#&& bucky

[caffeinatedavenger]

Ahhhh this was so delightful and so fun

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[barnesandashes]

need a ride? | oneshot

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader

summary: save a horse, ride a congressman. after waiting for congressman james bucky barnes to finish his emergency meeting— which lasted the whole night, he offers you a ride home, at the back of his motorcycle. like, what could go wrong?

warnings: 18+ content, MDNI. reader is female. swearing, dom!bucky, unprotected sex, piv, semi-public sex, his motorcycle plays a big part (ok they fuck in the motorcycle), creampie, reader is down bad but bucky is down badder, porn with plot, y/n and bucky are both horny, no use of y/n.

wc: 8.6k

author’s note: in honor of me graduating and thunderbolts hd, i present to you my first oneshot! i hope u like it <3

“I’m really sorry you had to wait that long.”

An apologetic sigh came from Congressman Bucky Barnes as he entered his personal office. He looked at you, seated at your desk, laptop still on and fingers clicking the keyboard. You were composing emails and scheduling them to be sent at exactly 8:00 AM sharp tomorrow.

The government’s forte was not making lives easier for its people— no, it’s making sure their underpaid employees work at least overtime every single day.

So, you weren’t exactly pleased.

You had been waiting for Bucky for at least 2 hours now, he was cornered into an emergency meeting that started around quarter to nine. You looked at the time on the bottom right of your device, 10:58 PM. To pass the time, you opted to just do the work for tomorrow earlier, so in the future, you can thank yourself in that matter.

Being stuck alone in the office with grey carpets that reeked of stress and greed with the fluorescent lights just above your head, flickering every now and then to make sure that you were still awake, and the shadow it gave exposed your face heating with annoyance.

Your hands paused for a brief moment, turning your gaze to the man who stood near the glass door, hand in waist. The other hand was loosening his tie from its tight grasp on his neck then running his hands through his hair. You looked away, you didn’t need to be attracted to him right now, you were annoyed.

But, what the hell. Is it even possible for a human to look even finer under stress? You compared him to diamonds— better under pressure.

For you, it wasn’t fine at all, he had destroyed all your usual habits of cooking dinner, watching your favorite series, and sleeping at exactly the time where you were at the office right now. You couldn’t leave here without ensuring that Bucky’s schedule had all gone out according to plan. One emergency conference, and your night was ruined.

“It’s okay, I was just wrapping up as well.” You managed to plaster a polite smile, you couldn’t exactly admit to your boss that you were kind of infuriated at him. Kind of, because you couldn’t fully get mad at Bucky, your infatuation always seemed to be stronger. Could you really even help it if he looked glorious every single day? Wearing a usual black or navy blue suit and tie, hair slicked back with gel, and a set of blue eyes just always piercing through your soul.

Suddenly, the room ran out of air for you to breathe on, you couldn’t pinpoint whether it was the strong perfume he wore— an oddly lavender aroma with a kick of spice thanks to its amber base. It was sleek, mature, and downright sexy. Or, if it was just his presence. It probably was just him all in all.

“I’m really sorry.” He looked utterly devastated in a manner that made him even hotter than he usually was, you couldn’t afford to stand up just yet and realize that there was a wet patch on your chair. “You can take a sick day tomorrow. I don’t have that much meetings—“

“It’s fine, Mr. Barnes. Really.” You cut him off, you didn’t even care anymore if your annoyance was obvious. You wanted to go home badly and melt down your bed, eyes shut, maybe dream of him when you have calmed down. “I’ll fix my things, then I’ll go.” You added, slowly standing up from your desk and picking up your bag to put your laptop in.

“I told you to just call me Bucky.” He looked at you, taking note of your particular habit of always calling him by his last name.

Well, he did give you the freedom to be casual. Too casual. Casual in a way that you might mistake for a flirty remark— like the one that you’d give a handsome man you’ll see on a bar then never again.

You couldn't call him that for your own personal sanity— and because you were too afraid to reveal anything about schoolgirl hopeless romantic feelings and imaginations straight out of a fanfiction written by people who had the same amount of thirst for the ex-assassin turned U.S. House Representative.

“That would be really unprofessional since you’re my boss.” You gave him a dry, sarcastic chuckle, trying to be humorous, but it came out rude instead due to your sour mood.

“Right, right. Well, people usually call me that. Just sayin’.” Bucky gave you a tight-lipped smile and lowered his head down.

“How are you getting home? You have a car?” He asked, trying to spark a conversation again.

“I just walk. My apartment’s not that far, like a 15-minute walk from here.” You sighed, finished packing up your stuff, ready to go. Your heels clacked on the waxed floor when you picked up your things and went to the direction of the door, where Bucky was, seemingly waiting for you.

Your attention was now focused on tidying up your clothes, fixing your pants as well as patting them free of dust, adjusting the sleeves of your blazers, and pulling up the neckline of the inner blouse you wore. You grew conscious when you realized that Bucky was watching, his jaw unusually tightened. He’d probably reprimand you for wearing clothing that slightly showed the top of your chest, but you didn’t care for that, not right now at least.

“It’s unsafe for you to walk at this time.” He stated the obvious as his eyebrow slightly raised, looking down on you.

You were slightly thankful that the usual pencil skirt you had always worn was in the washer today, or else you’d have a hard time battling off countless catcallers in the street around your area.

You pulled out your phone from one of the pockets in your pants. “I’m just gonna call an uber.” You shrugged, opening the app as Bucky watched your thumbs hovering the device.

“I doubt you’ll find someone who accepts that, they’re all probably snoring by now.” He retaliated.

You only gave a hum in response, too tired to think of a witty retort anymore, your soles were hurting from the inches your shoes had. Your eyes were heavy and you were seriously considering sleeping in this office right now, just slouched in your chair.

“I could give you a ride.”

You immediately looked up from your screen, eyes slightly widened in his offer. Bucky, giving you a ride, in the backseat of his motorcycle? It definitely seemed like a good way to end your life. You thought about it, he’d look insanely mouth watering maneuvering the bike that was as big as him. Your hands wrapped around his waist, feeling his abs and you pressed against Bucky’s back.

You couldn’t, you shook your head in a panicked manner.

“It’s fine, I can wait.“ You gave him a reassured smile. The universe was giving you the opportunity of a lifetime to finally bag Bucky Barnes, but you had no other choice but to reject the notion— you needed this job badly, enough pay to buy you a few guilty pleasures, and the privilege to fawn over your boss everyday.

“And if there are no available drivers nearby?” He questioned you. Bucky’s face was covered in the expression of sarcasm, he certainly thought it was unsafe for a woman to go home this late— and it was his fault, he felt accountable. The least he could do was to safely bring you home.

You, on the other hand, were completely against this. Even if it was in your wildest dreams, it was unprofessional. The scenario to ride with him (or ride him) was straight out of your dirty fantasies, but not under these circumstances where one of you could be put at risk— worst case scenario, the both of you will.

“I’ll just walk then.” You squint your eyes at the tone of sass in his remark, slightly amused. He scoffed at your reaction, not pleased by your response.

“Please,” He ultimately sighed in defeat. “Just accept my offer.” Bucky looked at you with determination swirling his iris.

“I’m sure someone’s gonna accept me.” But you did not budge, not even in the slightest. Maybe just a little, but you were still in the right mind to say no. “Please go ahead, don’t wait for me.” You gave Bucky a comforting grin once more, taking note of the fact that he had a meeting first thing in the morning, he couldn’t afford to be late.

The super soldier stared at you for a moment, his usual thing to do whenever debating something in his head— or when zoning out. His gaze pierced yours, thinking if it’s really okay, or if you were just too annoyed to even face him right now.

But he didn’t like to push people just to get what he wanted (sometimes), he tried to convince himself that you were capable of defending yourself outside, under the light of the moon. Albeit you were a skilled assistant, seemingly efficient in every task that Bucky can throw at you.

Organizing his schedule? Check.

Managing his appointments? Check.

Handle communicating with the press? Excellent.

And being absolutely hard headed right now? You were valedictorian, flying with all the colors in the rainbow.

But he couldn’t exactly say the same for your brilliance in the streets. The two of you weren’t that personally close yet for him to know— although sometimes, he wanted to. He can’t risk the life of his precious assistant, or his work will be very disastrous and chaotic, that’s all there really is to.

“Fine,” He raised his hands up, seemingly signifying that he surrenders. “I’ll go.”

You only gave him a grin in response, you weren’t even sure yourself if you’d be able to get an uber— but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your boss when you'd decide to just sleep in his office instead. Meanwhile, Bucky only gave you a look of suspicion before walking to his desk, which was adjacent to yours, picking up his bag and a few paperworks in his arm, his footsteps led him to the door again, where you were.

“I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Barnes.” You politely greeted him goodbye; like you always would on any other day, the only difference this time was that it was nearing midnight— and the two of you were the only ones left in this building.

Bucky muttered something underneath his breath, you didn’t catch it, it was more of a grumble rather than a word that’s actually coherent. He gave you his usual, charming smile, before opening the door and closing it behind his back— footsteps getting fainter by the second.

It had been over an hour since you uttered that phrase to your boss, a literal hour of hoping someone would accept you.

You groaned in frustration, standing from Bucky’s comfortable swivel office chair, then sitting back down again in hopelessness. You were beginning to think that you should have just accepted his offer, not chicken out like you always did.

But no, you were left alone to deal with the consequences of your stupid decisions.

You were left with no other choice but to walk home, maybe ride in a cab if you’ll have the chance to find one. But it was almost midnight, you didn’t like to get your hopes up anymore. It felt foolish to even have a sliver of faith that you were going to get sleep tonight. You sighed, stood up from the seat, meticulously arranged Bucky’s desk before you left, and picked up your things that were sprawled in your own desk, after you had just organized them a few moments ago.

Closing the glass door on your way out, you prepared yourself for whatever obstacle there may be outside the streets, you hoped there were none— although that’s statistically impossible, you assumed. Your shoes hitting the ground was the only noise that echoed throughout the floor, your eyes darting from left and right to observe the closed lights, except for the one by the elevator.

It was eerily quiet, but you had that coming, leaving the office a few minutes after the clock hit midnight. You really didn’t have a choice— a curtain congressman with a vibranium arm left you with this predicament, then you made yourself suffer more. It was an unfortunate situation, but you’d accept any mode of transportation now, as long as you still have time to rest to prepare for tomorrow— which was actually just a few hours later.

You walked to the nearest elevator, which was fortunately just a slight left to where Bucky’s office was. Letting out a small yawn, you reached for the down button beside it, pressing it gently. Your mind started to wonder about him, like clockwork.

It was hard to not like him— Bucky was the perfect guy you could bring home to meet your parents because of his gentlemanly nature. But the contrast of that to his physical attributes always made you wonder… if he were also a gentleman in other places.

It wasn’t even just that, or the fact that he’s a decorated veteran— his upstanding morals made him even hotter.

The world had been familiar with the controversy of him in politics, his past, and if he was even worthy of being one. But come on now, Bucky’s probably more qualified than half of the people in the government right now— his virtues and principles alone.

His thought process on hiring you was even more baffling, you didn’t go on any interviews or even met him before you got hired for the job. You simply sent a resume, a short message explaining your interest to take the position, and sent it to his email— which you weren’t even sure was his. You found it through a shady hiring website in the last page.

It didn’t even have any information about the tasks you would need to do, the qualifications and requirements needed, or what you would be exactly assisting for. A few hours after you sent your application, he had replied; a short message expressing that you are hired, with the address of his office at the bottom of the email. Sent at 3:07 AM.

He really needed an assistant.

The first thing you had asked Bucky when you went to his office— which was coincidentally in Washington, DC as well, the House of Representatives, to be exact. The question that slipped from your tongue was— what was exactly your basis in hiring me?

“You were the only one who actually sent a resume— not a weird picture or a love letter.” He replied, curtly.

Since then, you practically took every interaction like he was head over heels for you as well. The brushing of fingers whenever you’d hand out a document, or when you would catch him looking at you through your peripheral vision in your desk. And the offer he made a while ago, to give you a ride in his motorcycle. This was bad, you needed to have an actual social life before you get fully delusional over your boss, as if you weren’t already.

You shook your head violently as the doors to the elevator opened with a ding, you entered the oddly spacious machine with utmost caution. Your left finger pressed the button that will lead you to the basement. The lobby was closed now, you could be actually stuck there the whole night.

“I need coffee.” You thought to yourself, before the elevator opened its doors to welcome you in the dark basement parking of the building. Even though it was dimly lit, you could still clearly see the rusty exit door. It was on the opposite end of the elevator, a bit far because of the massive size of the parking lots, which looked odd when it wasn’t full of vehicles in different sizes and colors.

You gripped your bag tighter, and started walking in a frigid manner away from the elevator, which quickly closed when it felt your presence leave its space. There was an aura of discomfort in the fact that you were the only person here left, in this creepy place— where no one could probably hear if you let out a scream. It was probably from the true crime shows you had been binge watching for you to grow paranoid.

The moment you’ll get out of this building, was the last moment of this happening ever again. You should’ve never waited for him, but it was your responsibility. Your pace started to grow quicker, heels getting louder by how fast you were walking. The last thing you needed was a serial killer suddenly running around all loose.

“I take it that you’re walking home.”

“Fuck!”

Your body jumped in surprise, mostly fear. Because you thought you were going to get killed— worse sliced alive or shot by someone who craved vengeance. You felt a presence looming beside you, as Bucky Barnes came out in the shadow, arms crossed, eyes immediately met yours. His usual suit and tie was replaced with a leather jacket now, which also did not help in the fact that he goes to the gym everyday, absolutely ripped inside. You tried your best not to imagine what’s under, tried.

“Why are you still here?” You exclaimed, a dread of annoyance coated every syllable of your question as you turned to him. If you were frustrated at him then, you were infuriated now. Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, walking towards you.

“Wanted to see how long you’d take up on my offer.” He gave you a teasing grin. “I was about to leave, but I heard the elevator.” Your eyebrows furrowed at his statement, probably his enhanced senses working their magic again, you didn’t question it.

“You waited for me?” Your eyes slightly softened, as you let out a breath of relief from the scare he unintentionally made a few seconds ago.

“It’s my fault you’re here at this hour.” Bucky was only a few inches away from you, the conversation echoing loud in the basement where only the two of you could hear.

“I told you, it’s fine.” You sighed. “Plus, you can’t scare people around like that! Lurking in the shadows like a madman.” Your hand went to your chest, signifying that Bucky scared the shit out of you. He gave a small chuckle in return, he definitely did not feel guilty— he was more amused.

