#bucky barnes x m reader

[ironboyxs]

Let me take care of you

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Male Reader

Word count: 912

p.s. this was a request from the lovely @megamonstermuffin, I'm sorry it took so long, I'm in a bit of a creative block, but I plan to write a lot next month! in fact, I want to post a list of which fandons I write for, so stay tuned. and always remembering REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

They were tired, but Y/N particularly was exhausted. Being an Avenger was definitely not an easy task, especially when you're not a super soldier with enormous stamina and strength greater than most people.

Y/N knew how to handle himself of course, Doctor Strange didn't take him in as his apprentice just because the boy was kind, he took him in because he was very skilled with magic. But magic can be tiring, and very tiring.

Y/N and James opened the door to their newly rented apartment, they had been living together for a month. And almost two years they were together as a couple.

Him and Bucky together was something no one predicted, not even themselves, but it was one of the best things that could have happened to both of them. Y/N was lonely, he had already learned to fend for himself on the streets of New York for some time when Stephen Strange found him, Bucky was a man out of his time, and the recent “loss” of his best friend, Steve Rogers, it made him feel even more out of place.

The two were people who didn't fit into society very well, but they found the perfect fit in each other.

"Are you okay magic boy?" - Bucky asked as soon as they arrived home.

"You know I hate that nickname" - Y/N said.

"But you're really magical" - Bucky said giving his boyfriend a kiss

Y/N liked that side of Bucky, the side of him that flirted with the boy, that was romantic, flirtatious and playful, Bucky didn't show that side to everyone.

'But seriously, you look very tired, I know today was difficult for all of us." - Bucky said again.

"Well, I may be magical but I don't have the physical resistance of a super soldier, my love."

"Come, I'll draw a bath and make our dinner."

"Bucky, there's no need, I know you're tired too".

Bucky looked seriously at his boyfriend and placed his hands on his face.

"Let me take care of you, please?"

"How can I resist those big blue eyes? Alright, let's go."

Y/N was still getting used to having someone take care of him, he had forgotten what that was like, he spent so much time taking care of himself that sometimes when people offered to help him, he felt like he was bothering them.

Bucky smiled as he looked at his boyfriend, recognizing Y/N's reluctance to accept help. He knew that his boyfriend was used to taking care of himself, but he also wanted to show that he was there to share the burden of the difficulties.

While preparing a relaxing bath, Bucky took out his phone and connected a device to the speaker, his playlist of relaxing music started playing. Soft music began to fill the apartment, creating a serene atmosphere. After a while Bucky called for his boyfriend.

"Y/N, I know it's hard to accept help sometimes, but you're not bothering me. I want to do this for you. Let me take care of you today." - He asked once again with his big, asking blue eyes.

Y/N sighed, feeling the warmth of Bucky's words. He allowed himself to accept that affectionate gesture, something that was still new to him, even after so long of the relationship.

The bath was prepared with scented salts, creating an aromatic cloud that hovered in the air. Bucky helped Y/N undress and gently led him into the hot water. He sat next to his boyfriend, gently massaging his shoulders as the water washed over them.

"Relax, my love. I'll take care of everything tonight" - Bucky said, kissing the back of his boyfriend's head.

There was another thing that Y/N couldn't get used to, in the best way possible. Whenever he felt Bucky's touches it was like he was being transported directly to paradise. His boyfriend's lips were perfect against his skin, and the mixed sensation of a flesh arm and a metal arm was incredible.

Y/N allowed himself to close his eyes, leaning against Bucky's chest. The soft music and gentle touches helped soothe his tired mind and body.

After the shower, Bucky prepared a comforting meal, something simple and delicious that they both loved. They sat at the table, sharing laughter and conversation, enjoying each other's company.

After dinner, Bucky took Y/N in his arms and carried him to the couch. He covered them with a soft blanket as they watched a movie, cuddling and exchanging subtle touches.

As the night came to an end, Y/N snuggled into Bucky's arms, feeling loved and cared for. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips, silently thankful for having someone like Bucky by his side.

