surface biting into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. His hands slide up your thighs, his touch firm and deliberate as he lifts you onto the counter. You gasp against his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours in all the right ways.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and breathless. “If this isn’t what you want, tell me now.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your chest heaving as you meet his gaze. His blue eyes are dark, filled with a mix of longing and uncertainty that tugs at something deep inside you. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need.

That’s all it takes. He grips the hem of your dress and pulls it up, his hands sliding over your thighs, rough and calloused against your skin. His lips trail down your neck, his stubble scraping lightly against you as he kisses the sensitive spot just below your ear. Your head tilts back, a soft moan escaping your lips as his hands and mouth make you forget every argument, every broken moment that led you here.

His fingers find the edge of your underwear, his touch teasing as he looks up at you, waiting. You nod, your breath hitching as he slides them aside, his fingers exploring with a skill that leaves you trembling. He watches you intently, his gaze locked on your face as he learns every reaction, every sound you make.

When his name slips from your lips, low and needy, it’s like something inside him snaps. He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to the couch with a strength that leaves you dizzy. The world blurs around you, your focus narrowing to the feel of his body against yours, the weight of his hands, the intensity of his gaze.

“You’re all I think about,” he says, his voice raw as he settles over you. “Every damn day.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The only response you can give is the way you arch into him, the way you pull him closer, needing him as much as he needs you. And when he finally joins you, it’s slow and deliberate, every movement designed to pull you deeper into the storm of him.

The morning light seeps through the curtains as you stand by his window, fully dressed, the quiet hum of the city below serving as your only company. Bucky is still asleep in the bed, his arm draped across the pillow where you had been just hours ago. You glance at him one last time, your heart clenching in your chest. For a fleeting moment, you consider crawling back into bed, letting yourself believe in the softness of this moment.

But you can’t.

You quietly grab your things and slip out the door, the sound of it clicking shut behind you feeling heavier than it should.

By mid-morning, you’ve buried yourself in mundane errands—anything to keep your mind from circling back to him. You’re at the farmer’s market now, weaving through the stalls of fresh produce and flowers, the air filled with the faint scent of lavender and bread. You clutch a tote bag tightly in your hand, trying to focus on the vibrant colors of the fruit in front of you.

You pick up an apple, turning it over in your hand absently. It’s almost enough to distract you from the ache still lodged in your chest. Almost.

Until you see him.

You freeze, the apple slipping from your grasp and thudding softly onto the wooden table in front of you. Your breath catches, and the world seems to narrow until it’s just him, standing only a few stalls away.

His dark hair catches the sunlight, and for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed, like the night before never ended. His eyes are locked on yours, wide and filled with a mix of emotions you can’t quite place—shock, guilt, something softer that makes your chest tighten painfully.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, suspended in time. Everyone else around you fades into nothing, their chatter and laughter muffled like the background of a dream.

But then your gaze shifts.

To her.

The woman standing beside him.

Her hand is clasped firmly in his, their fingers intertwined in a way that feels too familiar, too intimate. She’s beautiful, her expression warm and open as she looks up at him, clearly unaware of the storm brewing between his gaze and yours.

Your stomach twists violently, and the apple you’d forgotten about rolls off the edge of the table and hits the ground.

Bucky’s face changes when he sees you notice her, his eyes softening with guilt, his mouth parting as if he wants to say something, anything. But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, holding her hand, while your chest caves in.

You swallow hard, your throat tight as you force yourself to look away, your vision blurring with unshed tears. You clutch your tote bag tighter and turn, walking away without another word.

You barely make it out of the market before the tears spill over. You wipe them away furiously, your hands trembling as you duck into a side street, out of view from the crowds.

The weight of his gaze lingers on your back, like a hand reaching out but never quite touching you. You can feel him watching you, but you don’t dare turn around. You can’t.

You stop for a moment, your chest heaving as you lean against the wall of a brick building. The morning sun feels too bright, the world too loud despite the hollow silence pounding in your ears.

He didn’t follow.

You told yourself you didn’t want him to, but the ache in your chest says otherwise.

When you glance back toward the market, just for a second, you see him standing at the edge of the stalls, his hand no longer in hers, his face etched with something that looks like regret.

But he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

With a deep breath, you wipe your face one last time, adjust the strap of your tote bag, and walk away. The weight in your chest feels unbearable, but your feet keep moving anyway.

The apartment is quiet that night, the silence pressing down on you as you sit by the window, staring out at the city lights. You tell yourself you’re not waiting for him, but your phone sits beside you on the windowsill, the screen dark but heavy with possibilities.

It’s almost midnight when the buzz breaks the silence. You glance at the screen, your heart stopping when you see his name.

The message is simple. “Please, can we talk? I miss you…I’m sorry”

[raetides]

better off

Thank you to @geminixevans-stan for giving me the cheerleading I needed to get this finished.

Senator! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: World building so nothing really, unless you count heavy angst and mentions of a break up. If you follow my work, I’ve sprinkled in an Easter egg in here from another fic.

Summary | Keeping busy is something you know how to do well, especially after the publicized break up with your ex. As his political fame rises, so does the need for you to focus on yourself and keeping your walls up for self-preservation. If only it was that simple.

The ringing in his ears has finally stopped, President Wilson’s State of the Union speech bringing people to their feet, the applause thundering for more than a few minutes. 

Sam Wilson hasn’t always been known to be a rousing orator - years as a VA counselor meant he led with empathic firmness - but the determination in his voice, two years after the battle with former President Ross had nearly brought the world to the brink of destruction, President Wilson’s speech would be forever cemented in history.

“Senator Barnes!” A woman shouts, a microphone thrust in his face as she turns on her megawatt smile like she’s turned on some internal switch. “President Wilson’s speech is being hailed as a tremendous achievement, bringing multiple party lines together. As a longtime friend to President Wilson, I am sure you’re very proud of him tonight.”

”Very,” Bucky agrees, seeing Jules, the head of his staff, tap her watch. “President Wilson did not hold back on reminding the public of the things he had promised once he got into office and how he has delivered these promises to the great people of the United States and our allies and friends.”

Jules mouths the time as he pivots to leave.

”Thank you Senator, always a pleasure!”

The flashes of the cameras and more reporters yelling for him for another sound bite only makes his steps quicken to the waiting car. Normally, he would stop for another interview but time is of the essence - he has a speech he will be delivering to his constituents in less than six hours. 

“You alright?” Jules asks, looking up from her phone to inspect her boss. “We can move the speech back by a day, you know. You’ll get two hours of sleep if you’re lucky.”

”Two hours is a start.”

He can see her running her teeth over her lower lip, which means she wants to say more, even as her eyes go back to her phone.

”Jules.”

Her head snaps to attention at the mention of her name.

”Hmm?”

”What’s wrong?”

”Uh, nothing, I…” she trails off. “I sent her flowers. It’s her birthday today.”

Immediately he goes silent, his head sinking back into the headrest while Jules lets out a sad sigh. 

“It doesn’t have your name on it if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says quickly, pushing her black rimmed glasses back up her nose. “You didn’t ask this time but I figured you were busy with everything else going on so, I -”

”I didn’t forget. It’s been almost a year and a half.”

”I’m sorry, Bucky. I didn’t mean to interfere, I just know that you used to…” she stops, shaking her head as if to remind herself to drop the subject. “I’ll shut up.”

The car ride is quiet for a moment - almost too quiet to where he can hear the soft pull of the leather when he adjusts in his seat.

He knows exactly what day it is. He woke up this morning wondering what you would be doing, how a year prior he woke you up to breakfast in bed, a myriad of gifts placed around the room for you to open. You never wanted anything fancy, just a small celebration and he had done just that.

How it had all gone wrong was his fault.

”I’m sorry,” comes Jules’ reply after a moment. 

“I’m not mad, Jules,” Bucky replies. “Thank you for sending her flowers. For doing what I wanted to do but didn’t.”

”Why didn’t you?”

”She stopped taking my phone calls a year ago. I got the hint.”

”It wasn’t your finest moment,” Jules counters with a nod. “I think you had noble intentions.”

He lets out a snort as the car turns down the street, the airport in full view.

”Noble intentions? That usually means -“

”You fucked it up. She was good for you, Bucky. Remember President Barber? Married his VP! Now he’s the governor of Massachusetts and deliriously happy. You have to allow yourself to be happy, your constituents are great and the ones that aren’t? You give ‘em a big middle finger and move on.”

Jules is pleased with her little speech, nodding at the end of it as Bucky turns to look at her.

”You think she would survive these stories about my past? I barely survived.”

Jules pokes him in the shoulder.

”And look at you now,” she clarifies. “A whole public servant, Senator Barnes.”

-

Deep pink roses greet you when you open the door to your office, wrapped in a happy birthday sash in a sage green.

Your favorite color.

These same ones were delivered to your apartment two days ago, the ribbon a light pink. A gift from Jules, you know that much. Ever since she had seen you wear a pink dress to a dinner, instead of your monochromatic go-tos, she’d decided that pink was your favorite color.

It was a nice gesture, of course, acknowledging the occasion.

Birthdays are a thing of the past now, something you force yourself to think of as any other day, 

You have nowhere to put them, wondering if you can get a vase today in between your packed schedule. Running a business isn’t for the weak but it’s kept you busy and that’s all you can hope for these days.

Your attention goes back to the roses, a card peeking out from it that you hadn’t seen before. It could be anyone but you know it isn’t.

In fact, the minute you slip the silver letter opener under the envelope flap, you’re aware of the writing. It isn’t wordy but succinct and to the point, your eyes settling on his penmanship.

Happy birthday, beautiful. I miss you every day.

You’ve been strong.

Even when he was ending things, wiping your tears as he apologized over and over for hurting you - for hurting both of you - over a decision that he thought was best, you had been strong enough to know that you’d have to process the hurt, the feeling of betrayal that you believed you had been enough. 

Strong meant living the shared apartment you’d had for two years, mailing the key and garage opener certified mail as you licked your wounds, leaving a job you loved because you knew you would run into him and that was nearly as devastating a thought as the breakup itself. You’d cursed his name into your pillow, hot tears sinking into the satin fabric before you woke each day, a little stronger than the last.

You could be stronger, you tell yourself, shoving the card and envelope into a drawer when a knock at your door brings you back to center. After a moment, a head pokes inside, your assistant Rea cocking her head at the sight of you. Trying to fix your expression, you’re aware that you’ve let your emotions get the better of you, straightening your shoulders as Rea walks up to your desk.

”Goddamn it,” Rea mutters, pushing the door open as you try to sit up straight. “He did it again, didn’t he?”

She inspects them carefully, picking them up to inhale the scent.

”He’s good at this,” she continues, voiced filled with praise before it takes on a cautionary tone. “Are you gonna give in?”

You’re quick to deny her, shoving the card into the drawer.

”Give into what? Flowers for my birthday don’t mean anything.”

”It’s a nice gesture. Expensive too. I know French roses when I see them. ”

”Do you want them?” you ask, seeing her face go into shock at your offer.

”What?” Rea asks. “They’re for your birthday.”

”I don’t celebrate my birthday anymore, remember? They’re all yours.”

”I mean, you don’t have to tell me twice,” Rea says, pulling the bouquet toward her. “ I couldn’t impose… but if you insist.”

She doesn’t move from near your desk, intently watching you for a moment.

“What?” you ask, giving her a look.

“Happy birthday, boss. You may not believe in celebrating things anymore but I’m grateful for you every day.”

Rea gives you a smile before she plucks the bouquet off of the desk.

”And don’t stay late tonight because I know you,” she says in finality, closing the door behind her.

-

Jules watches as Bucky paces in his hotel suite, his tie hanging over his neck as he practices his notes. His support of a veterans bill means five rows dedicated to those who have served, the glint of his metal hand peeking out from his white shirt. He’s deep in thought, the minutes ticking by until he has to finish getting ready.

A notification on her phone makes her glance down.

Thank you. 

She knows better than to share this news, as small as it may seem. Her little confession about sending you flowers had turned into an uncomfortable silence, him diving headfirst into work. Great for his constituents and bad for her personal life. Focusing on his work meant more interviews, more town halls and more canvassing for up and coming electoral candidates.

It’s what he doesn’t say, the way he checks his phone to see if there are any signs of communication before placing it face down on the table, to the way he not so casually glances at your now deleted social media to see if you resurfaced.

Jules knows how quickly you had swept your presence off of social media, quitting your job at the law firm to pursue your own career. Whispers around your former social circles had said you had disappeared to start your own bid for office, a ploy to get back at Bucky for breaking up with you.

She’d known better.

If anything, removing all traces of your presence had been devastating, especially with how quickly you had done it.

Neither of you had gotten the closure you needed, him so quick to end things when the media began to poke around your personal life, cameras popping up when you least expected them and how his name was now appearing in fashion magazines, rather than the political heavyweight papers. He’d given you an out and you’d taken it and then some, leaving him reeling with a sense of loss that still continues to be felt, even by the way he’s written in a clause that his personal life is completely off limits when it comes to interviews.

And you, quick to accept your fate, ceasing all communication with him. The bad timing of his speaking engagements had meant he had left days after, leaving you to simply mail what was left of your relationship.

You hadn’t been there to see the absolute despair in his eyes, how fast his walls had come up when she had asked him if he needed time.

He checks his phone again, shaking his head as if to get himself out his thoughts, quickly fixing his tie in the mirror.

“Ten minutes,” Jules says in a warning, another notification coming through.

Jules? Tell him thank you as well.

She hides her smile at the idea of him sending you flowers after all.

[raetides]

Queen Kinny! If you get a chance and or feel like it could you please grace us with some Bucky with a forced breeding kink 🤤🤤🫣 thank you mams ily

Third Date

18+

Content Warning: Dark!Bucky x Reader, mature themes, threat, dark kinks, dub!con, face-slapping, sado-masochism, dacryphilia, forced breeding kink, daddy kink, mommy kink, knife kink, mention of murder, kidnapping.

ALWAYS ESTABLISH A SAFE-WORD DURING KINKY SEX

You sit on the bed, curled up next to Bucky as a horror film plays on his television. To an outsider, it may seem too soon to be this comfortable around him, but three dates have been more than enough for you to establish a connection and even some trust for Bucky. He's sweet, funny, remembers small things about you, and has bought you flowers every single week since you met five weeks ago.

