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rulerofstars · 1 month ago

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i thank the gods for letting me live long enough to read more of hyde’s fics

tear you down, wear you out.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. post-thunderbolts. synopsis. to everyone else on the team, you're a ball of sunshine, a quick-thinking spy, a genius pair of eyes keeping track of anything suspicious during missions. to bucky, however, you are the bane of his existence, the knife in his back, the ire in his blood. he'll stop at nothing to get you kicked off the team, even if it means risking his own life. unfortunately, he never planned for this: you pinned beneath him on the training mat, wide-eyed and fully aware how hard he is against your thigh. based on this request. warnings. smut ( switch/dom-leaning!bucky, unprotected piv, oral - m & f receving, 69ing, fingering, face riding, ab riding, knifeplay - m receiving, manhandling, biting, dirty talk, dick+pussy pronouns, spit, one spank, like a second of thigh fucking + choking, voyeursim/mirror kink? idfk basically they are fucking and watching, bucky puts the reader in a headlock :), backshots ayo! honestly they're kind of fighting and fucking at the same time? idk just read it pls, i'm baring my horny soul to you here! ) bucky's pov & he's so annoying (i love him), one-sided enemies to lovers bc bucky's a loser and you're literally just vibing, spy!reader, lowkey himbo!bucky, bickering, jealousy, unwanted sexual advances ( not from bucky ), angst, fluff, gun violence, description of injuries + blood, a bad guy that i made up in my head therefore he sucks and has a very lame name :) for the purpose of plot: bucky is the 'leader' of the thunderbolts* reader inclusivity. some implications of the reader being shorter/smaller than bucky, reader has a specific fear + a specific scar. word count. 14.3k hyde’s input. pray for me y'all, i'm going through something unimaginable 😔 (attempting to write a new fic after peaking w/ manchild)

Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.

In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.

It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational.

“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”

Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.

“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.

“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane. “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”

No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.

“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”

“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”

Bucky wants to disobey.

He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.

It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.

Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.

“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”

“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”

His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.

“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”

“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.

He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”

“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.

“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.

The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.

A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.

“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”

If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.

For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.

“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.

“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”

Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.

“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”

“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”

“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.

“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.

Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.

The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…

“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.

As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”

Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.

What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.

Instinct commands him to reach for two things.

First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.

A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.

And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.

“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.

Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.

Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.

There, that’s what it is.

Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.

“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.

He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.

His right palm is growing sweaty.

“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”

“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.

“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”

As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.

You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.

“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.

“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”

Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.

“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.

Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.

“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.

“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”

“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”

“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.

Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.

“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”

Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.

Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.

In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.

“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”

“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”

His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”

The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.

“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”

Five weeks pass before the call arrives.

On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.

On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.

The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.

“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”

“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”

They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.

“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.

“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.

Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.

“And you’re being reckless!”

“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”

The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.

A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.

Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.

After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.

An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.

From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.

“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”

“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”

The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted.

“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.

“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”

One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.

But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.

Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.

“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”

“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”

“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”

Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.

Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.

The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.

“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”

“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”

“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”

“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.

“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”

Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.

At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.

“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.

“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”

“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”

“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.

The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.

Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.

Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.

Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.

For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.

If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.

Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.

It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.

You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.

“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.

“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”

Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.

After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”

“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”

“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”

To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.

“Why?”

“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.

“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”

“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”

“Oh, so you notice things now?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.

There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.

“Like what? This is just my voice.”

“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”

“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”

It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.

Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?

A throat clears itself over the comms.

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.

There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.

“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”

“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”

The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.

The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.

The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.

“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.

“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”

“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”

A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”

“For once.”

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.

Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.

A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.

Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.

“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”

“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.

For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?

You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.

“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”

A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.

He doesn’t get to make a single wish.

All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.

With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.

“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”

“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.

“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.

“James.”

“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.

Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.

“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”

“Bucky!”

The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.

Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.

“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.

“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”

“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”

“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”

The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.

“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”

“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin.

“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”

A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.

Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.

The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.

“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.

“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”

“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.

The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.

“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”

Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.

“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.

Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.

“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.

The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.

“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”

Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.

Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.

You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.

It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.

Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.

Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.

What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.

One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.

Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.

Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.

Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.

“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”

“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”

“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”

He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.

The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.

Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.

You weren’t supposed to get hurt.

“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.

“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”

“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”

An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.

“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”

You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.

“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”

“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”

“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”

There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.

“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”

A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.

“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.

“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”

The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.

A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”

“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”

Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.

Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.

You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.

“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.

The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.

But you like to play dirty.

A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.

Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.

“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”

A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline.

“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”

His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.

Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.

“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”

The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.

“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”

Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.

Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.

That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.

“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”

Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.

You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.

“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.

“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”

The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.

“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.

Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.

“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”

The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.

No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.

“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”

When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.

Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.

Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.

You must be a dream.

“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.

And, oh, does he watch.

Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.

“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.

The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.

You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.

It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.

“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”

“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.

Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.

“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.

“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”

“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.

You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.

Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.

Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.

“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.

Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.

The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.

“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”

Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.

“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”

“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.

“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”

The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.

So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.

“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”

Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.

Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.

The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.

His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.

“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”

His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.

“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”

You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.

“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”

That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.

In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.

Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.

“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.

“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.

You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.

One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.

“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”

“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.

“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”

“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.

“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”

The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.

You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.

His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.

Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.

“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”

A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.

One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.

“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”

Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.

That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.

The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.

“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”

“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.

He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on.

Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.

“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”

He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”

“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”

“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”

He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.

You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.

Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.

One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.

“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”

“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.

He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.

“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”

“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.

“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”

“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.

Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.

And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.

When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.

Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.

“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”

The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.

Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.

Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.

More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.

Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.

“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”

Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.

The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.

“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”

“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”

The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.

“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.

“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?”

“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”

“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”

“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.

“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”

He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.

The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.

“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.

“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”

“Your heartbeat.”

+ extra hyde.

· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic) · besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous. · dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍‍♂️ · anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3 · lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;

#⋆˙⟡ fic.rec !#LOVE THIS SO MUCH #would read it again and again (and again)

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rulerofstars · 1 month ago

Note

How old are you? Just out of curiosity so I can feel comfortable interacting with your posts.

hi! dw i am already at the very ripe age of 21! :—)

#ask.angel #MISSED ANSWERING ASKS SO MUCH

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rulerofstars · 1 month ago

Text

told you i’d come

oneshot: you send him one wet, towel-clad pic while he's away on a mission. next thing you know? you're waking up to his tongue in your pussy and his cock buried so deep you’ll be walking funny for days.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+). 3.2k words. SMUT. feral yearning. phone sex. video call tease. sex on phone. creampie. post-mission bucky who books a damn flight just to ruin you. fingering. oral sex f!receiving (waking-up edition). overstimulation. raw dogstyle & missionary bc he needs it that deep. listening to earned it by the weeknd will be the cherry on top of this filth. minors dni.

You shouldn't send it.

Oh, darling, you really shouldn't. This is a reckless, deliciously terrible idea—teetering on the edge of moral ambiguity and an international scandal wrapped in a single, impulsive click.

And yet.

Here you are, standing before your mirror, a vision of damp locks and wet skin, the towel clinging to your curves like a lover's desperate grasp. Droplets of water trail down your neck, catching the light. There's something wild in your eyes, something about your heavy lids and parted lips, like you've unlocked a secret angle of yourself that only a front-facing camera could capture.

And you? You're going to send it.

Because Bucky Barnes—your Bucky, with his storm-blue eyes and that vibranium arm that hums with quiet power is a thousand miles away.

Prague, maybe. Serbia, possibly. He's on a mission, one of those shadowy, leather-gloved affairs that probably involves scaling rooftops or disarming a bomb with seconds to spare. You don't know the details. But the ache in your chest? That's all the intel you need.

Ten days.

Ten days since you've felt the heat of his body pressed against yours, since you've tasted the soft, devastating edge of his mouth. Ten days since you've run your fingers through his dark hair, felt the shudder in his breath when you tug just a little too hard. You're unraveling, fraying at the edges, a woman starved for the man who's both her anchor and her storm.

So, naturally, you do what any rational, touch-starved, love-drunk soul would do. You grab your phone. You swipe open the camera. And you pose.

It's not graceful. You're not some sultry vixen trained in the art of seduction. You're just you—heart pounding, towel slipping just enough to tease, hips tilted in a way that feels like a dare. You stare into the lens and think, What would make Bucky lose his mind?

The answer is this: you, glistening from the shower, skin dewy and warm, the towel barely holding on, one hip cocked, your lips parted in a look that's half-innocent, half-come get me. It's a snapshot of longing, of I miss you laced with I dare you.

You snap the photo. Your thumb hovers over the send button for a heartbeat—two, three. Then you press it.

The wait is electric.

Your phone buzzes, and your pulse spikes.

Bucky Jesus, sweetheart.

Another buzz, and it's like his voice is in the room, low and rough, curling around you like smoke.

Bucky What are you doing to me?

I'm in a goddamn surveillance van with two other agents and a shared screen. Had to throw a blanket over my lap like some kid who can't control himself.

You bite your lip, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. The towel feels heavier now, like it's conspiring with your racing heart. You type back, fingers trembling with mischief.

oops! just wanted to say hi... all clean and wet. is that a crime now?

Bucky You're lucky I'm not there, doll. You wouldn't be standing.

Your breath catches, a soft laugh spilling from your lips. Heat pools low in your belly, and you can almost feel the ghost of his hands—calloused, warm, possessive and grazing your skin. You type again.

hmm, i'm all wet and lonely. you're out there being dangerous and armed... we're not playing fair, are we?

Bucky Say that one more time, and I'm on the next flight home. Mission be damned.

You laugh again, loud and unguarded, because you know he means it. He'd burn the world down to get to you if you asked. And that's the sweetest, most dangerous part of all—this love that's so big, so consuming, it's hard to breathe without pulling him into your orbit.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, still clutching the phone, the towel slipping just a fraction lower. Your skin hums with the memory of him, and you wonder how long it'll be before he's back, before you can trade these teasing texts for the real thing—his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Until then, you'll just have to keep torturing him. One sultry selfie at a time.You spend the next three hours doing completely ordinary, non-sinister things like brushing your hair and moisturizing your soul. Also, watching Mamma Mia! for the hundredth time and pretending you don't keep glancing at your phone every seven minutes.

You do. You absolutely do. And yes, you are tracking Bucky's location like the clingy menace you are.

And it turns out he's checked into his hotel.

Which means—oh.

He's alone.

And probably grumpy.

Which means Bucky Barnes, Sergeant of Chaos, is probably somewhere in Europe brooding shirtless in soft lamplight. All sharp jawline and stormy eyes, still simmering from the situation you personally orchestrated.

Your body hums. Full-body anticipation. Wicked little pulses of mine mine mine under your skin. So naturally, you do what any well-adjusted, emotionally stable girlfriend would do.

You hit the video call button.

He answers on the first ring.

His face fills your screen—all chiseled bone structure and dark stubble and mussed hair like he's been running his hands through it since your last message. His voice is a low growl, sleep-rough and laced with something entirely more dangerous.

"Baby,"

You sprawl across your bed, the towel you're still wearing—barely—slipping dangerously low, exposing the curve of your thigh, the dip of your collarbone. You tilt your phone just right, letting him catch the glint of your damp skin in the soft light. "Hi, Sergeant," you purr, your voice a velvet blade, sharp and sweet.

He groans, head tipping back against the headboard, the sound vibrating through you like a physical touch. "Don't start with that Sergeant shit," he warns, but his eyes are already darkening, pupils blown wide as they rake over you. "I'm barely holding it together."

"Why?" You tilt your head, letting a damp curl fall across your shoulder, your lips curving into a smirk that's pure sin. "I'm just being respectful. Honoring your rank." You shift, the towel riding up just enough to make his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, the word a prayer and a curse. You hear the creak of his hotel bed, the rustle of sheets as he adjusts himself, and it's enough to make your thighs press together. "That picture you sent? I've been hard since. Had to lock myself in this room just to breathe."

You laugh, low and sultry, stretching out on your bed, letting the towel slip another inch, teasing the edge of decency. "Poor baby," you coo, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. "All worked up because of little ol' me?"

"You know exactly what you're doing," he growls, his eyes narrowing as he leans closer to the screen, like he could reach through it and grab you. "You're a fucking menace."

"I miss you," you whisper, and it's not just teasing now—it's raw, aching truth. Ten days without him, without his hands, his mouth, his weight pinning you down. It's too long. Too empty.

His expression softens, just for a second, before the hunger takes over again. "Miss you so damn much, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick, almost reverent. "It's killing me. Ten days, and I'm dreaming about you, waking up hard, thinking about your taste, your smell, the way you fucking move."

Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your belly. "Then show me," you challenge, your voice a husky whisper. You prop your phone against a pillow, angling it so he can see every inch of you—towel barely clinging to your hips, your skin flushed and glistening. "Show me how much you miss me."

His eyes go molten, and he shifts, the camera catching the flex of his vibranium arm as he adjusts himself. "You want to play dirty?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous, filthy register that makes your toes curl.

He shifts, grunts softly, and sets his phone down too—somewhere low, tilted up just enough to give you the full view. And oh. Oh, God.

He's shirtless. Hair a mess. His thighs spread wide and bare.

And his cock. Thick, flushed, already hard rests heavy against his stomach.

"Like that, baby?" he asks, a little breathless, a little too smug for someone stroking himself with a metal arm like he's trying to kill you with lust via satellite.

You whimper. That's it. That's your only response. A noise of full-body, feral yearning.

Because his vibranium fingers? Wrapped around the base of his cock like a fucking vice. The gold plating catches in the low light, gleaming wickedly as he strokes once—slow and deliberate, like he wants to ruin you before he even touches himself properly.

"I thought about you all day," he murmurs, lazy now, letting his thumb rub over the head, watching your mouth fall open. "Tried so fucking hard not to do this until I saw you. But then you called, lookin' like you wanted me to lose it... Take that towel off, baby. Let me see you."

You comply, agonizingly slow, peeling the fabric away until it pools beneath you, leaving you bare and breathless under his gaze. His groan is primal, a sound that vibrates through your core. "Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his hand disappearing below the frame, the motion unmistakable. "So fucking perfect. You know what I'd do if I was there? I'd bury my face between those thighs. Lick you so slow, so deep, you'd be begging me to let you come."

You whimper, your fingers trailing down your stomach, teasing yourself as his words burn through you. "Bucky," you gasp, your voice trembling with need. "Keep talking."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he says, his voice a low, filthy promise. "I'd spread you open, taste every inch of that sweet pussy. Fuck, I can still taste you from last time, all wet and warm and mine. I'd suck that clit until you're screaming, until you're pulling my hair so hard it hurts. You'd be dripping for me, wouldn't you? Soaking the sheets, begging for my cock."

Your fingers move faster against your hot core, chasing the heat of his words, your hips bucking as you moan his name. "Yes," you pant, your body arching off the bed. "God, Bucky, I need you."

"You have no idea," he growls, his breath hitching as he matches your rhythm, his camera shaking slightly as he moves. "I'd fuck you so deep, baby. Pin you down, make you take every inch. You'd feel me for days. I'd fill you up, make you scream my name until your voice gives out."

"Fuck, Bucky—" Your hand trails down again, desperate, twitchy.

He smirks. "Go ahead. Touch yourself while you watch me." His jaw flexes, the vibranium grip stroking tighter. "Wanna see how wet you are for me."

And you do. With him watching. With him moaning. With the sound of slick metal pumping against his cock, slow and devastating.

"I'm gonna fuck you so deep when I get back," he growls, voice wrecked now, gaze locked on you like a threat. "You won't be able to walk straight, baby. Not after this. Not after seeing me fuck my fist thinking about that perfect pussy of yours."

You gasp, your rhythm matching his, your thighs trembling.

"I'm gonna come all over this hand," he grits out. "And the second I land, I'm putting my mouth where this hand's been. Gonna taste you, taste me on you. Make you take it."

The words push you over the edge, your body shuddering as you come, his name a broken cry on your lips. He's not far behind, his groans rough and ragged, the camera catching the tense line of his jaw, the way his eyes flutter shut as he chases his own release.

For a moment, there's just the sound of your heavy breathing, the shared silence of two people wrecked and sated. You're sweaty, flushed, your body still trembling, but you feel alive, tethered to him through the screen.

"Jesus Christ," he pants. "I'm booking the next fucking flight."

You collapse into sleep, hard and heavy, your body still humming from the filthy promises of Bucky's voice over the video call. The blankets cocoon you, your pulse a lazy flutter, your skin tingling with the ghost of his words. You're not even sure if you ended the call, too drunk on pleasure to care. One moment, you're sinking into the soft haze of afterglow. The next—

Oh. Fuck.