That night, Bucky took care of Y/N not just with gestures, but with all the love and affection he could offer, promising to be there for his beloved, no matter the circumstances.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

11. Palmiers

Bucky

Because he’s on the far end of the spectrum, Bucky’s sex drive is affected by his condition. He wakes up hard almost every morning of his life, and Steve doesn’t need much encouragement to get himself worked up into the same state very quickly. Mutual morning jerk offs were always bound to become part of their routine.

They take a shower and stand toe to toe, hands sliding and groping all over each others’ slick bodies, pulling on their cocks until both of them are shooting off against each other’s bellies. The water washes it away, and Steve gives him a deep, happy kiss. “Mmm. Mornin’.”

“Blegch. Go brush your teeth, you heathen.”

Steve laughs and gets out of the shower. Bucky stays in for a few minutes longer, adjusting the spray to its hardest setting and letting the hot water beat down on his back and shoulders. He sighs and stretches his neck this way and that, trying to get his vertebrae to pop, but his muscles are all too tight, and the stretching just seems to make it worse. Bucky drops his head in defeat. In all honesty, his shoulders and neck and back are all pretty fucked after months of near-constant use of his prosthetic.

Steve’s right: he doesn’t usually wear it this much. And he’s also right that Bucky’s been wearing it all day every day because he wants to feel powerful and able bodied in front of Mary. As per usual, Steve is the first one to have noticed what maladaptive behavior pattern he’s doing and why, and pointed it out to him. It really is for the best, Bucky knows. Because he can’t sustain wearing the arm all the time anymore. The thing is just too damn heavy.

The engineers who designed it have made tweaks and adjustments over the years. They’ve done all they can to lighten the load as much as possible, but the thing still weighs over twenty pounds. Twenty pounds doesn’t sound like much, but when it’s pulling on the same muscle groups day in and day out, everything in Bucky’s body winds up getting strained and unbalanced. He understands better now, how women fuck up their necks so badly from shouldering their purses (or their tits) around. A little bit of weight makes a big difference.

As a Dom, Bucky may have a tiny problem admitting when he needs help. He has to be in quite a bit of pain, trouble, or both, before he’ll ever speak up and allow himself to be vulnerable like that. It’s an inherent behavior that shrinks have been trying to therapize and medicate out of him since he was a kid, but nothing ever changed it much. Falling in love with Steve helped; Bucky can let himself be more vulnerable around him. But even still, it’s no small thing that he regularly approaches his husband to ask for help in getting his arm back on correctly (Bucky can do it, but it’s a pain in the ass, getting the mechanism lined up just right before it’ll take). 

He gets out of the shower and dries off, then approaches Steve with the prosthesis. “Gimme a hand?” 

Steve makes a cheerful noise of acknowledgement around his mouthful of toothpaste, spits and rinses, then takes the arm from Bucky. He lines it up just so, and then Bucky feels the deep shudder of the arm’s inner workings coming to life as they recognize their mate. The arm attaches and Steve lets go. 

“Thanks babe.”

“Uh huh.” 

It’s as Bucky’s bending over and pulling up his underwear and joggers that a spasm runs through his back and he cries out in a pained, “Ah!”

“Babe? What’s wrong?”

Gritting his teeth, Bucky slowly stands back up. He’s able to get his pants up, but when he tests the movement of his neck and shoulders, the pain flares again. It feels like everything between the base of his skull and his mid back is seizing up. “Fuck,” he hisses, frustrated. It’s his day off. He’d been planning to go to the gym for his long workout. 

Steve steps up and puts a worried hand on his left shoulder. “Babe? Do you need it off?” 

“No. I need some painkillers and a magnesium tablet,” he grunts, already turning around (full body, because turning his head is a bad idea right now). “Fuck.” He starts off for the kitchen. 

Steve follows along with worried protests, telling him to lay his “stubborn ass” down and he’ll get it for him. Bucky ignores him and goes to the kitchen cabinet where they keep their supplement stuff. He winds up yelling again when he tries to reach up and grab the ibuprofen. “Fuck!” he says angrily.

“Babe, I said to let me do it,” Steve scolds, his hand back on Bucky’s shoulder. “And let me take this off. It’s hurting you.”

“Steve, back off,” he snaps, angry and waspish from being in pain, and from being frustrated with his own goddamn body. 