“Let me take you home.” He said, casually. Like it was a normal occurrence for bosses and their assistants to drop them down at their apartments, maybe give them a kiss goodnight if the mood was right. He walked away again, but looked back, urging you to follow his direction. And you did, with hesitation that also dripped in nervousness. As you come into eye contact with his Harley Davidson.

You thought about it. There was no uber accepting your ride— it was a death sentence to hail a cab at this hour, and your eyes were far too tired to even walk now. Your only option was either crawl all the way home, or accept his offer.

Giving out a small sigh of defeat, you gave in.

“Just this once.” You let out a small gulp, hands consciously fixing the attire you wore again. Bucky smiled at you, in a rather boyish manner— you hadn’t seen it before, it was laidback and all the synonyms for cool. You wished he expressed that side more often, just out of working hours, you supposed.

Bucky was also tired, it was quite obvious. You noticed the way his vibranium arm dragged the way he walked and the small heaves of sigh he made. But something felt different about him, curiosity started to get the best of you. Despite the calm way of his hands patting where you’d sit on his black-on-black motorcycle, the coolness of his voice, his eyes looked like they were fighting with himself.

Like he was waiting for a trigger to break free from his spell, reliant on one single word that could make him think or take an action freely. You bit your lip unknowingly, affected by the sight of him.

“Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.” Bucky looked at you, eyes blinking in confusion when he realized you were dazed out when he had asked which street you live in— all he knew was that you were from around here.

“Yeah, you scared me. I thought you were a serial killer.” You scoffed at his remark, crossing your arms in a defensive manner.

You immediately realized what you had just said, covering your mouth quickly. Bucky only raised his eyebrow at you, as his vibranium arm rested on the motorcycle seat, the other flesh on his waist. His eyes had a glint of mischief around them, looking you up and down as he gave out a dry chuckle.

Your cheeks immediately heated up in embarrassment. “I mean, I thought I was alone. Thinking that nobody could—“

“Hear you scream?” He tilted his head sideways, giving you a teasing grin. You nodded in return, somehow, you didn’t know what to say next. Besides the growing tension between you and Bucky as your legs tightened on instinct when he grew closer.

He stopped just when your bodies are only centimeters from touching, one small move and you’d immediately feel his chest.

“Wanna test it?” He added, in a voice lower than it usually was, drawing out every word for you to thoroughly comprehend. Your mouth opened slightly, you couldn’t tell whether a moan or a reply wanted to come out. But you were left speechless, the familiar sensation between your legs tingling once more.

“What— What do you mean?” Those were the only coherent words that managed to come out of your mouth.

“You know what I mean.” Bucky replied, almost immediately.

Bucky was playing a dangerous game, and you were scared to even gamble. You couldn’t risk losing your job— or him being heavily criticized by the public for being with his assistant. Too many factors that were all needed to be considered, but your self-control was running low, tempted by his offer.

“This is highly unprofessional, Mr. Barnes.” You whispered, voice even shaking in nervousness. You clutched your bag hard, knuckles almost turning white.

“There ‘ya go again, with that unprofessional shit.” He gave you a response filled with sarcasm, you would think it’s venomous.

“Like I don’t smell your arousal every single time we’re in that office together.” Your eyes widened once more at his sudden confession, you were embarrassed to the brim. He could smell that? His jaw was tightened, like it was back at his office when you were fixing your blouse haphazardly.

The tables were turned as the attention of the night was now on Bucky Barnes’ admission. He immediately sighed, like he did not mean to let the words slip from his tongue. But he had grown increasingly tired of his pretty little assistant being a tease every single day, even if you meant to be one or not. It affected him far worse than the way it took a toll on you— he was just more skilled at hiding it.

But today was his last straw, Bucky’s last defense of self-control was immediately shattered when you walked in the office in the morning. Opening the door with such confidence, immediately handing out to him his planned schedule for the day like you always did, in a methodical manner. He liked that about you, precision and keen attention to detail.

Bucky let out a small groan when you leaned down to explain his itinerary, who he will be meeting, what he needed to say in front of the press, and always asking him which food he wants for lunch, so you could buy it. He usually says nothing— it was weird, having you buy lunch for him, how ungentlemanly if it was normal even.

Your perfume was the only thing that filled his sense of smell, eyes gazing at the delectable view in front of him— the off-white blouse that you wore revealed a little too much of your cleavage that when your hands were rested in his table, body just inches away from him at the seat. His eyes savored in the top of your breasts peeking out, and you were blissfully unaware of such things, still ranting on something he couldn’t even comprehend now.

He tried to think of anything else, he turned his gaze to your face— which only made things worse. Your eyes focused on the second event of the morning, the hearing of Valentina Allegra De Fontaine and her organization. But fuck her and fuck everyone but you, he couldn’t care about anything right now. Your eyes were slightly furrowed in a manner that made you adorably tempting, and lips painted with a tinge of redness and shine from lip gloss.

All Bucky could think about was standing up, putting his hands against both sides of your waist, and removing the black pants you adorned. He thought about making the table shake violently that all his paperwork would be on the floor. Hips thrusting against your ass while balls deep inside your pretty pussy.

In the shitty dimmed light of the basement floor, a thick air of silence filled the space between the two of you. Your head was starting to get dizzy due to nervousness, you wanted to fight back. God knows how much you’ve spent the nights imagining him working you up like what he’s doing right now— but now that it was actually happening? You were scared. Terrified of the consequences that might happen after this.

“Sir Barnes—“

“Don’t call me that.” He cut you off quickly.

“I apologize for letting my feelings get in the way.” You muttered a shaky apology under your breath, looking down on the ground in shame and embarrassment when you realized you were not being sleek with your infatuation— Bucky had known along. And you should have known as well, he wasn’t exactly just a congressman, hundreds of notable things he had done were under his belt. Of course, he would’ve sensed your ogling from a mile away.

“Sweetheart, I get hard every time you call me Mr. fucking Barnes. The last thing you need to do is apologize.” He chuckled sarcastically, putting his vibranium arm against your waist. “I’ll stop if you say so— but don’t pretend like you’re not wanting this.” He added, putting his fleshed index finger to your chin, and pulled you closer to his body.

That action rendered you speechless— but you couldn’t even really think of anything to begin with, just him, his hair, his hands, everything that he ever was. His hands swayed dangerously lower, moving to your back and right above your tailbone, like he had to stop himself from grabbing your ass.

If the nonexistent space between the two of you wasn’t enough, Bucky persisted and pushed your hips to make you feel the clothed hardness that had formed in his pants. Your breath hitched, trying your best to stifle the moan that was threatening to roll out of your tongue when he grinded just enough for your clit to feel, despite the layers of fabric against it.

“This is dangerous, sir.” You managed to garner a reply. “You could lose your job— or mine, even both if this ends up in the headlines.” Your hands creeped up his chest, a last offer of defense, that’s what you convinced yourself.

“I’ll make sure nothing comes out.” He gave you a look of reassurance, and you swooned right into it. You knew you were in capable hands, a highly capable man that is as intelligent as he is hot. Bucky kept promises, never letting a word fall under his grasp. He could be trusted with it, and it was not making your case any easier.

“But you’ll have to fire me, this is against the code of conduct.”

“Keep being this uptight, baby. You’re gonna make me cum in seconds.” He let out an almost pained groan in response, hands still not leaving your hips as the other went their way from your chin to caress your cheeks. Fingers just softly rubbing against, as if he was scared to break you.

Bucky looked at you fervently, his eyes were desperate to meet yours, eyebrows slightly furrowing in anticipation of your words. He would’ve been fine with anything, you could say no— he would gladly pretend to forget that any of this has ever happened, even give you a raise for the inconvenience.

Or you could bite back, just give in. One nod, a hushed word of approval, any form of recognition that you wanted this too, and he’ll be the one to take care of the rest. Nevermind the bigger problem he had in between his legs, he was a gentleman— but only the heavens knew how much he had been controlling himself for the past eight hours or so. He couldn’t care to count the minutes anymore.

One word, just one.

He had been through hell and back his whole life, for a whole century even. He had repented his actions— mistakes and failures that he did not even do, but he still made up for it, for everything. But all Bucky had ever wanted right now, what he pleaded to the gods, was to be given a chance to savor a taste of your lips.

“You’re making this harder for me.” You gave out a small chuckle, the bag on your shoulder was suddenly a lot heavier than it was. You couldn’t pinpoint if it was excitement or nervousness in your veins, maybe both— you couldn’t think ahead anymore.

So fuck it, right?

You let out an inhale of courage in the form of air as your lips went straight crashing with his— in an impatient manner that even made Bucky’s knees slightly weak at the collision. He let out a whine of satisfaction when you pressed in deeper to the kiss, mouth slightly opening more when his tongue licked your lips— a beg to let him do more.

Now both of Bucky’s hands were on your waist when he gripped it harder, and pulled your back against the motorcycle, slightly wincing at the contact of cold metal. Your left arm rested on the cushion of the seat as your right fingers dangled in the strands of his hair, never once did you let the kiss separate. Not even for a brief moment, even if you needed to gasp for air.

Because you weren’t going to deny this moment when Bucky’s tongue was working wonders to explore every inch of your mouth, fingers that were once on your waist were now working their way up to your stomach, mere inches away from your breasts. He separated from your lips and locked eyes with you once more.

“Can I?” He asked for permission. “Please, baby.” Bucky added, and you weren’t sure to which part of your body he was pleading to, but you nodded hazily— you couldn’t wait any more longer. But you quickly realized what he meant to do when he started to remove the bag that was decorated on your arm and safely hung it on the windshield of his bike, you wondered if its strength could hold on the files that were in your bag.

The lust-ridden congressman then slowly took off the blazers that you perfectly wore, his hands worked their way on your shoulders. His eyes were shifting from your orbs to your chest— you gave him a small smile of amusement.

“You gonna wait ‘til sunrise just to get me off of my shirt, sir?” Your eyes crinkled playfully. On the other hand, your boss was not amused. He wanted— no, needed to ravish you already. He couldn’t wait as well.

So, in the poor ventilation of the basement, only the echoes of your moans were heard, and its light reflected the absolute want in your face, to which Bucky only had the privilege to drink in the view. You were a goddess to his eyes, and he was nothing but a measly worshipper.

“Great idea. Let’s fuck here until sunset.”

He gave you a coy smile, before his lips met contact with your neck, prompting little pecks of kisses as he went lower while simultaneously undoing the buttons of the blouse that had made his already struggling morning even worse. He looked up, lips still adorned to your collarbone with furrowed eyebrows, hair slightly covering the sides of his face, and the look of utter desperation.

You shuddered, what a sight to behold. You tried to etch this memory onto your mind before you could even forget the next second.

The soldier only finished half of the buttons before spreading apart the blouse to reveal the lace bra you wore underneath.

“Just for me?” He gave you a boyish smirk, fingers rubbing your nipples against the cloth as you let out a breath of his name like an earnest prayer. In return, your hands rested on his shoulders for support, left leg slightly hiking up to grind against his. You were desperate for friction, to the point of being pathetic, but you did not care.

“Maybe.”

“I’m gonna need a better answer than that, sweetheart.”

In a dazed manner, you recaptured Bucky’s lips, a little too rough and impatient, even for your own liking. You felt his touch caress the skin of your back, and in a smooth manner, he unclasped your bra easily. A shot of jealousy went down your throat, wondering how many bras he had removed just for him to undo yours with utmost ease. But they weren’t the one in your position right now, at least not anymore.

Your boss did not even bother to fully remove the articles of clothing, he just pulled the blouse down at your waist, and put your upper undergarment to hang beside your bag, careful not to let it fall down the ground. His darkened eyes reveled in the sight your bare chest, mouth agape, and you could feel the way his cock twitched between your legs.

“Fuck, you’re divine.” He let out a breathless moan, immediately cupping your left boob with his vibranium laced fingers, index fingers rubbing your nipples when his tongue lapped on the other, making sure it wasn’t left out. “God, you don’t know how many times I’ve imagined this.” He muttered in between breaths.

“Bucky,” You gave out a whine, knees slightly trembling and nails gripping for support in the sturdy bike pressed against your back as he lazily gave a long lick on your right nipple before rubbing it once more. The long nights if fantasizing about fucking your boss were now starting to become reality when his hands snaked their way to caress your thigh that was wrapped against his hips.

“More, I want more.” You confessed, in a soft whisper, afraid that everything would end in a second should your voice be higher than a decibel.

You gazed upon his face, wrecked with nothing but the need to be further, to know your skin more— to unravel your body completely. Bucky quickly obliged, like the good man he was, he couldn’t restrict you from your needs when he was also under the same predicament of losing control.

He only gave you a smirk, before dropping dead to his knees in the cemented and uneven floor of the basement, with white marking lines decorating where he knelt. His black pants were starting to look the color of ash, but he did not seem to mind, not at all. How could he? You were the only thing to ever cross his mind at this very moment. His eyes dead set on yours, still with the same lust adorned dust hovering, but with intensity a depth lower.

Your heart skipped two or three beats in recognition.

“My pretty assistant wants more?” Bucky’s fingers were on a mission, he did not waste time to remove the button in your pants, revealing a matching set of underwear as your bra. You couldn’t quite figure out if this was your lucky day or his, either way, you thanked the laundry gods that your clothes managed to dry on time.

“I’ll give you more.” He added, voice deeper than it usually was. He started to unravel what was beneath the last piece of clothing you had, and the black trousers you once wore were pooled down your feet, to where he was— in full devotion and worship.

“Oh, matching sets. Did you plan all these, baby? Get me to lose control so I can fuck you on my motorcycle?” He taunted, snapping the waistband of your panties.

“Coincidence.” You feigned innocence, terribly. Like Bucky wasn’t smirking in front of your clothed, sopping cunt. He was caressing your thighs, dangerously going higher, as if to test you. “But if you like it that much, I’ll let you live on your little fantasy.”

“Coincidence, huh?” He tilted his head, eyebrows slightly raised at your sarcastic comment. Bucky slightly spread your legs apart, hiking up your left thigh to his shoulders, to which you immediately shuddered in excitement when he brushed against your clit. The counter of your black heels drilled against his back, he didn’t seem to mind.

“You’re soaking for me, sweetheart. Is that a coincidence too?” The congressman did not even give you time to reply nor react when he strided a long, slow lick to your pussy, never breaking eye contact with you. He sure did love to stare— a little too much sometimes. But you were unphased, turned on was more of an accurate term. You moaned, embarrassingly loud for it to echo the white walls of the basement.

“Fuck,” You exclaimed, lost in the pleasure when he rubbed your clit with his cold fingers. The warm ones were pushing aside your panties like it had a personal vendetta against him, not even bothering to remove them as he stuffed your entrance with his long and thick digits.