You wake to a sensation so sinful it rips you from sleep. A wet, searing heat between your thighs, deliberate and unrelenting. Your hips buck instinctively, a sharp, needy jolt as your eyes flutter open, vision blurry with confusion and want.

Another slow, possessive lick drags up your core, and your brain stutters, short-circuits, melts. Your breath catches, a broken gasp, as you blink down and see him—Bucky Barnes, all six-foot-something of him, nestled between your legs like he was made for it. His hair's a tousled mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. Those broad shoulders, carved from years of violence and redemption, pin your thighs open against the sheets. And his tongue—fuck, his tongue—is inside you, lapping at you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

"Bucky—what—?" Your voice cracks, half a moan, as you try to process the impossible. "How—?"

"Shh, pretty girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing your clit, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "Heard you whimpering my name in your sleep. Fuck, you sounded so needy. Couldn't just lie there and listen."

"You're here?" you gasp, trying to sit up, but his vibranium arm curls over your hip, pinning you down with gentle, unyielding strength. "You—ohmygod—Bucky."

"Told you I'd be on the next flight," he growls, his voice rough with hunger, his eyes dark and feral as they meet yours. "Couldn't stay away. Not after that little show you put on." He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep, dragging a wrecked moan from your throat. "You taste better than I remember. So fucking sweet."

Your hands fist the sheets, your hips grinding up to meet his mouth as he devours you, slow and reverent, like he's worshiping every inch of you. His tongue flicks and curls, teasing your entrance before plunging inside, and you're already trembling, your body a live wire under his touch. "Bucky—please," you whimper, your thighs quaking as he hooks them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, claiming you completely.

"Love hearing you beg," he murmurs against your pussy, his beard scraping your inner thighs, the burn only amplifying the pleasure. "Missed this. Missed you. Been dreaming about this pretty cunt every fucking night." He sucks your clit hard, a deliberate pull that makes your vision blur, your body arching off the bed as you cry out. "Gonna make you come so hard you forget how to breathe."

You do. You come so fast, so violently, it's like a supernova bursting behind your eyes, your entire body seizing as you scream his name. He doesn't stop, lapping at you through the aftershocks, drawing out every shudder, every broken gasp, until you're a boneless mess beneath him.

But he's not done. Not even close.

Before you can catch your breath, he's up, his hands—flesh and metal—flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. "Ass up, sweetheart," he growls, his voice a dark, filthy promise that makes your core clench all over again. You scramble to obey, your knees sinking into the mattress, your back arching as you press your hips back toward him, desperate, aching, needy.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs spreading you open as he kneels behind you. "So wet for me. So fucking perfect." You hear the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt, and then he's there, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

Not yet.

Instead, he presses the hot, leaking head of his cock on your wet pussy and just… holds it there. Teasing. Taunting. Letting you feel the weight of him, the heat, the pressure, everything you want but not giving you an inch.

He grinds in slow, maddening circles, rubbing right where you're soaked and aching, coating his tip in your slick. The sensation is enough to make your knees shake.

You whimper. Push back against him. Beg with your body.

But he only chuckles, low and wrecked. "You want it that bad, sweetheart?" he rasps, dragging his tip up through your folds, nudging your clit before sliding back down and rubbing against your entrance again. "Fuck, look how wet you are for me. Just from my voice. Just from thinking about me."

You sob his name, fingers curling in the sheets, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

But Bucky stays exactly where he is. Letting the swollen tip of his cock press against your cunt without breaching it, just enough to make your whole body burn. Just enough to make you feel like you're going to snap.

He groans like he's punishing himself. Like this is torture for him, too. "Could slide in so easy," he murmurs, grinding slow and shallow against you, your slick coating both of you now. "You're begging for it, baby. This tight little cunt's fuckin' fluttering, pulling me in."

Your hips buck helplessly. "Bucky... please—"

"Please what?" he growls, jaw tight. "Please put it in? Please fuck you stupid? You want this cock, doll?"

"Yes—fuck—yes," you cry, nearly delirious. "Please, don't tease, just fuck me..."

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you," he says, his tone dripping with dark, delicious intent. "Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for days. Gonna ruin this pussy." He slides in slow, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you, filling you, until you're gasping, your hands clawing at the sheets.

"You're mine, baby. This tight little cunt? Mine."

He starts moving, hard and deliberate, each thrust driving you into the mattress, his hips snapping against yours with a filthy rhythm that makes you sob with pleasure. His vibranium hand grips your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides under you, finding your breasts, cupping them possessively. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them just hard enough to make you gasp, your body arching further into him as he groans against your skin. "These fucking tits," he growls, squeezing them from beneath, his touch rough and reverent. "Been dreaming about these, too. So soft, so perfect in my hands."

"Yes—yes," you moan, your body shaking as he pounds into you, each thrust hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. "Love it. Love you. Bucky, harder."

He growls, low and feral, and gives you exactly what you want, his pace turning brutal, his cock slamming into you so deep you feel it in your bones. "Fuck, I want to taste you again," he rasps, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back, his lips grazing your ear.

It's too much. It's everything. Your body is a live wire, oversensitive and overstimulated, but you can't stop, can't pull away from the way he's claiming you, body and soul. His filthy promises, his bites, the way he fills yoU, it's all-consuming. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, white-hot and blinding, your walls clenching so tight around him you feel him falter. You scream his name, a broken, desperate sound, your body shaking as you come so hard your vision goes dark, your pussy gripping him like it's trying to keep him forever.

"Fuck—fuck," he chokes out, his thrusts stuttering as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, hot and thick, wave after wave filling you up. His forehead presses against your spine, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as they lock onto your hips, anchoring himself to you like you're his only tether to the world.

But he's not done. Oh, God, he's not done.

He pulls out just enough to catch his breath, his cock still slick and half-hard, and then he flips you over with a strength that steals the air from your lungs. You land on your back with a startled gasp, your legs trembling as he nudges them apart with his knee, his vibranium hand curling around the back of your neck, possessive and grounding. His dark, wild, starving eyes—lock onto yours as he lines himself up again, pushing back inside with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes you whimper.

"Need to see you," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, his lips brushing your temple as he rocks into you, deep and unhurried, like he's savoring every second. "Need to come inside you while I watch those pretty eyes fall apart." His flesh hand slides down to your thigh, hooking it over his waist, opening you up so he can fuck you deeper, his cock hitting places that make your breath hitch.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips rolling with a rhythm that's both tender and devastating. "Feel how full you are? That's all me. Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for weeks. Wanna mark you inside and out, make sure you're dripping with me." His vibranium hand slides up to your breast, squeezing hard, his thumb brushing your nipple until you're gasping, your body clenching around him again.

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, his teeth sinking in as he growls against your skin, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure of his cock filling you. "Love these fucking tits," he murmurs, his hand kneading your breast, his fingers pinching just enough to make you moan. "Love how you shake for me, how you take every inch like you're made for my cock."

You're a mess, slick with sweat, your body trembling as another orgasm builds, unstoppable and overwhelming. "Bucky," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, anything to hold onto as he drives you higher. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

That's what breaks him. A shattered groan of your name spilling from his lips as he comes again, his cock pulsing deep inside you, filling you until you're dripping, claimed in every way. His thrusts slow but don't stop, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, your own release crashing through you, your moans mingling with his as you cling to him, utterly ruined.

He collapses over you, chest heaving, his body a warm, heavy weight pinning you to the mattress. He doesn't pull out, just stays there, softening inside you, his lips brushing soft, reverent kisses over the bite marks on your shoulder, soothing the sting he left behind. "Missed you so fucking much," he whispers, his voice raw, trembling with something deeper than lust. "Couldn't stay away from you. Never can."

You hum, too fucked-out to speak, your arms wrapping around his back, holding him close as your body thrums with the afterglow, the marks on your shoulder a delicious reminder of his claim.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a moment, nudging your nose with his, his voice a mix of concern and that smug, bastardly charm.

You manage a breathless laugh, your head still spinning. "I think I died. Twice."

He grins. Smug bastard.

"Good."

You roll your eyes. "You and your fucking audacity," you mumble, barely coherent.

He chuckles, still inside you, still hardening slowly. Still not done.

"I am so in love with you," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "'And I'm not going anywhere."

#rulerofstars #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky smut #smut #thunderbolts #bucky x you #james bucky barnes

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rulerofstars · 1 month ago

Text

compounded

oneshot: sneaking around and sleeping with bucky was easy. keeping quiet while you do it? not so much.

pairing: thunderbolts! bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+) 3k words. SMUT without plot. shower sex (kinda). raw penetration. creampie. being fucked as bucky's dogtags slam against ur face holy shit. minors, dni.

You're pretty sure that showering with Bucky Barnes qualifies as an objectively terrible idea—one that even your most chaotic decisions would respectfully step aside for.

Because this? This is not a rational choice. Not when your hand is currently gliding over his insanely unfair chest, slick with soap and hot water, steam curling around you both like a heavy, illicit fog. Not when the Bluetooth speaker on the bathroom sink is still playing R&B like the two of you aren't committing a federal offense under the team compound's roof. And definitely not when your palm wraps around him, fingers squeezing, slow and deliberate, and Bucky's head thunks back against the tile with a groan that does dangerous things to your already-frayed nervous system.

This is the staff quarters' shower. You're the manager. He's... him. Super soldier. Congressional headache. Thunderbolt-in-chief. And yet, here you are—naked, wet, and trying not to combust as his hips buck into your hand like your touch is the only thing tethering him to Earth.

"Jesus, baby…" he grits out, voice low and rough like he hasn't slept in a week and now you're the one ruining him. The thrill of it, the secrecy, the proximity, the fact that Yelena could burst in at any second, makes your pulse skip. You bite down on a groan, nipping the skin just below his ear like it might save you from collapsing entirely.

"Gotta be quiet, Barnes," you murmur, because someone has to be responsible here and it sure as hell isn't going to be him. "Wouldn't want the team to know their super soldier is being... what's the word? Inappropriate?"

He grins. Not a normal grin. Not a polite, sure-thanks-for-the-briefing grin. A devastating one, teeth and mischief and Brooklyn drawl thick as honey. "Sweetheart, you're the one makin' it real hard to stay quiet," he says, all gravel and ruin. His vibranium hand, cool and unyielding, cups your jaw, while the other slides down your ass with a reverence that makes you feel like some kind of miracle. The contrast makes your brain short-circuit: cold metal, warm calluses, his mouth, crashing into yours like a man starved. His tongue strokes against yours in a way that sends electricity straight to your core, and you moan into him—idiot.

"Focus," he murmurs between kisses, smug and panting. "You gettin' distracted? Or just thinkin' about how mad Val's gonna be when she finds out her golden girl's been sneakin' into my shower?"

You pull back just enough to glare. Or, well. You try. It's hard to be intimidating with flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and your hand wrapped around his cock. "You're one to talk," you hiss, tightening your grip. His breath catches. "What's wrong, Barnes? Losing focus already?"

His eyes go dark. Dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that."

The vibranium hand moves, trailing down your waist with practiced precision, pausing at your hip like he's waiting for your pulse to spike—which it does, traitorous and loud. When his fingers graze the inside of your thigh, you gasp, instinctively pressing into his touch. But he doesn't give you what you want. Not yet. He pulls back just enough to leave you panting and twitchy and feral with need.

"What's that?" he whispers, lips brushing yours but not kissing. "Beggin' already? Thought you were the one runnin' this show."

You could lie. You could sass. You could pretend like your whole body isn't vibrating with want. But you do none of those things.

Instead, you stroke him harder, your thumb gliding over the tip, and grin when he curses under his breath and grips your thigh like it might save him. "Can you keep up, Barnes?" you whisper. "Or are you gonna blow our cover before I do?"

And the way he groans—low and wrecked, eyes fluttering shut like he needs you is answer enough.

His chuckle is low and dark and somehow smug in a way that tells you you're absolutely, completely fucked. And not even in the way you want yet.

His fingers finally move, sliding between your thighs with a kind of devastating precision that makes your brain empty out like someone pulled the fire alarm in your skull. He starts slow, almost lazy, circling just barely enough to make you twitch, to make you squirm and gasp and try (fail) to stay composed. You can feel the smirk forming against your mouth before he speaks.

"Careful, baby," he murmurs, voice rough against your lips as he nips at your bottom one, the sharp sting making your whole body flinch. "Keep makin' those noises, and we're gonna have to explain this to the whole damn team."

Which. Fair. You are absolutely making those noises. Whimpering, gasping, lips parted in helpless want. Your cheeks are hot. Your skin is prickling. Your legs are actively shaking under the weight of how good he's making you feel with just his fingers. And sure, fine, you could stop. Regain the upper hand. But instead, you tighten your grip around him, stroking him harder, just to see what it does to him.

It wrecks him.

His breath hitches. His jaw flexes. His vibranium hand clenches around your hip hard enough that you know you'll be wearing finger-shaped bruises in the morning—and you welcome them. "Keep that up," he growls, voice breaking, "and I'm not gonna last."

"Good," you whisper, lips brushing his ear, smug despite the way your knees are jelly and your entire body is vibrating. "That's the plan."

His fingers sink deeper with a precision that is absolutely illegal. They curl, just right, hitting that one spot like he's spent years studying you under a microscope. You choke out a gasp, head tipping back against the tile, and that's all he needs—his mouth starts moving again, down your jaw, trailing fire against your pulse.

It's not fair, the way he kisses you like you're something soft and precious while his fingers are literally ruining you. The contrast is obscene. And perfect.

He's relentless. Slow. Measured. Like he's conducting an experiment with your body as the thesis. His fingers work you with such a steady, intentional rhythm that you're panting, teetering, right there, almost falling, and yet not quite. The risk of someone walking by, of hearing your gasps echo against the steam-slick tile, makes every touch burn brighter, sharper, needier.

"Bucky," you manage, voice breaking into a whimper as your nails dig into his shoulder. "Don't... don't tease—"

He hums against your throat. Literally hums. The vibration makes you shudder, full-body, like you're a wire pulled too tight. "But it's so fun watchin' you fall apart," he whispers, his lips brushing your jaw as his fingers slow to a torturous pace. "You should see yourself. All flushed and desperate and gorgeous, sneakin' around with me like we're not gonna get caught."

You're about to fire back (or beg, honestly, you're not above that anymore), when he drops to his knees.

And your brain? Gone. Dead. Vaporized.

Bucky Barnes. On. His. Knees.

Water slides down his shoulders, his hair sticking to his forehead, those piercing eyes blinking up at you through wet lashes like he's about to ruin your entire lineage. He hooks your leg over his shoulder like he's done it a hundred times, like you're not one second away from disintegrating, and then his mouth is on your thigh.

"Bucky, please..."

Your voice breaks on his name. He smirks. Of course he smirks.

"Please what?" he asks, nipping just above your knee. "Use your words, sweetheart. Otherwise I'm just gonna keep you here, writhin' on this tile while the rest of the team starts wonderin' where their manager went."

"You know what," you hiss, your voice shredded by need, and he laughs, lips brushing your skin, cocky and warm and goddamn infuriating.

"Oh, I do," he says.

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue is lethal. Slow, soft at first—circling against your clit, savoring your taste. He hums when you buck your hips, when you moan, when your fingers twist in his hair like you're scared he'll stop.

He doesn't stop.

He alternates between soft licks and firm, deliberate strokes, and your breath goes choppy. Your thighs tremble. You have no control over the way your body reacts, arching toward him, clenching, begging with every inch of you. He groans when you tug his hair, the sound deep and hungry and completely unhinging. You can feel him smile against you.

Then he does this thing, a flick of his tongue, followed by a slow, dragging lick—and it short-circuits every working neuron in your skull. Like he's discovered you. Like he's unlocking cheat codes. Every time he does it, your body spasms, helpless and shaking, and he hums in satisfaction, pushing you closer to the edge with sickening precision. You love it when he pushes his tongue against your very entrance.

He edges you there, keeps you there. You whine. Plead. Curse him out and beg all in the same breath.

"Not yet, darlin'," he murmurs against you, warm and smug and evil. "Wanna make it last."

"You jerk—" you manage to choke out, and he just chuckles. And then he does it again.

Flick. Drag. Suck.

And that's it. That's it.

Your entire body fractures.

You cry out, too loud, definitely not subtle, but you can't help it. Your legs give out. Your vision whites out. You feel like you've left your body entirely. He doesn't stop, keeps licking you through it, drawing it out like he's feeding off your pleasure, like this is the part he's addicted to.