“What’s going on?” 

Bucky turns his head without thinking, hisses in pain, and then turns himself full-body to face in Mary’s direction. She’s standing there looking at the two of them in concern, one hand holding one of those swirly, flaky, crack-cookies that she makes, and the other holding a cup of tea. Her eyes widen at the sight of Bucky’s arm and body, reminding him that this is the first time she’s seen him without a shirt on. “Nothin’,” Bucky grunts.

“Shit,” she says. “Are you guys fighting? Is this a couples’ fight? I’ll just …” She turns to leave back towards her room.

“We’re not fighting,” Steve says. “Buck’s just being an ass. He gets that way when he’s in pain.”

Bucky would turn his head to glare at him, but it isn’t worth another flair of agony in his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says, when Mary comes back over. “It’s fine,” he stresses. He opens the pill bottle and dumps three capsules into his palm. “Jeez, will everybody stop babying me? I just need a glass of water.” 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says, causing Bucky to huff once again. “Don’t be a jerk, babe.”

“Why are you in pain?” Mary asks, her eyes tracing all over the left side of Bucky’s scarred up body. “Is it … does your arm hurt?” 

“No. It just fucks up my muscles, sometimes.”

“Your muscles?”

Bucky sighs impatiently. “Steve, do you know where the heating pad is?”

“I’ll have to look.” Steve has returned with a glass of water, and Bucky tosses back the handful of pills, wincing at how even the slight motion of raising his arm up makes his trap twinge in protest. “Ugh.” 

“You should get a massage,” Mary suggests, and Bucky fights not to lash out at her. She doesn’t know that one of his biggest pet peeves in life is having other people tell him what he “should” do.

“My PT maxed out back in October,” he tells her. “Doesn’t renew again till January.”

Steve takes the water glass from him once he’s done. “Go lie face down on the bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll find the heating pad.”

“Well I could do it,” Mary blurts out. Both Bucky and Steve pause and look at her. She looks surprised, too, as though she hadn’t been planning to say the words until they were out of her mouth, and now doesn’t know how to continue  “Um, that is ..." she gestures weakly with her cookie. “I just meant I know how to, if you wanted.” Eventually her cheeks color and she looks away. “Erm, Nevermind.”

“Wait,” Steve says. When Mary turns back, he’s looking at her earnestly, and Bucky thinks, Oh no. “You know how to give a back massage? Like a real one?”

“Yeah. My, ah, my ex always had neck problems, so.” She shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I took a class at the community college, learned the basics.”

Bucky blinks. That’s the subbiest fucking thing he’s ever heard. “You did this for the husband that beat you?” he drawls, immediately regretting it because it comes out sounding way more derogatory than he intends it to. “Sorry. I just … actually would pay good money for a massage right now. If you know how to do it.” 

Mary bites her lip, looking deliciously shy and sweet. Bucky’s mood sours as he realizes that she doesn’t really want to. He’s about to let her off the hook, but then some unconscious movement he makes without meaning to has him flinching in pain again. “Sheezus,” he complains. 

“It’s not usually this bad,” Steve worries.

“I must’a slept on it wrong.”

Mary nods, as if this settles it. “Okay. Well, go in the bedroom and tie your hair up so it's out of the way.” She turns to Steve, all but dismissing Bucky now that she’s got a task to complete. Bucky fights back an amused smirk as he heads towards the bedroom, and he hears Mary bossing Steve around, telling him she needs dry oil, the heating pad, towels, and all the seat cushions off the couch. 

The fuck does she need those for? Bucky thinks as he pads back into his and Steve’s room.

He finds out a moment later, when Mary and Steve come in with a couch cushion each, and Steve goes back out to get another. They lay them in a line on the bed, and Mary directs Bucky to lie on top of them, with his body placed just so and his face down just there, and … Oh. He gets it.

She’s left space between the cushion under Bucky’s chest, and the next cushion up, which supports his forehead. The gap creates a drop through for his face—like a massage table. And when she shapes the towel into a donut shape and sticks it there, it's pretty much perfect.