"This part gets a little nasty," He warns you lowly, stroking your arm. "You might wanna look away."

"I'm the one who wanted to watch a horror," You point out with an eye-roll. "I'm not squeamish."

"S'that right? You don't mind a little gore?" He asks teasingly. "A little blood and guts?"

"Love it," You quip. "The bloodier, the better."

Lowering his voice, he stares down at you with a blank face. "What if I kill you like Krueger's about to kill Debbie?"

You gasp playfully. "Spoiler alert."

"I could, you know," He mumbles, leaning closer to you.

"You could kill me?" You ask, feeling your heart pound in your chest.

"Easily," Bucky claims with a whisper. "Think about it. Any of your friends know you're here with me tonight?"

"They know I'm on a date," You tell him, before adding, "They don't know who with."

"What about your phone?" He asks, tilting his head. "Can they see your location?"

"If I send it to them," You answer.

Licking his lips, he moves his hand from your shoulder down to your waist. "Give it to me," He orders you bluntly, no hint of humor on his face. Hypnotized by the look in his eyes, you pull your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him before watching as he turns it off and places it on the night stand. "There. None of them know where you are, and you have no way of telling them. I could physically overpower you with ease," He goes on to tell you bluntly. "Mentally, too. Your fear would make you a lousy fighter. I'd have you tied up in a minute."

"Oh, yeah?" You ask, unable to hide how turned on you are. "With the rope you have just laying around?"

"It would take three seconds for me to grab it from under the bed," He admits, pulling you closer. "Once I've got you nice and powerless, all tied up like a pretty present for me, I could play with you all I want. Maybe even torture you a little, if you fight back too hard. Wait until you're crying harder than you thought possible; so hard you can feel your skull shake. And then, when you finally accept that you've lost, and there's no hope left, and that gorgeous light in your eyes is snubbed out, that's when I'd do it. That's when I'd kill you."

You let out a shaky breath as your legs squeeze together. Why do you find him so hot? "How?" You ask with a whisper. "How would you kill me?"

His tongue swipes across his bottom lip. "The bloodier, the better," He mumbles, glancing down at your neck.

"Messy," You utter simply, feeling small under his dark gaze.

Your comment makes his eyes light up. "Just the way I like it," Bucky tells you with a sly grin. When he notices the desire in your eyes as you instinctively move closer to him, he tilts his head with a curious look on his face. "You're a kinky little thing, aren't you?"

Biting your lip, you nod. "Mhm."

He clenches his jaw before cupping your face in his big hand and stroking your cheek. "I bet you'd get wet just from me slapping your pretty face."

An almost inaudible whimper leaves your mouth, but he hears it. His lips pull up into a smirk. Without warning, he slaps you. Instantly, you gasp as your legs squeeze together. A shot of excitement rushes through you as you feel your mind go blank.

Bucky soothingly rubs your cheek for a few seconds before slapping it harder. This time, you let out a small yelp of pain as you wince.

"You're so fucking cute," He mutters with a slight pout, keeping your face firmly in his grip. "Knew you'd be a dirty little girl the second I laid eyes on you. Eager to please me, hmm? To make me proud?"

"Yes, Sir," You reply obediently, clinging onto his arm.

"That's a good girl," He coos, before his tone flattens. "Take off your dress."

You know your friends would be disappointed to know you're having sex on the third date, but you don't care. It's rare to find a man with the exact kind of energy you want, and Bucky seems to be able to provide just that. You also know that people tend to get bored and lose interest easily, so you'll take advantage of this opportunity to have great, kinky sex while it's still on offer.

Standing up, you turn back to him before slowly peeling off your dress. Bucky sits back and watches you with his hands behind his head, blue eyes scanning your body as you present it to him. The bow on your panties makes him smile. His little gift.

Once you're in nothing but your underwear, he gestures for you to get back on the bed, which you do. He pulls you on top of him with your legs on either side of him, and gives you a deep kiss. His hunger and dark desire comes through in the way he thrusts his tongue into your mouth, invading you. With your wrists being held tightly in his grip, you pull away, breathing heavily.

"Should- we should have a safeword," You suggest with a whisper.

Suddenly, he laughs, a cunning glint sparkling in his eyes. "What for?" He asks you, as though your proposal is the most preposterous he's ever heard.

"In case I want you to stop," You explain, which only makes him laugh harder.

"Oh, baby, don't be stupid," He begins, chuckling in a patronizing way before his face drops. "I'm not gonna stop."

Fuck. You know you shouldn't be, but you're turned on by his dark words. You've never had sex with a dom without a safeword before, but something about Bucky makes you throw all caution to the wind and give up all power to him. Please don't end up regretting this.

Before you know it, Bucky's ripping off your underwear with a knife and when did that knife get in his hand?

He pushes you onto your back and puts the blade between his teeth before pinning you down. Then, he takes the knife out of his mouth before holding it to your throat. "You're gonna be a good girl for me, aren't you?"

Your heart races. He's amazing. "Yes, daddy," You reply with a whisper.

He smirks, shaking his head. "No, no. You don't get to call me that, yet. You have to earn it. Do you understand?"

Letting out a shaky breath, you nod, feeling the tip of the blade graze against your neck. "Yes, Sir."

"Gotta prove that you're a good little girl," He mutters, mostly to himself. "Then, maybe I'll keep you."

This guy's dirty talk has you soaked.

And he soons finds that out for himself when he glances down at your quivering pussy to see it weeping with your juices. With an arrogant smirk, he runs the handle of the knife through your folds and up to your clit, making you gasp.

"I'm gonna give you two options here, because I'm such a nice guy," He tells you bluntly. "You're either gonna cum on my knife, or you're gonna bleed on it."

Your heart skips a beat at his warning, but when he begins rubbing your swollen clit with the handle, you know you'll be cumming easily. "Oh, fuck," You whine, bucking your hips up as the pleasure courses through you. Just as he builds up a rhythm and you feel your core tighten, he lowers the handle until it's at your entrance, making your eyes widen.

"Didn't think it'd be that easy, did you, puppy?" He asks you teasingly. "I may be a nice man, but I'm not that nice."

With that, he inches the handle into your cunt, making your body tense up. The width of it has you wincing in pain. You hold your breath as he pushes it all the way in to where the handle meets the metal blade, before slowly pulling it back out again. As he begins to fuck you with it, Bucky groans.

"Fuck, I need to get this," He whispers before grabbing a disposable camera from his nightstand and flashing a picture of you. You're too lost in bliss to care or even notice, letting out ungodly moans as the ridges of the handle rub against your walls. "Such a dirty fucking whore, letting me treat you like this."

He speeds up his actions, fucking the knife in and out of you faster, flashing more pictures of your face as it contorts with pleasure. Soon, you feel your orgasm build up, and Bucky senses it.

"That's it, puppy," He mutters through a clenched jaw. "Cum all over my knife, like the filthy little slut you are."

Your eyes roll back as you let go, shaking as your orgasm thunders through you. A loud cry leaves your mouth while Bucky chuckles darkly, continuing to fuck you with the handle through your high, stopping only when your body convulses.

"Good job, puppy," He mumbles, placing the knife on the pillow next to your head. "Wanna know what that earned you?"

You nod eagerly, breathing heavily as your heart races.

Leaning over you, Bucky slaps your cheek harshly, and you let out a squeak. With a wry smirk, he moves closer to you and kisses your lips softly. "That's what it earned you, puppy," He whispers. "What do you say?"

"Thank you," You reply with wide eyes.

"For what, hmm?" He asks, tilting his head.

"Th- thank you for slapping me, da- Sir," You say obediently.

"Aww, you adorable little thing," Bucky coos teasingly, stroking your sore cheek. "Wanna see how hard you make me?"

"Yes, please," You answer immediately.

He winks at you before moving back onto his knees and pulling off his shirt. His pants are quick to follow, as well as his navy boxers. Released is his hard cock, bouncing slightly as it leaks tiny droplets of pre-cum. You almost drool at the sight of it; it has to be the thickest, longest cock you've ever seen in person.

"Come over here and get your face fucked," He mutters lowly. "Hang off the edge of the bed."

You obey him, lying on your back with your head hanging off in anticipation for his next action. Bucky comes to stand behind you, and slaps your cheek with his cock a few times.

"I'll tell you what, pup," He begins, smearing his pre cum on your skin. "If you cry for me while deepthroating my cock, you'll earn the right to call me daddy. Got it?"

Your heart skips a beat with excitement. "Yes, Sir."

"That's my girl," He mumbles, making your stomach flip as he brings the tip to your mouth. "Open up."

The second you part your lips, he forces his way in, pushing his cock against your tongue as he reaches for the back of your throat. He hits it in seconds, immediately making you gag as you eyes bulge.

"That's it," He coos. "Take every fucking inch, like the good little slut you are."

It doesn't take long for your eyes to fill with tears as he begins to thrust in and out of your mouth, mercilessly. He laughs darkly as the tears spill out and glide across your skin to meet your hairline.

"Oh, fuck," He groans. "My puppy looks so pretty when she cries on my cock. Shit."

The room fills with the sound of your gags and his grunts, the filthy noises making your clit throb. Bucky fucks your face harder for a few seconds before pulling his cock out, letting you catch your breath.

"As much as I'd love to cum in your throat and all over your pretty face," He begins, roughly pulling you up by your arm. "I wanna cum inside you tonight, pup."

Breathing heavily, you wipe your wet chin and get up to your knees in front of him. "I- I'm not on the pill," You inform him.

A smirk grows on his face. "Is that right?" He mumbles, stroking your cheek. "That's okay. Don't worry, baby."

His reassurance, though empty of any real solution, does well to soothe you. You get up and lay your head on the pillow, eagerly anticipating his next move. Fumbling around in his nightstand drawer, Bucky pulls out a silver pair of handcuffs. Your heart skips a beat as he smirks down at the nervousness on your features.

"Are you scared?" He asks you with a whisper as he takes your right wrist and cuffs it to the bedpost.

The cold metal makes you shiver as you shake your head. "No," You answer him.

"Oh, puppy," He mumbles patronizingly with a chuckle, getting on top of you. "You should be."

His words only serve to excite you further and you feel tingles up and down your skin. He then gets on top of you, roughly spreading apart your legs and kneeling between them. You see him reach into the nightstand and pull out a condom, which makes you relax. Leaning your head back against the pillow, you close your eyes and take a few breaths while trying to brace yourself for what you know might be the best sex you've ever had. The sound of the condom wrapper being ripped open makes your stomach flip with excitement.

When you feel his tip rubbing against your folds, your eyes shoot open. Bucky leans down with a coy smirk on his face, giving you a soft kiss as he edges into you. He feels even thicker than he did in your mouth, making you suck in a sharp breath.

"Fuck," He whispers as he continues sinking into you, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. "Such a tight little cunt for me."

A string of whimpers entwined with moans leaves your mouth and your legs wrap around his waist, wordlessly urging him to fuck you as deep as possible.

Bucky wraps his hand around your throat and begins to fuck into you hard and fast, his thrusts wild and animalistic. Your loud moans are converted into squeaks as his grip on your neck tightens, dancing alongside his gruff grunts. "Fuck, you feel so good," He groans, clenching his jaw as his eyes burn into yours. "My good little puppy, aren't you?"

"Yes," You manage to reply, finding your voice as he loosens his hand around your throat. "I'm yours, daddy."

"You're daddy's little fucktoy, that's what you are," He growls, slamming into you harder, almost to the point of pain. "Mine to fuck like a whore. To keep."

You wince as he his cock hits your cervix, making your hips buck up. "Bucky, slow down," You request as your stomach flips.

"Aww, am I going too hard for you, baby?" He coos patronizingly. "I thought you liked it rough, hmm? Thought you were a big girl who could handle it?"

He never lets up, continuing to fuck you hard and fast, before suddenly slapping your cheek.

"It feels good to be my fucktoy, doesn't it?" He asks you slyly, smirking. "To be used and abused by me? Huh?"

Your sore cheek heats up as your mind goes blank. "Yes, daddy," You reply obediently.

"I know, puppy," Bucky mutters. "I knew you were nothing but a slut the moment I met you. Knew you'd be such a good fucking toy for me."

The pain subsides as electric pleasure courses through your veins, overtaking you. It feels good to hand over all control to him; letting him bend and mold your body and mind to his will. When you feel your pleasure building up, you dig your nails into his shoulder and throw your head back.

"Daddy, I'm gonna..." You trail off weakly, overwhelmed by your bliss.

"Not yet, puppy," He orders you sternly, tightly grabbing your cheeks in his hand. "Don't you fucking dare cum before daddy tells you to."

A cry leaves your mouth as you take a deep breath, doing everything you can to hold off your orgasm.

His thrusts grow sloppy and he leans down, a wry smirk growing on his lips. "You were too fucking easy, puppy," He mutters, cupping your cheek. "Made it so easy for daddy to win you over, didn't you?"

Coherent words are far from what you're able to produce at this moment, and all you do is stare back up at him while moaning lowly.

He tilts his head, a curious look on his face. "Did you watch me put the condom on?"

That makes you falter. "Huh?" You whisper.

"You didn't," Bucky murmurs darkly. "Did you?"

Your brows furrow together. "What-"

"I'm gonna get you pregnant," He reveals with no hint of humor on his features.

His words make your stomach drop and you press your hand to his chest, attempting to push him away. "No, Bucky," You say gravely. "I'm being serious. If you really aren't wearing a condom, you cannot cum in-"

"Shut the fuck up," He cuts you off, gripping your cheeks in his hand painfully tight. "You're lucky I like you so much, puppy. In fact, I think you might be my favorite."

Terror strikes you at his sordid expression. What the fuck have you got yourself into?

"Is this a kink thing?" You whisper, hoping to God he says yes.

He tuts, shaking his head with a soft smile on his lips. "You're so fucking cute, puppy. I knew choosing you would be a good idea," He mumbles, continuing to fuck you rhythmically. "You ready to cum for me?"

"Bucky, please," You whine. "Please, don't cum inside me-" You stop midway when you feel his fingers rub your clit in fast circles. Your body freezes up as he fucks you faster.