And when you finally slump forward, boneless and shaking and barely able to stand, he catches you.

He stands slowly, and kisses you—soft now, like he's reeling you back in. His lips are sweet, sticky with you, and it sends another jolt of heat through your gut. You taste yourself and don't even care. You kiss him harder.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, voice low and rough, pressing his forehead to yours.

You can feel him against your hip, hard and insistent, still so obviously wrecked for you and you almost whimper again.

"Gotta be careful," he mutters, brushing wet hair from your cheek. "Can't have the team knowin' their manager's this good at breakin' the rules."

You stare at him, still breathless, and manage, "Bed. Now. Before someone actually comes looking."

His grin? Cat-that-ate-the-canary levels of smug.

"Bossy," he says, but it's fond. Warm. And still hungry. He turns off the water, grabs a towel—because of course he's practical even now—and wraps it around the both of you, pulling you close.

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Every creak makes your heart race. You're supposed to be going over mission logistics. Instead, you're dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, tiptoeing into Bucky Barnes' room like it's some kind of federal offense.

But the door clicks shut behind you. Locks. Then it's just the two of you again.

The air is cooler, but your skin is still burning, and when he spreads the towel on the bed, ever practical, you laugh. "What?" he says, raising an eyebrow as he pulls you onto the matress, his hands already roaming.

"You're so prepared," you tease, straddling his hips as he leans back, hands on your thighs. "What's next, a spreadsheet for sneaking around the compound?"

He laughs, rich and warm, but his hands tighten, pulling you closer. "Sweetheart, I don't need a spreadsheet to make you scream. But I might need one to keep track of all the places we've defiled this place."

You shut him up by yanking him down by the stainless tags, those damn dog tags that have been swinging between your bodies like they're in on the joke, like they've known all along what this was building to. Your mouth crashes into his, all tongue and teeth and barely-restrained desperation. He groans into you and you feel the shift in him, the way he jerks against your thigh, cock slick and hard as steel, and then...

Oh God.

His cock sinks into you, slow at first, the thick head of him nudging at your entrance, catching against the slick folds of your cunt. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. He's big, and your body remembers how full he makes you feel, how impossibly wide he spreads you open—but it still shocks you every time. Every inch he gives you feels like it should be too much, and yet your hips rise to meet him, greedy for more.

"Jesus," he breathes, teeth grazing your cheekbone, his forehead damp with sweat, his vibranium arm braced beside your head. "You're so fuckin' tight, baby."

He's barely inside and already shaking, and when he pushes forward again, your walls clench around him like you were made to take him. You feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, every maddening throb of his cock as it glides deeper, filling you inch by inch until your breath hitches and your legs lock tighter around his waist.

The pressure builds, delicious and unbearable, and when he bottoms out—his hips flush against yours, his cock seated deep inside, stretching you wide—you both freeze. Just for a moment. Just to feel it. Just to let the weight of it crash down between you like a storm breaking open the sky.

"Oh my God," you whisper, and he laughs, this broken, breathless sound against your throat.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "You feel that? You feel how perfect you fuckin' take me?"

You do. You feel it everywhere. It's in your spine, your ribs, the soles of your feet. He's thick and hot and so deep it aches, but in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your hips lift in search of friction, of movement, of more. But Bucky doesn't move—not yet. He shifts instead, angling his hips the tiniest bit, and oh.

Your head drops back, lips parted in a silent cry as the tip of his cock nudges against a spot so devastating you see stars. Your nails drag down his back, marking him, grounding yourself in the feel of his skin under your palms, the scent of him in your nose, clean and sharp and Bucky, all Bucky, with a hint of sweat and heat and something unspoken threading between you.

He does it again. Rolls his hips with a practiced rhythm that shouldn't feel so natural, like he's memorized every gasp you make, every twitch of your thighs, every flutter of your breath. His cock drags along your walls with every movement, slick and thick, and that pressure, that perfect freaking pressure—rubs right where you need it, makes your back arch and your legs shake.

"Say it," he grits out, the restraint in his voice hanging by a thread. "C'mon, baby. Say it."

You're not sure what it is, his name, how good he feels, how much you need this, but it doesn't matter, because all of it comes tumbling out in a string of breathless, broken syllables: "Bucky, oh my God... please, I'm... I can't—"

His cock is hitting that spot—that spot—with surgical precision, his body moving like a weapon built to wreck you in the best way. The room echoes with your bodies, slick and frantic, the slap of skin on skin so obscene it borders on criminal.

The dog tags brush your cheek. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.

The door rattles.

Which—fine. Sure. That's a totally normal sound to hear when you're actively getting railed by Bucky Barnes on a mattress in the compound, where you are very much not supposed to be right now.

It could be John, with his smug little quips. Or Alexei, asking about deodorant or soup again. Either way, your heart launches itself into your throat—and then keeps launching. Because Bucky doesn't stop. Not even close. He just grins, that cocky, half-wicked thing he does when he knows he has you wrecked, and leans in so close his breath ghosts across your lips.

"Better be quick, sweetheart," he rasps, hips starting grinding slow and deliberate. "Don't want ‘em knowin' you're gettin' fucked in my room."

You should say something. Maybe a smartass retort or a stern reminder that you're supposed to be his manager. But your brain short-circuits. Because those words—crude, filthy, said in that deep, reverent voice of his—make your thighs tremble and your whole body clench around him in response.

Oh, you are so screwed.

He's thick and hard and still buried deep, and every tiny shift of his hips sends lightning up your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and when he thrusts again—just once, slow, deliberate—you have to bite down on the muscle of his neck to stop from screaming his name.

There's a voice in your head—your rational voice, your you're-an-employee-and-he's-Bucky-Barnes voice—begging you to stop this madness. But it's silenced almost immediately by the way he twitches inside you, a slow, impossible pulse that has your breath hitching like it's learned to stutter.

"Bucky," you murmur, and it comes out a whimper. Pathetic. He grins like he knows.

"What's that, baby?" he says, all teasing drawl, even as his cock drags against your walls in a way that should probably come with a health warning. "Still want me to play nice?"

You glare. Or, well—you attempt a glare. It's a little hard to look intimidating when you're clinging to him like human Velcro, your whole body flushed and shaking.

"You're such a tease," you manage, though your hands are already sliding over his chest, nails leaving pink trails on his skin like you're trying to claim him.

"Only ‘cause you like it," he murmurs, and then he's moving—slow, unhurried, every thrust deep and angled just right. The kind of movement that feels designed in a lab. Or an evil genius bedroom.

The sounds are downright indecent. Wet, rhythmic, skin on skin, your gasps tangled with his breathless groans. You should be mortified. You're not. You're seconds away from combusting, and Bucky fucking knows it.

Because this isn't just sex. It's Bucky. It's the way he's staring at you—seeing you—as he ruins you, knowing every response before you give it.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, thrusting deeper, his voice ragged. "So fuckin' tight. Can't get enough of you."

You make some sound that is definitely not English. He leans in, and his hands—God, his hands—find your breasts again. One warm and rough, the other sleek vibranium, and the contrast is lethal. He palms you like he's memorizing the shape of your pleasure, thumb circling your nipple until you arch up into him.

"So sensitive, darlin'," he murmurs, lips brushing your throat as he speaks. "Fallin' apart for me already."

Your thighs are shaking. Your vision's blurry. And then the damn dog tags swing forward, cool metal brushing your mouth like they're in on the game. You bite one out of sheer desperation, and it makes him groan—actually groan—and thrust harder.

"Fuck, do that again."

So you do. You clench around him, and he twitches so hard inside you that your breath leaves your lungs like it's got somewhere else to be.

You're close. Again. Too soon. Your body's still sensitive, still wrecked from the last orgasm, but he's not letting up—he's teasing you, chasing you toward the edge only to pull you back.

"Bucky, please," you gasp, not even caring how wrecked you sound.

He smirks. Of course he does. "Please what?" he asks, but he's already thrusting faster, harder, relentless now.

The dog tags brush your cheek again. You grab them, yank him down into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and messy, wet desperation. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.

"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"

"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."

He loses it. His hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged groan, thrusting deep one final time as he spills inside you, hot and thick, and it tips you—your body going tight around him, your release slamming into you like a goddamn truck.

Your moan gets swallowed by the kiss. Your whole body shudders. You're so far gone you barely register the way he curses again, still twitching, still pressing into you like he can't stand to let go.

And then—silence. Just the sound of your combined breathing and the thrum of blood in your ears.

You're sticky. Sore. Dripping. His dog tags are stuck to your chest, and the towel beneath you is in shreds.

"Well," you manage, voice hoarse. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."

Bucky blinks.

And then he laughs—full-on laughs, head tipping back, eyes crinkling with something that looks a lot like joy.

"Sweetheart," he says, still catching his breath, "you're gonna be the death of me."

You roll into him, grinning like an idiot, and tuck yourself into his chest.

"Worth it," you mumble.

He hums, wrapping a vibranium arm around your back, protective and warm, even as his knuckles graze the ruined towel. "We need to be more careful."

You nod against his chest. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down."

"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."

You groan, smacking his shoulder—but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.

Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.

And there's no way in hell you're stopping now.

#rulerofstars #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut

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rulerofstars · 2 months ago

Text

so high school

headcanons: bucky as the boyfriend who always makes you feel sooooo high school. wrote this while listening taylor swift’s so high school.

pairing: boyfriend! bucky barnes x reader

tags: no warnings. (LOTS OF FLUFF). maybe a slight warning for the part where he parallel parks because my knees just gave up after imagining that scene.

bucky is the type of boyfriend who would learn an entire taylor swift album overnight, just so you wouldn’t feel like you were fangirling alone at the concert

he’d even match outfits with you

and allow you to put pink jewels on his face

“how do i look?” bucky asks, stepping out of the car.

he’s wearing the exact matching outfit you planned—denim vest, sparkly heart sunglasses, a pink bandana tied loosely around his neck. and the tiny rhinestones you stuck on his cheekbones earlier? still perfectly in place.

you gape. “you kept the face jewels?”

he shrugs, grinning. “they make me look fierce.”

he insists on carrying your tote bag even if it’s hot pink with glittery letters because “what? it’s functional”

bucky never lets your water bottle go empty. he will walk across the room, the park, the planet to fill it up if he sees it’s low

he’s the type to let you drive and take the wheel when it’s time to parallel park

you mutter, “i hate parallel parking,” already bracing for disaster.

bucky doesn’t say a word. just shifts the gear into reverse, calm as ever.

his right arm moves behind you, resting on the back of your seat. his shirt stretches tight across his chest as he twists, one hand on the wheel, jaw set, brows drawn in just the slightest bit of focus.

he looks unfairly good like this—sharp profile, easy confidence, like he was built to park in tight spaces.

he backs in perfectly. no hesitation, no readjusting. when it’s done, he taps the gear into park and glances at you with that quiet smirk.

“easy,” he says.

and you’re not even mad.

bucky would never tell you that he practiced braiding hair on a mannequin head because he wanted to be able to do your hair when you’re tired—but he would casually offer to do it one night and pretend he’s just winging it

he has exactly one picture of you as his phone lock screen, and he never changes it. “you looked the happiest in this one,” he says

when the squad’s all piled onto the couch watching a movie, you and bucky are off in your own little world.

he’s got one arm around your shoulder, your legs tangled with his, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your knee. he’s not even watching the movie, just quietly mouthing the words to whatever snack you’re eating.

“one more chip?” munch.

“last one?” munch.

and when the jump scare hits? you flinch, he doesn’t. instead, he kisses your temple and whispers, “i got you, doll,” like you’re the only two people in the room.

#rulerofstars #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky oneshot #bucky imagine #marvel imagines

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rulerofstars · 2 months ago

Text

pretty church girl

oneshot: you’ve always been the church's golden girl—sweet smiles, soft dresses, sunday devotion. but when sergeant barnes returns, quiet and scarred, his steady gaze strips you bare. in pews and candlelight, tension simmers slow and sacred, until every glance feels like a prayer and every touch, a sin. with him, desire feels dangerously close to worship.

pairing: modern! sergeant! bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+) 6.9k words. slowburn SMUT. sacrilege. raw penetration. fingering. creampie. sex in the church (i am so sorry). filthy smut. body worship. minors, dni. i am so going to hell for this.

“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy as fierce as the grave.”

Pastor Thomas’s voice settles low into the marrow of the sanctuary, like it belongs more to the wood than to his throat, woven into years of confessions and casseroles, baptisms and burials. Song of Solomon, chapter eight, verse six. A verse meant for brides, for devotion.

The June light slants through the stained-glass windows in muted halos, bleeding color across the old pews and softer sins. The scent of wax, lilies, and lemon oil clings to the thick air. Outside, the heat is climbing, inside, it gathers slowly between skin and fabric, between your thighs, between breath and restraint.

Your dress sticks faintly to the curve of your waist, the fabric stretched tight over your lap, clinging in places you wish it wouldn’t. The stockings itch beneath your knees, but you don’t move. Stillness is safer. Stillness hides the way your body betrays you when it shouldn’t. Your Bible rests closed in your hands, heavy with underlines and quiet doubts, and your knees remain pressed together in the obedient pose you’ve perfected over the years.

You look the part, demure, lightly glossed lips, posture faultless, a ribbon in your hair like some Sunday painting. But inside, you are heat and hunger and something far less holy.

Beside you, Natasha slouches in her usual irreverence, legs crossed like she owns the pew. Her red hair tumbles out of its barrette, she leans over, breath brushing your shoulder. “I swear, I’m about to drop dead,” she mutters, voice low and lazy. “No coffee. No air. Your uncle’s trying to preach us straight into Revelation.”

You flick her a warning glance, lips barely parting. “Nat. Hush.”

Her mouth quirks, unapologetic. “What? You think Mrs. Carter’s gonna smite me with that hat?”

You almost laugh, but you don’t. Not when your chest already feels too tight.

Natasha’s teasing feels distant when you glance across the congregation. The town’s finest: fanning themselves with bulletins, murmuring prayers with dry mouths, shifting in their pews like sheep waiting for the bell to ring. There’s comfort in the predictability of it all—Mrs. Thompson dabbing her forehead, the Levin twins flicking spitballs when they think no one’s looking, old Mr. Jenkins snoring softly into his tie.

Then you see him.

Back row. Second pew from the door. Half in shadow.

Your lungs forget how to fill.

White shirt. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The stark line of his forearms catching the fractured blue light from the window. Broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, as though he doesn’t belong to the pew or the building or even the air.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

You know that name. Everyone does. Even when people don’t say it, it lingers in town like the burn of communion wine on the tongue. The sergeant who disappears and reappears like a ghost. The boy who left with too much silence and came back older than the war he fought in.

You hadn’t seen him since last summer—when you passed him roofing nails and lemonade during a heat wave that melted straight through your better judgment. When he called you darlin’ like it wasn’t a sin to speak that way in front of the steeple. When he looked at you with those storm-gray eyes, slow and sure, and smiled like he saw every rule you ever followed curled up at his feet.

He was trouble. You knew it then.

But now? Now he’s ruinous.

His jaw is sharper, dusted with stubble. A new scar drags a pale line across the corner of his chin. His face is unreadable, but his hands, resting on the hymnal in his lap, are tight. White-knuckled. Like the sermon is something to endure. Like you are.

You shift slightly, thighs pressing tighter together. It does nothing to relieve the pressure, only makes it worse.

Natasha leans over again. “No way. No actual way. He's back?” Her voice catches the edge of a gasp, tempered by a wicked sort of thrill.

“I don’t know,” you manage. Your voice is hoarse.

“God, he looks…” She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Like sin in a shirt.”

You swallow, jaw stiff. “Shut up.”

But she’s right. He does.

He looks like a man built out of grief and war and hard decisions. Like someone who wouldn’t flinch if you kissed him wrong. Like someone who would ruin you sweetly and make you thank him for it.

“Bet he hasn’t looked away since you walked in,” Natasha whispers.

You stiffen. You don’t dare turn back. Not yet. You can feel it, though, like pressure against your skin, like being watched through a keyhole, like heat crawling under your dress in places you can’t mention during confession.

“He was staring last summer too,” Natasha adds casually. “Remember the festival? While you were passing out lemonade?”

You don’t answer. Because you remember. You remember every second of it. How he watched your fingers wrap around the cup. How his gaze trailed down the slope of your neck like he was memorizing it. How he didn’t look away, not even when your hands trembled.

“You’re imagining things,” you whisper.

“Am I?” Natasha hums, smug. “Look at him now.”