“I’m getting there.” He sarcastically responded, growing closer between your legs because his fingers weren’t enough, he needed to taste you as well. Starved was an understatement— how could he have gone on decades of famine and not having the luxury of eating you out? He sucked hard, tongue memorizing the feast bestowed upon him, lapping on your wetness with an unquenchable thirst.

In response, you let out a dragged and broken moan. “Bucky,” You muttered his name like a perfectly tuned melody, he grunted in response.

Congressman James Bucky Barnes on his knees, eating out his young assistant in the parking lot of the House of Representatives. It would be an eye-catching headline to see on the news articles, TikTok for you pages, and newspaper stands.

Your boss added one more finger, and quickened the pace— the rubbing of your clit, fingers in and out, and his fucking skilled tongue circling around it all.

If you weren’t too deep in pleasure, lost in ecstasy you were sure no drug was going to compare to the feeling of high. Then, you would have noticed him spelling his own name with it— like a cast of spell to guard what was his.

You were done for, and you did not even mind.

“So fucking sweet. I—I need you so bad, shiiit.”

You were also certain that Bucky was done for, he groaned when your legs started to shake lightly, pre-cum decorated his tip that leaked from his pants as the consequence of punishing himself by not stuffing you full of his dick earlier.

“I’m gonna…” With eyes closed and lower lip bitten, you couldn’t even finish your words without making lewd noises of satisfaction because of the soldier’s relentless pace.

You felt like exploding, in the best way possible. Just a tinge closer to coming undone, you were already in the route going there.

“That’s right.” His mouth was agape when he looked up, seeing you in the same level of need that he was in. “Be a good girl and come on my tongue, baby.”

That’s all it took for you to release on his fingers, tongue, and everywhere that he was— even spilling enough that it coated his salt and pepper stubble. His lips were glossed all over with your liquids. You looked away in embarrassment. But he looked like it was the most delicious meal he’d ever eaten in a hundred years. He slowly removed his digits that were once inside you. Agonizingly slow.

Blue eyes blown away and the sides of his mouth twitched to what seemed like a smile— or just a smirk. You thought it was done, that it’s goodbye now. And he’d be dropping you off your apartment for real this time.

In a rush, you pulled the blouse that was scrunched on your waist to wear it properly again trying to button up what you could button in this drunken state of mind, even forgetting about the bra that hung in front of Bucky’s bike.

But he did not budge there, just watched you with keen eyes as his grip firm on the side of your hiked up thigh, liking the way your heels felt against his back. He was full on smirking, amused by your actions— his flustered assistant that was once calling out his name in the dirtiest way possible. You tried to lean down to take your pair of pants when Bucky stopped your arms.

He wasn’t just going to let you go that easily.

“Nah, we ain’t fucking done, sweetheart.”

Your eyes unknowingly went down to the bulging view in his pants, his cock was rock hard— no amount of jerking off to interactions with you could suffice it, not when he already had the taste of it. Bucky stood up and faced you, eyes pleased at the sight of you in nothing but your off-white blouse and black heels.

He did not even care what time it was right now, how many hours left before a day filled with endless— pointless meetings will start. He needed to be balls deep inside of you.

“Sit in front.”

He gestured to the seat of his big, black bike, where you were leaning against, in the receiving end of his lust. You looked at him, confusion brimming your face to its highest setting. You weren’t even wearing any pants yet, and now he wants to leave? After he gave you quite possibly the best orgasm you ever had in your entire life.

“What?”

You looked at him like he was a madman. He probably was, you thought that you were too. Was this just the dizziness that stemmed from fatigue because you needed sleep, or was he actually commanding you to sit in the front seat of his motorcycle? He grew closer, you thought it was even impossible for him to be, both of his thumbs ran circles on the sides of your waist.

He squinted and tilted his head playfully— seductively, even.

“Thought you needed a ride?”

Oh.

And fuck, that got you worked up all over again.

You wasted no time, turned to the side and carefully went up his motorcycle as the congressman’s hands were on your back for support— albeit lower than it should have been. Your heels trembled to climb in the foot rest as your right leg separated to get on the other side, you quickly held onto the throttle for a sense of stability.

You could feel your wetness stain against the leather of the seat, in a desperate effort to feel his warmth again, you grinded slowly, mouth opening up to release a soft noise.

“Couldn’t wait for my cock, baby?” He gave a low chuckle, the one that vibrated off his chest in amusement. He followed, and in a swift motion, he hopped to sit close behind you, close enough to feel him practically radiating your back.

“Need you so bad, Bucky.” You turned your head back to him, where he was fumbling to take his dick out of the confinement of his pants. He frantically pulled down the zipper, and slightly pushed down the clothing to reveal the v-line of his lower abdomen, and slowly took out the tip just for you to see how red and hard it had been from eating you out.

“I need you just as bad, sweetheart.” He let out a small groan, pulling it out altogether, pumping up and down using his vibranium digits to relieve the pain he accumulated from months of holding back, pre-cum leaking as he swirled it all around the tip. The other arm was on the very end of the motorcycle seat, so he could have support. Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded, face contorted in pleasure.

You swore you moaned at the sight.

“Are you gonna help me out?” He had a smug grin on his face when he finally opened his eyes fully to see you watching the scene unfold.

“God, yes.”

Bucky grabbed you by the waist and pulled your hips closer to his, you could feel his length twitch against your back as he carefully pushed your stomach down lower, urging you to keep your hands on the throttle as he arched your back in the seat. His hands were on your ass now, drawing near to your glistening cunt.

“You want me this much, sweetheart? Want me to fill you up?” He muttered, breathing near your ear as you can only let out a weak whine in response, softly nodding. From the position alone, you were sure you could cum by then. Not only did you get the chance to be railed by the hottest member of the representative, he was going to rail you completely on his motorcycle. Like it was straight out of a porno, you never realized he had this kink— and you were starting to think that you had it too.

He teased the tip of his aching cock to your wet folds, he didn’t do anything yet, just rubbing it in between, using your wetness as a form of lube— you reckoned it was enough for him to easily push it in, but he wasn’t going to do that just yet. He wanted to savor the moment. You in front of his bike, ass hiked up and pussy just devastatingly ready to swallow him whole.

“Fuck.” He let out a sigh, tucking his strands back that stuck to his forehead from the sweat— because the parking lot had shitty ventilation, like all of them do. “I was so fucking close to bending you over my desk. But this— this is so much better.” He winked at you through the side-view mirror.

“Oh my god, Barnes. Just put it in.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He drew a low chuckle.

Like you had been waiting for an eternity for this to happen— your grandeur visions of delusion finally crawling out from the grave and coming to life to give you a kiss on the cheek and say that it wasn’t actually just your imagination— that Bucky felt the same way as you did about him.

You slightly raised your hips to take him in, wetness dripped down from the seat as he slowly pushed his cock inside. It was hurting— he was too big, too thick, but you took pleasure from the pain. Too eager to take him in, to be deep inside you. Reaching places where your fingers could not comprehend to even go. Meanwhile, the congressman’s eyes were focused on you from the mirror, groaning at how easy he slipped in, and how perfectly his cock fit— like a glove.

“So fucking— tight for me.” Bucky caressed your back, he noticed you struggled from the pain evident in your face as he paused for a brief moment. Waiting for your signal to move. “You’re taking me in so well. So good.”

“Bucky,” You breathed out his name like it was the only word you ever knew. Glancing at him as you slowly grind your hips in a circular motion to test it out. Testing out the ride that you needed to go home. And there, you started to bounce like your life depended on it, taking him in— inch by fucking inch.

You were riding Bucky’s dick on his motorcycle, a line straight out of the fantasies you once touched yourself to.

The sergeant— who was too preoccupied at watching you grind up and down, mouth agape at how his cock glistened by your wetness,

disappearing completely when you went down. His hands travelled to your stomach as he pushed your back against his chest, ripping off the buttons of your blouse to cup your breasts— caressing your nipples along the way.

“Look at you, like a fucking slut on my dick.” Just when you thought it could not get more pleasurable, his digits went to rub your clit in a fast-paced manner, your legs trembling in absolute pleasure.

“Fuck, oh.” You were too lost, drowning in the feel of Bucky’s length as he thrusted upward when you pushed down— the action hitting your g-spot, straight to the core, you swore you felt him through your stomach. “Bucky, oh my god.”

Bucky was close to cumming— embarrassingly close. But you were too good, too sweet for him, and pussy taking him in so well he was sure that it was made for him, just him. He gave out a guttural groan, squeezing your breast as he thrusted even faster, matching the timing of your hips. The motorcycle shaked, struggling to keep up with the momentum.

He did not care anymore whether or not this violates whatever rules there was— the code of conduct. All he needed right now was your pussy.

“B—Bucky, please come inside me.”

Who was he to deny your request?

“Shit.” He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. He quickened his pace, arched your back once more so Bucky could see how it’ll look like to shoot his load inside yours, how his cum will drip down your pussy. You grew conscious of his view and he was smart enough to realize.

“Yeah, baby. I’m gonna cum inside your pretty pussy.” He licked his lips, nearing his release. “Gonna fill you up with my cum.” For a man whose age is a hundred-something, he sure did love to get down and talk filth. Not that you minded, it was hot— he was hot all over.

You were the first to come, thighs shaking and slowing down your motion at the release as it pooled down the ruined motorcycle seat and made a mess on Bucky’s dick. You saw the stars when you rolled your eyes back— hard enough to even see the sunrise preparing to get up a few hours later.

He groaned, shortly following after, thrusting even deeper inside of you, filling your cunt to the brim as he ejaculated. The spurts of cum dripped down the side when he separated from you, fingers entering your folds to put it back in. You hummed in response, body too weak to move. Bucky was pleased, and wasted no time to pick up the pants you left on the floor.

He dressed you up, quite gently, as opposed to railing you hard just a few minutes before. You loved the contrast, but he was— and always had been a gentleman. You stood up to switch places with him, you were getting your real ride home. Covering your blouse, which was missing a few buttons with your blazer.

You gave him a small smirk.

“So, does this mean I’m fired?” You chuckled.

Well, you definitely needed to call in sick for today, not because you were battling a life threatening fever. Calling in sick because your legs were wobbly and cunt fucked to the brim by your boss, who looked at you like you were the only precious thing in the world. It wasn’t fair that your chest tightened immediately.

Bucky gave a hearty laughter— one that was rare to see from him. You must have saved an entire village, or you could’ve been an avenger in your different life to witness it.

“Nah, baby. You’re getting a raise.”

© barnesandashes, 2025.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Little Lady

Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Reader

Summary: A quiet afternoon turns chaotic when Bucky tries to fix the kitchen sink with help from his daughter , only for a hilarious miscommunication through the window with his wife to turn into something unexpectedly tender.

Word count: 1.6K+

Content: nothing but fluff , slight but cute miscommunication , mentions of pregnancy , kissing / flirting (you and bucky)

a/n: ummmm so I just wrote chapter 11 for muscle memory and made myself cry , its the roughest and hardest chapter yet and now needs a trigger warning 😭 so heres this as i needed something to heal my sadness from writing ch. 11.

my masterlist is pinned to find more dad!bucky fics <3

“Okay , Bug , go ahead and hand me the wrench. The little silver one , please.”

Rebecca squinted her blue eyes , her little tongue poking out in concentration as she dug through the open red toolbox beside her tiny feet. 

She wore her purple tutu over jeans—because she liked to be both princess fancy and ready for any emergencies; hint the jeans —and a green t-shirt with a smiling cartoon flower on it. Her wild curls were tucked under a sparkly headband with a crooked plastic tiara hot glued right on top.

“This one , Daddy?” She held up a tool she thought was right.

“Nope , that’s the pliers. Try again.” He peeked from under the sink.

She gave an exaggerated huff , rummaging through the box dramatically. Bucky chuckled from where he lay half-under the kitchen sink , the lower half of his torso sticking out like a mechanic rolled under a car on his back. 

His t-shirt was slightly damp now , his hands and arms slick with water , and his face was already dotted with smudges from the gunk hiding under the pipes. This job had not gone the way he planned.

“You okay down there?” Ladybug , as they affectionately called their daughter asked , squatting beside him  , peering upside down into his face.

The nickname was thought of when her mom was nine months pregnant with her and as she was outside watering her roses a small ladybug landed on the skin where her round belly poked out from under one of Bucky's flannels. And after that the name just stuck.

“Living the dream , sweetheart ,” Bucky deadpanned sarcastically. “Covered in sink crud and existential dread.”

“What’s ‘ex-etn-sescial….” She carried on stumbling over the hard to say word.

Bucky laughed , shaking his head. “Something Daddy gets when he thinks he can fix stuff in one hour. Gimme the wrench and I’ll explain it later.”

She passed the right one this time , smiling proudly when he gave her an approving nod.

“You know,” she began , watching him tighten the bolt , “Mommy’s outside with the flowers. You’re missing it.”

“I know ,” he groaned , making a loud thunk sound come from where he was working. “She escaped before the chaos began.”

Lady Bug tilted her head at him , chewing on her bottom lip. “When you were gone today at the store , I asked Mommy if you were a superhero or  a plumber.”

Bucky turned his head , raising an eyebrow at her. “What’d she say?”

“She said you were the only man she trusted to fix her sink and her heart.”

Bucky blinked , momentarily stunned at such deep words coming from such a tiny girl. “She said that?”

Lady Bug nodded , too young to understand how much that had just melted her dad and cracked his heart wide open. “And then she made the blush face. Like this—” She pulled her cheeks in together and fluttered her lashes dramatically mocking her mom.

“Oh my God ,” Bucky groaned , grinning like a lovestruck idiot. “Okay , Lady Bug , go get Daddy a towel before I start flooding the kitchen.”

“Aye aye , Daddy!” She scurried off down the hall , pink socks skidding on the wooden hardwood floor.

Bucky exhaled and began to wiggle out from under the cabinet , but the second he sat upright—crack���he slammed the top of his head directly into the underside of the sink.

“Shit—!”

He winced and pressed a palm to his head , eyes watering looking around making sure his daughter wasn't nearby to hear the curse he let slip. Through the pain , he noticed the kitchen faucet was finally cooperating—no longer leaking like a waterfall. But now he needed a towel more than ever. His shirt was  sopping wet , his head stung , and water was beginning to drip down into the baseboards from the leftover condensation.

Lady Bug hadn’t come back yet.

He glanced toward the window above the sink and saw you out in the yard , kneeling in the garden bed , arms buried in soil as you coaxed life from the dirt and earth. You wore a loose fitting tank top and Bucky’s old sweatpants , your hair up in a messy twist , and the sun kissed your skin in a way that made his mouth go dry. Then he saw your daughter outside with you. Spinning around chasing a butterfly. 