“Oh,” Bucky says, as he’s settling into place. “Oh, that’s actually really smart.” He can’t see Mary from his position, but somehow he senses her preening over the praise anyway. Steve returns from the bathroom with the heating pad and oil. “Found this stuffed in the back of the linen closet. I don’t know what ‘jojoba’ is, but, um … it’s either that or the virgin olive out in the pantry.”

“Do not use that,” Bucky grumbles. “Shit’s expensive, and I don’t wanna smell like garlic truffle for the next three days.”

“That’ll work fine.” Mary is totally task focused, ignoring Bucky’s surliness and telling Steve to apply the heating pad across Bucky’s shoulders and neck for thirty minutes before they get started.

“Thirty minutes?!” Bucky complains, unable to see anything but the top of the bedcovers as the two of them go out into the hallway. 

“Just relax, Babe,” Steve says (and if Bucky isn’t mistaken, he sounds amused). “Take a nap.”

“I just woke up!” He scoffs at the bedspread when the door quietly ‘snicks’ shut and he realizes that he’s been abandoned. “Well okay then,” he mutters petulantly. Steve is right: he does turn into an ass when he’s in pain. Hmm. Maybe he should work on that.

Steve

Steve turns the tv onto a low volume so they can talk without Bucky hearing. “Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s a humongous jerk whenever he’s feeling crummy.”

“You mean it’s not just all the time?” Mary drawls.

“He’s … just one of those people you have to learn to love before you like them.” Mary raises an eyebrow, and Steve winces. “Er, that sounded harsh. Don’t tell him I said that.”

She twists her lips and looks down. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Thanks, Hon. You want more tea?” 

“Yes please. There’s more of the palmiers in a baggie next to the coffee pot, if you want any.” 

“Heck yeah, I love those things.” Steve had thought the prepackaged ones at Starbucks were good, hadn’t even realized that they weren’t supposed to be all stale and hard like that. Just another commercialized pastry that Mary’s gone and ruined him for. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself coffee and Mary tea, knowing by now how she takes it.

She thanks him silently as he returns and joins her on the couch, both of them sitting close to one another on the chaise, since it’s the only part of the couch that still has its cushion.

"Palmier is French. Know what else they call these?" Mary asks.

Steve's lips quirk. Mary's always got these little facts she knows about the origins of this pastry or that. It's cute. Endearing. "No," he plays along. "What?"

"Elephant ears, because of the shape, see?"

"Oh yeah. Huh. That's neat."

She goes back to eating and sipping at her teacup, and after a moment of unrequited, affectionate staring, Steve looks away. "Elephant ears," he murmurs, trying not to be mopey. "That's funny."

They split the palmiers between them, and aside from the sounds of them munching cookies and sipping their drinks, it’s quiet for a long time. Steve made both the tea and the coffee very hot, so they at least have the excuse of cradling and blowing on their steaming mugs to keep the silence from being too awkward. Mary keeps her eyes trained forward, but Steve gets the sense that she isn’t really paying attention to the home renovation program that’s playing on the tv. His suspicions are confirmed when she eventually asks,

“So: His arm.”

Steve inhales slowly. “Yeah. His arm.”

“What happened?”

Steve frowns. He can tell by her inflection that she’s asking not just about the arm, but about the state of Bucky’s entire left side from shoulder to hip. “We were in the army,” he confides. “Deployed overseas. I made captain young, but he was a specialist in the field: a sniper. So I wasn’t put into the same types of situations as he was. His convoy got blown up by an IED. And when the dust settled …” He shrugs. “No more arm.”

“Oh.” Mary sits there and absorbs that information. “I guess I kind of figured it was something like that. I mean what else is there, besides like, a shark attack or something?”

Steve’s mouth twitches. Shark attack, ha. He’ll have to suggest that one to Buck. Might be fun to lie about, the next time a stranger asks. “Naw, just a boring old bomb. And afterwards, well. It was a long road for him, after. He didn’t have the arm when I met him.”

Mary turns her head, surprised. “Oh. You two didn’t meet in the army?”

“No, after. I met him at the V.A., when he was already angry, hurt, and didn’t want to be where he was.” Steve looks over and gives her a meaningful look. “Kind of like when I first met you.” 

Her eyes widen, and then her face colors and she looks away again, pulling her knees up and hunkering over her mug. “Was I really that bad?” she mumbles.