Your fingers tighten around your Bible, nails digging into the leather. And against every whisper of sense you ever inherited from your grandmother’s lectures and your mother’s modesty, you lift your gaze.

And find him already watching.

His eyes lock with yours—steady, unflinching, like they’ve been waiting. Not curious. Not playful. Hungry. And not in the way a boy looks at a girl in passing, not like a crush or a flirtation.

No.

This is a gaze that says: I would kneel for you. Or make you kneel for me. It depends on the hour.

His mouth doesn’t move. His hands don’t twitch. But the weight of him—of it—lands between your legs with aching clarity. You feel it. Low and deep. Like a question no prayer can answer.

You look away.

But it’s too late.

You’ve already said amen with your body.

The service closes with “Amazing Grace,” the final verse sung off-key but full-hearted. An old hymn, a familiar one, but today the words feel strange in your mouth. Voices rise and fall unevenly, and when the last note fades, the congregation stirs like a spell has been broken.

The pews empty with the slow chaos of a summer Sunday. Bulletin pages flutter like leaves in the breeze from the open doors. Your uncle stands at the entrance, shaking hands, nodding gently to familiar faces, each one softened by light and routine. Natasha’s already vanished, no doubt chasing lemon bars and iced tea in the fellowship hall, her halo of red hair the only warning left behind.

But you stay.

The quiet chapel feels safer now that it’s half-empty, stripped of voices and eyes. You move through the rows slowly, hands methodical as you gather hymnals, stack them spine to spine. It’s a ritual. One you’ve claimed for yourself. Tidying things while your thoughts fray. Your dress whispers against your legs with every step, the hem brushing your skin, static clinging to your stockings.

You’re not the saint they think you are. But you’re good at looking like one.

That’s what matters here, isn’t it? Pretty posture. Kind smiles. A polite “bless your heart” that can cut cleaner than sin. You know how to play this part, the girl with just enough shine to distract from the cracks.

Your fingers brush a forgotten tissue in the pew, and you pause just long enough to hear voices drifting in from the vestibule. The low hum of your uncle’s voice. Familiar, reassuring. Then another... lower, rasped.

Him.

“James,” your uncle says, warmth curling around the name, “we’re planning a Thanksgiving Mass. To give thanks for you and the boys coming home safe. I’d like you to speak, if you’re willing.”

Your hand stills, the bulletin in your grasp crinkling beneath your fingers. You hadn’t known. No one had told you there’d be a Mass. That he would be its centerpiece.

You shift closer to the aisle, quiet as a shadow. Through the curve of the vestibule, you glimpse him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, face angled toward the light. He doesn’t belong there. Not really. But he looks like he could, if he let himself. He takes up space in a way that doesn’t feel fair.

His frame eclipses the doorway. Shoulders broad under crisp white cotton. His sleeves are still rolled. Still wrongfully intimate. Like his wrists have known the burden of restraint, and his forearms could still break it.

“Not sure I’m the man for that, Pastor,” he replies, voice rough and quiet. “Words aren’t my thing. Neither are crowds.”

His tone isn’t humble, it’s factual. Honest. Like he knows what he is and what he’s not, and he’s not interested in pretending otherwise.

You catch the sharp gleam of the scar on his jaw, etched like it was earned. You wonder what part of him bled when it happened.

Pastor Thomas chuckles, warm and unwavering. “You’ll do fine, son. The Lord brought you back. That’s a story worth sharing.”

Bucky hums, noncommittal, and you should go. You should leave. But your feet are heavy. Rooted to the worn wooden floor like they’ve decided they’d rather burn than miss this.

Then he sees you.

No. Finds you.

Across the room, through half-light and silence, his eyes catch yours like a snare. And something inside you stumbles. Not your feet. Your faith.

He doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t smile.

His gaze doesn’t search, it knows. It lands on you like a thumb pressed gently against the base of your throat, a question and a warning both. You lift your chin instinctively, jaw tight, breath shallow. You hope it reads like defiance. But your heart betrays you, thumping recklessly, desperately, like it doesn’t believe in restraint anymore.

You’re still gripping the tissue like it might tether you when you hear them, his footsteps. Not loud. But sure. Each step is a confirmation that he’s coming closer.

You don’t turn.

Not yet.

“Need help?”

His voice is low. Right behind you. Close enough that you feel it in your spine before you hear it fully. You turn slowly, deliberately, because anything faster might reveal too much. He’s only a few feet away, holding a small stack of bulletins. His forearms flex slightly with the weight, veins visible, movements restrained, like he’s always holding something back. Like he could split a pew with his bare hands and wouldn’t apologize.

“I’m fine,” you say, sharper than you intend, smoothing your skirt out of reflex. You need control. You need space. You need him not to be looking at you the way he is.

“I don’t need saving.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t take offense. Just lifts one shoulder in an indifferent shrug.

“Didn’t say you did.”

He steps forward and places the bulletins gently on the pew, fingers brushing the worn wood with unexpected reverence. Every motion is quiet. Careful. Like he’s spent years learning how not to break things.

“Just offering.”

You grab another hymnal too hard and it lands in the stack with a dull thud.

“Well, thanks,” you mutter, eyes not meeting his. “But I’ve got it.”

He lingers. Not moving. Just watching you.

And it’s worse than a smirk. It’s worse than any teasing or flirtation. His silence is knowing. It leaves room for you to trip over your own heartbeat. It asks nothing and says everything.

You don’t trust it. You don’t trust him.

And yet...

Your body betrays you with every pulse of heat under your skin.

You can feel the faint hum in your fingertips. The way your breath shallows when you finally glance at his mouth. The slight part to your lips.

“All right,” he says at last, voice dipped in something gentler than before. He turns away like he’s not trying to take the air with him. But just before he disappears into the doorway, he glances back.

“Good to see you.”

The words are simple. They shouldn’t make your knees weak. They shouldn’t leave you standing there, staring at your reflection in a polished hymnal like a girl who’s already been ruined in thought, if not in body.

But they do.

—

Weeks passed. Long, thick cozy weeks filled with the same rituals, Sunday services, choir rehearsals, bake sales, and casserole rotations. You keep yourself busy. Keep your hands full and your smile polite.

You stand behind the soup station, ladle in hand, your dress a soft petal pink that hugs at the waist and flares gently at the hem. It’s modest, church-safe, but the way it clings just enough when you lean forward, it’s not innocent. Not really. Your lips are tinted to a subtle shine, catching the light each time you smile politely at a neighbor or crack a joke to one of the kids. Your hair is pinned back with delicate precision, curls tucked into place.

You’re polished. Poised. Perfect.

And you’re distracted as hell.

James Barnes hasn’t been back to Sunday service since. Not that you’ve kept track. Not that you’ve stared too long at the back seats, wondering if it was him that made the air feel different. Not that your heart doesn’t stutter every time the church doors creak open.

You haven’t seen him.

Until now.

You don’t sense him before you see him. There’s no shift in the air, no chill across your neck like in some storybook.

He’s just suddenly there.

Across the table. Holding a tray in his hands.

His jacket is gone—no black barrier between his body and the room. Just a plain gray shirt, sleeves pushed up. His forearms are bare to the elbow, veins visible like topography on a map you don’t dare read too closely. His hair is a little damp at the ends, curled near the nape like he just ran his fingers through it out of habit. He doesn’t smile too much. Doesn’t speak, only when asked.

Your fingers tighten around the ladle.

“Chicken noodle or vegetable?” you ask, voice softer than it should be.

His eyes hold yours a moment longer, like he’s letting the sound of your voice settle in him before answering.

“Whatever you think’s best,” he says, and the gravel in his tone ripples through you like someone dragging their thumb along your spine.

You shouldn’t react. You shouldn’t feel it.

You dip the ladle into the chicken noodle slowly, trying to look as unaffected as you pretend to be. As you pass the bowl across, his fingers meet yours—just for a second—but it’s enough. The touch sends a jolt up your arm.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, holding your gaze a second too long before moving on, his tray held steady. You exhale only once he’s past you.

He walks to the edge of the room, settling at a small table in the corner, where the noise can’t reach him fully. You watch him eat slow, methodical. He doesn’t glance around. But he’s present in a way that’s almost unnerving—aware of everything, even if he doesn’t react to it.

He looks at families like they’re echoes of something he’s lost. Like he’s not sure if he misses it, or if he just envies the simplicity of belonging.

“Earth to you,” Natasha murmurs, appearing at your elbow with a plastic cup of lemonade and a sly smile.

You blink, pulled back into your skin. “What?”

She grins wider. “You were staring.”

“I wasn’t.” But your voice isn’t convincing. Your cheeks are already warm.

“Oh, please.” She sips her drink, gaze flicking over to Bucky. “That man eats soup like he’s brooding on a mountain somewhere.”

“He’s not brooding,” you mutter, though you’re not sure why you feel the need to defend him. You look back toward him and catch the moment he rises quietly to help Mr. Hargrove adjust his chair. He’s gentle. Careful. He doesn’t rush the older man or flinch when thanked. His movements are restrained, but there’s a softness in the way he places a hand on Mr. Hargrove’s shoulder that twists something in your chest.

“Heard he’s been going to the grief group,” Natasha says, quieter now. “Doesn’t talk much, but he listens. Really listens.”

You swallow.

Of course he does.

—

The church’s annual rummage sale spills across the lawn like a quilt, blankets unfurled, tables groaning under crockpots and glass trinkets, old ladies manning booths with sun hats and clipboards. The air smells like cinnamon bread, mothballs, and last year’s perfume. Laughter rises from the youth tent, mingling with the sharp rustle of donation bags and the distant notes of someone strumming a guitar.

You’re tucked beneath a white canopy, surrounded by cardboard boxes of clothes, carefully folding sweaters and arranging them into neat piles by size and color. Your dress is a pale blue today—modest neckline, flutter sleeves, cinched at the waist. It brushes your knees when you crouch to dig through a box of scarves, the cotton soft and worn from too many washes.

You’re trying to focus. Really.

But your eyes keep drifting.

You’re folding a forest green cardigan when voices filter through from the other side of the rack, low, familiar, and just loud enough to pause your breath.

“Come on, Buck, it’s not that bad,” says someone with a warm, amused voice.

Bucky.

“Steve,” comes his gravelled reply, filled with dry disdain. “I look like an idiot.”

Another voice, deeper, playful: “Man could wear a trash bag and make it work. Even ugly Christmas sweaters.”

You freeze, clutching the cardigan a little too tightly, peeking between the racks like a guilty thought.

Bucky stands beside two other men, one tall, blond, with kind eyes and a faded plaid shirt, clearly the peacemaker. The other, handsome and grinning, carries the energy of someone who always gets the last word.

And James...

He’s holding up the most hideous red sweater you’ve ever seen. Rudolph stitched with googly eyes and a pom-pom nose. His brow is furrowed, jaw set, expression hovering between horrified and resigned.

But his eyes, when they land on his friends—are softer than you’ve ever seen them. Like for a brief moment, the weight he carries lets up, just slightly. Just enough to let something tender slip through.

“It’s for Christmas,” the blond says, Steve, you guess, trying to sound reasonable.

“It’s October,” Bucky mutters.

“Early prep,” the other man adds, grinning. “Ugly sweaters are a chick magnet. Right, Steve?”

“Sam—” Steve starts, face flushed, and Sam just cackles.

You duck back behind the rack, heart suddenly racing.

You don’t know why seeing him like that, a little relaxed, surrounded by people who know him unsettles you.

Maybe because it makes him human. Not just this dark-eyed soldier who lingers like storm clouds in the corners of sanctuaries. Maybe because it cracks the outline of the mystery you’ve built around him. Maybe because you liked it.

You’re folding a scarf, willing your pulse to settle, when...

“Need help with those?”

His voice slides into your bones.

You spin, scarf forgotten, to find him standing behind you, closer than he should be.

The ugly sweater is draped over one forearm, but it’s his eyes you notice first. Clear, steady, gray as winter and just as cold until they settle on you

Your throat tightens.

“I’m good,” you say quickly, too quickly. You step back instinctively, bumping against a box, the cotton of your dress catching on cardboard. “Just sorting for my uncle.”

He nods once. Doesn’t leave.

Instead, his gaze drifts to the rack beside you.

“Looking for anything specific?” he asks, voice low enough to keep between you.

“My aunt needs cardigans,” you reply before thinking. “Medium. Maybe large. She likes them loose.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him. It’s stupid. Pointless.

But he nods, like it matters.

Then he starts looking.

No hesitation. No small talk. Just quiet, focused movement as he shifts hangers aside, fingers brushing knit sleeves and lace trim, eyes scanning the rows. His brow furrows in concentration, the same way it did back in the chapel—like he sees the world in sharp lines and weight.

You steal glances.

His scar looks more pronounced in the sunlight. His hair is messier today, wind-tossed, one dark lock falling across his forehead. His shirt clings to his back when he bends to reach a lower hanger. You shouldn’t be looking. You know that. But your gaze keeps betraying you.

Within minutes, he pulls three cardigans from the rack: dusty rose, seafoam green, and cream. All soft, a little worn, and exactly the kind your aunt hoards in her closet like armor.

“These work?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You blink, surprised. “Yeah. Perfect.”

He holds them out. You reach to take them, and your fingers brush.

You don’t pull away immediately.

Neither does he.

When you finally glance up, his eyes are already on yours. And for one breathless, endless second, you’re not in a rummage tent surrounded by old clothes and casserole pans. You’re in some private, weightless space where nothing exists but the hum beneath your skin and the way he’s looking at you.

You open your mouth, unsure what you’re even going to say, when—

“Buck! You buying that sweater or what?” Sam’s voice slices through the air, easy and loud.

The spell breaks.

Bucky’s jaw tenses. The softness fades like a curtain drawn shut.

“I should go,” he says, stepping back.

You nod, throat dry. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime.”

And then he’s gone, the red reindeer sweater swinging limply from one hand as he walks back toward his friends, their laughter rising around him like smoke.

You hold the cardigans to your chest, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to stare. Trying not to feel the ghost of his fingers still lingering on yours. But when you glance up, just once, you catch the faintest twitch of his lips at something Sam says.

And your chest flutters—small and secret and completely, helplessly real.

—

Today's prayer service ends with the slow murmur of Amen echoing through the chapel. Candles flicker across the altar like dying stars. The scent of wax lingers thick in the air, threaded with incense and old wood. Outside, the sky has opened up and rain falls in relentless sheets, hammering the roof and streaking the stained-glass windows with watercolors. Most of the congregation has already fled, their laughter and boots fading across the slick stone path. The sanctuary empties quickly.

All except for you.

And him.

You’re still gathering candles in the soft hush, moving between pews with practiced care. The hem of your green dress skims your legs with every step, fitted enough to cling when you bend, the fabric catching on the curve of your hips. Your lips are red tonight. A sinful shade, bold against the candlelight. Your hair’s loose, damp near the temples from the mist that snuck in earlier, curling slightly around your shoulders. You hadn't intended to stay this long, but you always do. You like the quiet after services. Like to feel the hush settle into your bones.

But tonight, it’s not just yours.

You hear him before you see him.

He’s at the front now, by the altar, stacking hymnals with the kind of care that suggests reverence, not obligation. Rainlight casts him in fractured hues hrough the stained glass. His shirt, gray, damp at the collar, clings to his chest and shoulders. His hair’s slightly mussed from the rain, one curl clinging to his temple, and there’s a shadow along his jaw.

He hasn’t looked at you yet.

But he doesn’t have to.

His presence coils through the chapel like smoke.

"Rain’s keeping everyone out," you say, trying for lightness. Your voice breaks the quiet, but not the tension.

He looks up, finally.

“Good thing,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, quiet enough that it feels like it’s for you alone. “Gives us time to clean up.”

He sets another hymnal down, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath his skin. You catch a whiff of cedar, leather, rain, and maybe war. It fills your lungs and lodges somewhere between your ribs.

You don’t ask for help.

But he joins you anyway, stepping into the aisle beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He doesn’t speak.

And you don’t either.

But the silence between you? It's alive.

The two of you work side by side, collecting stray candles and crumpled programs, and though your fingers never quite touch, they move in rhythm, close enough to feel, never enough to satisfy. You’re too aware of him. Of the heat he carries, the way his movements are quiet but commanding.

He nods toward your dress as you reach to place another candle. “Careful with your dress,” he says, voice steady but low. “Wax’ll ruin it.”

You glance down, then back at him. “This old thing?” you say with a faint smile, brushing the fabric. “You sound like my aunt.”