“Traitor” he whispered to himself letting out a breathy laugh.

You glanced up from the flower bed wiping sweat from your forehead and smiled when you saw him through the kitchen window.

Bucky raised his hand and mimed : washing his hands , scrubbing at the air, then held up two fingers , mouthing, “Two towels.”

You tilted your head at his gestures.

Then… waved.

He blinked. “No, no—” He repeated the gestures: fake-scrubbing , then a two-finger peace sign. Two towels.

You giggled and waved again , this time holding up a peace sign of your own.

He shook his head , smirking despite himself , then mouthed slowly, “TWO TOWELS.”

You pressed a hand to your heart. Then pointed at him and mouthed back, “I love you too.”

He stared through the glass in disbelief. “No—baby—” he said aloud , laughing now. “What is your mom doing?”

“Who’s doing what?” Lady Bug had returned from outside , holding two hand towels in triumph she grabbed from her way back inside. “I got light pink and yellow. The best colors.”

Bucky took the towels with a grateful sigh and pointed toward the window. “Your mom thinks I’m doing some kind of weird love confession out here throwing up peace signs.”

Lady Bug climbed up on the little stool beside the counter with the help from her dad and and peered out. “Aw she’s doing the heart hands!”

Sure enough , you were making a heart shape with your fingers , your grin wide as a summer sky sending air kisses to your two loves inside.

Bucky laughed , wiping his arms and shirt down with the towels trying to get dry. “She thinks I was doing a peace sign and mouthing ‘I love you.’ I mean , she’s not wrong…” He dragged out his words.

Lady Bug turned and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Wait , were you not telling Mommy you love her?”

“I mean , I always am , in general,” Bucky said , wringing out the towel, “but this time I just really needed her to throw me some dry cloth.”

Lady Bug stared at him very seriously. “You know what this means?”

“What?”

“You gotta go kiss her after this. Otherwise she’ll think you’re ignoring her love heart hands”

Bucky smirked. “Her, what now?”

“She did a love heart with her hands.” She got serious hands on her little hips staring at her father.

Bucky gave a mock salute. “Yes , ma’am. Operation Love Mommy is acknowledged.”

°❀⋆🐞.ೃ࿔*:･

By the time he dried off fully , put the tools and box away , and triple-checked that the sink no longer sounded like it was coughing up a lung , Lady Bug had migrated outside to join you again—running barefoot through the grass and singing some made-up theme song.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a moment , arms crossed , just watching the two of you.

You looked up from your rows of lavender when you heard the screen door creak open with a squeal.

“Well hello there ,  handyman,” you teased, brushing your hands on your- his pants..

He wandered out , damp towel slung over his shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“That I am , very very lucky ,” you grinned , standing popping ut your hip with a tease. 

He walked up and wrapped an arm around your wais t, pulling you in to him. “You know I wasn’t peace-signing a love message earlier , right?” 

“I figured that , eventually,” you smirked, “but the way your face was all serious? I thought you were trying to tell me , like, ‘Peace , woman. I’m dying under the sink but I love you.’”

Bucky burst out laughing and nuzzled his face in your neck to high the toothy smile he had plastered on his face. Leaving a few kisses there before pulling back.

“Did you at least get the towels?”

“Yes I did , your tiny sidekick saved the day.”

Lady Bug came skipping up just then at her mention , holding a slightly bent flower in each hand. “Mommy! Daddy! I made a bouquet for you!”

You knelt down to her height , smiling. “It’s beautiful , bug.”

“Mommy! Did you see I fixed the sink? It's all happy and not leaky anymore!” She squeaked giving a cheeky grin to her dad.

Bucky reached over , picked her up effortlessly , and cradled her upside down as she squealed in delight.

“Alright , bug,” he said , spinning her gently, “tell the truth. Who fixed the sink?”

“I supervised! That’s more important!”

You clapped slowly , mock-serious. “She’s not wrong.”

Bucky set her down as she ran off again in the filed and he leaned in close , lips brushing your ear.

“You really said that? About me fixing the sink and your heart?”

You blushed immediately. “That little lady talks too much.”

“She talks just enough,” he murmured , brushing dirt from your jaw. 

You turned to him , voice soft now. “I mean it,  you know. You’ve fixed and healed things in me I didn’t know were broken or bruised.”

He held your gaze for a long moment , blue eyes tender. “Same here , honey.”

Lady Bug appeared between you both , holding up her new bouquet of manly grass this time.

“Kiss Mommy!” she squealed looking up at you two like you hung the stars. 

You laughed , and Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He leaned in and kissed you sweet and slow—dirt-smudged , towel-draped , and barefoot on the lawn with your daughter cheering like she won the biggest prize at the fair.

When he finally  , reluctantly pulled back , you smiled up at him holding up two fingers and whispered, “Two kisses” He laughed again immediately cupping your face , kissing you again.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[imtaashu]

11:11 Theory ✨

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Every night at 11:11, Bucky makes a wish. He never tells you what it is. Until one night—when you wake up, catch him doing it, and everything changes.

Genre: soft angst · established relationship · emotional intimacy · comfort · late-night confessions · wishful thinking · clingy!bucky · hurt/comfort · modern au · tender fluff

Word Count: 1.6k

✍️Author Notes: this is soft. clingy. time-heavy. stargazy. yearning. if you’ve ever looked at someone and thought please, just stay — this is for you. 🕊️🩵

You wake up to the sound of a whisper.

The clock on your nightstand glows faintly—11:11 PM.

And Bucky Barnes is standing at the window, talking to the sky like it’s holding something sacred.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. He doesn’t know you’re awake.

“Please,” he says quietly, hands in the pocket of the hoodie you swore was yours “Just let her stay.”

The moonlight paints him in soft blue. His jaw is clenched, but his shoulders slump like he’s already bracing for a heartbreak he hasn’t earned.

You swallow the lump in your throat and whisper, “Who were you talking to?”

Bucky turns around slowly—like he’s been caught.

Not in something bad. Just something… raw “Didn’t mean to wake you, doll.”

“You didn’t. Just heard you.” You sit up in bed, blanket pulled around your shoulders, waiting.

He hesitates. Then shrugs, looking down “It’s stupid.”

You tilt your head “Try me.”

He walks back toward you, slow, tired, like the weight of what he’s about to say has been sitting on him for years.

“There’s this thing,” he says, eyes flicking to the clock again—11:12 now, and he looks almost disappointed.

“11:11. They say if you think of someone at that time, they’re thinking of you too.”

You nod softly. You’ve heard it before. Wished on it once or twice.

“So you were thinking of me?”

“Always,” he says without hesitation. “But especially then.”

Your breath catches. You never expected him to be the kind of person who makes wishes. Not after everything. Not after what they took from him.

“What do you wish for?”

“I can’t say,” he mumbles. “That’s the rule.”

You smile gently, pat the spot beside you on the bed.

He climbs in, curls into your side like he needs to be there.

He always does that after a long day. After a bad dream. After the kind of ache you can’t name.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

There’s a long pause. Then “I wish I never lose you.”

You exhale “You won’t.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“Because I am.”

His voice cracks a little “I’ve lost a lot of things I thought were permanent.”

“Then let me be temporary,” you whisper back. “As long as I get to stay right now.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours, nose brushing your cheek. You feel the air shift around you—something unspoken blooming in the silence.

Then, softly, he murmurs “Make a wish, sweetheart. It’s still close enough to 11:11.”

So you do. But you don’t wish for anything new. You just wish to stay.

Right there. With him. As long as time allows.

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

🕰️ epilogue

He sets his phone to alert him at 11:11 every night now. Not because he needs the reminder-but because he likes it. Likes having a moment to stop and whisper your name into the quiet. To remind the universe what matters. Even if you’re right beside him. Even if you’re already his. “One more day. That’s all I ask. One more day with her.” And somehow, someway.. the universe listens.🩷

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌 @nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster🎀🩷

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[mohish-ko]

✦ But you did it anyway

[iamthatonefangirl]

simple - nsfw dbf!bucky barnes

word count: 3.4k based on this ask. disclaimer: uncle kink. (not actual uncle, it's reader's dad's best friend.) all characters are 18+. you have been warned. read at your own discretion. *please note: there was no grooming and no attraction on Bucky's end until a few years after reader was an adult. a/n: uh heavy on the feels because I can. I'm sorry this is crap... I haven't properly written in a long time. this is the one that was supposed to be titled 'older' but I renamed it.

series masterlist.

~~~

there's something in the way he looks at you that makes you feel like you're on a pedestal. like you're the only thing worth looking at, the only thing he could ever want to look at.

the way his gaze lingers even in mixed company. when he's supposed to be careful, cautious. when you're supposed to be nothing more than close family friends.

he can't help it. neither of you can, really.

even when you feel like all you see in his eyes is that insatiable hunger, that deep-seated lust that's all for you, you know he cares. even when you're getting lost in the sensation of him taking you from behind, gripping your throat tightly, whispering all his dirty thoughts in your ear...

he's never been anything but good to you.

that time when you were 16 and greened out so badly you were afraid you might die. your friends were too high to be of any help, and no way in hell would you dare call your parents. Bucky was the one you called, the one who picked you up and looked after you.

that time when you were 17, late for class, and your car wouldn't turn over. you couldn't bother your dad at work. Bucky would peel himself out of bed just to take you to school, only for you to come home that afternoon and find out he stayed home from work just to fix your car for you.

he was always there when you needed him, and he never once told your parents anything they didn't need to know.

he was your dad's best friend, one of the people you trusted most with your secrets, your life.

he was just your Uncle Bucky, and that was that.

everything that he was feeling for you was brand fucking new, the lines always so clear cut for him. one day you were just his best friend's kid, and the next? it was like a switch flipped.

whatever he saw in you was fresh. he was in the honeymoon phase of being attracted to you, you could say.

it just wasn't the same for you that it was for him.

you've loved him for so fucking long.

~~~

you were already nursing a headache when your mom told you he was coming over for Saturday night dinner.

you forced yourself out of bed and made yourself look at least partially presentable. you wanted to complain, to argue that you weren't in the mood.

you knew what the answer would be.

"he's family, honey."

if only it were that simple for you.

you ignored him when he texted you before heading over.

"excited to see me, baby?"

that answer wasn't simple, either.

none of them understood. how could they?

the way you trusted him more than anyone else on the planet. how you'd idolized him even as a child, watching him open beer bottles with his bare hands and showing you how to use power tools.

the fact that he was the reason you'd elected to go to university so far away. how you thought that maybe, just maybe, you could move on from him by going far, far away. that you'd find a smart guy your age who would distract you from the desperation you felt for the one man you could never have. who would make you forget about the feelings that drowned you all through your high school years.

that was utter bullshit, clearly.

even worse is that now, you have him, the man you dreamt of having for so long.

just not wholly. not the way you want to have him.

when you're with him, it's like a shot of adrenaline injected straight into your veins. it feels like you're on a high, like you're on top the world. he makes you feel that way: strong. impermeable.

but adrenaline wears off. it's never permanent. it just gives you a taste of how you want to feel all the time; it's easy to forget that it's overshadowed by the fact that it's all artificial.

that it's not fucking real.

so, no. none of this is simple for you the way it is for them.

~~~

at dinner, when your parents asked Bucky about the woman he'd been seeing, you practically flinched in surprise.

"it's nothing serious," he told them, "we're taking it as it comes."

wait, what?

he was seeing someone?

who?

how did you not know about this?

oh.

you recalled the time they'd asked, and he'd lied to throw them off the scent of what the hell was actually happening here. you'd pretended to go along with it, pretended that you had known and were keeping his secret for him.

you were his secret.

his words were deliberate, carefully chosen yet perceived to be casual enough that there wouldn't be too many follow-up questions. you couldn't help but wonder, though: did he actually mean what he was saying? to them, he was speaking about some fake relationship, but...

was he trying to tell you something?

enough. you're reading way too much into this.

don't pay attention to the way he's not looking over at you. or how he's not cracking any jokes like he normally does. or how he sounds like he means what he's saying.

"what's her name?"

the ache in your head throbs harder. you try not to listen as he rattles off some random name in response to the question.

you still hear it, her name, not yours. your thoughts are buried in doubts. concern. wariness.

is it a fake name? is she someone he actually knows? someone he's actually interested in?

fuck, what's wrong with you?

why do you feel so distraught?

why are you not here right now?

~~~

you're lying in bed hours later, your head still pounding, when your phone rings on the pillow next to you. of course, when you look at the screen, it's none other than Bucky.

you look at the picture that covers the entirety of the screen as your phone continues to vibrate in your grasp. it's a 0.5 image you took of him the weekend your parents went out of town. his eyes are wide as he gazes up at the screen, a hint of a smile on his face even though he tries to quell it away for the picture.

he was always there to soothe your anxiety about the situation, especially that weekend. he's good at it, too, a calming presence within the battle that your mind constantly wages against itself.

but the more you do this, the more you sneak around, continue to do things you shouldn't be doing...

the less you worry about getting caught, and the more you worry about what he thinks of you.

you watch as the 0.5 disappears from your screen, the call going to voicemail. the voicemail automatically begins to transcribe his words on your screen.

"hey, kid," it reads, "worried about you. call me back."

and everything you're panicked about suddenly seems inconsequential. he just said he's worried about you. of course he cares, don't be silly.

you open the phone to call him back, pressing your aching head back down on the pillow and holding the phone to your ear.

he immediately picks up after the first ring and begins grilling you without hesitation.

"hey, what's going on?" he asks you.

"sorry. migraine."

"well, shit, you know what fixes a headache, kid," he teases, trying to sound lighthearted.

except you're already upset. you're already wound so tight, so caught up in your concerns with this whole thing, that his comment just pisses you off.

"not everything is about sex, Bucky," you hiss back into the phone, glaring at it out of the corner of your eye as though you'd glare at him if he were standing in front of you.

he goes quiet for a minute.

you know he was just trying to help. there's nothing he can do for you from through the phone, and he just wanted to make you smile-

"are you pissed because of what I said at dinner?" he asks you suddenly.

shit. no. he can't know this runs deeper than jealousy. yeah, jealousy sounds better, you think, than letting him know how you're really feeling.

"who is she?" you ask before he can speak up again.

"she's nobody," he clarifies.

"oh, she's nobody, huh? really? do I need to worry about getting a fucking STD?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, I meant she's literally nobody," he growls into the phone. "it was a fake fucking name. she doesn't exist."

oh.

you're expecting him to be mad, to be upset with you for the implication of your words.