"Come on, you stupid slut, cum for me," He growls. "It's all you're good for. Be my obedient toy. Show me why I should keep you around."

You can't help but fall victim to his pleasure once more, ignoring all the sirens in your head as he takes you to the realm of bliss. Once again, you feel close to the edge of your climax, and he can tell.

"That's it, you dumb little girl," He says mockingly, smirking. "Can't help but be an easy slut, can you? A little bit of attention, a bouquet of flowers once a week, coupla compliments, and you spread your fuckin' legs for me without even asking for my last name. Sluts like you are my favorite kind."

Although you know you should be concerned, you're utterly enraptured. His filthy words are enough to push you over the edge and soon enough, you fall off the cliff of bliss and cum all over him.

"That's it, puppy," He praises you with a wicked grin, fucking you faster through your orgasm. "Just like that. Fuck, you're such a good slut. And I'm gonna knock you up, baby. Gonna use you for what you were made for; gonna breed you. Make you a mommy."

"Please don't," You cry weakly, thrusting your hips up in an attempt to push him off.

"Don't be difficult now, puppy, this is what you were made for," Bucky tells you soothingly, fucking into you harder. "You were made to be my toy. You're gonna be my personal breeding machine, hmm?"

"Don't," You warn him sternly, as though you could ever intimidate him while naked and underneath him.

"Gonna cum so deep inside you, mommy," He groans, cupping your face in his hands. "Fill you up the way you were made to be."

"P- please," You whimper, feeling your mind weaken as you fall limp beneath him.

"Shh, just take it like the good fucktoy you are, gonna get you pregnant, gonna be so pretty," Bucky mumbles as he feels his cock twitch inside you. "Fuck, mommy, take it all."

You gasp as you feel his warm seed shoot inside you, making your hips buck up as you shudder.

"Oh, fuck, yes," He grunts, thrusting hard a few more times as he empties his balls inside you. "That's my good girl, take it all."

You whine as he pulls out, groaning with his head thrown back. Your heart races and you can feel his cum seeping out of you. Note to self: get some Plan B first thing in the morning.

Bucky kneels up on the bed and runs a hand through his hair, breathing heavily as he looks down at you.

"That wasn't... you should've have done that," You tell him, shaking your head. "I thought you were wearing a condom - you lied to me?"

"I never lied, baby," He mumbles, stroking your thigh. "You're just too stupid to have noticed the difference."

With a scoff, you sit up and move away from him, pulling on the handcuff. "Unlock this cuff; I'm leaving," You huff, disgusted at him, and also at yourself.

Suddenly, he grabs your ankle and drags you back, making you squeal. Once you're back under him, he pins you down to the bed with a dangerously dark look in his eyes.

"What is wrong with you-"

"Shut the fuck up," Bucky growls, scanning your face. "You know, my plan was to kill you on the first date. But you were just so gorgeous and captivating, I had to see you again. And again. I thought I could get you out of my system and that I'd finally be able to do it tonight, after fucking you."

You're frozen in place, eyes wide and heart racing. Who the fuck is this man?

"But now, I think I'm gonna keep you. At least for a little while," He mumbles, stroking your cheek. "I really do like you, puppy. You're special. Not like any of the others."

Speechless, you simply lay there, wondering if you're about to wake up - or if he's about to break character and tell you he's been role-playing this whole time.

"I'm gonna run you a bath," Bucky tells you lowly, slowly getting off you and standing up. His hand rests on your sore thigh which he gently strokes, up and down. "Please, don't try to run. I really don't wanna have to break one of your legs to make you behave. Promise?"

An incredulous scoff leaves your mouth as your lips part. "I...I promise," You whisper, not sure whether or not you mean it.

A smile breaks out on his lips and he leans down to kiss your cheek. "I appreciate you being a good girl. And don't worry - good girls get rewards," He swears with a smirk. "I'll be right back. Get some rest, puppy; you'll need it."

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[raetides]

Dr. Bee

Summary: Bucky has quite the reputation but all it takes for him to want to change is an hour with an outspoken little Bee.

Bucky x Nurse!Mom!Reader

Bucky Barnes has many names. James Buchanan Barnes, Buck, The Winter Soldier, Sergeant. 

But on compound grounds, and in hushed tones, he’s usually called an asshole. 

He’s developed quite the reputation. Being difficult is his natural state of being. 

Bucky is constantly late to meetings, doesn’t show up for media days and is always going rogue in missions.

He doesn’t know why he does it, Dr. Raynor says it’s a coping mechanism, but that doesn’t make Bucky want to change one bit. He stays away from people and makes it everyone’s problem when someone decides to talk in his vicinity. 

Sam has tried to talk to him but, as per usual whatever the Falcon says, Bucky does the opposite. Sam’s even tried to convince everyone that Bucky’s like an untrained dog, he needs some kind of exposure therapy. Having people stand up to him and flat out call him what he is, that’s what he needs. 

Sadly for everyone who works with Bucky Barnes, no one has the balls to do it. 

But, everything changed one day. 

Everyone scurried away once the quinjet landed at the Avengers compound. They’d gotten word from someone in Logistics that the mission had gone terribly and the agents had barely come out alive. 

Bucky stormed into the med bay, his heels digging into the floor with such force you’d think it break, only to find it desolate. 

He huffed twice, looking around for anyone who could help with a deep cut on his right arm. 

“Hello?!” He yelled out, his temples throbbing and his left eye twitching. 

Bucky Barnes waited for no one. 

“May I help you?” Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed at the meek voice coming from behind the nurse’s station. His confusion only grew deeper when he didn’t find anyone there. 

A few seconds later a tiny hand popped up, wiggling its chubby fingers at him. 

“I said,” The little voice drew out the last word, annoyed. “May I help you?”

Bucky leaned forward and peeked behind the large desk to find a little girl.

Standing with her hands on her hips, the little girl with pigtails looked up at him with raised eyebrows. 

Her expression turned to one of concern.

“Are you hard of hearing?” The girl spoke slowly and loudly.

Bucky almost had to cover his ears from the shrill and very high tone of the girl. 

“I am not hard of hearing.” Bucky finally responded. 

“Then why didn’t you respond?” Little miss pigtails crosses her arms over her chest. “I asked you: may I help you?” 

His right eye accompanied his left one in twitching.

After he didn’t respond, the little girl scribbled something down on a paper in front of her. 

“What are you writing?” Bucky said through gritted teeth, how can a person so small get on his nerves so quickly?

“I can’t tell you.” She said in a singsong tone. 

“Why not?”

“You’re not my patient.” She shrugs, rounding the nurse’s bay holding a pink unicorn lunch box, coming face to face with The Winter Soldier. Actually it was more like coming face to knee height. “Can’t talk to people who aren’t my patients. Doctor patient villigage.”

Bucky bit his bottom lip to conceal a smile. “I think you mean doctor patient privilege.” 

“How would you know? You’re not my patient.” The little girl swung her lunchbox, skipping all the way to the waiting room. 

He was equally shocked and impressed. This little girl had more balls than most of the agents he worked with. 

Bucky looked around the med bay for anyone who knew the girl. Mom, dad, cousin, hell he’d even settle for a dog. 

With a groan, he followed behind her. Sure, he was a dickhead but he couldn’t let a kid wander around the Avengers med bay all by herself. 

She sat down, opening the lunch box and taking the contents out.

Bucky couldn’t help but think it was cute how her feet didn’t reach the floor. As he came closer, her swinging feet hit him in the shins. 

He let out an obviously fake and over the top groan, throwing himself on the floor. 

The little girl covered her mouth but her giggles bubbled around the room. 

“Aren’t you going to apologize?” Bucky asked from his position on the ground. “That really hurt.”

“No it didn’t!” She laughed harder. 

“Yes it did!” 

“I know nothing can hurt you!” She said as her giggles died down. “I know who you are.”

“You do, huh?” Bucky sat next to her.

“Mhm.” She said proudly, taking a bite out of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “But my mommy says I can’t repeat the names she calls you.”

Bucky suddenly felt embarrassed. Dickhead, motherfucker, bastard, asshole had a whole different meaning now that he knew the little girl thought they were synonymous to Bucky.

“Well then,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I should reintroduce myself. My name is James Buchanan Barnes but people usually call me Bucky.”

The little girl placed her tiny hand in his and shook it. “I’m not supposed to tell strangers my name so, you can call me Bee.”

Bucky nodded his head once, he almost didn’t notice the peanut butter she’d smeared on his hand. “Well Bee, does you mommy or daddy work here?”

Bee shrugs her shoulders. “Can’t tell you.”

He takes a deep breath in. “Can you tell me how you got here?”

“Nope.” She takes another bite of her sandwich. 

“Can you tell me how long you’ve been here?”

“Nuh uh.”

Bucky runs a hand over his face. “Is this because of the doctor patient privilege?” 

“Yep.” Bee smiles up at him and this time Bucky can’t help but smile back. A blooming feeling erupted in his chest. 

Bucky looked down at his hand, trying to find his most surface level wound. Something that wouldn’t traumatize the girl who’s no more than seven years old. 

“Dr. Bee, I need your help. Do you have anything for this cut?” Bucky points to the small cut on his knuckle. She didn’t have to know how it came to be, or who’s cheekbone had caused it.

“Thertainly Mr. Bucky.” Bee’s missing front teeth were responsible for her lisp. She jumped off of the chair and hurried behind the nurse’s station.

She swiftly wrapped his knuckles in gauze. 

“Do you need me to look over your other arm?” Bee asked sincerely.

“I don’t think you can help with this one.” Bucky chuckled, knocking on the vibranium. “Unless you have anti rust spray.”

Bee threw her head back with laughter but the cute sound was cut short by a door slamming open. 

His mind went blank the second he saw her. Bucky couldn’t peel his eyes off of her, even his jaw went slack. He tried to memorize every single detail of her. Her hair, her eyes, her body, the blue scrubs she wore. 

“Bee!” She gasped, taking the little girl in her arms. “You almost gave me a heart attack, I told you to stay in the common room!”

“Don’t worry mommy!” She smiles up at the woman who’s taken Bucky’s mind hostage. “I’ve been with Bucky!”

The woman finally looks over at Bucky and he’s sure the world has stopped. 

But reality comes crashing down when her eyes lose some of their light. 

“Mr. Barnes.” She gasps, pulling Bee to stand behind her body. “I’m so terribly sorry about her, she wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Bucky gulps down the nervous feeling in his throat. He can’t help but feel like the biggest idiot in this universe. 

All he’s done for the past few years is be cold, and rude, and now the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, who’s got the cutest most outspoken daughter in the tri state area, is apologizing. 

His brain runs out of words and he just stands there. 

Bucky keeps quiet as the woman sutures up the wound on his arm, he’d completely forgotten about it. 

“Bee’s your daughter?” He manages to speak up after a few minutes. 

The woman nods with a smile, keeping her eyes on his wound but Bucky begs the cosmos she looks up at him, even if it’s just for a second. He wouldn’t care if she messes up, if it means their eyes could meet.

Bucky’s kept himself away from feelings for years. He convinced himself he doesn’t need them. But in a quick thirty minutes, Bee and her amazingly beautiful mother have stirred up more emotions than he’s had in the last two decades. 

“She-“ Bucky clears his throat. “She mentioned you’ve got a wide array of names for me.” 

Her cheeks burned red. “Bee must be mistaken, she’s got a crazy imagination. Always coming up with the strangest things-“

Bucky bit his bottom lip. “I’m used to it.”

The woman gulped, finally looking up at him. 

“I’m really sorry about the names.” She whispers. 

“It’s okay, darling.” Bucky’s eyes travel from hers to her lips. “But for next time, ‘Bucky’ is just fine.”

She nods, looking back to his wound. 

“And you are-“

“(Y/n).” She says. 

Bucky’s sure he’s never heard someone with a name as beautiful as hers. 

“You’re all patched up.” (Y/n) takes a step away from Bucky. “I’ll finish your report, I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.”

Bucky stumbles on his feet as he stands up. Embarrassed, he walks straight to the door but stops before leaving the medbay. 

“(Y/n)?” He turns on his heel. “Would you please tell Dr. Bee I appreciated her help?”

The light in (Y/n)’s eyes returned as she nodded. 

Bucky left the med bay feeling lighter than ever before and he couldn’t help but think a certain little bee had everything to do with it. 

Comments and feedback is greatly appreciated!!

[raetides]

Perception

Summary : Congressional Candidate Bucky Barnes starts sleeping with his campaign manager. What happens when he wants more than just sex?

Pairing : congressional candidate!Bucky Barnes x campaign manager!reader

Warnings/tags : implied sex, cursing, mutual pining. 

Word Count : 2.9k

Notes : Hi!!! This was written super quickly last Friday! Set around the same time as CA:BNW! Also, please do not get into a relationship with power imbalance lol. Enjoy!

Politics is all about control. Perception.

Which was why this… thing… you have with congressional candidate James Buchanan Barnes was an absolutely terrible idea.  

At least, that’s what you try to tell yourself every time his lips were on yours, every time he was pressing you against whatever surface was closest— sometimes it was his polished mahogany campaign desk, sometimes it was a marble sink in the bathroom at a high-profile fundraiser, sometimes it was the goddamn staff lounge where anyone could walk in.  

Every time, you’d swear it would be the last time. And every time, you’d find yourself in his bed (or his office, or his car), your nails raking down his back, back arched, chasing a high only he could give.

The worst part? It was not just sex. You knew it. You were pretty sure he knew, too.  

But neither of you would say a damn thing.  

See, Bucky hired you more than a year ago, after the people closest to him convinced him that he should run for congress. 

At first, you thought it was a joke. Barnes, ex-military, ex-brainwashed assassin, ex-high-profile mess… running for office? The punchline basically wrote itself.

Then you met him.  

He wasn’t perfectly polished like the other candidates, and he definitely did not have years public speaking experience. He lacked the carefully curated political persona that you were so used to, but that was exactly what made him a great candidate. 

He was unpracticed in a very charming way. He was honest, genuine, and kinder than anyone you’d ever worked with.

Before you knew it, you found yourself liking him too much. 