He lets out a quiet huff—amusement, and his eyes flick over you once more. “Doesn’t look old,” he says simply, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes your spine straighten.

You don’t look at him.

But you feel his gaze like the weight of prayer.

Another candle slips as you move—a clatter against wood that echoes too loud in the stillness. You both reach for it at once, and for the first time, you touch.

His fingers meet yours. Warm, firm. You both pause. You could move. You should move.

But you don’t.

Not right away.

You clear your throat, cheeks warm. “Clumsy,” you mutter, standing again, smoothing your dress more out of nerves than necessity.

“Happens,” he replies, placing the candle down carefully, like it deserves respect.

You watch him for a moment. The way he moves. The quiet precision. There’s no arrogance to him. Just control. And control is its own kind of seduction. You turn, gathering the last of the candleholders, but his voice draws you back.

“Been comin’ here a while,” he says. It’s not a question. Just a thread he’s decided to pull. “Used to feel different. Quieter. Now...” His eyes flick to yours. “Better with more of you around.”

Your lips part. The breath you draw feels too full. “Really, James?.”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to crowd your space with his warmth. He sets a hymnal on the pew beside you, then lingers—close enough you can see the faint crease in his brow, the flecks of something almost blue in the gray of his eyes.

“Bucky,” he says, low and certain. “Not James. Not with you.”

It knocks something loose in your chest.

You nod, almost breathless. “Bucky,” you echo, trying the name on your tongue. It tastes like honey and warning.

His eyes darken, not in danger, but in depth.

His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles gently at your waist. The contact is featherlight. Careful. But the intention behind it is anything but innocent. His thumb brushes, just once, over the side of your dress. Not suggestive. Not aggressive. Just there.

And your body hums in response.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, reverent, sinful. His voice is the kind that belongs in confession. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

You feel the words like a hand at your throat. Not choking. Just claiming. And you don’t pretend to misunderstand.

“Show me,” you whisper.

He leans in, barely touching his lips to yours. It’s not a kiss. Not yet.

But your hands rise, uncertain but brave and settle over his chest. He’s warm beneath the fabric, solid, alive.

Then he kisses you.

Gentle.

Sacrilegious.

His lips brush yours with reverence, not hunger, and your mouth parts without a second thought. It’s not urgent. Your fingers curl against him. His hand finds your lower back, anchoring you, holding without taking. He tastes like rain and smoke, like silence, like ache.

He pulls back first.

Breathing ragged.

Forehead to yours.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re somethin’ else.”

So is this.

So are you.

You smile, slow and knowing, fingers lifting to trace the sharp line of his jaw. The scar beneath your touch is rough, an uneven line carved by something cruel but here, beneath your fingertips, it feels sacred. Claimed. “Gentleman, huh?” you murmur, teasing, your voice a hush in the chapel’s hush.

He chuckles, deep and quiet, the sound vibrating against your palm. His hand settles at your hip, broad and warm, thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress like he’s checking for fragility. “For you,” he says, voice low and thick, reverent as a vow.

Then he kisses you again. Slower now. Deeper. His tongue parts your lips with careful grace. He tastes like rain, like patience, like restraint stretched too thin. Your breath catches, your pulse thrums, and your thighs press together under the growing heat—soft and aching where you want him most.

But it’s not just lust. It’s the way he holds back, like you deserve more than hurried touches and breathless abandon.

“Wanna do this right,” he breathes against your mouth, his hand sliding down to your lower back, guiding you gently, reverently, to the back pew. The wood creaks as you lower, the old bench cool against your thighs. He kneels between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times, but never like this. Never for this. His frame is massive, towering, but lowered before you now, his eyes locked to yours, asking.

You nod—small, sure.

His fingers slide up your legs with aching patience. Your dress bunches at your hips, and for a long moment, he just looks at you—=, at your trembling thighs, your flushed face, your breath shallow. And then he moves, so slowly it feels like a confession.

You whimper, soft, unsure if it’s from the need or the way he’s looking at you—like he’s memorizing you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

“Touch me, Bucky,” you whisper, barely a sound, barely a breath.

And he does.

His fingers trace higher, finding the hem of your dress, and he pauses again, eyes searching yours. “This okay?” he murmurs, voice rough but soft, like he’s afraid to break you. His care makes your breath hitch, a spark flaring low in your belly, but it’s his gentleness that holds you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he groans, soft, his hand inching your dress up, slow, revealing the soft skin above your stockings. His fingers graze lace, feeling the first hint of your slick through your panties, and he exhales, shaky, like he’s been holding it in.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice awed, gentle, “this pussy’s already wet for me, ain’t it?”

You blush, biting your lip, not desperate, just curious, wanting. “Maybe,” you tease, voice soft, and he chuckles, low, wicked, his finger brushing your clit through the lace, light, teasing, making you gasp.

"God."

He leans in, his breath hot against your neck. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, darlin’,” he whispers, teasing, lips brushing your skin. “Not when you’re this wet and sweet under me.”

You laugh, soft, clenching your thighs, earning a low moan from him. “You’re trouble,” you whisper, fingers grazing his neck, wanting to mark him. His free hand cradles your back, keeping you close.

“Love this,” he growls, lips brushing your ear, teeth grazing, soft, his finger still teasing through lace, not pushing, just stoking the fire. “Gonna make you feel so good, doll.” He pauses, eyes meeting yours, checking again, and you nod, leaning into him, wanting more, but patient, letting him lead.

A sudden gust rattles the chapel windows, rain pounding harder, and you both freeze, glancing toward the sound. The moment breaks, tension easing, and you laugh, nervous, the spell softening but not gone. “Storm’s loud,” you murmur, smoothing your dress, and he nods, hand resting on your knee, steady, grounding.

“Keeps us here,” he says, voice low, eyes glinting. “More time.” He leans in again, lips brushing your forehead, a gesture so tender it makes your heart stutter. “You sure ‘bout this, darlin’? We can stop.” His voice is gentle, respectful, and it pulls you closer, wanting him more.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice raw, and he groans, his hand sliding back up, peeling your panties down, slow, careful, lace slipping over your thighs.

“Fuck, this pussy,” he murmurs, voice awed, finger brushing your bare clit now, making you whine, hips twitching. The wet sounds are soft, obscene in the chapel’s hush, and the rain’s roar makes it feel like a secret, sacred and sinful.

“More,” you plead, soft, and he obliges, dipping a finger inside, stretching, curling slow, hitting your spot. Your pussy grips him, cream coating his finger, and you moan, quiet, head tipping back, the intimacy overwhelming. “Bucky, fuck,” you gasp, and he covers your mouth, gentle, muffling, his lips brushing your ear.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, amused, naughty, breath hot. “Don’t want the angels listenin’.” His finger thrusts deeper, thumb circling your clit, slow, building you up, and you’re trembling, pussy dripping, the risk spiking your pulse, his cock hard, pressing against your thigh, patient but huge.

“Feel so good,” you murmur, muffled, and he kisses your neck, soft, lingering, his free hand sliding up your back, holding you like you’re precious. “Want you closer,” you whisper, fingers tugging his shirt, pulling him in, and he groans, low, shifting, his massive frame pressing against you, shielding you.

And then it deepens everything. The intimacy, the tension, the sheer care of it. His fingers trace slow, deliberate circles, his eyes never leaving yours. The chapel holds its breath, the candles flicker like they're witnessing something unholy.

Or maybe divine.

“Gonna give you everything,” he murmurs, adding another finger, fucking you slow, deliberate, wet sounds louder now, your pussy clenching. Your eyes roll, thighs shaking, and he watches. “Fuck, look at you,” he whispers, voice thick, “takin’ my fingers so sweet.”

You chuckle, shaky, clenching again, earning a moan. “Tease,” you whisper, biting your lip, and he smirks.

“Cum for me, darlin’,” he murmurs, fingers curling, thumb relentless, and you shatter, pussy spasming, cream coating his finger, a muffled scream against his hand. He holds you, lips on your neck, soft, whispering, “That’s it, baby, fuck, so perfect.”

“I need you, Bucky,” you whispered, voice raw and dripping with want, your gaze locked on his steel-blue eyes, darkened with lust.

He exhaled a low, guttural sound, his hands finding your hips, pulling you flush against him. Through the rough denim of his jeans, you felt the hard, throbbing outline of his cock, thick and insistent, sending a pulse of heat straight to your core. Your fingers fumbled with his belt, brushing against him, and he hissed, head dipping to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck. “Baby,” he murmured, “you’re gonna kill me.”

With a swift motion, he freed himself, his cock springing free, veined and heavy, the tip glistening with precum. You swallowed hard, your mouth watering at the sight of him, so potent, so ready. His hand guided himself to your slick folds, rubbing slow, deliberate circles against your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what was to come. Your breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you pressed yourself closer, your thighs quivering. “Please, Bucky,” you begged, voice a sultry plea, your legs hooking around his waist, urging him nearer.

He growled low, his hand cupping your ass, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of the old wooden pew, the creak of the wood echoing in the sacred space. “Gonna love this pussy,” he rasped, his eyes burning into yours, holding you captive as he positioned himself at your entrance.

The first push was exquisite agony. His cock breached you slowly, the thick head stretching your tight walls, parting you with a delicious burn that made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like he was carving a space inside you, claiming you inch by inch, the sensation overwhelming—full, hot, and unrelenting.

He’s watching you come apart, his lips parted, reverence in every movement. His fingers never rush, never push too far. He keeps you right at the edge, not to tease, but to honor the feeling. His hand curls around the back of your neck, grounding you, and your head falls forward, resting against his.

Your pussy fluttered around him, gripping him instinctively, and you moaned, head falling back as the pleasure-pain of his size consumed you. “God, Bucky,” you whimpered, “you’re so fucking big.”

“Shit, so tight,” he groaned, his voice strained, his vibranium hand steadying your hip as he eased deeper, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was intense, but the intimacy of his restraint made it sacred, a slow, deliberate act of worship. When he bottomed out, filling you completely, your walls pulsed around him, and you both stilled.

He began to move, slow and deep, each thrust a promise, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, igniting sparks that curled through your spine. The wet, filthy sounds of your bodies filled the air, and you clung to him, your fingers raking down his back.

“Fuck, feel that,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, “your pussy’s grippin’ me so good.”

“Harder,” you whined, craving more, and Bucky obliged, his thrusts deepening, the pew creaking louder under the force. “Yes, fuck, yes!” you cried, your pussy creaming around him, the slickness easing his glide, making every thrust smoother.

He shifted you then, guiding you to turn, your palms bracing against the back of the pew as he positioned you on your knees, your dress hiked up around your waist. The new angle made you gasp as he re-entered you, his cock hitting deeper, stroking a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. “Goddamn, look at you,” he growled, his hand smacking your ass lightly, the sting blooming into warmth that made you yelp, then grin. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

You arched your back, pushing back against him, meeting each stroke with a desperate need. “Cream on my cock,” he urged, his voice a dark caress, and the combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless drive of his cock sent you spiraling.

"That's it, that's my pretty girl, Oh— God."

Your orgasm crashed over you, your pussy pulsing, clenching around him as you screamed into the crook of your arm, cream dripping down your thighs.

He wasn’t done. With a gentle tug, he pulled you upright, your back against his chest, his lips finding your neck as he guided you to straddle him, facing him now. You sank onto his cock, the new position intimate, your faces inches apart. His eyes locked on yours, and the connection was electric, his hands guiding your hips as you rode him, slow and deliberate. “Fuck, darlin’,” he panted, his flesh hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “You’re really somethin’ else.”

The pace built again, your thighs burning as you chased another peak. When you came again, it was softer but no less intense, your body trembling as you clung to him, his name a prayer on your lips.

His groan was raw, almost feral, as his body tensed beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fuck, baby, this pussy’s gonna make me lose it,” he growled, his voice rough and urgent, thick with lust. “So fuckin’ tight, squeezin’ my cock like you were made for it.” His hips stuttered, thrusting up into you with a desperate edge, and you felt the first hot pulse of his cum spilling deep inside you. “Shit, I’m cummin’ so hard for you,” he rasped, his words dripping with filthy reverence. “Gonna fill this sweet pussy up, make you drip with me, baby—fuck.”

Each pulse of his release was a searing claim, his cock throbbing as he poured himself into you, the heat and fullness overwhelming, slick and messy as it leaked down your thighs and onto his lap.

His thumb strokes slow across your cheek, and the air between you is heavy with unsaid things, with want, with restraint. His other hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers, as he leans closer, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, like he’s tracing a rosary made of skin.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, and the words are hoarse, unraveling. “Pretty thing. Touchin’ heaven sittin’ on this pew.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, your bodies entwined, the rain a soft murmur outside, the air thick with the scent of sex and intimacy. Your fingers carded through his damp hair, tracing the strands that clung to his forehead, and he sighed, leaning into your touch like a man starved for it.

The storm rages outside.

And inside, he worships.

Not God.

You.

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rulerofstars · 2 months ago

Text

the general’s daughter

oneshot: trapped in a suffocating arranged marriage to sergeant bucky barnes, you endure his quiet distance and nonchalance, convinced his heart belongs to someone else. but when a devastating injury forces him home, your silent care begins to chip away at his walls—and your own resolve.

pairing: modern! sergeant! bucky barnes x reader

tags: 4.4k words. fluff. angst with a happy ending… kinda. modern!au. fixed marriage. miscommunication. inspired by the blower’s daughter / damien rice.

You've always known your life wasn't entirely your own. Being the daughter of a general meant expectations, obligations, and a future carved out long before you could spell the word choice. But when your father sat you down three years ago and told you about the arranged marriage to Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, you didn't fight it. Not because you agreed, but because you were tired of arguing, tired of being the perfect daughter, tired of hoping for something more.

James, Bucky, as his friends call him—was a stranger then, and he's barely more than that now. The son of a disgraced colonel, he was offered a deal: marry you, secure your father's influence to restore his family's name, and gain a promotion that would pull him out of the enlisted ranks. In return, your father got an alliance with a family desperate enough to owe him loyalty. It was a transaction, cold and calculated, and you were the currency.

You met Bucky once before the wedding, at a formal dinner your father hosted. He was polite, quiet, his steel-blue eyes meeting yours only briefly before sliding away. He wore his dress uniform and answered your father's questions with clipped precision. You tried to make conversation, asking about his favorite book, his hometown, anything to see past the wall he'd built. He gave you one-word answers and a tight nod, his jaw clenching like he was biting back something he couldn't say.

The wedding was small, efficient, held in a chapel on base. You wore a simple white dress, your mother's pearls, and a smile you'd practiced in the mirror. Bucky stood ramrod straight, his vows delivered in a voice so flat it could've been a mission report. When he kissed you, it was quick, perfunctory, his lips barely brushing yours. You told yourself it was nerves, that he'd warm up, that you could make this work.

You were wrong.

The first year was a masterclass in loneliness. You moved into a modest house off-base, paid for by your father's money, and threw yourself into being a wife. You learned Bucky's routines: up at 5 a.m., home late, dinner reheated in the microwave. You kept the house spotless, ironed his uniforms, sent care packages during his deployments with notes you spent hours writing: Stay safe, I’ll see you soon. You attended family days at the base, standing awkwardly beside wives who knew each other.

He was not cruel. That was the worst part. If he'd been a jerk, you could've hated him, could've justified the ache in your chest. But Bucky was just... absent. Polite when he was home, thanking you for dinner in that same flat tone, but never lingering. He would sit on the couch with a beer, staring at the TV like it held the secrets to the universe, while you sat at the kitchen table, pretending to read. His phone would buzz, and he'd step outside to answer, his voice too low for you to hear. You didn't ask who it was. You were afraid of the answer.

Nat, Steve's wife, was the first to hint at it. She'd become your friend, dragging you to coffee or yoga when Bucky was away. One day, over lattes, she hesitated, then said, "He's... complicated, (Y/N). I've seen him at the bar near base a few times. With a woman. I don't know if it's anything, but... you should know."

You nodded, your throat tight, and changed the subject. But the seed was planted. Wanda, who worked in the base's admin office, mentioned it too, casually, like it was common knowledge, "Bucky's always at that dive bar when he's on leave. With some blonde woman."

And you do not know if it was just the imagination fueled by the stories you hear, but you started noticing things—lipstick on a glass he'd left in the sink, a faint floral scent on his jacket that wasn't yours. You never confronted him. What was the point? He'd married you for a deal, not love.

You were just collateral.