"do you really take me for the type to step out on you?"

wait.

what?

what the fuck does he mean by that? step out on you?

that makes it sound like he's committed. that you're exclusive. like you're in an actual relationship.

is that how he sees it? how he sees you?

you ignore it. you have to ignore it, because if you let yourself contemplate his syntax, if you let yourself read too much into it... you know you'll only end up heartbroken.

"I'm sorry, Bucky," you tell him honestly. "I didn't mean to imply you were some kind of... manwhore, or anything."

that must have been the right thing to say, because he actually laughs in response.

"yeah, okay, kid," he chuckles. "I get it. but seriously, watch your mouth next time."

"yeah. sorry," you mumble into the phone.

you both go quiet for a few moments, nothing but the sound of his muffled breathing in your ear until he speaks again.

"your head bothering you that bad?" he asks.

"yeah. not fun," you tell him, trying to deflect as best you can.

"anything I can do?" he asks, but before you can answer, he continues, "I meant what I said, by the way, about headaches. it can't hurt to try, right?"

"oh, it absolutely can," you tell him. "I think you just want to listen to me masturbate."

"can't it be a little of both? help me help you?" he says, and you can just hear the smirk in his voice.

you're rolling your eyes to yourself at his audacity, at the same time, you're already standing to lock your door and putting your earbuds in.

"I should hang up on you," you taunt him through the phone as you shove your sweatpants down to your knees.

"you wouldn't dare," he challenges you, "I know how badly you need my help, kid."

"I am capable of getting myself off without you," you argue back. "total shocker, I know."

"oh, but that's no fun," he tells you, lowering his voice. "isn't it so much easier with my voice in your ears? can you honestly tell me that you soak your fuckin' panties as quickly when I'm not there, hmm?"

your face burns with every word he says. he knows what he's doing to you, trying to turn your body against you to prove the claim he's implying.

"you think you're that good, huh?" you mumble back to him, slipping your fingers under the fabric of your underwear. "well, you're gonna have to do better than that."

"if you were here right now, baby, I'd make you feel so good. forget all about your silly little headache."

"thanks for the reminder," you grumble back.

"tell me I don't make you feel better than anyone else ever has, even your own damn self."

the whine that escapes your throat is entirely unintentional, answering his question without a single word in response.

"that's right. it's only Uncle Bucky, huh?"

"get off your high horse and tell me what to do," you practically order him.

as he talks you through it over the phone, you're blissfully unaware of what's going through his head. his curiosity, his intrigue based on what you've seemed to indicate to him.

he's not one to forget anything when it comes to you.

"come over tomorrow, headache or not, got it?"

~~~

lucky for you, the headache dissipates by the following day, along with the brain fog and the worst of your anxieties.

not all of them, though.

he keeps you on your toes constantly, continually confusing you with every contradictory phrase he says.

"it's nothing serious."

"I'm worried about you, kid."

"do you really take me for the type to step out on you?"

he cares. there's not a doubt about that.

but how much does he care? is he capable of caring about you the way you care about him?

clearly, there's a part of him that feels possessive over you, what with how often he taunts you about how easily you fall apart for him, only for him. and now, he's confirmed to you that he's not sleeping with anyone else.

this shouldn't be this difficult. you shouldn't be thinking into this so much. you're having sex, nothing more.

you pull yourself together and force yourself not to panic on the drive to his house. you try to put it out of your mind, knowing that once he's got his hands on you, it'll all go away.

well, that's what you thought.

you should've known better than to put it past him that he wouldn't grill you about your subconscious admission the evening before.

~~~

the second you get inside the door, he's dragging you to his bed, stripping you as he goes, leaving a trail of clothes behind him.

you should've known the second you got there that he was already on a tear, barely able to wait to bury his fingers in your soaking wet hole before he begins interrogating you, forcing you into a spotlight you don't want to be in.

"tell me babygirl, how many boys you let fuck my pussy 'fore me, huh?" he taunts, his lips so close to your ear that even if you tried, even though you want to, you can't escape the question. can't escape the answer you fear might scare him off.

you don't respond, hoping that maybe it's rhetorical, another off-handed inquiry that only serves to fuel the heat of the moment.

it's not.

"come on, babygirl, tell me," he encourages.

with a particularly rough thrust of his fingers inside you, the word rips itself from your lips before you can stop it.

"one," you moan out, and by that point, the damage is done, you think. "fuck, just one, Bucky. but please don't stop," you beg of him.

his motions slow, and you grow concerned. you've made him uncomfortable.

you're done for.

"how many times?" he whispers into your ear, and now, his voice is lower. rougher.

"only a few," you admit to him. fuck, you told yourself you wouldn't do this. you wouldn't let him know that this had any bearing on you personally, fuck.

but then he's looking into your eyes, and shit, his pupils are huge, eyes blackened with lust.

"fuck, babygirl," he mutters before crashing his lips to yours again, his fingers speeding their motions inside you once more. he presses up against that spot that makes always makes your whole body jerk, and you cry out into the room.

"should've been me," he grits. "bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? you'd have let me take your virginity, wouldn't you have, hmm?"

"yes," you breathe out, unable to think about what you're saying. "fuck, yes, Bucky..."

"you've thought about it, too, haven't you?" he smirks, once again easing up on the way he's fucking you on his fingers. "tell me."

oh no.

"just fuck me, Bucky, come on," you plead with him. that's far too close to home, too close to everything you've been trying so hard to conceal from him.

"oh no, you're not getting out of this so easily," he taunts, stilling his hand entirely. you want to whine and beg for him to keep going, but you know the only way you're going to get what you want is by giving him what he wants.

you swallow your pride. he hasn't run away yet, you reason with yourself. he won't run away now.

"yeah, Bucky, I have," you admit quietly. it's fucking embarrassing, if you think about it; you don't really feel like laying all your secrets out on the table for him.

and then you open your eyes to see his looking down into yours, and while it's clear his desire is still coursing through his veins, you see the authenticity and genuine interest in his gaze.

he removes his hand from between your legs as you begin speaking in earnest.

"I've had a crush on you since I was a kid, Bucky," you tell him, even though the admission might just kill you from the inside out, might just mean the end of this. "of course I always wondered what it would be like if it was you."

you feel like your ribs are being carved out of your chest, and your stomach is in knots.

"so, yeah, Bucky. I imagined it a million different ways, a million different times, for years. are you happy now?"

time to get up and run away from the pure humiliation you've just subjected yourself to.

he doesn't quite know what to say. what you've just told him is so honest and raw, and it pulls at his heartstrings. it all makes sense now, the way you acted the night before, all of it.

this is all so much more to you than he realized.

he has to take a minute to consider his next actions.

to your surprise, he brings his lips to yours once more. "I'm here now. that's all that matters," he reminds you, voice hoarse. his hand finds its way back to where you're dripping for him, kissing you softly as he works you open on his flesh fingers.

not long after, he begins running his mouth again. he just can't help himself as the thoughts pool in his head, so he whispers to you, "you know how many of your firsts I do have, pretty girl?"

your body jolts at the thought.

"did he make you come?" he questions. your mind goes into overdrive, realizing where Bucky's going with this, and it only makes your body burn warmer under his touch.

"no," you tell him. "had to do it myself."

you can practically hear the way he's smirking, happy with your answer, and his thumb presses against your clit. "fuck," you hiss as he simply holds it there, not applying enough pressure you need for it to bring you closer to the edge.

"there's one. I'm the first to ever make you come, ain't that right?"

he sounds so pleased with himself, as though he's just won the highest award that can be bestowed upon a person. maybe to him, this is that.

"please, need more," you plead as he continues to taunt you. his thumb holds you in limbo with the promise of more, if only you can convince him to give it to you.

"nuh-uh, no. I decide when you come. you hear me? gonna be the only man to ever make you come, ever," he hisses, that possessive edge of his flaring up and making you shiver.

you try not to get in your head about the reality of what he's saying to you right now. it's all talk, a means of getting off...

"yes, Bucky, only you," you affirm. "please, I want you to fuck me, the way only you can," you plead.

"ohhh, but you know better by now," he chides. "you know how to get what you want."

you whine, still in your head about everything he's saying.

"you know you love it. I know you do. say it, and I'll fuck you so good that no other man will ever compare," he goads.

what he doesn't know is that what he's saying is already true. you're already ruined, cursed to a life of wanting him, even when this all falls apart and you're forced to pretend to move on.

"please, Uncle Bucky," you give in. "I only want you."

~~~

if you were confused before, it's nothing compared to how you feel now.

he spoke to you like...

like he wanted you. to himself.

like he actually wants you the same way you want him.

except now he's asleep, cuddling up to you from behind, and you have to go home before your parents get suspicious.

what the fuck are you supposed to do now?

your headache is back.

~~~

masterlist

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bucky tag list part 1: (send an ask or dm to be removed)

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[shadyfestivalperfection]

Tony:“You deserve someone who can spoil you in every way, sweetheart.”

Bucky:“You deserve someone who’d kill for you. Like, literally.”

Y/N (smirking):“Why not both? I’ll let one of you feed me strawberries while the other buries the body.”

Tony:“…I can buy the strawberries.”

Bucky:“…I’ve got a shovel.”

Y/N:“Great. Boys, behave. I’ll be back in an hour. Try not to kill each other before dessert.”

[freakrenaissance]

I love the mixture of sweet and feral in this fic! Just what I was looking for 🤤 perfection!

Bucky feral over pregnant reader

Pure pregnancy fluff and filth. This was meant to be pure fluff and then as usual, I got carried away, idk why I decided to make it this dirty. 

I can’t get over Bucky being obsessed with you carrying his baby. Yes he’s excited to be a dad but there’s something about the fact that it’s you. You’re pregnant because of him, it’s his little one in your perfect belly. Every tiny change he notices in your body makes him swoon from, from your swollen achy feet to your tender breasts, and your slightly plumper cheeks. 

He fucking loves it. 

Your his baby mama and nothing else matters, he’s so proud and in love with you. The swell of your tummy makes his heart beat faster, and the more it grows, the more irresistible he finds you.

Keep reading

[nostarfights]

Stay A Little Longer

Pairing: congressman!Bucky Barnes X fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky spend a quiet morning together before he has to leave for the day.

Warnings: Cuddling, kissing, established relationship, reader making Bucky late for work and a little cursing.

Word Count: 2K

a/n: i’ve been in my bucky brain rot era recently so here’s yet another bucky oneshot lol

the photos below do not belong to me

It was a quiet sunny Monday morning when you woke up, the only sounds flowing through you and Bucky’s bedroom being the soft sound of Bucky’s snoring and Alpine’s gentle purring. You felt incredibly calm as you laid next to your sweet boyfriend and cat and if you could, you’d stay here with the two of them forever. 

A smile slowly broke out across your face as you continued to lay there in your beloved spot in his arms and you relished in this moment before Bucky soon woke up, he always did as if he had some sort of sixth sense for when you woke up or left the bed. 

And just as you had predicted, his blue eyes began to slowly open a few minutes later while the sun filled the room with a warm, comforting glow. He tightened his once loose arms around you and brought your body closer to his own, prompting you to rest your head on his bare chest once more while your legs became tangled underneath the blanket on your bed.

“Good morning, sweetheart. What time is it?” he softly said, still partially half-asleep, while he placed his right hand on your cheek and slowly tilted your head up so that your eyes met his, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips once they were within reach.

“Good morning. It's 6:30.” you replied in between kisses, desperately trying to stop yourself from brightly grinning as you kissed him back. 

As Bucky processed this information, a mild shocked feeling washed over him. He’d woken up before his alarm had gone off for once. But even so, he still had only an hour left to go until he would have to leave you and Alpine and go to work. But he promised himself that he would cherish every minute of the time he had left with you this morning.

—-----------------------------------

The next thirty minutes you and Bucky spent together in bed before he had to start getting ready for the day flew by and before you knew it, it was now time for him to leave your warm, soft bed, making you frown as you watched him get up. 

He opened his mouth to speak as you followed him into the kitchen, “I promise that I’ll be back in your arms before you know it.” he said with a soft smile as he walked backwards into the room, addressing the frown that was still present on your face, making that frown turn into a smirk as an idea quickly popped into your head. 

Your idea was that once Bucky sat down on your bed to get dressed, you were going to convince him to stay home with you a little while longer by running your fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp. That always got him to melt like ice in your hands. And sure, you knew that you were probably going to make him late but all you wanted was at least ten extra minutes with Bucky this morning.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked while he quickly grabbed a few things from your fridge and began to make breakfast for you and him on the stove, his back to you as that smirk on your face turned into a grin. 

“It’s nothing, I was just thinking of something funny I saw on TikTok the other day.” you explained as you leaned against the counter, trying to hold a laugh back so that you wouldn’t give yourself away.

Which worked, “Okay, doll, if you say so.” Bucky said, dragging out the last word as a grin rolled out across his own lips. He didn’t believe you, knowing that you were probably plotting something, but he let it go anyway.

Soon enough, Bucky was done making the quick breakfast he whipped up for the two of you each weekday morning. He then carried your two plates over to your living room, setting them down on the coffee table while you followed and sat down next to him.

And as you sat there, your thighs touching due to how close you were to each other, you spoke again, “What’re you getting up to today?” you asked him, making him smile as he told you about all of his plans for the day. 

From the boring meeting he had to attend in a few hours to the speech he had to prepare this afternoon, you listened intently to every single thing he told you in this moment as you leaned back on the couch and rested one of your legs over his. And once he was done speaking, you told him about your own plans today and how you’d been dreading the presentation you were supposed to give today. 

“I’m sure it’ll go great, doll and if it doesn’t, I’m always just one phone call away.” he reassured you as he held out his pinky, prompting you to take it in yours and shake your two fingers together.

“I know, I’m just nervous is all.” you explained, eliciting an understanding nod from him as you looked into his eyes. 

Once you were both done eating breakfast not long after this conversation ended, Bucky picked up both plates and set them down in the sink as you followed him into the bathroom, he’d deal with the dishes later when he got home from work that evening. 

You admired his reflection in the mirror as he combed out his shoulder length hair and as much as you loved his short hair as well, seeing him with longer hair made you feel as if you were falling in love with him all over again. It reminded you of how he looked when you first met him all those years ago.

And while Bucky started to brush his teeth a few minutes later, thoughts of you easily began to fill his mind. 

He thought about how gentle, understanding and loving you’d always been with him, especially when you first met. He thought about the slow, quiet mornings you’d spent together like this one and how they included some of his favorite moments he’s ever spent with you. He thought about the first time he ever told you that he loved you and how you were able to make him feel human again.