The first time you slept with him, it was a mistake. Surely, it must’ve just been a lapse in judgment. Late night, too much adrenaline after a particularly brutal campaign event. 

Bucky had taken a beating at the town hall. Not literally, though from the way he slumped in his chair, you wouldn’t know the difference. The opposing candidate had gone for the jugular— he had questioned his past, and twisted his the way any good dirty candidate did, and declared Bucky unfit for office.

You had done damage control immediately, coordinating with his PR team, making sure the press didn’t take it the wrong way. But Bucky still saw it as a loss. A small one, but a loss nonetheless.

By the time you got back to the campaign office, it was after hours. Most of the staff had gone home, leaving just you and Bucky huddled over his desk, analysing polling numbers.

“This isn’t as bad as it looks,” you said, tapping at the screen of your laptop. “We took a hit, but people don’t trust that asshole either. We can make a statement— tell the press you’re refusing to play dirty.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He just stared at the numbers, then at you. 

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Barnes. You hearing me?”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I hear you.”

You closed the laptop, leaning forward. “What’s going on?”

He looked up, his sky blue eyes stormy. “What if I’m not cut out for this?”

Your brows furrowed. “Don’t start now.”

“I know,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But this whole thing— You see how they look at me, like I’m some kind of experiment gone wrong.”

And he knew he had been. But it was hard to move past that when he was reminded of it every single day. 

“No,” you corrected, “They look at you like a man who’s been through hell and came out still willing to fight for what’s right.”

He let out a humourless chuckle. “You really believe that?”

You nodded. 

A beat of silence stretched between you before he asked, in an adorable quiet tone, “You actually believe in me?”

You swallowed. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

It was the truth.

You had worked for candidates before— people who wanted the title, the power, the career boost. But Bucky? He hadn’t even wanted to run. The people around him had pushed him into it, and even you’d been skeptical at first.

But then you saw the way he talked to people. The way he actually listened. The way he gave a fuck.

And somewhere along the way, it stopped being just a job for you. Bucky Barnes became a project you believed in. 

His eyes dropped to your lips, only for a second, but it was long enough to make your breath hitch.

You knew you should look away. Say something. Stop before you crossed a line.

But you didn’t.

And then his hand was on your waist.

And then his lips were on yours.

And then your back was hitting his desk.

The laptop slid to the floor with a soft thud, but neither of you cared enough to notice. 

His mouth was hot against your skin, his hands gripping your hips, pressing you against him like he needed you impossibly closer.

“Tell me to stop,” he whimpered, pleading against your throat.

You should.

You really should.

Instead, you found your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.

Neither of you talked about it the next day.  

The second time, you’d both sworn it wouldn’t happen again.  

The third time, he’d buried his face against your shoulder after coming undone, breath ragged as he whispered, “I can’t fucking stop thinking about you.”

You were both in deep. Too deep.  

“People are gonna start talking,” Sam said casually over drinks with Bucky on a quiet Tuesday night, swirling the remnants of his beer in his glass.

He didn’t need to know what was happening between you and Bucky, but thanks to an unlocked door and terrible timing, he had walked in on the two of you in a very compromising position— one that involved Bucky and you on a stack of official documents that would never look the same again.

Now, the two of them were at a dive bar, tucked away in the corner of an unassuming street in DC. They were both public heroes, but at least the dim lighting offered some semblance of privacy. 

From the outside, no one could tell anything was off. The campaign was going well. Bucky was ahead in the polls. But Sam’s known him long enough to know when something was not right.  

Bucky leaned back in his seat, rolling his beer bottle between his fingers. “People are already talking.”  

He thought about all the times you got caught. Like that time in the copy room—when he was pressing you up against the machine as his metal arm pushed your pencil skirt up. You had barely managed to stifle your moans when the door swung open, and the poor intern mumbled a frantic apology before fleeing the scene, probably questioning all of his life choices.

Then there was the time your assistant found Bucky’s boxers under your office couch. It was mortifying. 

You both had tried to play it off, muttering something about a laundry mix-up, but she knew. Everyone probably knew.

The two of you had been too sloppy. Too reckless. But when you were whispering filthy promises against his skin, it was impossible to care.

Sam leaned back in his chair, watching Bucky a look Steve used to resemble, one that made it damn near impossible to lie.

“I don’t mean your team,” Sam clarified. “I mean the press. It’s bound to get out there, man.”  

Bucky’s pinky finger twitched, just slightly, but Sam caught it. 

Sam could only sigh. “Look, man. I get it. She’s—well. I mean, she’s smart as hell. Keeps your ass in line. And, let’s be honest, we both know you like it.”  

Bucky didn’t say anything, just took a slow sip of his beer. Sam let out a laugh, tapping his fingers against the table.  

“Oh, so now you’re gonna shut up? You think I don’t notice the way you look at her? Like she painted the sky for you?”  

Bucky let out a deep breath, gripping the bottle so tight that it might break any time soon.

Because fuck, he was right. 

This wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t some casual fling.  

It was the way he thought about you even when you weren’t around. How he caught himself checking his phone, waiting for a message from you. 

Sam leaned forward. “I don’t want you to fuck this up,” he said. “And I don’t mean the campaign.”  

Bucky swallowed hard. 

He hated that Sam could see right through him, past all the deflection and bullshit, straight to the part Bucky had been meticulously avoiding.  

He knew. This wasn’t casual. It hadn’t been for a long time.  

“Godammit, Sam,” Bucky sighed, finishing his drink.  “You ever think about minding your own business for once in your fucking life?”  

Sam leaned back in his chair. “Not when it comes to you, Buck.”  

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the tension in his muscles didn’t ease. Sam was right— this was bigger than the campaign, bigger than the press.    

And if he wasn’t careful, he was gonna lose more than just the election.

—

The next day, your back hit the door of the campaign war room with a soft thud.

Here you were again, his lips peppering marks against your throat (which was why you had been wearing turtlenecks for a couple of weeks now), his breath ragged as he desperately kissed you. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging in like he was trying to commit the texture of your skin to memory.  

“You’re gonna get us caught,” you whimpered, but made no real effort to push him away. “Again.”

Bucky chuckled, lips tracing the curve of your jawline. “That bother you?”  

You sighed, shoving at his chest just enough to make a point. “I would prefer if my professional reputation didn’t implode, thanks.”  

“Hmm,” he said, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “You’re too damn good at your job. No one’s gonna question that.”  

“They will if they find out I’m fucking the candidate.”  

The words came out harsher than you intended, and Bucky froze. His grip on your hips tightened even more.

“Is this all this is to you?” His voice was quiet, but the question was loaded.

Your stomach twisted.

Fuck. That was not a conversation you wanted to have right now. Or maybe ever.  

Answer carefully. 

“Bucky…” you started as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“What are we doing, sweetheart?” he asked, gently demanding, coaxing an answer out of you. 

You swallowed hard. “We’re winning you this election.”  

But you wouldn’t say what you were really thinking.  

Instead, you just tore his shirt off and yanked him closer. Just like that, Bucky stopped asking questions and complied. 

—

Then… an article had dropped a week before the election.  

Sources close to the Barnes campaign claim the candidate has been involved in an improper relationship with his campaign manager.

You stared at the screen, growing more nauseous each second. 

Who did this? Was it the intern? Was it the assistant? Was it an opponent who had seen you both scurry down the hallway? Who was this person? You ought to— fuck!

Across the room, you realised, Bucky was calm. Too calm.  

“This is bad,” you said, pacing the length of the office. “We can spin it, maybe, but we have to—“

“I don’t want to spin it.”  

You froze mid-step, turning to face him. “What?”  

“I don’t want to pretend this isn’t real.”  

You let out a sharp breath, rubbing your hands over your face. “Bucky, your career—”  

He shook his head. “I don’t give a shit—”  

“You should!” you snapped, eyes ablaze. “You cannot just throw this away. You are ahead in the polls. We are so close. If you go out there and confirm this—"  

Bucky’s stood up now, standing over you. “You want me to lie?”

“I want you to win,” you insisted. “That’s what this is about. Getting you into office. Making sure you have a chance to actually do some good instead of—”

“Instead of what?” He interrupted. “Instead of loving you?”

He loved you?

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

You were too stunned.

“You do,” Bucky let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head in disapproval. “You want me to deny us.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I want you to be smart.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think it’s smart to pretend that the most important person in my life doesn’t mean a damn thing to me?”

“Bucky,” you started, but he was nowhere close to finished with his point.

“I am not going to lie like every other asshole running for this seat, okay?” He took a step closer, grabbing your chin gently and angling you to look at him. "I am supposed to be honest. That’s the whole damn reason I ran in the first place—because I’m sick of politicians lying through their fucking teeth, and I’m not going to turn into one of those assholes just because it’s convenient now!”

You let out a frustrated whine, dragging a hand through your hair. "This isn’t about lying, it’s about strategy. You don’t have to deny it, you could just refuse to comment—"  

"You want me to stand in front of the country and pretend like I haven’t loved you since the first time you yelled at me for showing up late to that meeting?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

He said it again. 

Noticing your lack of words, Bucky exhaled. “Unless… that’s not what this is to you.”

Your stomach twisted. “I—”

“No.” He stepped even closer. “Say it. Say it right now. Tell me this is just a fling, tell me it’s just sex, tell me you don’t feel the way I do, and I will walk out of this room and drop it.”

Your heart was hammering out of your chest. What the hell were you supposed to do now? “This is not the time—”

“Say it.” He was desperate, you could tell. 

You tried to look away. “Bucky—”

Ever so gently, he cupped your cheeks and pointed your eyes to his, “Just say you don’t feel the same—“

“God, shut up!” you snapped, shoving his chest. “You think this is easy for me? You think I want to pretend that I don’t—” You stopped yourself too late, lips pressing together in frustration.

Stop running your mouth, you thought to yourself.

“That you don’t what?” He demanded, hopeful now.

You took a shaky breath, stepping back. “I can’t do this.”

“You’re scared.” He caught your wrist, pulling you back in. “That’s fine. But don’t you dare stand there and act like this is nothing.”

You shook your head, tears burning on the corners of your eyes. “This could ruin everything. Not just your career— mine. Do you get that?”

Bucky’s grip tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you from walking away. “You are too damn good to be affected by this.”

Your stomach twisted. Did he really think this highly of you? “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” His tone was softer now, sweeter. “Because you are the best at what you do. Nobody— not the press, not my opponents, not some shitty scandal— is going to take that away from your records.”

You shook your head. “You’re so damn reckless.”

“And you love that about me, don’t you? That I don’t care about optics. That I fucking want to do this right.”

You hated how well he knew you. Hated that he could see through every excuse, every carefully constructed wall you had put in his way.

His thumb brushed against your wrist, gentler now. “Admit it.”

Your pulse was pounding in your ears.

“You love me,” he murmured, gaze locked onto yours. “I know it. You know it.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you had been holding, pressing your forehead against his chest. God, why was he so comfortable? “I hate you.”

He let out a small chuckle, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No, you don’t, sweetheart.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, fists curling into his dress shirt. “Bucky…”

He pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up. “Let me love you. No more hiding, no more sneaking around.”

The lump in your throat grew larger than you could swallow. “You make it sound so simple.”  

“Maybe it is.”  

Maybe, indeed. 

You shook your head, frustration and desire tangled together in a knot so tight it was impossible to separate. Then, you fisted your hands in the front of his shirt and pulled him down into a kiss.

It was messy, it was desperate. It was a kiss that said fuck! finally finally finally!

Bucky groaned into your mouth, his arms securing you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His human hand roamed up your back, the other gripping your hip so hard you knew it would leave marks.

You didn’t care.

You wanted the marks.

You poured everything into this— every single argument, every night spent pretending this wasn’t exactly what you wanted to be.

His teeth scraped your lower lip, and you gasped.

A shudder ran through you as his hands wandered lower, gripping your thighs and hauling you against him.

You broke away just long enough to catch a sliver of a breath, to whisper against his lips, “I love you, too, Barnes.”

He grinned, “I fucking knew it.”

The article had tried to expose a scandal.

Instead, it had given you both the excuse to stop pretending like you didn’t mean the world to each other.

-end.

General Bucky Taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni@iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko @average-vibe

[raetides]

real people

chapter three

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, some thor x reader, fake dating, enemies to lovers, angst, slut shaming, unwanted sexual advances, just a touch of fluff.

series masterlist

Sunlight peaks in through a gap in the curtains and bounces off your silver bracelet. You move your hand further down, silently cursing yourself for not properly covering the windows last night. When you pull the duvet off your body, the big arm wrapped around your waist tightens.

"No," The muffled voice comes from behind you. "Not yet."

You let out a sigh, turning your head back to face him. "I've gotta leave soon, Thor," You say. "I need to get ready for the premier."

"Couple more hours," He replies groggily, moving his hand up and pawing at your boob. "Couple more rounds?"

"Not today," You say firmly, managing to ease out of his grip enough to sit up. "I need to look absolutely perfect tonight."

"Come on," He grumbles, looking up at you with half-shut eyes. "You look perfect no matter what."

You roll your eyes, swinging your legs off the bed. "Sweet doesn't look good on you, Thor," You tell him with the sheets held up to your chest.

With one fell swoop and a burst of energy, he snatches the duvet from you, grinning as your naked body is revealed to him. "And nothing looks good on you, honey."

Slowly, you begin to walk backwards towards his en-suite. Thor sits up, not even bothering to try to look you in the eyes. A few months ago, you would have found this a lot more exciting, but for some reason it seems the novelty of sleeping with him has worn off. Maybe it's because his divorce has been finalized, and the thrill is gone. Are you a bad person?

"Want me to order breakfast?" He asks as he reaches for his phone on the bedside table.

"No, thanks, I'm gonna shower and leave," You tell him bluntly. "No time to eat."

"Damn, you really are excited about this premier, huh?" He asks with a raised brow while scrolling through his phone.

"Duh. This is like... my Game 7 of the NBA Finals," You say, trying to explain it in basketball terms so he understands. "Now, shut up and let me shower."

"Without me?" He asks while standing up, revealing his impressive bare body to you. His dick's at half-mast, making you stop in your tracks. When he notices you looking at it, he chuckles. "C'mon, honey. Want me to fuck you against the shower wall?"