By the second year, you stopped trying to win him over. You still cooked, still cleaned, still sent the packages, but it was rote, a performance for the audience that never existed. You poured yourself into other things: volunteering at the local animal shelter, where the dogs didn't care who your father was; book club with Nat and Wanda, where you could lose yourself in stories that ended better than yours. You smiled at family days, but you stopped seeking Bucky out, stopped hoping he'd notice you.

But what made it harder was the knowledge that he was trying, in his own quiet, crooked way.

Not with words. Never with words.

But you started to notice things. The way the dishes were done before you got home, though you hadn't asked. A blanket folded at the end of the couch when you were working late nights, a mug of tea left steaming beside your laptop. Once, when the kitchen sink started leaking, you came downstairs to find him knee-deep in the mess, shirt rolled up, trying to fix it himself. He didn't even tell you, just muttered about needing new washers and brushed past you without waiting for thanks.

You'd mention something in passing, how the porch light flickered, or that you missed your favorite kind of cereal—and a few days later, the problem would quietly solve itself. No fanfare. No "I did this for you." Just... presence, like he didn't know how to say what he meant but needed to show it somehow.

He sat beside you more often now. Not close enough to touch, but near. Like proximity was the limit of what he could give. Like he wanted to be near your warmth without knowing how to step into it.

But he never asked you why your eyes were red after a call with your mother. He never reached for your hand in the dark. He never said your name like it mattered.

And again, he wasn't cruel. Never that.

He just stayed on his side of the invisible line. Always.

You told yourself it was enough. That effort, even unspoken, even clumsy, was something. Maybe this was just how he loved. But most nights, you lay in bed with your back to his, and all you could feel was the miles between you.

You told yourself you were fine.

You weren't.

—

The injury happened, one autumn during your second year of marriage. A training accident, faulty equipment, a misstep, shrapnel tearing through Bucky's left arm, giving him the metal prosthetic. It's not life-threatening, but it's bad. Nerve damage, torn muscle, months of recovery. He's sent home, grounded, no deployments until he's cleared.

He's a ghost in his own house, haunting the living room with a scowl and a sling. He's restless, snapping at small things—the remote's out of reach, the coffee's too cold, why is the thermostat so high? You don't take it personally. You know it's the pain, the fear of losing his edge, the weight of being useless in a life defined by duty.

But it hurts.

It hurts in the quiet moments. When you bring him his meds and he doesn't look up. When he winces as you help him change, like your touch is another burden. When you sit across from him at dinner and he can't meet your eyes, as if even that much might make it real: that you're here, and he's falling apart.

But you stay.

You drive him to physical therapy appointments that leave him shaking with rage. You wait in the hallway with magazines you don't read, staring at the same page until your vision blurs. You cook meals he doesn't ask for. You change his bandages like you're dressing a wound on your own body. You try not to flinch when he does.

He doesn't say thank you. Not at first. Just grunts, shrugs, nods that barely register. And yet... things start to shift in the quiet.

He stops pacing when you're near. Sits longer at the table, even after his plate is empty. Watches you from the corner of the room like he's trying to remember something. One night, when you're rewrapping the gauze around his arm, his fingers graze yours. It's the lightest touch. He doesn't pull away.

But he doesn't lean in, either.

Then one evening, weeks in, you're standing at the counter chopping carrots for soup, when his voice breaks through the low hum of the radio.

"Why do you do this?"

You freeze. Knife mid-air. "Do what?"

"This." He gestures vaguely. The kitchen. The food. The gauze and the clean laundry and the appointments marked on the calendar. His arm rests on a pillow, sling abandoned for the night, his expression drawn tight. "All of it. You don't have to."

"You're hurt," you say simply. Because it's the easiest truth to give.

"You don't... you don't owe me this. You never did."

You feel it land in your chest. That low, dull ache. The one that never really goes away.

The thing is, you've told yourself the same thing, a hundred times. You don't owe him this. You never did. And yet here you are, night after night, "loving" him in ways that don't even look like love anymore. Just maintenance. Just endurance.

"I'm your wife," you say, barely louder than a breath. It sounds strange now, worn out, like a word you've been carrying too long without using.

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Then shakes his head, barely. "Not really."

It's not said with anger. Not with venom. Just... resignation. And somehow, that makes it worse. It's not meant to hurt. But it does. God, it does. Because he's not wrong. You're not really a wife. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way that's felt.

You stand there for a beat, silence pressing against your chest like a fist. The ache of a marriage lived in pieces. A love that outlived its shape.

You turn back to the cutting board, blinking fast.

"Soup'll be ready in ten," you whisper.

—

The months drag on, and Bucky's arm heals slowly. He's still home, still grounded, but he's different now. He's not the same man who came back bruised and wordless. He moves softer, like he's afraid of waking something.

He starts fixing things, not just the leaky faucet you once complained about, but other things too. A crooked drawer. A jammed door. A broken chair leg that's been wobbling for some time. He does it without a word, as if he's trying to apologize with actions instead of sentences. He loads the dishwasher, folds laundry without asking which pile is yours. And then there's dinner. He sits across from you like he used to, but his gaze doesn't burn—it lingers. He asks about your day, about the shelter dogs, about the book you leave open on the coffee table. He listens.

And it's unbearable.

Because his voice is gentler now, like he's relearning tenderness. And when he smiles, tentative, almost shy. It's the kind that makes you feel seen. And you hate how easily it slips beneath your skin. How your guard falters with each passing evening. How part of you wants to believe in this version of him, in this life he's trying to build out of the rubble.

But you can't.

Not again.

—

The weather is unusually kind, sky pale, and air light with the first sigh of spring. You say something offhand about needing to get out of the house. He nods. And somehow, a blanket is packed, sandwiches are made, and you're driving to the park like it's something you've always done.

You sit beneath a tree, a little away from the others, just close enough to hear the laughter of children playing nearby. The sun filters through the leaves, dappled gold on his shoulder. You eat quietly. He leans back, hands behind his head, eyes half-lidded like he's trying to memorize the way the breeze feels.

"I used to think I'd be a dad," he says, not looking at you.

The sentence hits you sideways. Not hard. Just... unexpected. Like a memory you forgot was yours too.

"Yeah?"

"Back before," he shrugs, gesturing vaguely, to the war, the wounds, the life that took root in ashes. "Before everything got loud."

Not long after, a kid, maybe five, six at most—wanders a little too far from their parents, a juice box clutched in one hand, a plastic dinosaur in the other. He stumbles near your blanket and looks up, blinking at Bucky with the quiet boldness of someone too young to understand fear.

Bucky gives a small smile, tentative but warm. "Hey, little man."

The kid just stares. Then holds out the dinosaur wordlessly.

Bucky glances at you, confused, and you nod.

He reaches out slowly and accepts it.

The kid beams, then turns and runs back to his mother, giggling.

Bucky stares at the dinosaur in his hand like it's something ancient and precious.

You don't say anything. But he turns to you. The warmth between you isn't loud. It doesn't demand. It just exists. And for the first time in months, maybe longer, you both let it.

—

But you spent three years loving a man who wouldn't let himself be loved—three years waiting for words that never came, watching him vanish behind his silences. You built your walls out of the quiet he left behind, bricked them with disappointment and varnished them with restraint. You've done too much work to let him unravel you now.

So you keep your distance. You learn how to speak in half-smiles, to answer his questions without letting him in. Even when Natasha raises an eyebrow at the way he looks at you. Even when Wanda laughs behind her mug and says...

"He only loads the dishwasher when you're in the room."

Even when Steve and Sam swing by, their voices full of old warmth and new hope, clapping Bucky on the back like he's returned from some personal war. You see their glances, those knowing flickers toward you, like they're already rewriting the story you're still afraid to start.

You feel your heart thudding against its cage, restless. Hopeful. Terrified.

Because he's not just changing.

He's making it harder not to believe he means it this time.

—

Your third anniversary arrives like a storm you've been bracing for, every detail of the evening planned with the precision of a final act. Not for love, not for celebration, but for an ending. The "warranty" is fulfilled. Bucky's promotion is secured, his family's debts wiped clean, your father's influence no longer binding him to you. The deal that forged this hollow marriage is done, and you're both free.

The divorce papers, stark and final, have been hidden in your dresser for weeks, their presence a quiet ache in your heart. Tonight, over dinner, you'll give them to him as a gift—his freedom, wrapped in an envelope, the last thing you can offer a man who probably never wanted you.

You spend the day crafting his favorite meal with trembling hands. It's not about romance, it's about dignity, a way to prove you gave this marriage everything before letting it go. You set the table with your mother's cherished china, plates used only once before, at the engagement dinner that sealed your fate. You pour two glasses of red wine, your movements deliberate despite the grief clawing at your chest, and sit, waiting, the napkin in your lap pressed smooth.

Bucky descends the stairs, his steps lighter than you expect, almost hesitant. He's in a button-up shirt, slightly wrinkled at the collar, his hair damp from the shower. His metal arm catches the candlelight as he pauses in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the table, then settling on you. A small, rare smile tugs at his lips, not wide, not warm, but genuine in its quiet way.

"Wow," he says, his voice soft, almost reverent as he takes his seat across from you. "This is... somethin' else."

"Happy third anniversary," you say, and your voice is almost too soft, worn down from days of rehearsing it into something neutral. You manage a small smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "Three years. I thought... I should give you something worth remembering."

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the table. "You didn't have to go all out," he says quietly, like the words are too big for the space they're in. Then, after a pause: "Thank you. For staying. For these three years."

The words land like an apology and a goodbye, all at once.

Dinner unfolds in a quiet torment, the candle's flame wavering between you, casting shadows that feel like ghosts of your years together. You fill the silence with safe topics. He responds, more engaged than usual, his voice carrying a warmth you haven't heard in months. He even chuckles once, a low, rough sound, when you mention a foster dog's habit of stealing socks. It's disarming, this glimpse of a Bucky who could have been, and it makes the envelope in your purse feel heavier, like a betrayal.

But you can't delay the inevitable.

"I have a gift for you," you say, standing to retrieve your purse from the counter. Your hands shake as you pull out the envelope, but you clench your jaw, forcing composure. This is your offering, the final act of a wife who tried and failed. "It's time."

Bucky's smile fades, his brow furrowing as you slide the envelope across the table. The word Divorce stares up at him in bold, unyielding ink. His jaw tightens, a muscle pulsing under the skin, and his eyes narrow, not with anger but with a raw, wounded shock that steals your breath. He doesn't touch the papers, just stares at them like they're a wound he didn't expect.

"What's this?" His voice is low, rough, trembling with something that sounds like fear.

"My gift," you say, sitting back down, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. You keep your voice steady, though it feels like you're shattering. "Three years, Bucky. Your promotion's secure, your family's debts are gone. My father's influence isn't holding you anymore. This is your freedom. You don't need me now."

He stares at the papers, his good hand curling into a fist, knuckles whitening against the tablecloth. "You think that's what this was about? The deal?"

"Wasn't it?" You meet his gaze, refusing to flinch, though your chest feels like it's caving in. "You never wanted this marriage. You never wanted me. I've seen it every day for three years. And it's okay—I'm not angry. I just want you to have what you truly want."

He shakes his head, a harsh, broken laugh escaping him, raw and jagged. "You think I want this? You think I want to be free?"

The pain in his voice is a blade, cutting through your defenses, and you see it—the anguish in his eyes, the way his shoulders slump like he's been carrying a weight you never noticed.

"I know there's someone else," you say, softer, the words bitter on your tongue. It's the only truth that's made sense, the only way you've survived the late nights, the private calls, the whispers from Nat and Wanda about a woman at the bar. "I've known for a long time. I don't blame you, Bucky. I just want you to be happy."

His head snaps up, his eyes blazing with a desperate intensity. "There's no one else, (Y/N). There's never been anyone else."

You blink, his words crashing into you, unraveling the story you've clung to for years. "But... the nights you didn't come home, the calls you took outside—"

"Work," he cuts in, his voice rough but unwavering. "Training that ran late. Calls with my CO, Carol Danvers, with Steve, with my mom about her medical bills. I don't know what you heard, what you thought, but there's no one else. There couldn't be."

Your mind spins, memories fracturing. The lipstick on a glass, the floral scent on his jacket—had you misread it all? Had Nat and Wanda's hints been nothing but your own fears reflected back? You've spent years believing he was unfaithful, because it was easier than facing the truth that he simply didn't love you.

"Then why?" Your voice breaks, a sob clawing its way out. "Why were you so cold? Why did you shut me out? I tried, Bucky. Believe me when I say that I gave you everything... and I am sorry if it didn't feel like it."

He looks away, his jaw clenching so hard it might shatter, his eyes glistening with tears. "I was wrong," he says, his voice low, trembling with regret. "I was wrong to hide how I felt, to keep you at arm's length. I thought... I thought I was protecting you. My life was a mess. Debts, my mom's health, this damn arm. I didn't want to drag you into it, didn't think I deserved to let you in. I thought you'd be happier if I stayed out of your way."

The confession is a gut punch, stealing your breath. All this time, you thought he was indifferent, but he was shielding you from his own brokenness, believing he was saving you by breaking your heart. The realization is a knife, twisting deeper with every word.

"But God help me, I fell so hard for you."

He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working like it physically hurts to speak. His eyes don't leave yours, shining and desperate in a way you've never seen.

"I don't want the divorce," he says, and his voice cracks halfway through the sentence, even though he fights to keep it steady. "I don't want to lose you. I never did."

He takes a breath, shoulders trembling as he tries to hold the rest in, but he can't. Not anymore.

"I want you," he whispers. "Not the house. Not the papers. You. I want the chance to finally, finally, get it right."

The silence between you swells.

Then his voice breaks, barely a sound, just the echo of something crumbling from the inside out.

"But if this... if me trying now is too late, if it just hurts. I'll go. I'll sign whatever you need me to. I'll make it clean."

His jaw tightens, and he looks down, blinking too fast, as if holding back years of words he never gave you.

"Just… say the word," he says, breath shallow now. "Say go, and I swear, I won't make it harder for you."

The question hangs like a guillotine, and your heart stops. You look at him, at the man you've loved through every silent, aching moment, and the thought of him leaving, of this house empty, of your life without him—rips you apart. But you've spent three years believing you were a burden, a duty he endured. You think of the freedom you're offering, the life he could have without the weight of this marriage, and you force the words out, each one a shard of glass.

"It's best," you whisper, barely audible, tears choking you. "For both of us."

His face crumples, a flash of devastation so raw it nearly breaks you. He nods, once, like a soldier accepting orders, and stands, his chair scraping against the floor. "Okay," he says, voice hollow. "I'll... I'll get my things."

You sit there, frozen, as he moves upstairs, the sound of drawers opening and closing echoing through the house. The candle gutters out, leaving you in darkness, and you clutch the tablecloth, tears falling silently. You tell yourself this is right, that you're setting him free, but the pain is unbearable.

He comes down with a duffel bag, his essentials packed, clothes, his old journal, a photo of your wedding day. He pauses at the door, looking back at you, his eyes red-rimmed. "I'll have Steve come back for the rest," he says, voice breaking. "I'm sorry. For everything."

And then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him, too soft for the way it cleaves the moment in two.

You hear the jeep's engine start, it was the sound of goodbye.

You just sit there, numb, your body too stunned by the silence. It isn't until the engine fades down the roadway that the grief begins to rise, slow at first, like a tide. And then all at once, it drowns you.

You stumble out to the porch, one hand gripping the railing like it might stop you from falling apart. But it doesn't. Your knees hit the wood. A sob rips through you, and then another, until you can't breathe past the ache.

He's gone. He's really gone. And everything you never said now echoes in the emptiness he left behind.

The jeep's taillights pause at the gate, and then they're moving backward, the engine growing louder. You look up, blurred through tears, as Bucky pulls back into the driveway and steps out, his face etched with panic and resolve. He crosses the lawn in long strides, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands hovering near your face, afraid to touch.

"I don't ever want to leave," he says, voice rough with tears, his eyes searching yours. "I have only ever loved you, and I was too damn scared to show it. Tell me to stay, baby. Please, tell me you want me to stay."

You sob harder, the weight of his words crashing into you, and you reach for him, your hands trembling as they grip his shirt. "I don't want you to leave," you choke out, voice raw. "I never wanted you to leave."

He pulls you into his arms, crushing you against his chest, his face buried in your hair. "I'm here," he murmurs, over and over, like a vow. "I'm here, and I'm never leaving again."

You cling to him, your sobs mingling with his, the porch cold beneath you but his embrace was warm. And above you, the night stretches on, quiet, endless, and full of stars you hadn't noticed before.

The skies watched as you rekindled the flame. Loving him was never easy. It will never be perfect. But this time... you're not reaching alone in the dark.