As soon as he was done getting ready in the bathroom, he then followed you out to the kitchen where you started to make his lunch for today, a simple pb&j sandwich. Your cheeks blushed as he appeared behind you and pressed kisses to your cheeks and neck as he wrapped his arms around your waist and you cut the crusts off of the bread. “Bucky!” you softly said as you held back a smile, making him laugh a little.

He had never forced you to make him lunch, he was completely fine with doing it himself and you knew that but insisted on it anyway. You wanted to do something nice for him, something that would remind him of you whenever he opened his lunchbox in his office during his break.

When you finished preparing the sandwich a few minutes later, you safely placed it in a sandwich bag, put it inside his lunch box where his water bottle already resided and zipped it shut. Now that that was done with, you then walked with Bucky back to your bedroom and picked out his clothes for the day, a white undershirt, a white button up that always hugged his muscles in a way that made your heart pound, a black blazer and black dress pants.

You watched him with admiration in your eyes once more as he sat down on the edge of the bed and started to get undressed, the clothes he’d picked out now sitting folded up next to him. He looked so handsome, breathtakingly so. You wanted to stare at him forever as if he was going to disappear the second you looked away from him.

“What’re you looking at?” he asked as he buttoned his shirt up, a shy smile on his face as you sat down next to him and began to run your fingers through his soft hair.

“Nothing, I’m just so in love with you, Bucky.” you told him, causing his cheeks to blush as he looked at you and took your free hand in his. 

As you spoke, you let your fingers sink down to his roots and started to massage Bucky’s scalp, making his eyes shut almost right away. This feeling as well as your presence always comforted him and made him feel safe. Like he could finally let his tense shoulders drop for once and all his worries melt away. 

“Stay a little longer? Please.” you asked as you inched yourself closer to him, resting your legs over his once again.

“Whatever you want, baby.” he muttered in response as he let himself fall back onto the mattress below him, no longer caring that he had to leave for work in five minutes.

And as you laid down with him, your head resting on his chest and your hand still in his hair, Bucky felt himself grow sleepy almost in an instant.

You’d always been great at relaxing him, making him wish for just a second that he hadn’t given into the feeling of your hand in his hair but he did it anyway because even though he knew he’d end up being late, he hated being away from you so he was perfectly content with being a little late as long as that meant he got to be with you for longer. 

He was so in love with you and would do anything to spend every single minute he had to spare with you, no matter if it got him in trouble at work or with his friends. He would do whatever he possibly could to ensure that you were always happy.

The longer you laid there together, the sleepier the two of you became and soon enough you started to doze off. But all too soon fifteen minutes after you initially laid down with him, Bucky’s phone started to loudly ring from its spot on his bedside table, causing you both to abruptly wake up. His assistant, Chris, was calling him. 

He then sleepily reached as far as he could and retrieved his phone, “Hello?” Bucky said as you sat up, his sleepiness very evident in his voice.

“Sir, where are you? The meeting starts in twenty minutes!” Bucky’s assistant said, making him perk immediately.

“Right, shit. I’m so sorry. I’ll be there soon.” Bucky replied before he then hung up and started to finish getting ready.

A frown appeared on Bucky’s face once he became fully dressed, “I’m so sorry, doll but I gotta go.” he explained, now standing in front of where you were still sitting on the bed as he slipped his shoes on. You frowned back at him as you stood up, you knew your plan wouldn’t keep him home for long but you were still sad to see him go.

“It’s okay, we’ll see each other again soon.” you replied as you softly smiled at him and fixed his messy hair. 

“I’ll call you on my lunch break, okay?” he promised as you walked over to your front door with him, grabbing his bag for him on the way there.

“Okay, Bucky. I love you.” you told him while you stood up on your tippy toes a little and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” he replied after he’d kissed you back, his arms wrapped tightly around you, making you blush for what felt like the millionth time that morning.

And before you could completely close the front door once Bucky was out in the hallway just moments later after your drawn out goodbye, he blew you a kiss through the crack in the door. “I love you, baby!” he said somewhat loudly while he started to walk away, causing your skin to break out in goosebumps as you giggled. 

Now that he was gone, it was time for you to get ready for your own job and finally feed a now hungry, screaming Alpine.

NAVIGATION send me a request!

[onlyforsebastianstan]

Lessons

Summary:

You and Bucky Barnes have always been close — the kind of best friends who share inside jokes, midnight snacks, and quiet truths. He sees you as someone to protect. Nothing more.

But after a night out with friends, where the conversation turned toward sex. Something you’ve never experienced, a curiosity sparked in you. Nervous and innocent, you turned to the one person you trusted most

“What does sex feel like?”

At first, Bucky laughed it off. Then he grew quiet. Your questions didn’t stop and after days of soft, awkward tension, Bucky gave in.

Genre:

NSFW | Smut | Soft Emotional Tension | (eventual smut, pregnancy themes, emotional intensity) | Friends-to-Lovers

Rating: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!

You and Bucky had been best friends for years, your bond built on late-night talks, shared pizza, and an unspoken trust that ran deeper than words. To Bucky, you were family—someone he’d protect with his life, no hint of romance in his steady blue gaze. He was your safe haven, the one person you could ask anything without judgment, and you were his reminder that the world could still be soft.

It all started at a meetup with your friends. The conversation had turned to sex, their stories spilling out with knowing laughs and vivid details. You stayed quiet, cheeks burning, as their words painted a world you’d never touched. A virgin, you’d never felt the urgency to change that, but their stories stirred something—curiosity, sharp and persistent. What did it feel like? The heat, the closeness, the intensity they described—what was it really?

Later that night, sprawled on your couch with Bucky, a half-eaten pizza box between you, the question gnawed at you. The TV droned on, but your mind was elsewhere. You fidgeted, twisting the hem of your sweater, heart pounding as you tried to find the words. Finally, you mumbled, barely audible, “Bucky… what’s it like? Sex, I mean.”

He froze, soda can halfway to his lips, his eyes flicking to yours. “What?”

You cringed, wishing you could sink into the couch. “I—I heard my friends talking, and I’ve never… I just want to know what it’s like. Sorry, it’s stupid.”

He set the can down, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint flush creeping up his face. “It’s not stupid. It’s… hard to describe. It’s intense, I guess. Physical. Different for everyone.” His voice was gruff, and he quickly changed the subject, tossing you a playful jab about your terrible taste in pizza toppings.

But the question didn’t fade. Over the next few days, your curiosity grew, and you couldn’t stop yourself from asking again.

At first, it was small—innocent questions about what made it special, how it felt to be that vulnerable, even what “cumming” meant, though you were too shy to say the word outright.

Bucky answered awkwardly, his responses short, his discomfort obvious. He’d deflect with a joke or a quick subject change, but your persistence wore him down, your naivety disarming in a way he couldn’t ignore.

One night, at his place, you were both sitting on his bed, a scattered deck of cards from a lazy game between you. You’d been pressing him with questions again, your voice softer each time, your shyness making the air heavy.

Finally, you couldn’t hold it back anymore. Staring at your hands, you whispered, “Bucky… would you… show me? Like, do it with me? Just so I know what it’s like?”

His head snapped up, eyes wide with shock. “What? You’re serious?”

You nodded, face burning, unable to meet his gaze. “I trust you. You’re my best friend. I just… I want to understand, and I don’t want it to be with anyone else. Please?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Doll, that’s… a big ask. You sure you’ve thought this through? We’re friends. This could make things weird.”

“I know,” you said, voice small but firm. “But I trust you more than anyone. I don’t want it to mean anything… romantic. Just… help me understand.”

He studied you for a long moment, his jaw tight, the protective part of him warring with your request. Finally, he sighed, his voice low. “Okay. But only if you’re absolutely sure. And we stop the second you’re not okay with it. Promise.”

“I promise,” you said, heart racing, a mix of nerves and excitement swirling in your chest.

He shifted closer, his movements slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to back out. “Alright,” he murmured, his flesh hand reaching out to rest lightly on your shoulder. “We’ll go slow. You tell me what you’re feeling, okay?”

You nodded, scooting closer, your knee brushing his. The air felt heavier, charged with something new but still grounded in the trust between you.

He guided you to lie back, his weight braced on his elbows as he hovered over you, his expression serious but kind.

“It’s about feeling close,” he said softly, his hand sliding to your arm, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “Letting someone in, physically. It’s a lot, but I’ve got you.”

You swallowed, nodding, your pulse hammering as his hands moved carefully, lifting the hem of your shirt. You shivered at the contrast of his flesh hand, warm and steady, and the cool brush of his metal fingers. He paused, checking your face. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice shaky but certain.

He continued, slow and deliberate, shedding your clothes and his own with a clinical sort of care, keeping it as unromantic as possible. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but his presence was a steady anchor. When you were both bare, he guided your hands to his shoulders, letting you feel the solidity of him.

“Touch helps,” he said, voice low. “Makes it real. You ready for more?”

You nodded, and he shifted, positioning himself carefully. His hands found your hips, steadying you as he explained each step, his voice a quiet rumble. “It might feel strange at first. Just breathe, okay?”

When he entered you, the sensation was overwhelming—full, intense, a stretch that made you gasp. He froze, eyes searching yours. “You okay? Need me to stop?”

“No,” you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Just… go slow.”

He did, moving with a careful rhythm, watching your every reaction. With a muffled groan “Fuck… you’re so tight.”

The initial discomfort faded, replaced by a warmth that built with each movement, a connection that was physical but still tethered to the trust between you. His hands stayed on your hips, guiding you, teaching you how to move with him. The sensation grew, a slow burn that spread through you, making you cling to him tighter.

It was strange, new, but not unpleasant—a heat that coiled tighter with every thrust, every shift of his body against yours.

You felt something building, a pressure you didn’t understand, your breaths coming faster, your body tensing. “Bucky,” you gasped, voice trembling with confusion, “w-wait… I feel something coming out”

He slowed slightly, his eyes softening as he recognized your innocence. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice steady, reassuring. “You’re feeling it build. It’s okay. Just let go, doll. Let your body do what it wants.”

“Let go?” you repeated, uncertain, your fingers tightening on his shoulders as the sensation grew sharper, almost overwhelming.

“Yeah,” he said, his metal hand sliding to your lower back, cool against your flushed skin. “Don’t fight it. Just let it happen. I’ve got you.”

You nodded, trusting him completely, and focused on the feeling—the way his movements sent sparks through you, the way the pressure coiled tighter, like a spring ready to snap. His rhythm stayed steady, deliberate, his flesh hand gripping your hip as he guided you, his breaths ragged but controlled. The heat of his skin against yours, the slight roughness of his calloused fingers, the way his muscles flexed under your touch—it all blended into a haze of sensation, pulling you under.

When it hit, it was like nothing you’d ever felt—a rush that made your whole body tremble, a gasp tearing from your throat as you arched against him. “Bucky,” you whimpered, clinging to him, overwhelmed by the intensity.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice low, encouraging. “You’re doing great. Just ride it out.”

He kept moving, slower now, letting you feel every wave, every pulse, until the sensation ebbed, leaving you breathless.

“F-fuck..” he followed, a low groan escaping him as he stilled, his forehead resting against your shoulder for a brief moment. Neither of you spoke, the air heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

He pulled back, grabbing a blanket to drape over you both, his movements quick, almost guilty. “Shit,” he muttered, sitting up, his eyes wide with realization. “We didn’t… I didn’t use anything. Protection.”

You froze, the implications hitting you. “Oh,” you said, voice small. “I… didn’t think about that.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, panic flickering in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should’ve thought—should’ve been more careful. You’re my best friend, I wasn’t supposed to let it go this far.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing it. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

He looked at you, his expression torn between guilt and the same protective instinct that always defined him. “It’s not okay. I’m supposed to look out for you, not… complicate things.”

“It’s not complicated,” you said, though your voice wavered. But as you sat there, wrapped in the blanket, his hand still in yours, you felt it—a subtle shift, something unspoken that neither of you could name. You were still friends, still tethered by that unshakable bond, but the air between you felt different, heavier, like you’d crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said finally, his voice steady again. “Whatever happens, I’ve got your back. Always.”

And as you leaned against him, his arm settling around you in that familiar, protective way, you knew he meant it. Whatever this was, whatever it meant, you’d face it together.

A week later, you were back at Bucky’s place, sitting on his couch, the memory of that night tucked away like a secret neither of you acknowledged. But your curiosity hadn’t faded—if anything, it had grown, the experience leaving you with more questions than answers. You fidgeted, picking at a loose thread on your jeans, your heart pounding as you gathered the courage to speak.

“Bucky,” you started, voice barely above a whisper, “could we… do it again? Another lesson, I mean.”

He froze, his coffee mug halfway to his lips, his eyes snapping to yours. “You’re serious?” His voice was laced with disbelief, his brows furrowing. “After last time? You sure about this?”

You nodded, cheeks burning, your shyness making it hard to meet his gaze. “I just… I want to learn more. I trust you, and I don’t want it to be with just anyone. Please, Buck. Can we just… keep it like it was? No strings, no changing anything between us?”

He set the mug down, running a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “Doll, this… it’s risky. We got lucky last time, but we can’t mess up like that again. And what if it does change things? You’re my best friend. I don’t want to screw that up.”

“It won’t,” you said, voice firm despite your nerves. “I promise. It’s just… learning. Like before. We’ll keep it separate, like it never happened. Deal?”

He studied you for a long moment, his protective instincts warring with your earnest plea. Finally, he sighed, nodding reluctantly. “Alright. Deal. But we’re being careful this time. No mistakes. And you say stop, we stop. Got it?”

“Got it,” you said, relief flooding you.

He stood, disappearing into his bedroom and returning with a small foil packet, holding it up with a pointed look. “No repeats of last time. We’re doing this right.”

You nodded, heart racing as you followed him to the bedroom. The air was different this time—still grounded in trust, but with a mutual understanding that this was just a lesson, nothing more. He was careful, deliberate, slipping on the condom before guiding you to the bed. This time, he suggested a new position—lying on your side, one leg draped over his hip, his hands guiding you into place.

“It’s about angles,” he said, voice low, clinical, like he was teaching you a skill. “Changes how it feels. Just relax, okay?”

You did, letting him guide you, the sensation different but just as intense. His movements were slow, controlled, his hands steady on your hips as he taught you how to move with him. The lesson was practical, focused, his demeanor that of a friend helping you learn, nothing more. When that pressure built again, you recognized it this time, and he noticed your tension.

“Just let go,” he said, his voice steady, encouraging but detached. “You’ve got this.”

You did, trembling as the wave hit, and he followed shortly after, keeping the moment brief, functional. Afterward, you both got dressed, slipped back into your usual banter—joking about his terrible coffee, arguing over what to watch next—like nothing had happened. It was your agreement: no strings, no complications, just lessons.