Maybe the thrill is still slightly alive.

"Over here, guys!"

"That's it, nice big smiles!"

"How about a kiss for the camera?"

Bucky's arm is snaked around your waist, his hand firmly holding your hip as if it comes naturally to him. It's starting to shock you less when he touches you, and now it just feels like any other role you've played before.

After walking the carpet, you're beckoned over to the press teams with their microphones and cameras.

"Here's the couple everyone's talking about!" Nina from Access Hollywood says with a wide smile. "This is your first red carpet together - how does it feel?"

"It's great!" You reply eagerly, smiling sweetly up at Bucky. "It's really nice to have his support tonight. I'm so very excited about this film."

"Now, you both look incredible. Did you help each other pick your outfits tonight?" She asks you.

"Oh, I love Y/N in black, so that was my only input to her outfit," Bucky answers smoothly before looking down at his suit. "And she picked this - she has a much better eye for fashion than me, so I just do as she says."

You laugh softly, resting your hand on his chest. "Well, you'd look good in anything, so it isn't too hard to dress you," You reply with a wink.

"How sweet," Nina gushes. "Bucky, are you excited to see your girl in action tonight?"

"Absolutely; I love all of her work, and I'm sure I'll love Sixth Night too," He replies, lying through his teeth like a politician. "And I know how hard she worked on this film, so I'm excited for the world to see it, and I'm incredibly proud of her."

His words make you cringe, but you do your best to keep a happy face on.

"That is so lovely," Nina says, before turning to you. "Y/N, are you a fan of Bucky's work?"

"Definitely," You reply immediately. "I've seen all of his films multiple times, but his performance in Sunset Lake was actually one of the main reasons I got into acting."

Bucky looks slightly surprised at your answer, though he plays it off well.

"And what a show that was!" Nina says with a grin. "Is it safe to say that Bucky was your childhood crush?"

With a laugh, you shrug. "He might've been," You say coyly.

"How sweet!" She says. "Alright, last question, I promise- is there any truth to the rumor that we might be seeing you two on screen together soon?"

"Is that a rumor?" You wonder aloud. "It's the first I'm hearing of it."

Bucky wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you closer. "I would be honored to work with Y/N," He says.

While Nina thanks you for your time, Pepper rushes over to whisper in your ear, "Alright, let's get a few solo interviews in."

Bucky is ushered away and leaves you to continue speaking to the press, thankfully about the film and your work rather than a fake relationship. About 30 minutes later, it's time to head inside for the screening, and you're surprised to see Bucky is still here.

"Thought you'd make an excuse and leave before having to watch me act badly for 2 hours," You say bitterly as he takes a bag of popcorn in a themed bag from the steward.

He puts a few pieces in his mouth before replying to you while the two of you walk into the theatre. "I like some of Hill's work, so I'll give it a shot," He tells you. "It's also in our contract for me to be here, and it probably wouldn't look great if your loving boyfriend left your big premiere before the film even started."

With a hum of agreement, you nod. "So, you're finally gonna see one of my films," You say with a raised brow. "Though you could've fooled me with that interviewer earlier; I almost thought you really were proud of me."

He snorts at that while eating more popcorn. "It's called acting," He says dryly, before lowering his voice and coming closer. "Hey, I just want to make sure you'll be okay later..."

Confused by the sudden concern he seems to be showing, you frown. "What are you talking about?" You ask him.

"With these films, and these big directors, so much ends up on the cutting room floor," He begins with a look of pity. "So, when you see that your screen time is around three minutes in total, don't be upset - be glad you got at least that."

You grit your teeth together and are in half a mind to cuss him out before you remember you're in a very crowded room. "You're a prick," You settle on saying lowly with narrowed eyes.

In the theatre, you're seated between Tony and Bucky. They greet each other warmly, having worked together before, while you take your seat and steal Bucky's popcorn.

"Great to see you, man," Tony says with a grin as he shakes Bucky's hand. "Hey - congrats on getting a chance with Y/N. She played hard to get with me the whole time we were filming."

Bucky just lets out a dry laugh, choosing not to comment.

"I know it's not real, but you never know; she might give you a chance if you play your cards right," Tony continues with a smarmy grin on his face as he sneaks a glance at you. "Bucky's a nice guy, baby, he deserves a little sugar, don't you think?"

"Shut up, Tony," You utter, glaring up at him.

"Don't be like that!" He says with a laugh as he sits down next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you in for a tight hug. "You know I'm only kidding."

"Whatever," You say flatly, pulling out of his grip. "It's about to start."

Bucky sits down on the other side of you and steals back his popcorn, to which you gasp with offence. He rolls his eyes and reluctantly places the popcorn between the both of you, like a child being forced to share.

Maria Hill, the director, stands up and says a few words, introducing the film before it begins. You're usually a little nervous before a screening, naturally, but something about the fact that Bucky's about to watch you work for the first time has you on edge. He's already made his mind up about you being talentless, so he's going into this with a negative mindset and will likely focus on everything you do wrong. You wouldn't be surprised if he has a list of notes for you that he'll smugly read out while the credits roll.

Having already watched the film at the private screening for cast and crew, you're pretty confident you did a good job. The Sixth Night is set in the 1700s and sees Tony as Elias Brown; the leader of a small village being terrorized by an unknown being that leaves its victims bludgeoned and bloody. You play his unassuming wife, Mary, who wants nothing more than to leave the suffocating village and move to Philadelphia where he always promised to take you to.

After a grueling, dread-filled couple of hours, it is revealed that Mary herself is behind the deaths, driven by her desire to escape and the feeling of being trapped by Elias.

During your big scene; the monologue where the twist is revealed, you can't help but look over at Bucky. You've seen this scene before and will be able to see it again, but you'll never get the chance to witness his reaction to seeing it for the first time.

"You don't know how it feels to be bound in place, to be pressed in so tightly you can't breathe," Mary says. "I was meant for more than this village, with its men who fear the dark yet keep their wives in it. You pin me down and leave me here to rot. You call it love."

With his lips parted, Bucky watches the screen intently. He seems enthralled, and there's a hint of shock on his features, which is exactly how you wanted people to feel at this moment. Is he actually enjoying your performance?

"You've been trying to keep me safe, Elias, but who will keep you safe from me?"

At the end of the film, your character walks over Tony's lifeless, bloody corpse and out into the dark night. As the credits roll, the theatre bursts into applause. You're taken up to the front with Tony, Maria, and the rest of the cast to give the crowd a bow.

Once that's over, you walk back out into the lobby, and you're followed by Tony who pulls you over to quiet spot with a sly look on his face. "I forgot how sexy you were in that," He says with a smirk. "You got me rock-hard in that last scene, babe. What do you say to a quickie in the toilets?"

Taken aback and disgusted by his proposition, you physically move backwards. "What the fuck?" You ask lowly, wondering if he's kidding.

"Come on," He says between laughs. "You know I'm friends with Maximoff. He told me all about what it was like working with you on set. Why didn't I get that treatment, hmm?"

"Shut up, Tony," You grumble, wanting nothing more than to go home and never have to speak to him again. Though he's always been a flirt, he's never been a dick.

"Don't be a tease," He says bluntly, keeping a hand wrapped around your wrist. "It's not like Barnes is actually your boyfriend. Come home with me."

Managing to pull your wrist out of his grip, you glare at him and say, "No."

"We can go out the back, no one will see," He says, completely ignoring you. "And even if they do, it's only more publicity for you, isn't it?"

"What is your problem tonight?" You ask, looking at his dilated pupils. "Are you high?"

He lets out a sigh, clenching his jaw for a second. "You fuck everyone else you work with. Sue me for wanting a slice of the pie you seem to so happily be handing out."

"What?" You spit, abhorred by his words.

"That's how you made your name, isnt it?" He asks you, taking your wrist back and placing your hand on his crotch. "By fucking men like me."

Having heard enough, you rip your hand from his wrist and slap him across the face. It doesn't matter to you at all if anyone saw, but when you spin around to storm away, you see Bucky watching you from afar. Letting out a huff, you rush out of the theatre and make your way to the car park out back where people are filing into fancy cars.

Your phone buzzes just as you rest against a cold railing. When you take it out, you see a message from Thor. He's sent you a picture of yourself on the red carpet earlier tonight.

Thor

Fuck. If I'd had known you were gonna look this good, I wouldn't have let you leave.

Come back to mine once you're done. My bed misses you.

It's the last thing you want to hear right now, so with a frustrated grunt, you push your phone back into your purse and decide to let the cold air calm you. You watch as Instagram influencers and other C-Listers leave with big smiles on their faces. You should be the happiest person here tonight, not them. This movie was a huge deal for you. You've never really allowed yourself to be proud of you before, and you were hoping you'd receive the same sentiment from your colleagues.

"Everyone's asking where you are."

Bucky's voice pulls you back into the present, and you sit up with a slight jump. Looking over at him, you nod. "I'll head back in in a sec. Just needed some air."

He comes closer and you almost recoil, not wanting him to mention that he saw you slap his friend or that he thinks you did a terrible job in the film.

"Hey, I got more than three minutes," You say, wanting to get in before he gets the chance to insult you. "So suck on that, Barnes."

With a chuckle, he sits next to you. There's a few beats of silence between you before he turns to face you. "You were incredible," He says simply, and it's the most genuine tone you've ever heard him use when talking to you. "You made some really great choices.  Choices I wouldn't have thought to make, but were perfect."

You've lost count of how many times you've felt shocked tonight. Is this a dream? "Are you being serious?" You ask him.

"As a heart attack," He says, keeping his eyes on yours. "You're good, Y/N. Much better than I gave you credit for."

You're waiting for him to pull the rug - to burst into laughter and tell you that he wishes you could see the look on your face, and how pathetic you are for believing he could ever respect your craft.

"So... are you gonna apologize for being a dick?" You wonder.

"Don't push it," He returns bluntly, before standing up and turning to leave.

"Does this mean we're friends?" You yell as he walks away.

Without turning around, he replies, "Not in the fucking slightest."

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.

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[raetides]

real people

chapter two

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, touch of angst, sliiiight smut if you squint, sexual tension.

series masterlist

"You're so fucking lucky," Gwen says with her eyes glued to the screen. You're watching one of Bucky's films, Heart of Gold, known for its steamy love scenes between him and his co-star, Natasha Romanoff. One of those steamy scenes is playing now, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't incredibly turned on.

"It's not like I get to fuck him," You remind her flatly. "I haven't even kissed him since that first time we met. And he's never this nice to me."

"You haunt my every waking moment," His sultry voice comes out of the speakers as his character holds Natasha's against the wall. "And I can't even escape you in my sleep. You're there. You're always there."

"Ugh. What a heartthrob," Gwen utters, before tightly gripping your arm and sucking in a sharp breath. "This part! This part is so good!"

"We can't do this," Natasha whispers. "They'll separate us, George."

Bucky's jaw clenches as he presses his body against hers. "There's not a man alive who could take you from me. And I would rip apart anyone who tries."

Gwen says the line at the same time before bursting into a squeal. "Oh, my God! How do they not fall in love?" She asks, before turning to you. "How do you actors not fall in love with your co-stars? After acting like that?"

You shrug, watching as Bucky and Natasha make out and dry hump against the wall. "I dunno; something about a hundred people watching you and a big sound boom above you kinda kills the magic," You tell her.

"I've seen the trailer for Sixth Night; there's that incredibly hot moment between you and Tony- and he is gorgeous! How do you not catch feelings?" She asks, completely bewildered.

"Uh, how do I explain this..." You trail off, leaning your head back and staring at the ceiling as you try to think of an analogy. "I'm not saying it's this clinical, but it's like going for a pap smear. Just because there's some action happening down there, doesn't mean it's sexy."

Gwen rolls her eyes at you. "Getting a pap smear in a sterile room is not the same as being humped by a hunk and told you're beautiful and that there's no man alive that could take you from him. No matter how many other people are in the room, that's sexy as fuck," She argues.

You shake your head. "I disagree. I mean, they aren't actually in a dark corridor of a castle right now. They're on a movie set, with a huge camera, and lights, and an intimacy coordinator. They're also probably exhausted, and have done this scene a hundred times, and have just received a note from the director to be sexier."

She takes in your words, slowly nodding before letting out a sigh. "I wouldn't mind doing this scene a hundred times with Bucky Barnes," She tells you.

"He's an asshole!" You exclaim. "He's so fucking pretentious and thinks he's better than anyone else just 'cause of a couple of Oscar nominations. And did I tell you he hasn't even watched a single one of my films? Yet he still thinks they're trash and that I can't act."

Gwen rests her against the back of the couch while facing you. "I mean, aren't assholes your type?" She asks with a raised brow.

"Not when they're assholes to me," You say pointedly.

"Just to their wives?" She asks with a smirk.

Hitting her shoulder, you shake your head. "You sound like my haters," You say with a snort. "I'm not a homewrecker, okay? It's just that the public find out someone's getting divorced a lot later so it looks like I'm homewrecking."

"Yeah, and the wife finds out a lot later too, huh?" She says, laughing loudly when you give her a dirty look. "C'mon, I'm just playing. I don't care that you're a slut. It means you can tell me how all my favourite celebrities are in bed!" Gwen suddenly frowns, looking at you closer. "Does this PR thing with Bucky mean you can't sleep with Thor anymore?"

"What? No, of course not. It's not a real relationship," You say. "I just need to make sure nobody sees us together, which isn't hard."

"What about the paparazzi?" Gwen asks you, looking incredibly concerned. "They follow you everywhere."

"Only when they're hired to," You tell her. "The paps rarely go places without being told to. They only see what we want them to see."

"Shit," She whispers, before looking back over at the TV. "My God. Look at his back muscles. Fuck me. There's no way you don't catch feelings for him after these six months."

"Wanna bet?" You ask smugly. "I mean, I definitely think he's hot; he was my biggest teenage crush. But catching feelings? He's way too much of a prick for that to happen."

She looks at you through narrowed eyes, her lips in a wide, unnerving smile. "Six months of fake dating? You'll have no choice but to become civil with one another at some point, which will turn into friendship, and then sexual attraction-"

"There's nothing past sexual attraction," You cut in firmly. "Why do you think I've never been in a relationship? I have no heart, G."