This time, his hand finds yours.

This time, he stays.

Not because he has to. Not because it's safe. But because he wants to, because he finally understands that love is about choosing.

And he chooses you.

Again and again and again.

#rulerofstars #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #marvel thunderbolts #thunderbolts #the new avengers #bucky x you #falcon and the winter soldier

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rulerofstars · 3 months ago

Text

off track, on you

oneshot: you’ve always known your dad’s best friend was into extreme sports—but not that extreme. not the kind that made your knees weak and your brain short-circuit the second you saw him ride.

pairing: dbf! rider! bucky barnes x reader

wc: 2.3k words. fluff.

you were bored out of your mind.

with your dad away on another extended work trip, you’d exhausted all your usual entertainment options. streaming services had nothing new, your friends were busy with their own lives, and scrolling through social media had lost its appeal hours ago.

that’s when you remembered your dad’s best friend, bucky barnes. your relationship with him had always been… complicated. he’d been in your life for years, always hovering somewhere between annoying guardian and endearing friend—and lately, those lines had started to blur in ways that made your heart race.

without overthinking it, you grabbed your phone and scrolled to his contact. your thumb hovered over his name for a second too long before you finally tapped it. the line started ringing, and you instantly regretted your decision.

he answered on the third ring, his voice low and a little amused like he’d half-expected you. “hey.”

there was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to be awkward. you swallowed. “what are you doing today?”

“not much. just heading out to meet some guys.”

your brows knit together. “guys?”

“bike guys,” he said, the way someone might casually say mailmen or golfers. “motocross stuff. nothing big.”

that made you sit up straighter. motocross? he never told you about that.

“you do motocross?” you asked, unable to hide the surprise in your voice.

“i dabble,” he said, as if the word dabble could ever apply to something that involved literal dirt tracks and flying motorcycles.

there was something smug in his tone, and it annoyed you. “i want to come.”

he went quiet for a beat, as though weighing the idea. “you sure?”

“yes,” you replied, maybe too fast. then, to cover it up, you added, “why? don’t want me there?”

“i didn’t say that.” you could practically hear the smirk through the phone. “alright, i’ll come pick you up.”

you hung up before you could overthink the way your pulse quickened at that.

fifteen minutes later, the low rumble of his car echoed outside your apartment, and you caught sight of him leaning against the door, looking unbothered in that infuriatingly effortless way of his. no honk. no knock. just a single text: outside.

you rolled your eyes and grabbed your jacket, muttering under your breath as you locked the door behind you. “so dramatic.”

the second you got into the passenger seat, you shot him a glare. “you could’ve told me to bring a jacket. or warned me if this was a dusty-freaking-arena situation.”

“you asked to come,” he said, not even bothering to hide his grin. “you don’t get to be mad now.”

“i’m not mad,” you muttered, crossing your arms as the engine roared to life. “i just have expectations.”

“uh huh.” he spared you a quick glance. “you’re frowning.”

“this is just my face.”

he laughed softly and shifted gears, the car pulling away from the curb. the drive was longer than you expected, back roads that coiled past empty fields, stretches of gravel, and rows of warehouses you hadn’t even known existed. you stayed quiet most of the way, trying not to look too eager every time he adjusted the rearview mirror or shifted in his seat. eventually, the landscape opened into a clearing of packed dirt, aluminum bleachers, fluttering red flags, and the low growl of engines filling the air.

you blinked. “this is… loud.”

bucky didn’t say anything, just parked the car and walked around to open your door. you stepped out before he could fully reach it, brushing past him with a frown that deepened the moment the dusty air hit your face.

he fell into step beside you, hand briefly grazing your lower back to guide you through the thickening crowd. it was subtle, but you felt it anyway. warm, grounding, annoying in the way it made your chest tighten just a little.

when you reached the metal stands, he left you alone for a few minutes, only to return balancing two drinks, a salted pretzel, and a tray of hot dogs like some casually gifted street magician.

“i didn’t ask for all this,” you said, looking down at the mess of food he shoved into your arms.

“i didn’t want you passing out mid-eye-roll,” he said, settling beside you. “consider it survival rations.”

you shot him another glare, but it didn’t land quite the way you intended. he was already backing away, pulling off his hoodie and slinging it over his shoulder. “enjoy the show, princess.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but he was gone—already jogging down toward the track area where a cluster of guys were lining up bikes and pulling on gear.

you didn’t expect much. honestly, you thought he’d just hang out, maybe talk to people and watch a few races. you figured it would be loud and dirty and maybe boring. what you didn’t expect was for bucky to slide on a helmet, kick up a leg, and mount a bike like he’d been born on one.

“what the hell,” you whispered, sitting up straighter in your seat.

it happened fast. one moment, the bikes were circling the track in practiced formation, weaving around mounds and ramps. the next, one of them peeled away from the group and launched off a jump, flipping through the air before landing in a blur of dirt and smoke. the crowd erupted in cheers.

your jaw dropped as the rider sped through the track, pulling trick after trick, every turn sharper, more impossible. you squinted through the dust, heart pounding, and that’s when you saw it—that unmistakable red stripe on the back of the shirt.

“no. way.”

it was bucky.

bucky, who never told you this was his thing. bucky, who just dabbled. bucky, who was currently flipping through the air like gravity owed him money.

you sat there, stunned, pretzel in one hand, drink forgotten in the other. every time he jumped, your stomach lurched. every time he landed, you barely breathed. and when he did a midair twist off the biggest ramp on the track, you felt actual rage bubbling in your throat.

he was grinning when he returned, helmet under his arm, sweat on his brow, hair sticking to the sides of his face. he looked too good for someone who just disrespected physics.

“well?” he asked, catching the look on your face.

you didn’t answer. just stared at him with wide eyes and a scowl that could peel paint.

“you didn’t like it?”

“you never said you’d be flying through the air,” you snapped. “you said motocross, not death wish. you also told me you just dabble!”

he blinked, then broke into a full grin. “you’re mad.”

“i’m not mad.”

“you’re frowning.”

“i’m always frowning.”

he dropped down beside you, thigh brushing yours. “it’s cute.”

you shot him a glare sharp enough to kill a man. “it’s reckless. and unnecessary. and you’re… you’re insane.”

bucky reached over, plucked a piece of your pretzel, and popped it into his mouth like he hadn’t just been scolded. “you should’ve seen your face.”

you wanted to smack the smirk off him, and maybe also kiss it, but mostly smack.

before you could snarl something else, he stood and held out a hand. “come meet my crew.”

you hesitated, then took it.

the group of guys waiting by the fence were all rough voices, sunburnt arms, and grease-stained jeans. they took one look at you and immediately turned to bucky with raised brows.

“this her?” one of them asked, looking you over with an amused grin.

“yup,” bucky said, pulling you slightly behind him.

“she looks pissed,” another said.

“i am not pissed,” you snapped.

they laughed.

“she’s cute when she’s mad,” someone said.

“she’s always mad,” bucky added, glancing at you. “that’s her thing.”

you glared at him. “it’s not my thing.”

he leaned in just a little closer. “it is now.”

you didn’t say goodbye to his friends. you didn’t even wait for bucky to follow. you turned on your heel with a dramatic scoff and stormed off toward the car like you were about to sue gravity itself.

dust kicked up around your boots with every step, sun hot on your skin, but nothing burned hotter than the fury curling in your chest. the kind that made your hands ball into fists and your mouth twist into something dangerously close to a pout. he could’ve told you. hell, he should have told you.

motorcycles. tricks. midair flips. like he was invincible.

you reached the car, yanked the passenger door open, and slumped into the seat with your arms crossed tight over your chest. you didn’t look at him. not when you heard his boots approaching. not when he opened the driver’s side door and leaned against it instead of getting in.

he let out a low chuckle. “so that’s how it’s gonna be?”

you didn’t answer. you stared straight ahead through the windshield, jaw set, like ignoring him might buy you back a shred of dignity.

the silence stretched. then you heard him move, footsteps crunching against the gravel, and the next second, the driver’s side door shut. he didn’t start the car. didn’t touch the wheel. instead, he turned to face you fully, elbow propped against the console, eyes fixed on your profile like he was trying to memorize it.

“c’mon,” he said softly, voice rough in that way that always made your stomach flutter whether you wanted it to or not. “talk to me.”

still, you didn’t move.

he leaned in a little closer. “what’s wrong, baby?”

your head whipped toward him, eyes sharp. “don’t call me that.”

his mouth twitched, but he didn’t back off. if anything, he got bolder, voice dipping lower, tone all velvet and coaxing.

“tell me what upset you,” he murmured, like he wasn’t trying to win a fight, he was trying to win you. “you looked so worried when i was out there. can’t get that look outta my head.”

you hated that your pulse betrayed you. you hated that his voice could get under your skin like that.

“i wasn’t worried,” you muttered, face turned away again. “i was annoyed.”

“oh?” he drew the word out, slow and smug. “annoyed by me flipping midair like a goddamn legend?”

you glared at him.

he raised both hands in mock surrender but kept smiling. “okay, okay. no jokes.”

you looked away, biting your cheek. “i didn’t know you did THAT kind of thing. that you… you’re just so damn reckless. you didn’t even warn me.”

a pause. then a quieter, more honest reply.

“you’re right. i should’ve told you.” he leaned in just a little closer, his knee brushing yours. “i didn’t think it’d matter. didn’t think i’d matter that much to you.”

your eyes met his then fully, finally. and it was infuriating how sincere he looked.

“of course it matters,” you said, voice breaking around the edges. “of course you matter.”

bucky went still, just for a second.

like your words landed somewhere deeper than either of you expected. his gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. and when he spoke, it was quieter than before, almost unsure, which was rare for him.

“you mean that?”

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you turned to face him fully, both knees tucked under you on the passenger seat now, hands folded in your lap so you wouldn’t do something stupid… like reach for his.

“i didn’t come here just to be entertained, bucky. i came because i… i like being around you. even when you’re an idiot on a motorcycle.”

he exhaled something like a laugh. soft. nervous.

“i didn’t know you felt that way.”

you rolled your eyes. “yeah, well, i didn’t either. not really. not until you started launching yourself into the sky like a dumbass.”

“and that’s what did it for you?” he teased. “the danger?”

“no,” you snapped, heat rising to your cheeks. “what did it for me was realizing how scared i was. how mad i was at the thought of you getting hurt. because it wouldn’t just be some guy wiping out on a track. it’d be you.”

a pause stretched long and heavy between you.

then his voice, low and steady.

“you were scared for me.”

“yes,” you muttered. “obviously.”

he reached over, hand curling lightly around your wrist. not pulling, not grabbing. just holding.

“‘m sorry, doll, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “i just—i wanted to show off a little, i guess.”

you squinted at him. “for me?”

he grinned sheepishly. “yeah. is that pathetic?”

you blinked. “a little.”

his grin widened. “thought so.”

you sat there in the hush of the cooling car, engines revving distantly outside, the soft buzz of wind against the windows. his fingers hadn’t left your wrist. and slowly, it turned into your hand. into your fingers slipping between his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he looked down at it. then at you.

“if i kissed you right now,” he said carefully, “would you punch me?”

“depends how good the kiss is,” you replied, brows raised.

he smirked. “so i’ve got one shot?”

“mm-hmm.”

and then he kissed you.

slow at first—like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. then deeper, more certain, like he’d been holding it in for years and didn’t plan to stop now. his hand slid behind your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. you made a quiet sound, one he swallowed up like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

when you finally pulled away, breathless and dazed, you were the first to speak.

“okay,” you whispered. “you get one more.”

he didn’t even wait a beat.

#thunderbolts #rulerofstars #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #dbf bucky #james bucky barnes #the avengers #avengers

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rulerofstars · 3 months ago

Text

little miss home-renter

long drabble: your frustration with your dad's best friend constantly showing up in your life takes an unexpected turn when you're forced to call him for help building your bed at midnight.

pairing: dbf! bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff, romcom, enemies to lovers... kinda, steve is literally daddy, 1.6k words.

you don't even get the chance to open the door before you hear them bickering, their voices carrying through the hallway like they own the damn building.

"back straight, steve," bucky's voice rings clear as a bell. "you're gonna pull something, old man."

"i'm carrying the lighter box," your dad retorts.

"yeah, because i let you," bucky shoots back, the smirk evident in his voice even through solid wood.

you sigh so hard you might've bruised a rib.

every. damn. time. you invite your dad over, bucky shows up too. like he's glued to your father's side, surgically attached or bound by an oath made in blood. it's like they've never outgrown their glory days, still thick as thieves, cracking jokes and throwing their backs out for fun. you get it, veteran loyalty, lifelong friendship, whatever. but sometimes, you just want your dad. not... bucky.

especially not when you're in sweatpants with a coffee stain on the knee and a ratty college shirt you've had since freshman year. and especially not when bucky looks like he walked off a mechanic calendar—tight black shirt stretching across his chest, jeans that hug in all the right places, that metal arm flexing under cardboard weight like he's deliberately putting on a show.

you pretend not to notice. you're getting good at that.

the door finally swings open, revealing your dad's beaming face and bucky's imposing figure right behind him, box balanced effortlessly on one shoulder like it weighs nothing. the sunlight catches on his metal arm, and you have to squint just to look at him.

"there she is!" your dad exclaims, placing his significantly smaller box down to wrap you in a bear hug. "my little homeowner."

"it's a rental, dad," you mumble into his shoulder, but you're smiling despite yourself.

over his shoulder, your eyes meet bucky's. he gives you that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes you want to either slap him or…

you push that thought away so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

the move goes fast, too fast. you barely get a word in before the couch is already set against the wall, your boxes stacked alphabetically (thanks, bucky, you controlling jerk), and your dad's cracking open beers like he just fought a war instead of carrying a microwave.

"to new beginnings," your dad toasts, raising his bottle.

"and to actual furniture," bucky adds, eyeing your mismatched thrift store decor with amusement dancing in his eyes.

you try not to scowl when bucky ruffles your hair like you're still twelve and says, "proud of you, kid. all grown-up and everything."

you bat his hand away with more force than necessary.

"i could've done it without you guys," you insist, chin raised slightly in defiance.

your dad snorts so hard beer almost comes out his nose. "sure, pumpkin."

bucky doesn't say anything, but his eyes say everything, skepticism mixed with something softer that you refuse to analyze.

they leave an hour later, your dad promising to bring extra tupperware because you can't live on takeout forever, bucky making a joke about your fridge being stocked with "fermented oat milk and nothing else."

"i have condiments too, asshole," you mutter.

"ketchup packets don't count as a food group," he fires back without missing a beat.

you flip them both off behind the door once it closes.

the first few hours alone are glorious. quiet. yours.

you open boxes. hang photos. light candles that smell like "urban rainstorm" and "financial stability." you blast music no one can tell you to turn down.

but then you make the mistake of tackling the bedframe.

four pieces in, you realize the screws don't match the holes. seven pieces in, one of the slats breaks with a crack that sounds suspiciously like laughter. ten pieces in, you're sweating and breathing heavily and considering just sleeping on the damn floor forever. you lie there for a full minute, sprawled among wooden planks and screws, trying to will the bedframe to finish itself through sheer female independence.

it doesn't.

you groan. you curse. you dramatically fling an allen wrench across the room like it's personally betrayed your lineage.

then you reach for your phone.

your thumb hovers over your dad's contact, but something makes you scroll down to the "b" section instead.

it's 12:41 am when you open the door, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing mismatched socks and the expression of someone who has swallowed a gallon of pride and is still choking on it.

bucky leans on the frame, toolbox in one hand, unreadable smirk on his face. he's still in the same clothes from earlier, but somehow he looks even better in the dim hallway light. it's patently unfair.

"you look like you've been through war," he says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation.

"i hate furniture," you mutter, closing the door behind him. "it's a capitalist conspiracy."

"i told you to wait till tomorrow." his voice is low, amused but not mocking.

"you said that, but you also laughed when i said i'd build it myself."

he shrugs, bending down to examine the wreckage that was supposed to be your bed. "and i was right. you built a modern art installation. could probably sell it for thousands."

you glare, arms crossed over your chest. "less talking. more fixing."

to your surprise, he doesn't say much after that, he just works. efficient. calm. occasionally giving you little instructions like you're his assistant and not the one who dragged him out of bed past midnight.

"hold this."

"hand me that phillips head."

"not that one, the other one."