It became a weekly ritual, always at his place, always with the same rules. Each time, he taught you something new—a different position, a different way to move. One week, it was you on top, his hands guiding your hips as he showed you how to set the pace, his voice calm and instructional. Another, it was against the wall, his strength holding you steady as he explained the mechanics, his tone practical. Each lesson was clinical in intent, grounded in your trust, with protection always used after that first scare. Afterward, you’d both act like it never happened—back to pizza nights, bad TV, and inside jokes, your friendship unchanged, the lessons tucked away like a separate compartment.

Through it all, Bucky remained your best friend—protective, steady, never letting the lessons bleed into your bond. You laughed together, shared secrets, leaned on each other, just as you always had. The moments in his bedroom were just that—moments, sealed off from the rest of your lives.

The team gathering was loud, filled with laughter and clinking glasses, but everything seemed to mute the moment Bucky walked in with Lia. She was new to the team, her smile bright and her charm effortless, drawing eyes like a magnet. Bucky’s arm was slung casually around her shoulders, his grin easy as he introduced her to the group. “This is Lia,” he said, his voice warm, almost proud. “New recruit, and she’s already kicking ass.”

You stood near the bar, your drink forgotten in your hand, the sight of them together hitting like a punch to the gut. Lia laughed at something Bucky whispered, her hand resting lightly on his chest, and your heart twisted. You forced a smile when Bucky’s eyes met yours, giving a small nod as if everything was fine. But it wasn’t.

Later that week, you were at Bucky’s apartment, sprawled on his couch like always, expecting another lesson. The lessons had started months ago, a practical arrangement to help you navigate your inexperience with sex. Bucky had been patient, guiding you with a mix of gentle instruction and intense focus, teaching you not just about touch but about trust, about feeling safe in your own skin. Those moments had shifted something in you, blurring the line between friendship and something deeper, though you’d never dared name it.

He sat across from you now, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The air felt heavy, wrong. He cleared his throat, avoiding your gaze. “We need to stop the lessons,” he said, his voice low, steady, but laced with something you couldn’t place. “I’m with Lia now. It’s… not right to keep this up.”

The words landed like a blade, sharp and sudden. You froze, your breath catching, a dull ache blooming in your chest. “Oh,” you managed, forcing your voice to stay even. “Yeah, okay. That makes sense.”

He finally looked at you, his blue eyes unreadable, searching your face for something. “You’re still my friend. That doesn’t change.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, keeping the hurt from spilling over. “Right. Still us.”

But it wasn’t. The lessons stopped, and Bucky’s world filled with Lia—dinners, missions, quiet moments that used to be yours. You’d catch glimpses of them: Lia’s hand in his, the way he’d lean into her, his laugh softer than it ever was with you. The distance carved a quiet pain in you, one you couldn’t shake. The lessons had changed you, not just in how you understood your body, but in how you wanted to be loved—touched with care, trusted completely, the way Bucky had shown you. Now, seeing him with Lia, you felt the loss of that closeness like a missing limb, a longing you hadn’t expected.

Determined to move forward, you turned to Steve. He’d always been a steady presence, his warm smile and quiet strength a comfort. You started spending more time with him—training in the gym, grabbing coffee, talking late into the night about art, old movies, and the world before everything got so complicated.

Steve was a gentleman in every sense, his kindness unwavering, and you felt a spark of something more, a possibility of a partner. But every time you laughed with him, every time his hand brushed yours, your mind drifted to Bucky—the way his hands had felt, steady and sure, the way he’d guided you with patience, the way he’d made you feel safe.

You wanted that physical connection again, that raw intimacy, but Steve was too respectful, too proper. Asking him for something so vulnerable felt wrong, like it would fracture the gentle bond you were building. So you buried the desire, focusing on the friendship blossoming with Steve.

What you didn’t see was how it was affecting Bucky. He’d watch you and Steve in the training room, your laughter echoing as you dodged a punch, and something dark would flicker in his eyes. He’d clench his jaw when Steve’s hand lingered on your shoulder, a possessiveness he hadn’t expected simmering beneath the surface.

He told himself it was nothing, that he’d made the right choice. But the sight of you with Steve gnawed at him, a quiet storm building in his chest.

One night, after a long mission debrief, the compound’s common room was empty except for you and Bucky. The others had left, their voices fading down the hall, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.

You were gathering your things, ready to head out, when you noticed Bucky standing across the room, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. The air crackled with unspoken tension, weeks of distance piling up between you.

“You and Steve seem close,” he said, his voice low, an edge to it you didn’t recognize.

You paused, glancing at him, trying to keep it light. “He’s a good friend. Like you.”

His jaw tightened, and he took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Like me?”

The question hit like a spark, catching you off guard. You frowned, setting your bag down. “What’s that supposed to mean, Buck?”

He flinched, but didn’t back down, his voice sharper now. “The lessons you had with a friend like me, you do it with him too?”

The words stung, igniting a mix of anger and hurt in your chest. You stood, stepping toward him, your voice rising. “What the hell, Bucky?”

He closed the distance, his eyes dark, intense, his voice dropping to a growl. “You think Steve can make you feel the way I did? The way I made you shake, the way you clung to me when you let go?”

Your breath caught, his words slicing through you, stirring memories of his hands, his voice, the way he’d unraveled you. He was close now, too close, his presence overwhelming, his scent familiar and dizzying.

“You think you’re the only one who can fuck me?”

That was all it took. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him, his touch possessive, almost desperate. “You don’t get it,” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips brushing your ear. “I trained your body to respond to me. No one else can break you the way I do”

“Bucky,” you whispered, your hands gripping his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. “Lia—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw. “Just… don’t.”

His lips crashed into yours, urgent, hungry, like he was trying to reclaim something he’d lost. You melted into him, the months of distance dissolving in the heat of his touch.

Clothes were shed in a rush, no thought, no plan, just need. Your shirt hit the floor, his followed, and soon you were pressed against the couch, his body over yours, his hands everywhere. He tugged your pants down, his fingers deft, and you gasped as his touch found your skin, sparking heat that made your head spin.

“Bucky,” you breathed, your hands roaming his back, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath his skin. “We shouldn’t—”

“Tell me to stop,” he growled, his lips grazing your neck, his hands gripping your hips. “Tell me, and I will.”

You couldn’t. You didn’t want to. Instead, you pulled him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders. He groaned, low and rough, and when he entered you, it was raw, unprotected, a reckless breaking of every boundary you’d set.

The sensation was overwhelming, sharper without the barrier, every movement sending shocks of pleasure through you. His pace was urgent, possessive, his hips driving against yours with a rhythm that left you breathless. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, angling deeper, and you gasped, your body arching against him.

“God,” he muttered, his voice rough against your ear, his breath hot. “You feel so good. So damn perfect.”

You clung to him, your body trembling as the pressure built, every thrust pulling you closer to the edge. His hands roamed, one sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over sensitive skin, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open for him. “Tell me,” he growled, his voice low, almost desperate. “Does Steve do this to you? Does he make you feel this?”

“No,” you gasped, your head thrown back, your body shaking as the pleasure coiled tighter. “Only you. Only you, Bucky.”

His name on your lips seemed to snap something in him. His pace quickened, his movements rougher, more intense, like he was claiming you, marking you. The couch creaked beneath you, the room filled with the sounds of your gasps, his low groans, the raw urgency of it all.

Your hands found his hair, tugging him closer, needing him, needing this. The pressure built, overwhelming, and when it hit, it was like a tidal wave, your body arching, a cry escaping as you let go, trembling beneath him. He followed moments later, a low groan rumbling through him as he stilled, his body tense, the weight of the moment crashing over you both.

For a heartbeat, you stayed there, tangled, breathless, your heart pounding against his. His forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, his hands still gripping you like he couldn’t let go. But then reality seeped in, cold and sharp. He pulled back, his expression closing off, his eyes shadowed.

“This was a mistake,” he said, his voice hollow, barely above a whisper. “I can’t… I can’t do this. Lia, you… it’s not fair.”

“Bucky, wait—” you started, reaching for him, your voice breaking, but he was already standing, pulling on his clothes with quick, jerky movements, his back to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at you, his voice tight.

You sat up, pulling a blanket over yourself, the ache in your chest sharper now, a mix of longing and regret. “Bucky, please, just talk to me.”

He paused at the door, his hand on the frame, his shoulders tense. “I can’t,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Not now.”

And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone on the couch, the weight of what just happened settling like a stone in your chest.

[pankowcrumbs]

Delicate love X Bucky

MasterList

Marvel MasterList

Plot: You find out Bucky has a file on you and how can you possibly trust him now.

Trust is a delicate thing.

It doesn’t shatter all at once. It cracks. Slowly. Quietly. And by the time you realise it’s broken, it’s already too late.

I suppose I should have seen the signs. The way Bucky would avoid my eyes when I asked certain questions. How he'd come home late and kiss my forehead rather than my lips. How his mind would wander when he thought I wasn’t looking.

But I loved him.

God, I loved him.

So I didn’t ask. I didn’t dig. I just believed.

We’d been together nearly two years. In that time, Bucky had gone from the haunted soldier with a history soaked in red, to the man who would make tea in the morning and hold me close at night. We built a life together. A quiet one. A soft one. I thought we’d made it through the worst.

Until I found the file.

I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for a charger in his bottom drawer. He always kept spare cables in there. What I found instead was a sleek, black folder. S.H.I.E.L.D. stamped across the top.

I hesitated. I knew it wasn’t meant for my eyes.

But my name was written on the tab.

My stomach twisted.

I opened it with shaking fingers. And there it was.

My full file. Where I’d been stationed during my humanitarian deployment in Sokovia. Where I lived before that. Family history. Medical records. Surveillance images. A copy of my birth certificate.

And tucked in the back a contract.

Assignment: Y/N L/N Target status: LOW THREAT Engagement objective: Gain intel and assess allegiance to Sokovian resistance cells. Agent: James Buchanan Barnes

My knees gave out.

I sat on the floor, the file spread in front of me like a crime scene.

It was a joke. A sick, cruel joke.

But I couldn’t laugh.

Because every memory every kiss, every whispered I love you was suddenly thrown into question.

Was I ever anything more than a mission?

He came home a few hours later.

I didn’t even look at him. I sat on the sofa, the file on the table. When he walked in and saw it, the colour drained from his face.

"Y/N..."

"Don’t," I said, my voice hollow.

He reached for me, but I stood up sharply. "Don’t touch me."

“Let me explain.”

“Oh, you want to explain why you used me? Lied to me? Slept next to me every night while reporting back on me like I was some kind of what? Threat?”

“I wasn’t reporting anymore,” he said, his voice rough. “Not for a long time. At first, yes. It was an assignment. But then it became real. You became real.”

Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them away. “Don’t insult me with that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No,” I said. “The truth is in that file.”

He looked at me helplessly. “I was trying to protect you.”

“By lying to me?”

“By keeping you close. By making sure you weren’t on anyone’s radar.”

I laughed, bitter. “You don’t get to make those decisions for me, Bucky.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then I said it.

Words I didn’t even know I was thinking until they left my mouth.

“I would have taken a bullet for you just to prove my love… only to realise you were the one holding the gun.”

His eyes flinched like I’d physically struck him. And in some ways, maybe I had.

I left that night.

Packed a bag and didn’t look back.

He didn’t chase me.

I think he knew better.

Weeks passed.

Each day felt like dragging my heart behind me. I moved in with a friend across the city and buried myself in routine. Work. Sleep. Repeat. I kept expecting the pain to dull, but it stayed sharp. Like a knife I couldn’t pull out.

Bucky tried calling. Once. Then twice. Then every day for a week. I never answered.

Eventually, he stopped.

Or maybe I just blocked the number.

Then came the letter.

No postage stamp. Just slipped under the door.

My name written in careful handwriting I knew better than my own.

Inside was a single page.

Y/N,

I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t even expect an answer.

But I want you to know I resigned from S.H.I.E.L.D. The moment you found out. I couldn’t stomach the idea of standing for an organisation that asked me to manipulate someone like that someone like you.

I’m in therapy. Real therapy. Not just missions and debriefs.

I know I hurt you. I know I lost you. But I’ll keep working to be the kind of man who never would’ve accepted that assignment to begin with.

You were never just a mission. You were my peace.

– Bucky

I sat on the floor, holding the letter, my heart thundering in my chest.

It didn’t change what he did.

But it showed me he was trying.

Three months later, I saw him again.

It was a coincidence. A street market. I was with a friend, and there he was, across the stalls, holding a bag of apples. He looked different. Softer. Quieter. There were shadows under his eyes, but his posture was less guarded.

Our eyes met.

He didn’t move toward me. He didn’t smile.

He just nodded. A small, respectful nod.

And then he turned away.

I don’t know why, but that made me cry.

Because he wasn’t chasing me.

He was letting me go.

It started with the flowers.

The first bouquet arrived on a rainy Wednesday, two months after I’d seen him at the street market. I opened my front door to find them sitting in a brown paper wrap no card, no note, but I knew who they were from.

Peonies. My favourite. I’d told him that once, in passing.

The next week, it was chamomile and daisies.

Then it was sunflowers.

Always left gently at the door. Never accompanied by knocks or footsteps. Just quiet gestures.

I didn’t send any messages. I didn’t return any favours.

But I also didn’t throw them away.

I placed them in jars and let them bloom on my windowsill, the way I had once bloomed in his arms.

He didn’t push.

Not even once.

No texts. No calls. No showing up at my flat or waiting outside my job.

Just… space.

And that space, instead of staying bitter and cold, started to soften. The ache in my chest that once howled with betrayal began to whisper something else something quieter, almost like understanding.

It wasn’t until I saw Sam Wilson by chance at a community centre fundraiser that I heard anything more about Bucky.

“He’s different,” Sam said simply, after we made polite conversation and I couldn’t help asking. “He’s still Bucky. Still stubborn. Still learning how to open up without feeling like he’s exposing a wound.”

I nodded, unsure how to reply.

“But he’s doing the work,” Sam added. “Not for anyone. For himself.”

There was something solid in that. Something real. It stuck with me.

One morning, I found a card with the flowers.

It wasn’t romantic or sentimental. Just a line:

"If you ever want to talk not about us, just about anything I’ll be in the park on Sunday mornings. Same bench." – B

I kept the card on the fridge for a week before I gave in.

That Sunday, I walked to the park, my fingers cold inside my coat pockets. I didn’t expect him to be there. I half hoped he wouldn’t be.

But he was.

Sitting on the bench under the big elm tree, hands resting on his knees, a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. His hair was longer now, tucked behind his ears. He looked up and smiled not big, not assuming just a soft pull of his lips like he couldn’t quite believe I’d come.