"Oh, please," She says with an eye-roll.

"I'm being serious," You insist. "Sex is all I could ever want or need from another person."

She lowers her voice to a mumble. "Or that's all you let yourself have."

"Shut up, Gwen," You reply lowly, turning your attention back to the TV where Bucky's trailing his fingers down Natasha's bare arm and professing his love to her with a whisper.

Usually, you'd be excited for a Vogue photoshoot, but the fact that Bucky's part of it too has dulled the thrill for you. He's still as bitter and uncooperative as he can possibly be without making it obvious that he hates you, which is making your job much harder.

You've only ever dabbled in a PR fling; for one of your first big movies, you had to let the paparazzi snap a few pictures of you and your male co-star that made it look like you were more than friends, without you ever having to confirm anything. But even then, you had a lot more fun seeing as the two of you didn't hate each other.

Unfortunately, you can't say the same this time.

"This better be over quick," Bucky mumbles to himself as the two of you get settled in front of the camera. You're both in double denim for the first round of photos, and admittedly it looks good on him. Someone fiddles with the back drop before the photographer takes her place behind the camera, and you take in a deep breath. This shouldn't be too hard. Just smile and pose.

"Alright, how about a kiss for the first one?" The photographer, Dana, suggests.

Fuck.

As you're both far too good at acting to get tripped up this soon, you and Bucky turn to each other with soft smiles.

"Just do what feels natural," Dana says, already clicking a few pictures.

Bucky brings his hands up to cup your face, pulling you in closer to himself. His eyes flicker down to your lips as his thumbs stroke your cheeks, and he makes eye contact with you for a split second before closing the gap between you and kissing you. At first, you're too stunned to move, but quickly move your hands to rest on his chest, hoping it looks natural. It isn't long before Bucky introduces your tongue to his, the kiss getting a lot deeper. And then he pulls back, and gives you a couple of short pecks. When he drops back for good, you find yourself wanting to go back for more. He must've taken your comment on the yacht when you first met seriously, because that was a massive improvement.

"Great- now let's just get some of you both looking at the camera, Y/N - move slightly in front. Resting faces. Bucky, just hold her from behind - that's it, you guys look beautiful."

His arms are wrapped around you as his front presses into your back. You give the camera your best model look and are almost too focused on looking down to notice what's poking your lower back. No fucking way. He has a boner?

You can't help but snort, hoping Dana doesn't reprimand you for ruining her shot.

"Don't worry, if you wanna laugh, laugh," She says, watching you through the lens. "Why don't you turn your head to look up at Bucky, Y/N? Bucky, keep your eyes on the camera for a few, then slowly look back down at your girl."

Doing as she says, you crane your neck up to look back at him, unable to keep your smirk at bay. He might think you're a bad actress, but he can't deny he finds you attractive. To get hard just from kissing you? The thought sends a spark of excitement to your core - but not because he's turning you on, you're excited that you have such an immediate effect on him. That's what you tell yourself, anyway, but then he looks down at you, and you suddenly feel yourself get wet.

What the fuck is going on?

It's fine. It's totally normal. And natural. An objectively attractive man is holding you in his arms and looking down at you like he wants to pin you to the floor and fuck you. His dick is also pressing into your back. Of course you're gonna be turned on. It's nothing to do with him.

"You're pathetic," You whisper, not sure if your words are directed at him or yourself.

"Don't flatter yourself," He mutters back at you.

"Who else is to blame?" You ask with a raised brow. "Dana?"

"Maybe being on camera turns me on," He says bluntly.

"Was that a joke, Barnes?" You ask, taken aback.

"Alright, new pose," Dana calls out.

She continues to photograph you in a series of poses, including one with you pulling on Bucky's hair during which you're sure you saw him gulp.

After an hour, you're sent back to your dressing room to get changed into your next outfit. Someone touches up your makeup, changing your lipstick shade and adding some more eyeliner, before you're put into a short, silky dress with a lot more skin showing than your denim co-ord.  Your hair is taken down from the bun it was in and lightly curled, and you're finally ready for the second half of the shoot.

When you walk back out onto set, you see that Bucky's been put into a suit. The backdrop has been changed as well as the props, with an armchair sitting in the middle of the shot.

"Y/N, let's start with you sitting down," Dana says. "Bucky, behind her.

You both follow her direction. Once you're sitting, Bucky places a hand on your shoulder. Dana snaps a few pictures before she looks up from the camera.

"Hmm... let's get Bucky sitting in the chair, please," She says.

Once he's sitting, she walks over and gives you some more direction. Soon, you're on Bucky's lap, with his right hand on your shoulder, underneath the thin strap of your dress. Your left hand is on his upper thigh, his left hand on your waist.

Either he saw something exciting while getting ready, or he genuinely managed to maintain his boner that whole time- whichever one it is, you can't help but notice he's still hard. He doesn't seem to be trying to hide it at all as he pulls you further back onto his lap until your back is presses to his chest.

Dana takes a few pictures before asking the crew for a scene change. The armchair is swapped out for a mattress, which makes your heart race. It's covered in black silk sheets which look like a continuation of your dress as you lay down on it. Bucky's told to lose the jacket and open the first few buttons on his white shirt, and someone comes over to mess yours and his hair up.

"Love it," Dana says as she stands over you and begins taking pictures. "Move around, give me some different poses. Do what feels natural."

She's used that word a lot today: natural. Ironic that nothing about your situation with Bucky is natural, but thankfully the two of you are good enough to make it look like it is.

At one point, Bucky's hand finds it's way around your neck. Is he purposely trying to turn you on? Not wanting to lose whatever game this is, you raise your knee, gently grazing it against his crotch. His breath hitches in his throat and for a split second, his hand tightens around your neck.

His eyes narrow. He moves his face to your neck, hiding from the camera as he mumbles, "The fuck are you doing?"

You just laugh, turning your lips to his ear. "Want me to stop?"

He doesn't reply. Instead, he places his lips to your neck and proceeds to suck on it. Taken aback, you turn your head with a gasp, your eyes wide.

"Bucky," You can't help but say out loud, your tone tinged with shock.

With an innocent look on his face, he tilts his head. "Two can play at that game, you little shit," He utters bitterly.

"That's great - loving what we're getting so far," Dana says as she takes a few steps back to look through what she's captured. She scrolls through before looking back over to you. "Let's do something else."

She walks you over to another set with a black and orange backdrop. The crew add in a deep orange light and dim down the main lights.

"This looks gorgeous," Dana says with a wide grin. "Alright. Bucky, lift her up."

Without missing a beat, Bucky sweeps you off your feet, carrying you like a fireman. You suck in a sharp breath at his swift movement but quickly recover, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"Look into each other's eyes, then look over at the camera. That's it, beautiful!" Dana says gleefully.

A few moments later, Bucky's on his knees with his arms around your legs. His head rests against your ass, and it takes a lot of strength for you not to flinch when his hands slowly slip under the hem of your dress. When his fingers brush against a particularly sensitive area of your thigh, you instinctively kick your leg up, your heel hitting him in the chest. He wraps a hand around your calf and pulls you down onto his lap, before taking your chin and turning your head up. He then leans down and marries his lips to yours in a deep kiss before you have a chance to say a word, and all you hear is your heart beating and Dana's camera going off. Your ass is planted back onto his boner, making your stomach flip. You've never felt this intensely about any of the love scenes you've filmed before- what you said to Gwen was the truth. It's usually clinical, cold, and hard to get pleasure from - but something about Bucky has your head spinning.

"Amazing. Perfect. You guys have been great," She says with a grin once you pull away from the kiss.

You crawl forwards, removing your body from his, as you catch your breath. Bucky stands up and offers you a hand, pulling you up to your feet when you take it.

"That was a great session. I'm not sure what Bree will pick for the cover, but I've definitely got my favorites," Dana says with bright eyes as she looks at a screen showing her the pictures she's taken today. "You guys wanna have a look?"

"Nah, that's alright," Bucky says flippantly. "Thanks for today, Dana. See you around." With that, he walks off in the direction of the dressing rooms.

Not wanting to come across as caring even an iota more than him, you also reject Dana's offer before thanking her and the crew and returning to your own dressing room. When you reach it, you see Bucky standing outside his door, and he turns to look at you when he hears you walk over.

Your eyes meet and it seems as though he's contemplating whether or not to say something. He chooses to say it. "You're incredibly unprofessional."

You can't help but laugh. "Excuse me?" You ask incredulously. "Me? Says the one who couldn't control his dick!"

"That-" He clenches his hand into a fist, breathing out through his nose. "That was a natural reaction and nothing to do with you."

"Oh, sure," You say with a smirk as you walk towards him. "What did it for you? My perfume? This dress?" You continue moving closer to him. "Or maybe it was kissing me. Hmm?"

Bucky rolls his eyes and gently kicks his door open. "There is no world where I am even slightly attracted to you, Y/N," He tells you coldly as he enters his room, slamming the door shut behind him as he adds, "You shouldn't be so desperate."

Ouch.

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Next Chapter >

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[raetides]

real people

chapter one

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

read the intro first

warning: actor!bucky x actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, angst, slow burn.

Bucky Barnes supports from the sidelines while girlfriend Y/N meets with fans.

user1 > stop wait i wasn't sure about them together but... the way he watches over her dhidkkxmxx

user2 > MOST UNEXPECTED COUPLE EVER WHAT

user3 > I thought she was only into married men? Lmao

user4 > why didn't anyone want a picture with Bucky :( my poor baby

user5 > THE WAY HE SUBTLY GRABS HER WAIST AT THE END OH HES IN LOVE LOVE

<>

"I hate her," Bucky utters as he leans back in his chair. "I'm not kidding. Not being dramatic. I fucking hate her, Carol."

With a cigarette between her lips, Carol digs her toes into the warm sand and lets out a content sigh. "I'm proud of you, Buck. You've gotten through the first month smoothly. The public are buying into it - you trended on Twitter for the first time in a year last week," She tells him as she basks in the sun. "This relationship is already doing wonders for your image."

He lets out a huff. Part of him wishes it wasn't going well so that they could call the whole thing off and he'd never have to speak to you again.

"She's a gorgeous girl. Much prettier in person," Carol comments. "Any straight guy would kill to be in your shoes."

"Not once they spend more than five minutes talking to her," He grumbles, looking out to the sea. Granted, he could be in much worse places than the Bahamas, but the fact that he's only here to be seen with you has soured his mood.

"You know, most PR relationships I've ever worked on usually end up being real," Carol tells him. "In fact, they're more like introduced relationships. Like an arranged marriage. Who knows? If you spend enough time with her, maybe-"

"Are you being serious?" Bucky cuts her off coldly. "That girl is about as two-dimensional as a piece of paper. Her only hobbies are partying and Googling her own name. Trust me, Carol, as soon as these six months are up, I'm out."

Just then, you walk onto the small, private beach, straightening your sunhat as you approach the pair sitting on sunbeds. "Afternoon!" You greet them, smiling as you pass Bucky with a brief squeeze of his shoulder. "Hi, baby. Carol, you mind giving my beloved boyfriend and I a minute to talk?"

Carol snorts at the look on Bucky's face and happily complies, giving you a nod as she gets up to her feet. "The reservation's for 8pm; there'll be a car sent to the villa to pick you up at 7:30," She informs you both. "Have fun!"

Bucky lets out an irritated sigh as he slumps down on the deck chair. "What do you want?" He asks while you take Carol's seat.

"Pepper sent me. I need to put you on my Instagram story," You tell him as you pull out your phone. "It's been three days since I've posted about you."

With a roll of his eyes, he stays where he is, hoping you aren't about to tell him to hug or kiss you for the photo.

"Here; wear this," You say before tossing him your yellow sunhat. It lands on his bare chest and he gives it a bitter look before huffing and doing as you say. "Now," You continue, sitting up and aiming your camera at him. "Smile like you love me."

Though he despises you, he's damn good at acting like he adores you. You post the photo to your story with the caption, 'he's always stealing my things', and tag him in it.

"There we go," You say with a content sigh. "Now I can leave you to moping around again."

"I do not mope around," He argues sternly. "I'm laying in the sun."

"Mhm," You reply, before deciding to stay and annoy him a little longer. "I finally watched The Greenhouse for the first time last night. Really surprised you didn't end up winning the Oscar."

He doesn't say a word, his sunglasses shielding his eyes as he lays back down.

"Oh, well. Maybe next year, eh?" You continue. "Who knows? Maybe I'll even be up for an Oscar next year."

That earns a snort from him.

"I'm being serious - I could be up for Supporting Actress for The Sixth Night," You tell him as you refresh your notifications, watching as the likes and chat replies from your story come streaming in. "Speaking of, I think you're down to be my plus-one at the premier next month."

"I highly doubt a scream flick is gonna be nominated for any Oscar," He replies with a mutter.

"It's a serious film - it deals with all the same emotional themes your pretentious works do," You claim while reading through a few of your dms. "Someone said I've been glowing since getting with you. How sweet."

Bucky lets out what can only be described as a grunt in return.

Curious about why he's so bitter about this deal when he's definitely benefiting more than you, you lay down on the sunbed and turn to face him. "So, how come you're single?" You ask him. "Pretty young thing like yourself, I'd have thought you would be locked down."

"Long term relationships aren't compatible with my lifestyle," He answers you. "I'm barely ever home."

With an eye roll, you scoff. "Oh, please. Date a fellow actress, then. Or a director. Or even a pop star. Someone who has a similar lifestyle."

"Maybe I'm fine being single," He says with a slightly defensive tone.

"So, you like sleeping around?" You wonder.

He finally turns to face you, looking up at you over his sunglasses. "We're not all sex-addicted whores in this industry, you know."

"Ouch!" You exclaim, reaching out to lightly swat his arm. "Kitty's got claws. No need to be so mean to me. I'm not the one who forced you into this."

"No, but you're a self-obsessed narcissist with no real reason to be so arrogant - I mean, let's face it, it isn't that hard to scream and run around and spew the badly-written scripts you for some reason keep signing on to, so I don't understand why the fuck anyone thought I could ever need you to further my career," He rants, his cheeks flushing pink.