"no, not—jesus, do you know what a phillips head looks like?"

you sit back at some point, watching him. the way his brows furrow in concentration. the steady pace of his hands, metal and flesh both equally gentle with the wood. the flex of his back muscles under his shirt as he leans forward to tighten a screw. it's annoying, how naturally capable he is. like he was built for these kinds of moments. like he was meant to be there, in your apartment, fixing the things you couldn't.

you cross your arms. "why are you always with him?"

he doesn't look up. "with who?"

"my dad. you never come without him. doesn't it get old? being his... sidekick or something?"

he lets out a quiet breath. almost a laugh. tight and amused. "he's my best friend."

"i know. but still. it's like he can't go anywhere without you. i invite him for dinner and boom—there's bucky. i call him for help, there's bucky. i move out, and who's lifting my couch? bucky."

this time, he pauses. looks up. his blue eyes lock onto yours, searching for something. his expression is unreadable, but something in it makes your breath catch.

"you mad about that?" he asks quietly.

you blink, suddenly unsure. "no. i just... notice."

something shifts in the silence between you. he nods once, like he understands more than you're saying, and goes back to work. his movements seem different now—more deliberate, careful, like he's thinking about something else entirely.

it's 2:07 am when the bedframe finally stands tall and smug in the middle of your room, a testament to his skill and your failure.

"built like a tank," bucky says, brushing his hands together, metal glinting under your cheap overhead light. "you'll sleep like a queen."

you give it a test push. it doesn't creak. not even a wobble. of course it doesn't.

he's walking toward the door, toolbox in hand, when you stop him.

"wait."

he turns, one eyebrow raised in question.

you try not to look too hopeful, too eager. "i baked cookies earlier. i was gonna give them to dad but... you want some? as a thank you."

his brow rises higher, and there's the faintest twitch of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "you baked?"

"yes, barnes, i can bake," you snap, defensive. "i'm not completely useless."

"never said you were."

he accepts one like it's an offering from another realm, bites into it cautiously as if expecting it to bite back. chews. Nods.

"these are actually good," he says, genuine surprise in his voice.

you cross your arms, trying to look offended but secretly pleased. "wow. you sound shocked."

he licks a crumb from his thumb, throws you a look over his shoulder that makes your stomach do something complicated. "you finally did something on your own. i'm proud."

you hurl a pillow at him. he catches it midair with his metal hand, reflexes sharp as ever.

smirking. always smirking. like he knows something you don't.

"thanks," you say, softer this time. "for coming over. at midnight. you didn't have to."

he studies you for a moment. "yeah, i did."

something in his tone makes you look up, really look at him. for a second, you think you see something in his eyes— beyond the teasing, it was warm and genuine and it makes your heart skip.

but then he's moving toward the door again, and the moment evaporates like it was never there.

"next time," he says, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, "just call me first. not after you've demolished half the furniture."

"there won't be a next time," you lie, and both of you know it.

he just shakes his head, that infuriating half-smile back in place. "night, brat."

you watch him leave, metal arm glinting under the kitchen light, and wonder if he knows he's the one thing you wouldn't mind your dad bringing around all the time.

maybe someday you'll tell him.

but not tonight.

tonight, you sleep on a perfectly built bed, stomach full of cookies, and the faint scent of his cologne still hanging in the air.

you're independent. kind of. but you're not stupid.

you know who you'll call next time, too.

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #james barnes #bucky barnes x reader #marvel thunderbolts #thunderbolts #dbf bucky #dbf!bucky #bucky x you #bucky fanfic

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rulerofstars · 4 months ago

Text

autumn whispers

oneshot: in the space between being a public hero and a private man, between the chaos of saving the world and the peace of your shared sanctuary, lies the most profound truth—that even after facing the darkness of the void, bucky barnes still finds his way home to you.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff, fluff... more fluff. thunderbolts. bucky barnes. 1.9k words.

The warm studio lights beamed down on the polished hardwood floor of the talk show set. Outside, autumn leaves danced in the crisp October air, but inside, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the audience quieted down. A montage of explosive battle footage played on the large screen behind the host's desk: scenes of the Thunderbolts fighting side by side against the latest world-ending threat.

"And we're back with our very special guest tonight," the host, Marissa, announced with practiced enthusiasm as the camera panned to her and her guest. "The man who went from war hero, to villain, to hero again, to congressman, and now back to saving the world—Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!"

The audience erupted into applause as the camera focused on Bucky. You couldn't help but lean closer to your television screen, heart fluttering despite yourself. There he was, Bucky Barnes, looking almost unfairly handsome in a navy blue button-down that brought out the steel blue of his eyes. His brown hair, now grown out to just below his chin, was tucked behind his ears with a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead.

He smiled politely, the expression warm but reserved in that way only Bucky could manage. The past decade had smoothed some of the harder edges from his face, but the slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was in the spotlight, remained.

"Thank you for having me, Marissa," he replied, his voice carrying that gentle gravel that always sent shivers down your spine.

"So, Congressman Barnes, or should I call you Sergeant Barnes again?" Marissa asked with a flirtatious edge to her voice, leaning slightly toward him.

"James is fine," he answered with a small, practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"James," she echoed, clearly delighted. "After three years representing New York's 14th district in Congress, many were surprised when you answered the call to rejoin the Avengers for this latest crisis. Tell us about that decision."

Bucky shifted in his seat, his vibranium hand, now sleekly designed with Wakandan tech that allowed it to appear almost indistinguishable from his right except for a subtle metallic sheen, rested comfortably on his knee.

"Well, when you've been fighting as long as I have, you learn that duty comes in many forms," he started, his voice thoughtful. "For the past few years, I thought my duty was best served in Congress, fighting for veterans' rights and rehabilitation programs for enhanced individuals. But when the call came that the Thunderbolts needed backup..." He paused, a shadow of something deeper crossing his features. "Some battles need to be fought on different fronts."

You smiled at the television, remembering the late-night conversations that had preceded his decision. The worry in his eyes, the way he'd held you close as if trying to memorize the feel of you in his arms before leaving.

"And what a battle it was!" Marissa exclaimed. "The footage we've seen is just incredible. Working alongside the Thunderbolts again after your own time on the team—how did that feel?"

Bucky's expression softened slightly. "Like coming home, in some ways. That team—we've been through a lot together. There's a trust that develops when you've fought side by side with people who've also known what it's like to seek redemption."

"Speaking of coming home," Marissa segued smoothly, her tone shifting to something more personal as she leaned even closer, "one thing our viewers are dying to know, is there someone special waiting for you when you return from saving the world? The Internet has been abuzz with speculation about Congressman Barnes' love life."

The camera zoomed in slightly on Bucky's face, catching the nearly imperceptible tightening around his eyes. You held your breath, knowing what was coming.

"No comment on that front," he replied diplomatically. "I prefer to keep my personal life private."

Marissa wasn't deterred. "So you're saying you're single and available?" she pressed, her smile widening.

A flash of amusement crossed Bucky's face, there and gone in an instant that most viewers would miss. But you knew that look, he was thinking of you.

"I'm saying that some parts of life are sacred enough to keep away from the spotlight," he countered gently but firmly. "I learned that lesson the hard way over many decades."

"Fair enough," Marissa conceded, though she looked slightly disappointed. "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of viewers who'll be happy to hear there might still be a chance with the heroic congressman."

Bucky gave a noncommittal smile as the conversation shifted to policies he had championed in Congress and how his perspective as both a veteran and an enhanced individual had shaped his legislative priorities.

You switched off the television with a fond shake of your head. He'd handled that perfectly, as always. The agreement you'd both come to early in your relationship, to keep your love life completely separate from his public persona had served you well. No reporters camped outside your door, no intrusive questions about your past, no scrutiny of every aspect of your relationship.

Just the two of you, living your quiet life together between his more public responsibilities.

You glanced at the clock, he'd be home soon. The interview had been pre-recorded three days ago, before he'd returned from Washington. With a smile, you headed to the kitchen to finish preparing his favorite autumn meal.

The door clicked open quietly just as you were pulling the apple cider from the stove. The familiar sound of Bucky's footsteps—always lighter than you'd expect from a man his size—made your heart leap.

"Something smells amazing," his voice called from the entryway.

You turned to see him standing in the doorway of your small but cozy kitchen, jacket already hung by the door, boots removed. His hair was slightly tousled from the autumn wind, cheeks tinged pink from the cold. The sight of him, not Congressman Barnes, not the Winter Soldier, not even Avenger Bucky, but just your Bucky—made warmth spread through your chest.

"Welcome home," you said, setting down the pot and crossing the room to him. "Just in time. I saw your interview."

His arms encircled your waist as he pulled you against his chest, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply as if drawing strength from your scent. "Yeah? How'd I do?"

"Mmm, very diplomatic," you murmured as his lips found the sensitive spot below your ear. "Marissa was really trying her best, wasn't she?"

Bucky chuckled against your skin, the sound reverberating through you. "Didn't even notice," he mumbled. "Was too busy thinking about coming home to you."

You pulled back slightly to look at his face, reaching up to tuck a strand of that soft brown hair behind his ear. His eyes, those incredible blue-gray eyes that had seen nearly a century of history—looked at you with such tenderness it made your breath catch.

"Missed you," he whispered, his voice dropping to that intimate tone reserved only for you.

"It was only three days this time," you reminded him with a smile, though you'd felt every hour of his absence.

"Three days too many," he countered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Congress, Avengers, interviews... none of it compares to this. To you. To us."

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, still amazed after all this time that this man—this complicated, beautiful, heroic man—had chosen a quiet life with you when he could have had anything or anyone.

"I made something special for you," you said, gesturing toward the kitchen where delicious aromas wafted through the apartment.

His eyes lit up with simple pleasure. "You spoil me, doll."

"You deserve to be spoiled," you replied easily. "Now go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

He stole a quick kiss before heading to the bathroom, and you returned to the stove with a smile playing on your lips. The routine was familiar, comforting, a pocket of normalcy carved out of extraordinary circumstances.

The small dining table in your apartment was already set, candles waiting to be lit. Outside your window, the trees on your quiet Brooklyn street displayed their autumn finery, reds, golds, and oranges creating a fiery tapestry against the darkening evening sky. You'd chosen this apartment together three years ago, when Bucky had first run for Congress, close enough to his district office but far enough from the heart of the city to give you both room to breathe.

Bucky returned, changed into a soft henley and comfortable pants, his hair damp and combed back from his face. The scent of his cologne, subtle notes of cedar and bergamot—filled your senses as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, helping you bring the food to the table, lighting the candles, pouring the cider into the ceramic mugs you'd bought together at a craft fair last autumn. As he passed behind you, his hand brushed against the small of your back, a gentle touch that sent pleasant shivers up your spine.

"So," you began as you settled into your seats, Bucky choosing to sit close beside you rather than across the table. He casually rested his hand on your thigh, thumb making small, gentle circles against the fabric of your pants. The warmth of his touch radiated through you as you leaned slightly into him. "How did the debriefing go? The real one, not the TV-friendly version."

Bucky took a bite of the food, closing his eyes briefly in appreciation before answering. His face was so close to yours that you could feel the gentle warmth of his breath, inhale the intoxicating blend of his natural musk and subtle cologne. "Better than expected. Bob says hi, by the way. Wants to know when we're coming over for dinner."

"Tell him anytime he's willing to cook," you teased.

Bucky smiled, a genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Will do." He took another bite, then added more softly, "It felt good, being back in the field. Different than Congress. More immediate. In Congress, you fight for change that might take years to see. Out there, you know right away if you've made a difference."

You nodded, understanding the complex relationship he had with his dual roles. "You make a difference either way, Buck. Different battles, like you said in the interview."

"Speaking of the interview," he said, a mischievous glint entering his eyes, "sorry about the 'single' implication. You know how it goes."

You waved a dismissive hand. "Please. I knew what I was signing up for." You took a sip of cider, the warm spices dancing on your tongue. "Besides, I kind of enjoy being your best-kept secret, Congressman Barnes."

His expression softened as he turned to face you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to cup your cheek. The candlelight caught the subtle gleam of his vibranium fingers against your skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He tasted of cider and something uniquely him, a taste that never failed to make your heart race. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Not a secret," he corrected gently. "Just private. There's a difference."

"I know," you assured him. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

The decision to keep your relationship out of the public eye had been mutual from the beginning. After everything Bucky had been through, decades of having his choices taken away, years of fighting to reclaim his identity—privacy had become sacred to him. And you, having seen the media circus that surrounded other Avengers' relationships, had readily agreed.

It wasn't hiding; it was preserving something precious.

After dinner, you moved to the small living room, settling onto the worn but comfortable couch that faced the electric fireplace. Outside, rain had begun to fall, pattering gently against the windows. Bucky pulled the handmade quilt, a gift from Wanda, over both of you as you curled against his side.

"Want to watch something?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

Bucky shook his head, his arm tightening around you. "Just want to be here. With you. No screens, no cameras, no reporters. Just us."

You nestled closer, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. His vibranium arm, always slightly cooler than his flesh one, curved protectively around your waist.

"Tell me something good that happened while I was gone," he murmured into your hair.

This was another ritual, finding moments of simple joy to share with each other, a practice that had helped Bucky learn to recognize the good in his life after decades of darkness.

"Mrs. Kapoor from downstairs brought up some homemade samosas yesterday," you told him. "Said they were a thank you for helping her grandson with his history project. I saved you some—they're in the fridge."

"She makes the best samosas in Brooklyn," Bucky said appreciatively. "What else?"

"The maple tree in the park has turned completely red now. It happened almost overnight. And I finished that book you recommended, the one about the lighthouse keeper. You were right, the ending was worth the slow middle."

He smiled against your temple. "I've been reading books long enough to know a good payoff when I see one coming."

"Your turn," you prompted, looking up at him. "Something good from your trip."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm. "There was this kid at the hospital we visited after the battle. Couldn't have been more than eight. Lost his arm in an accident last year." His voice softened. "He showed me his prosthetic—nothing fancy, but he'd decorated it with Avengers stickers. Had Steve's Captain America mask right at the top."

Your heart squeezed. "Bucky..."

"I showed him some of the basic maintenance I do on mine," he continued. "Simple stuff, things his parents could help with. But the way he looked at me, doll..." Bucky shook his head slightly. "Like having one arm didn't make him less. Like it made him special. Connected to something bigger."

You reached for his metal hand, bringing it to your lips and kissing the palm gently. "You changed how he sees himself."

"Maybe," Bucky acknowledged. "That's worth all the congressional hearings and PR interviews combined."

The rain grew heavier outside, drumming a soothing rhythm on the roof. The warm glow from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across Bucky's face, highlighting the contours you'd memorized with your fingertips on countless nights like this one.

"You know," you said thoughtfully, "if Marissa knew what she was missing: quiet nights, pot roast, and rainstorms—she might have tried even harder to get that dating confirmation."

Bucky laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Not a chance. This isn't for sharing." His expression grew more serious as he gazed down at you. "Sometimes I think about how different my life could have been. All those years as the Winter Soldier, then the fighting, the pardons, the political career... None of it prepared me for this."

"For what?" you asked softly.

"For how it would feel to come home to someone who knows all of me—every part, every history, every name I've ever had—and loves me anyway." His voice dropped to a whisper. "For how simple and yet impossible it seemed that I could have this kind of peace."

You shifted to face him fully, cupping his face between your hands. "James Buchanan Barnes, are you getting sentimental on me?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Might be. Happens every autumn. Something about the changing leaves makes a century-old man reflective."

"Well, this century-old man better save some of that reflection for tomorrow," you teased. "We promised to help Yori rake his yard, remember?"

Bucky groaned dramatically. "Why did I agree to that? I was just in a battle to save the world."

"Because he promised to make us sushi afterward," you reminded him. "And because you're a good friend, even when you pretend to be grumpy about it."

He sighed in mock resignation, then suddenly moved, pulling you into his lap in one fluid motion that reminded you of the superhuman strength he usually kept carefully controlled. "Fine. But that means we should make the most of tonight."

Your breath caught as his hands settled on your waist, warm and secure. "Any specific ideas, Congressman?"

His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned closer. "Several. None of which I'll be sharing on national television."

As his lips found yours, gentle at first and then with growing intensity, you smiled against his mouth. Outside, the autumn storm continued, leaves swirling in the wind, the world rushing by with all its complexities and dangers. It was an ordinary moment. And yet, as you padded across the room to join him underneath the sheets, accepting every kiss, every touch, every bit of his being— you knew this was everything neither of you had dared to dream possible.

Congressman, Avenger, Thunderbolt, Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, the world knew him by many names. But in the gentle warmth of a Brooklyn sunset, he was simply yours, and you were his, and that was the greatest truth of all.

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