I sat beside him. No words.

The wind rustled through the leaves above us.

“You look well,” he said after a moment.

“So do you.”

We sat there for twenty minutes. Talking about everything except us. The bakery down the road. A book I was reading. His recent fascination with pottery, of all things.

I walked away that day lighter than I had in months.

It became a thing. Sundays.

No pressure. No expectations.

Sometimes we’d just sit in silence. Sometimes we’d talk for hours. He never brought up the past unless I did.

And I did eventually.

One cold morning, coffee steaming in my hands, I asked, “What made you stop pretending?”

He took his time answering.

“You did,” he said. “Loving you scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know how to love without hurting someone… until you. And when I realised I’d hurt you too it broke something in me. I knew I had to fix it. Not to win you back. Just to be someone who deserved the kind of love you gave.”

I said nothing.

But something in me started to thaw.

He invited me to his therapy session one day.

“I won’t be upset if you say no,” he said. “I just thought maybe… hearing it might help.”

So I went.

I listened as he talked about his past, his regrets, his guilt. He spoke openly raw, but steady.

He didn’t hide from what he’d done.

He acknowledged it.

He was rebuilding himself, brick by brick.

Not for me.

But I was welcome to watch.

He didn’t kiss me the first time I let him walk me home.

He didn’t try.

He just looked at me, eyes so blue and tired and full of hope, and said, “I’m really glad you came today.”

So was I.

Six months after I found the file, he asked if he could take me somewhere.

“Not a date,” he said quickly. “Just… a breather. For both of us.”

“Where?”

“Italy.”

I blinked. “Italy?”

He scratched the back of his neck, bashful. “There’s this little town near Lake Como. Peaceful. No tourists this time of year. I thought maybe you could use a change of scene. No pressure.”

I should’ve said no. It was mad. Reckless.

But I didn’t.

I said yes.

It was perfect.

Not in a cinematic, romantic way. But in its slowness. Its intention.

He was present. Every moment.

He cooked for me in the little villa. Pasta from scratch, fumbling his way through the sauce with a grin. We walked through old markets, sat on sun-warmed stones by the lake, shared stories in candlelight without once looking at our phones.

He asked questions. Listened. Laughed with me, not at me.

He looked at me like I was his world and not because he needed something from me.

Because he finally understood my worth.

On our last night, as we watched the sun dip below the hills, he reached for my hand.

“I almost lost you,” he said softly. “And I’ll never forgive myself for that. But I want you to know… I’ve spent every day since working to become the kind of man who’d never make you feel unworthy again.”

Tears stung my eyes.

“I couldn’t lose you, Y/N. You were the best thing in my life. I had to do the hard work not just for you, but so that I never become a danger to the people I love again. Even myself.”

I squeezed his hand.

“I see you trying, Bucky.”

“And?”

“And I love the man you’re becoming.”

We didn’t kiss that night.

We just held each other.

And in his arms, I finally felt safe again not because he was shielding me from the world, but because he was no longer someone I needed protection from.

[wildflowersandvibranium]

A Cozy Fourth Of July

I recommend listening to the song COZY by JEREMY ZUCKER while reading as it’s inspired by it <3

Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: On a chaotic Fourth of July , Bucky Barnes battles old memories beneath fireworks , but finds safety and solace in the unwavering love who never stops reaching for him.

Word count: 2.1k+

Content: hurt / comfort , angst and fluff , mentions and scenes of of PTSD , anxiety / panic , kissing

a/n: hai my loves! tysm for all who voted on the poll this was made from! If you were hopin for the other prompt my inbox is open for requests hehe

I hope you enjoy and have a safe and happy fourth for all who celebrate! see you on the next one bbys!

my masterlist is pinned!

The warm savory scent of grilled street corn and charcoal smoke from the grill drifted on the early evening breeze , laughter rising in spurts from the backyard as giggling kids chased each other with sparklers and sticky fingers. 

A classic and joyful Fourth of July party. Patriotic decor and flags hung lazily over the wooden porch railings , music from a bluetooth speaker floated out over the large freshly cut lawn , and someone was already breaking out the potato salad. It was a perfect evening.

Bucky Barnes stood just inside the open glass sliding door , a golden beer bottle in one hand , the other brushing lightly against yours as you scanned the yard full of people. Your family was loud , chaotic in the most loving way and a little crazy. 

There was always someone talking , someone yelling for a dish to be brought out or the ice chest to be refilled , someone laughing hard enough to make their whole body shake. He should’ve felt overwhelmed already , but you had a way of keeping him anchored.

“You doing okay?” you peered up at him , nudging his arm. His knuckles brushed yours. That simple touch had become something of a tight tether.

“Yeah ,” Bucky glanced at you then added a little nod. “I’m alright. Just... watching.”

“You’re allowed to sit , y’know. No one’s making you stand guard.” You nudged and whispered so only he heard.

His lips curved into a half-smile. “Old habits.”

“I know” You led him out into the yard , easing him into a lawn chair near the picnic tables while a few younger cousins gathered at his feet , inexplicably drawn to him. 

Kids had a weird magnet type radar for soft-hearted people hiding behind stoic faces , and Bucky—despite the dark stubble and biceps and history , was no exception.

“Did you really fight aliens?” asked your little cousin Mateo , green eyes wide as saucers , mouth sticky and wet with watermelon.

Bucky smirked at the kid. “Yeah.”

“Were they , like, hugeeee?”

“Some of ’em.”

“Did you punch any of them?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yep.” Popping the “p”.

Mateo’s whole body bounced with excitement and awe. “COOOOL!”

You tried not to laugh too loudly at the boy. He was trying so hard to be normal and calm.  And this? This kind of attention? It helped. Watching him gently mess and pull down Mateo’s baseball cap playfully  , answering question after question , even showing the metal arm when asked ( kids loved the metal arm)—it was progress.

Then came your grandmother.

“James ,” she said , her voice like honey and pepper , hands on her hips , she was one of the very few people who refused to call him by his nickname. “You still haven’t eaten anything. My granddaughter told me you were strong as an ox. Oxen eat,  you know dear.”

He blinked at her ways , then chuckled. “Yes , ma’am.”

“Oh nonse, enough of the “ma’am” , Eat!. Get yourself a plate before I start piling it on myself. You won’t like that. I don’t believe in small portions.” She winked walking away back to the food tables.

Bucky leaned toward you as she left, whispering in your ear, “She scares me a little.”

“She should ,” you grinned, grabbing his bicep. “She once made an ICE agent cry.”

As a hazey purple dusk settled in the sky and the first firework went off—small , whistling up into the air before bursting with a polite pink pop—you instinctively touched Bucky’s hand.

His jaw twitched. “I’m okay,” he murmured.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. These… these are okay. When I know they’re coming , it’s different. When I can see the people lighting them. It’s the surprise ones that—”

He trailed off , but you nodded. You knew. And when the sky flickered pink and green with another burst , you kept your hand right on his thigh , grounding him with nothing more than your presence.

More people showed up. Chairs shuffled. Fire pits flickered to life. A group of teenagers was setting up a bigger batch of fireworks , the kind that boomed louder , lit up more sky brightly. You didn’t love those for your own reasons , but Bucky…

You kept checking in. And then it felt like pure chaos burst right open.

Mateo tripped near the stone path to the front door , catching his little knee on the edge of rock. He screamed like he’d been stabbed or broken and bone , and a crowd gathered in seconds. 

You rushed to him as you were closets , hands already reaching into your pocket for tissues and wipes. The scrape wasn’t too bad , but he was inconsolable in the way only six-year-olds could be. Between soothing him and shooing off hovering worried relatives , it took a minute before you looked back to where you and Bucky had been sitting.

Gone. Empty.

You stood up , eyes sweeping the yard and street. Fireworks were going off now in steady booming waves. People were whooping , cheering. An older cousin shoved a Roman candle at his buddy nearly missing him making an older unt curse at them for being reckless. 

Bucky wasn’t at the picnic tables. Not sitting on the porch. Not in any of the lawn chairs.

“Where’d Bucky go?” you asked no one in particular. They were too busy watching the show in the sky.

Panic set in , low and heavy in your chest.

You turned and ran straight toward the house. Not walking. Sprinting.

The house inside was quieter. Not silent—the muffled cracks of fireworks still bled in through the walls—but it was dim , still , and closed off from the relentless chaos outside.

“Bucky?” you called out , crossing to the kitchen. No answer.

You moved fast , checking the guest bathroom , the study.  Nothing. You headed down the hallway toward the your bedroom your family had lent you for the weekend.

Your chest was tight now with fear and worry. That pressure in the center of your ribs you only got when you knew something was wrong before you saw it. 

You creaked and opened the bedroom door slowly.

“Bucky?” you say again , softer now.

Silence.

Until a barely audible—a sound reaches your ears.

You crouched looking for the noise. Peeking under the bed.

And there he was. Your love.

Curled in on himself. Shoulders shaking. Fists clenched so tight the metal one was digging into the hardwood floor. His eyes were shut , hard , tight , like he was bracing for the impact of something destructive and terrible.

Your heart immediately sank to your knees. You dropped to him , flat to the floor , then slid and rolled under the bed with him , not caring if the dust stuck to your clothes or if the wood frame pressed into your hip.

“Bucky,” you reach out but stopping just short of touching him. “You’re safe. You’re not back there.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did , but his brain was still locked in that place , wherever it had yanked him right back to. That place with screaming and metal and chaos and death. That place he didn’t talk about in detail.

You scooted closer and cupped his scruffy cheek carefully , your voice firmer now , but steady and calm.

“James. You’re home. You’re not in the past. You’re not a soldier tonight. You’re not alone. Look at me.”

Still nothing. You inhaled sharply. Two words shook him out of his trance.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

His eyes snapped open like a switch had been flipped abruptly.

Wide. Unfocused. Searching.

But on you. Never leaving you.

“Hi ,” you whispered , your voice breaking. “I’m here. You’re safe. I got you.”

Bucky’s eyes filled with moisture. The tension that had been holding him upright collapsed all at once, and he lunged—not violently , but desperately , into you. His hands found your shirt , grabbed tight , and he pulled himself into your chest like he needed to disappear into you.

You cradled his head against you , wrapping your arms around his trembling frame. Still beneath the bed. Still dark. Fireworks still going off outside. But in this small space , it was just you and him.

His voice was barely audible muffled by your body. “I couldn’t breathe.”

“I know”

“I couldn’t tell where I was.”

“I know , baby.”

You stayed like that for some minutes , maybe ten , maybe thirty. His breath evened out but he didn’t let go. You didn’t ask him to.

Then a louder more intense bang then crackle went off outside. Closer this time. Bucky flinched so hard he nearly hit the slats with his head under the bed.

“Okay,” you whispered quickly. “Okay. One sec.”

You slid out from under the bed , but didn’t let go of his hand. You reached up blindly and grabbed your headphones from the nightstand , then the weighted blanket you slept with every night.

You crawled back under and slid up beside him , slipping the headphones gently over his ears , kissing his temple as you did. You tapped your phone , pulling up a playlist you’d made for him , songs he mentioned he loved. A quiet vintage piano melody filled the headphones. You could hear it faintly through the foam coverings.

Then , slowly , you draped the soft grey weighted blanket over the both of you , cocooning him and yourself in that soothing safe pressure and warmth.

He closed his eyes again—but this time , not in panic. In rest.

You pulled your phone out again and opened the family group chat. Being mindful not to turn off the music as you typed up a message.

>>> Hey , if anyone needs me and Bucky , text me. Please don’t come inside our room. He’s okay now , just needs quiet.

Then you tossed your phone aside and wrapped both arms around him under the blanket , your head tucking under his chin.

You didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stayed. Placing a few kisses here and their to his chest and shoulder every once ina while.

His fingers found yours eventually through the third or fourth song , linking and lacing tight.

The playlist looped through soft piano and ambient strings , a lull beneath the weight of the blanket and the world surrounding.

Under the bed , it was cramped and getting warm but neither of you moved.

Bucky’s breathing had evened out into a slow pace , chest rising and falling steadily. His grip on your fingers and hands never loosened. He held on like you were the only thing tethering him to this century , to this very moemnt. Maybe you were.

Eventually afte the fireworks began to calm for a moment , his voice cracked the silence. Low. Fragile.

“I’m sorry.”

You turned your head up to look at him , your eyes meeting his ocean ones. “What for?”

He hesitated running a hand up and down your back , soothing him and you. “Ruining the night.”

You scoffed , gentle but real keeping your eyes on him. “You didn’t ruin anything..”

Another pause. Then again.

“For scaring you.”

“You didn’t scare me ,  Buck.” Your thumb rubbed over his metal knuckles kissing each one , a gesture you did to show you weren't afraid of that part of him.  “But I hate seeing you hurting like that. This is not your fault. Your brain’s just... wired to panic when it hears war outside.”

He exhaled , shakily. “It’s so stupid. I knew there’d be fireworks. I prepared. I told myself I was fine. But then I wasn’t. And I couldn’t control it.”

“ PTSD is not something you logic your way out of. It’s not about being strong.” You said plainly.

“I should’ve told you I felt it coming on.”

“You didn’t have to. I could tell.” You smiled softly , even though he wasn’t looking at your eyes anymore. “That’s why I kept checking in. You don’t have to carry that alone anymore , Bucky.”

His eyes shifted toward you. 

You continued your words. “You’re not some broken thing we have to fix. You’re healing. And that’s messy. Some days there are fireworks. Some days are quiet and peaceful. Either way , I’m here. Right here. I’ll always be right here.”

He blinked hard , trapping the tears that formed behind his eyes , then nodded , swallowing against the tightness in his throat.

The blanket shifted slightly as he leaned in closer , pressing his forehead gently to yours. His voice was rough. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You didn’t answer. Just kissed the corner of his mouth , his nose then back to his lips , slow and light , your hand brushing over the stubble on his cheek as you did.

Outside , the fireworks kept cracking. Bright colors flashing through the curtains lighting up the room. People still shouting , cheering.

But in here—under a bed , wrapped in a heavy blanket and the softness of your love—Bucky Barnes was safe.

And for the first time in a long time , he finally believed it.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[paperjunk]

i lost it watching Bucky walk around the edges of the fight dodging that sign like 'please'. only to lay him flat a minute later like 'get the fuck outta here with that!' XD

[thefourthnorn]

Old man and his speaker phone

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES Thunderbolts*/ The New Avengers (2025) | Dir. Jake Schreier

[barnesnatts]

Sebastian Stan as Bucky Barnes in ‘THUNDERBOLTS: THE NEW AVENGERS’