With your nerve successfully struck, you get up onto your feet with a huff. "I'm the narcissist? You are so fucking pretentious and up your own ass - your films aren't curing any diseases, guy. At least I'm actually relevant and I don't only go viral when I'm rude to interviewers- without me, your career is a sinking ship, so you should be fucking grateful that I agreed to do this bullshit for you, 'cause God knows I could get more publicity in a night than you'll give me in six months," You hit back.

"Yeah, for fucking a married football player," Bucky mutters under his breath.

"Fuck you!" You spit harshly as you begin to walk off. "And give me back my fucking hat!"

He rips it off and throws it at you, shouting, "Fucking take your stupid hat back!"

It's harder than you expected to storm away in sand, but you do your best, flicking up sand with every stomp.

Dinner is awkward, to say the least. The starters are brought out before you and Bucky exchange a single word. You're not sure if you expect him to apologize for what he said on the beach, but you sure would appreciate it.

"The cameras are here," He says while pretending to take a sip of wine, his eyes on the window to your right. "Action."

You hold back an eye roll as you catch a few flashes in your peripheral vision, and instead focus on spreading butter onto a piece of bread.

"Still not talking to me?" Bucky utters with a quirked brow. "Your sour attitude is noticeable, you know. Especially to your devoted fans who like to closely watch your every move."

Putting down your fork, you let out a musical laugh, as though he just made a great joke- something you strongly doubt he's capable of. "You suck and I hate you," You say quietly so the other diners around you don't hear.

"There are some great lip readers out there these days," He says while subtly rubbing his beard so as to hide his mouth.

With a sigh, you keep your eyes on him. "I can't wait for you to take me home and fuck me," You say instead, shooting him a wink as his face falls for a split second.

"You are unbelievable," He mutters, keeping a pleasant look on his face.

"What? So I can't say I hate you, or that I wanna fuck you? What do you want from me?" You ask, keeping your tone light and your face happy. If anyone was listening in, you'd sound insane.

"Is that all the range you're capable of?" He asks you, holding your hand. "There's nuance to emotion. And a heck of a lot more than just hate and horny."

You grit your teeth together. This man does not respect you one bit. Does he genuinely think you're talentless? That you're a bad actress? Though you understand that he might dislike the genre of film you're typecast for, surely he can't deny that you're at somewhat of a good actress.

Then you realize - there's an ignorance to his hatred. He hasn't ever referred to a specific one of your roles or movies in particular that he thinks lowly of. That fucker.

"You bastard," You begin, your smile only slightly faltering. "You haven't watched a single one of my films, have you?"

He says nothing in response.

With a dry laugh, you shake your head. "You sit there on your high horse, preaching about how my work is below what you do, about my work being a collection of shitty little scream flicks - and you have the audacity to say all that having never seen a single fucking one?"

He lets out a sigh. "I don't need to see-"

"Fuck you," You utter, pulling your hand out of his, picking up the napkin on your lap and tossing it on the table as you stand up. Still aware of the flashes outside the window, you give Bucky a kiss on the forehead before walking away, as much as it pains you to do so. Prick.

"Did you find that the two of you had any similar rituals or processes, or do you work very differently?" Porter, your twenty-third and final interviewer of the day, asks you.

You let Tony answer, giving your voice a break. Press junkets are one of your least favourite parts of the job, with back-to-back interviews taking place in one long, long day. At first, you did enjoy getting to hear all the British accents, but you're ready to get on your private jet and fly home. As much as you love The Sixth Night and think it's probably the best film you've been a part of, you are sick to death of talking about it.

"And that worked perfectly for me, because our characters are only meeting for the first time at the beginning of the film, so each of our interactions on-screen involve us learning and getting to know one another, which is exactly what was going on off camera, too," Tony finishes, giving you a gentle nudge. "So I guess our processes are different, but compatible."

There's a twinkle in Porter's eye when he speaks again. "Speaking of compatibility, it seems love is in the air for yourself, Y/N- and with none other than Tony's Fugitives co-star, Bucky Barnes. Was it Tony that introduced you to each other?"

"Actually, Bucky and I met at a Golden Globes afterparty earlier this year," You lie, using the story Pepper and Carol fleshed out. "No wing-manning needed from Tony."

"Right," Porter says with a laugh. "Well, fans around the world are loving the two of you together- did you have any hesitation in going public?"

"It's always a little nerve-racking when you're in the public eye, knowing that there are so many opinions out there being formed about you, but Bucky is a true gentleman and couldn't do more to make me feel secure," You say, hoping you're coming across as sincere rather than over-rehearsed.

"That's lovely," Porter remarks with a smile, before his attention is stolen away by someone off camera. "And I think that's all I've got time for today- thank you both so much for your answers, you've been wonderful."

"You've been great, too," You reply with a smile, knowing your fans love when you're nice to interviewers.

"I'm so excited for this movie!" He says with a grin.

"And we're excited for you to see it," Tony replies before you get the signal that the cameras are off.

Someone comes over to help you take your mic off while Tony quickly raises his brows at you. Once your mics are off and the press have trickled out, he chuckles.

"So, you and Barnes," Tony begins, folding his arms across his chest. "A match made in heaven."

"Shut up," You reply with a dry laugh. "You know how it goes."

"Mhm," He replies just as his agent calls him over. "Well, this was fun. See you at the premier - bringing your boyfriend?"

"Maybe," You say with a shrug. "If the overlords want me too."

"Y'know, it's a shame," He says, taking a step closer to you. "I was kinda hoping we'd have a sexy scandal of our own."

With a smirk, you tilt your head. "And all it takes is a little boyfriend to stop you from trying?" You ask him teasingly.

Tony places a hand on your waist which he squeezes briefly. "I'll see you at the premier, honey," He says before shooting you a wink and walking away.

And, perhaps if you weren't so exhausted, you'd have noticed the look on one of the lingering journalist's face on the other side of the room as they watched your interaction with Tony.

definitely gonna be a slow burn, this one. although it's taking all my will power not to make them immediately fall in love !!! hope you liked <3

next chapter >

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[raetides]

I'm gonna be rude in this ask for the challenge.

Bucky Barnes.

He swipes the parking space you were waiting for.

Bonus points if you make it into A/B/O but either way I am here for it.

okay but this provided me with the perfect meet cute, so i’m not even mad though—

Title: Break lights

Pairing: Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Rating: Explicit

A/N: here goes my second entry into @syntheticavenger’s 5k challenge, located here! this prompt SENT me, because… what am i, if not a corny, horny pile of bones?? please enjoy, and also, i have one entry left, so if anyone wants to send another prompt, my inbox is open, lmao!!! thank you synth for hosting this bomb challenge, and for giving me the best prompts 🥺

MINORS, DNI!

How it started:

You’re a cautious driver—okay, maybe over cautious, but it was a dangerous world, and you had to be. You worked hard at your job at the coffee shop to be able to afford it, budgeting and scrimping and saving—you couldn’t afford major repairs.

Which was why parking on the street in front of work was such a hassle. People zipped by on the busy street, often only just avoiding hitting you as you slowly, carefully backed into whichever spot you’d found. Or worse, they waited impatiently behind you, honking and yelling as your nervousness made it even harder to line up correctly.

Those are things you’re used to.

What you’re not used to, is some asshole driving up into your spot just as you’d begun to reverse. You weren’t used to sitting there in shock as people drove into the other lane to pass you, watching as he got out, looking rather pleased with the great spot he’d managed to secure. He’s big—brawny, with dark chestnut hair. You can’t see his face, not really, but the smug smile is easy to read.

“Asshole.” You growl, your hands tightening on the steering wheel. You should get out and give him a piece of your mind, you should let him know he’s an entitled little—

“Hey lady! Move your ass!”

You should find another place to park.

Shamefully, you put the car into gear and look for a spot of your own. You find one eventually—three avenue blocks away—and trudge back to work. Priscilla is in the back when you arrive, and she throws an apron at you.

“Where’ve you been? It’s a shit-show out there,” she whines. “I told Maurice you were back here but he’s not going to buy that for long.”

“Thanks, Priss.” You reply, shrugging out of your denim jacket and fiddling with the apron ties. The front is slammed, just like she’d said it was, and you slide over to the register, punching your code in. “Hi, can I help you?” you ask, giving a cursory glance to the man in front.

“Americano. Black, please.”

You look up again, and your eyes narrow. The sun glasses are pushed up over his head now, but you recognize the parking spot thief from earlier easily now. Is it just me or is he… bigger? He seems even larger now, towering over you as he smiles politely. You sniff dryly, punching his order in. Alpha. Fucking typical.

“Anything else?” You keep your tone clipped and short, practically snatching his card from him when he offers it.

“Yeah, I’ll take one of those pastries too, the blueberry one.” You grab one, tossing it carelessly into a paper bag before swiping his card. You drop it to the counter and spin on your heel. “Uh, don’t you need my name—”

“No, when I yell ‘parking spot thief,’ you’ll know your order’s ready.” You snap at him, unable to keep quiet a moment longer. A look of disbelief crosses his face, followed by amusement. “Sir, please step aside, there are other people waiting behind you.” You gesture to the growing line of disgruntled people murmuring what you could only assume were disrespectful things.

He does, a little smile on his irritatingly handsome face.

Stupid Alpha. Alphas were always like that, pushing people around just because they could. You’d sworn you’d never settle down, and if you did, it certainly wouldn’t be with some entitled Alpha who never wanted you to do anything but pop out kids and cook his meals.

“Can I help you?” The next person steps up.

“You know, in all fairness, I didn’t know you were waiting for that spot,” he interjects, speaking over the middle aged woman as she tries to order.

“Sir, please. I’m trying to work. Also, who just sits in the middle of the street with their blinker on if they’re not trying to park?” You snap, glaring at him. “I’m sorry ma’am, what did you say?” You can hear Priscilla giggling behind you, like it’s funny.

“I’d like one of those iced ginger teas, and a vanilla—”

“You’d been sitting there like five minutes! I thought you were having car trouble or something.”

“Vanilla?” you repeat back to the woman, ignoring him.

“A vanilla latte, please.” She turns to the big Alpha, leveling him with a glare of her own, and he smiles sheepishly.

“I’ll have that right out for you. And you. If you’re done justifying sniping my spot, could you…?” You make a shooing motion with your hands, and he laughs out loud.

“Okay, okay, toots. I can take a hint, I’m sorry.” He holds his hands up apologetically. “Really. It’s all a misunderstanding.” Priscilla hands you his cup, and you hand it to him, your face heating when you see that she’s written Parking Spot Thief on it in large letters.

“It’s… fine. Have a good day sir.”

“No, no, let me make it up to you. You get a lunch break, right?” You feel your whole body go hot.

“I do but, I don’t think—”

“She’d love to go.” Priscilla chimes in from behind you. “Seriously, I’m not going to watch you eat five day old muffins and get sick again.” You grimace at her. Why would you bring that up?

“How about pizza?” he asks, grinning. “Better than day old muffins, right?”

How it’s going:

“Feel me in your belly, right, sweetheart?” Bucky croons at you, lifting your hips only to let you bounce back down onto his dick. He presses his vibranium hand to your tummy and grins. “Oh yeah. There I am.” It’s pleasurable torture as he splits you open, your slick leaking down onto his thighs and the leather seats of his car underneath.

You’re babbling, half formed words and pleas leaving your trembling mouth as he fucks you stupid in the passenger seat. Tears are leaking down your cheeks as your pussy clenches desperately around the length of his thick cock, and your hands are fisted in his open dress shirt.

“God, ah, oh fuck, please, please, please—”

“Need me to make you cum, sweetheart? Show you how sorry I really am?” Bucky grunts, his hips snapping up into yours as he forces his cock as deep inside you as it’ll go. You don’t know how long is left on your lunch break, and quite frankly, you don’t care—Priss’ll cover, right? You think fleetingly, your hand burying itself in his hair as you keen. “Fucking shit, toots, do that again,” he growls, his lust dark eyes locking in on yours.

You do, threading your fingers through the silky strands of his hair and pulling. He hisses and leans forward, scraping his teeth against your throat. The feel of them rasping over the gland at the base of your neck makes your pussy constrict violently around his cock, and he curses.

“Mother fuck, you are tight.” He licks a stripe from your collar bone to your throat. “Toots, this is—ugh, fuck—gonna have to keep you, you know that, don’t you?” He’s rolling his hips into yours, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he mumbles all the things he’s going to do to you, all the ways he’s going to make sure you remember the feel of his cock.

“Oh fucking God,” You wail, sobbing as you throw your head back. You’re cumming so hard you can’t think, can’t see—staring blindly up at the roof of the car as you feel the base of his cock thicken and swell. Bucky presses his face between your breasts, his curses muffled by your skin as he sheathes himself tightly into your cunt, holding you in place as he cums. You can feel the hot, hard jets of his spend against the abused walls of your pussy, feel it leaking out around the base of his knot.

He leans you back against the dash, staring admiringly down the plane of your body to where your pussy is stuck fast on his cock.

“Is this how you always apologize?” You ask after a moment, gulping air down into your bereft lungs.

“No,” he admits, laughing as he smooths hair out of his face. “But I dunno, I could make a habit of it.” You smile dopily back at him, feeling your hindbrain release it’s death-grip on your consciousness. Oh fuck.

“Shit, what time is it?” You sit up, wincing as his knot pulls at your cunt while you search for your phone. You hope you’re not late—Priscilla having to fend off Maurice twice in one day was not the fate you were hoping to leave your best friend to.

“1:45,” he answers, pointing behind you to the dash. You sigh with relief—fifteen minutes till you’ve got to be back at work. “Late for something?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to be back at 2.”

“Hmm.” You feel him roll his hips into yours experimentally, and you moan, biting your lip.

“What are you doing?”

“I think I’ve got time to apologize again, don’t you?” He puts his hands on your hips, the metal one cool against your heated flesh. Bucky grins at you lopsidedly, licking his lips. “And if you’re free for dinner later, I can apologize again then too.”

[raetides]

In too deep

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡

Masterlist

You are bleeding.

The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.

The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.

Your breath is shallow.

The bleeding won’t stop.

With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.

You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.

A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.

Bucky is still in his bedroom.

Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.

That’s how it’s always been.

He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.

He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.

But you still keep running. Every time.

The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.

You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.

You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.

But fuck, it hurts.

You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.

You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.

The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.

Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.

And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.

Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.

You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.

You press your hands to the cool porcelain.

One more breath.

Then another.

Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.

It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.

Bucky is always nice.

You were friends first, after all.

Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.

Things had been easy, light, and simple.

You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.

Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.

It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.

You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.

You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.

Because there was no stopping from then on.

You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.

But you keep coming back when he calls.

He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.

But today was different.

He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.

He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.

His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.

There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.

His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.

He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.

He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

He fucked you like it’s you he craved.

He fucked you like it was making him blind.

It did.

Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.

He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.

Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.

But it wasn’t today.

Because the pain only grew.

The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.

You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.

Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.

You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.

You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.

It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.

You know you should have said something.

You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.

But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.

So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t want to ruin this.

Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?

So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.

You still don’t stop bleeding.

It’s not your period.

You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.

But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.

But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.

There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.

So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.

And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.

God, you hate this.

Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.

But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.

You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.

You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.

A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.

“Hey, you alright in there?”

Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.

“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.

You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.

Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.

But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.

Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”

Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”

There is a beat of silence.

The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.

“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”

It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.

“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”

It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.

And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.

His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.

“Are you hurt?”

Your breath stays caught in your throat.

“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.

“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”

You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.

You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.

“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”

The door handle rattles.

“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”

You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.

“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.

The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”

You don’t move. Your knees are weak.

“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.

You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.

But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”

You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.

“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”

The door handle tugs again.

“I need to see you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.

“Bucky-”

“Please.”

That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.

“Buck, I need a second, okay?”

You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.

Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.

“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.

You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.

The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.

You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.

Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.

You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.

His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”

“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.

Bucky’s breath shudders out.

You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.

Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.

“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”

Your legs give out.

It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.

The impact rattles the whole thing.

A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.

“Alright, I'm coming in.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.

The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.

Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.

His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.

“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.

Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.

“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.

But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.

He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.

His eyes are on you.

And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.

His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.

He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.

The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.

You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.

Bucky’s jaw is tight.

You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.

Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.

“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.

His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.

Then he stills.

His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.

His gaze drops.

The storm behind his eyes turns feral.

You know what he is seeing.

You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.

The blood.

A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.

For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.

You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.

But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.

Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.

“Bucky-”

“Hush.”

It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.

“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”

You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”

“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”

His grip on you is firm, but not rough.

His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.

Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.

His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.

He is shaking.

A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.

It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.

You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.

Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.

“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.

His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?

But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.

Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.

He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.

With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.

You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.

And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.

You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.

You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.

But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.

None of it seems to matter.

Only you.

He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.

Then he takes off.

You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.

And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.

But the thing is, he is already making this worse.

Not in the way he thinks.

Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.

Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.

He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.

And this hurts so much more.

It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.

But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.

He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.

His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.

His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.

His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.

Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.

Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.

His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.

It feels like he is bleeding grief.

And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.

Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.

But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.

This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.

And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.

His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.

And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.

He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.

His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.

“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.

Bucky waits.

And again, that makes it worse.

Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.

He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.

You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”

You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”

Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.

A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.

His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.

He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.

He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.

“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”

You can’t look at him.

You want to. But you can’t.

Because he is too much.

Because he is everything.

Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.

There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.

Bucky moves instantly.

He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.

His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.

“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.

His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

His thumb catches a tear.

His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.

“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.

His forehead almost touches yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin’-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.

He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.

“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”

You choke on your next breath.

Your mind blanks.

He shakes his head, like he hates himself.

“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”

You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.

Words are lost on you.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.

His voice lowers. Softens.

“But I can’t do this anymore.”

His fingers tighten.

“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”

His voice splinters.

You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.

Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.

“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.

Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide.

He looks broken.

His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.

You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.

Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?”

The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.

“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.

“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”

His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.

“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”

You feel everything crack open inside you.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.

“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.

Bucky’s face contorts in pain.

“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”

Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You had it all wrong.

And so did he.

You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.

You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.

“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.

With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.

His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.

You shake your head, but he won’t have it.

“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”

His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.

“You’re stayin’ right here.”

You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.

And Bucky melts.

Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.

He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.

His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.

“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.

Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.

You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.

Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.

His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.

“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.

Bucky gives you a warning look.

“It only hurts a little.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.

“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”

His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.

He is looking at you like you are everything.

“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”

“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”

You sigh.

“Bucky-”

“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”

Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.

Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”

He doesn’t even let you finish.

He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.

And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.

His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.

You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.

But you try to.

Because you want to.

“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”

- J.S. Park

[raetides]

Little Lion Man

summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know pairing: bucky x reader warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔 a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection​‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!

Weep little lion man, You’re not as brave as you were at the start

You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.

No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead. 

He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was… happy.

Keep reading

[raetides]

You send us out there, into the dark, and the dark gets us. A piece at a time. Over years and years and years.

[raetides]

Natalie Dormer as Anne Boleyn

The Tudors 2.04

[raetides]

Yours, Whether You Know it or Not

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting: Falcon and the Winter Soldier Timeline

Word Count: 1K

Summary: You’ve been running missions with Sam and Bucky for a while now, and everything was fine—until John Walker started showing up and taking an interest in you. Bucky isn’t having it. Not because he’s jealous. Definitely not because he’s jealous. He just doesn’t trust Walker. Right?

Unwanted Attention

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking, but you knew Bucky was beside you—silent, brooding, and absolutely vibrating with tension.

Again.

It had started a week ago. After the whole Flag Smashers fiasco in Munich, John Walker and his annoying sidekick, Lemar, had started appearing more often. They were always just there, cocky and insufferable, flashing that stolen shield like they had any right to it. But that wasn’t what had been bothering Bucky the most.

It was Walker’s interest in you.

Ever since you’d first been introduced, Walker had made it painfully obvious that he found you attractive. The first time, it was a comment—something about how you were “too pretty to be running around with these two grumps.” You’d rolled your eyes, but Sam had snickered, and Bucky had muttered something under his breath that you hadn’t quite caught.

Then, it became touches—a hand on your lower back, a brush of fingers against yours when he handed you something, a lingering grip on your wrist after a mission. It was all casual enough that you couldn’t really call him out on it, but you weren’t an idiot. Walker was testing boundaries. And every time, Bucky got pissed.

At first, you thought it was just his general hatred for Walker. But then you noticed other things.

Bucky started standing closer. His arm would “accidentally” brush against yours when you were walking. He’d place a firm hand on your back before Walker could, guiding you away without a word. And, most notably, whenever Walker so much as looked at you, Bucky’s jaw would tighten, his fists clenching like he was barely keeping himself from decking the guy.

Which led to this moment right now.

You, Bucky, and Sam were walking back to the safe house after a tense meeting with Walker and Lemar—one in which Walker had, yet again, spent way too much time trying to get your attention.

“You don’t have to act like I’m gonna drop dead if he talks to me, you know,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Bucky didn’t look at you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on.” You stopped walking, turning to face him. “Every time Walker so much as breathes in my direction, you look like you’re about to rip his throat out.”

Bucky scoffed, looking away. “I just don’t trust him.”

Sam, who had been trailing a few steps behind, smirked. “Right. That’s what this is about.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam just shrugged.

“Man, you’re jealous,” Sam said. “It’s written all over your grumpy little face.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re so jealous.”

“I—” Bucky cut himself off, taking a deep breath like he was trying to calm himself. “He’s an asshole.”

“No arguments there,” you said. “But if you don’t like him flirting with me, there’s a pretty easy solution, Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. “Yeah?”

You smiled innocently. “You could just tell me why it really bothers you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, blue eyes dark and unreadable. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “Let’s go,” and kept walking.

Sam sighed. “Man, you are hopeless.”

You didn’t disagree.

A Game of Possession

The next time you saw Walker, things escalated.

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission—stakeout, gather intel, get out. But, as always, Walker found a way to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted.

“You know,” Walker said, sidling up beside you, “we’d work a lot better together if you ditched these two and joined Lemar and me.”

Bucky, who was standing just a few feet away, tensed immediately.

You sighed. “Not interested.”

“Come on,” Walker pressed, flashing that annoyingly charming smile. “I’d take good care of you.”

Before you could retort, a heavy, warm weight settled around your waist.

Bucky.

His metal arm wrapped around you in an unmistakably possessive gesture, tugging you snugly against his side. His fingers splayed against your hip, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.

“She’s already taken care of.”

The air went thick with tension. Walker’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered.

“Oh yeah?” he challenged. “By who?”

Bucky’s grip tightened. “Me.”

Your heart stopped.

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Didn’t peg you for the type to settle down, Barnes.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

Walker let his gaze linger on you for a beat too long before smirking. “Alright, alright. No need to get your vibranium arm in a twist.”

And with that, he strolled off.

Bucky didn’t move. Neither did you.

Finally, you found your voice. “So. That was… something.”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Slowly, his hand eased away, though his fingers brushed lightly against your side before leaving entirely. “Sorry.”

You turned to look at him. “Are you?”

He hesitated. Then, in a rare moment of honesty, he admitted, “No.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat unsteady. “So… am I actually taken?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Do you want to be?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped forward, closing the space he’d left between you.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you murmured.

Bucky swallowed hard. His eyes flickered to your lips. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you again.

Before either of you could do anything about it, Sam’s voice rang out from across the way.

“Hey, lovebirds! We’ve got work to do!”

You pulled back, trying not to grin. Bucky just sighed.

“This is your fault,” he muttered.

You smirked. “If you say so, boyfriend.”

Bucky groaned, but the tips of his ears burned red. And you had a feeling that, jealous or not, he wasn’t going to let the title go.

Not anymore.

[raetides]

Til Death Do Us Part (Bucky x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, loss of virginity, alluded to Mafia!Bucky, arranged marriage

DNI IF THIS OFFENDS YOU

➥ {page breaks done by @whimsicalrogers​}

summary: after your arranged marriage has served its purpose, you bring up the inevitable topic of divorce. It is only then do you realize that you and your husband might not be on the same page.

Keep reading

[raetides]

THE BORGIA BROTHERS ↴ on the verge of tears watching their sister with other men

[raetides]

Last updated: February 12

I’m only writing for Bucky Barnes

Lots of love for my Bucky people! ♡

I do not consent my work to getting republished

My work can include heavy themes (such as sexual assault, abuse, panic attacks, death, toxic behavior, self-doubt etc). Each chapter and fic will have their own warnings, but if anything might trigger you, be cautious!

If you are interested in reading the Bucky fics I loved on this app, check out my list of fic recommendations on my other blog @buckbuckbarnesstuff

˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔ October Writing Challenges 2024 ˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔

⋆⁺₊❅. Whumpcember Masterlist 2024 ⋆⁺₊❅.

WIP Game

♡ - personal fav

❁ - fic with 300+ notes

✯ - fic with 500+ notes

Series ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Breaking Chains (on hiatus)

Biker!Bucky x reader

Summary: Leaving behind an abusive and possessive boyfriend, and finding refuge in the hometown you once yearned to escape, certainly wasn’t a chapter you anticipated in your life’s story. Yet, eyes as blue as the sky at dusk, belonging to a mysterious biker drew you into a world of unexpected possibilities, where a job at his bar becomes more than just a means of survival - it’s a pathway to freedom and self-discovery. Though, breaking away from your past proves daunting when shackled by invisible chains.

Like a Phoenix (ongoing)

Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Two-Parts ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

1. Tangled ropes [8.2k] & 2. Beyond the Horizon

Sailor!Bucky x reader

Summary: A new sailor arrives at the docks amongst Captain Barton’s crew. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself, or perhaps it’s the way his eyes are the echo of the ocean in color and depth. But something about him makes you want to untangle the ropes that seem to choke his spirit.

1. The ropes that bind me [13.4k] & 2. Bridge to your world

Fisherman!Bucky x Mermaid!Reader

Summary: Being a creature of the sea, you are bound to a life beyond the surface, always in sight of the human realm, yet forever out of grasp. But after centuries of this finned existence it’s a fisherman coming to the docks day after day that compels you to bridge the gap between your worlds, despite the warnings about humanity being ingrained into your kind your whole life. Will you meet the same tragic end as several of your sisters before?

One-shots ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Listen to your gut [2.8k] ❁

Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky is assigned on a Hydra mission. Letting him venture back in the lion’s den without backup sets a deep unsettling dread knotting your stomach. Drowning out logic and reason you beg him to stay.

Still on the list [14.1k] ✯

Frat!College!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes, the infamous frat guy, known for sleeping around and throwing parties left and right, constantly invites you, out of all people, to all of them. His intentions though remain a mystery to you. Following a troubling event that leaves you shaken and anxious, Bucky is there to pick up the pieces. Stolen glances and exchanged smiles gradually blossom into a connection that goes beyond what meets the eye.

Casual Sweetness [2.3k] ♡ ✯

Roommate!Bucky x reader

Summary: You seek out your roommate and best friend Bucky for comfort after a girls night out leaves you shaken up.

Two [6.2k] ♡ ❁

College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Your friends Wanda and Nat drag you to a corn maze event at night. After a rather unpleasant encounter with Bucky, Sam, and Steve, you want nothing but this night to end. Unfortunately for you, you’ll have to find the exit first.

Latte (He)art [7.8k]

Barista!Bucky x Coworker!College!Reader

Summary: Your sweet coworker at the café you work at part time is the only thing able to brighten your day. So it’s only practical that he always ends up in the same shift as you.

Ocean’s claim [5.9k]

Lifeguard!Bucky x Amateur!Surfer!Reader

Summary: Seeking a thrill, your friend Natasha convinces you to go surfing during stormy weather conditions - a bad idea as you come to experience.

Pirate Nights and Pumpkin Lights [1.7k]

Modern!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky and you take Morgan, Billy, and Tommy trick-or-treating on Halloween.

Soft spot [1.8k] ♡ ❁

Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Alpine is determined to gain access to your room while you are resting.

Drabbles ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Paranoia [1.4k] ✯

Avenger!Bucky x reader

Summary: Bucky comes home to an unlocked door - his mind convinces him something horrible happened to you

Learn his way [1.5k] ❁

College!Bucky x College!Tutor!Reader

Summary: Bucky is more interested in learning about you than biology

“Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway.”

- Edgar Allan Poe