“... You were pretty bad, Honey.”

She frowns and doesn’t say anything, and Steve decides to leave it alone. “So yeah, his arm. He got into a program for experimental cybernetics. It was a big gamble. Back then, he still had his arm down to nearly the elbow, which meant he could use a lot of the different types of prostheses they had on the market. The less arm you have, the less they can do for you. The surgeries for the implant required removal all the way up to and including his left shoulder blade. So if he went through with it and the procedures didn’t work out, he’d be left with less function than he started with.”

“Jeez.”

“Hm, yeah. It was a risk.” Steve stares across the living room as he remembers all of the hospital stays and surgeries and revisions and therapy appointments. “Luckily it worked out. They replaced some bones with metal supports, some of his natural muscle with enhanced synthetic tissue. His body didn’t reject any of the junk they were putting in him, which was the biggest worry. All in all, it took five surgeries over the course of three years, and then a shit ton of physiotherapy. Buck says it was worth it, now, but it wasn’t a walk in the park when it was happening, I’ll tell you that.”

Beside him, Mary makes a sad little noise in her throat. “But … all that and it still gives him pain?”

“Yeah. He gets PT for it, but like he said; it never winds up lasting the full year. I force him to my veterans' support group when I can, but he’s gotta be in a really charitable mood for that.” Steve snorts humorlessly. “He’s always hated being disabled. It doesn’t jive with his DPD. You know that stereotype about men: never wanting to stop and ask for directions?” 

“Yeah.”

"Well it's true. And then you take a guy who’s as far on the spectrum as Bucky is, and it’s ten times worse.” He widens his eyes in emphasis and gets a little giggle out of Mary for it, which makes him warm with pride. He pulls his feet up onto the couch next to Mary’s and nudges her knee with his. “Just fair warning: He’s the worst patient I’ve ever seen. So don’t take it personally if he’s grumpy at you in there.”

Mary frowns and looks away. “Well, I mean I don’t have to do this. If he doesn’t want to.”

“Pretty sure he wants to. And he needs help with it, whether his stubborn ass wants to admit it or not.”

She nods, though she still doesn’t look confident. “It’s been over a year since I worked on anybody …”

“Well then this’ll be good practice for you, won’t it?” Steve nudges her again in encouragement and tells her to finish up her tea: He doesn’t expect Bucky’ll lie around patiently for much longer.

(“Oh, and Hon, maybe don’t tell him we were out here talking about him this whole time.”)

(“Duh.”)

In the bedroom, Mary climbs onto the bed next to where Bucky is laid out on the couch cushions. She takes the heating pad off his neck and puts it aside, looking nervously over the broad expanse of his back. “Um …” She reaches for the oil bottle and pumps some into her hands. She spends a long, long time just spreading it between her hands and staring at Bucky, until finally he snaps,

“What’s the holdup?” 

“Babe, be nice,” Steve warns. “Mary? You need anything?”

“Um, no. It’s just … usually I'd ..." She makes an aborted move, like she's thinking about repositioning herself, but winds up staying where she is. "Right," she mutters to herself. "This'll work fine." She reaches forward like she’ll start rubbing Bucky’s back, hesitates, shuffles closer to his side, then sets her hands on his shoulders.

Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch, but he’s not used to new people touching him, and Steve would bet money that his eyes are clenched shut right now.

“Okay,” Mary warns. “I haven’t done this in awhile, so don’t get your hopes up for a miracle or anything.”

“Anything’ll be better than what I can do myself,” Bucky says gruffly, voice somewhat muffled by the cushions. “Just go to town. You can’t hurt me any worse.”

Steve can see Mary’s face, and he knows by now what she looks like when she’s flustered. Awkwardly, he steps to the side, heading for the door. “I’ll just go watch some—”

“No!” Mary squeaks, and when Steve turns back around she’s looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t leave,” she says, like being left alone touching Bucky is the worst possible thing that could happen. Steve doesn’t miss how the muscles in Bucky’s arms do tense at hearing her plead for Steve to stay. 

“Uhm, okay. I’ll just … be over here.” He leans back against the dresser, feeling almost painfully awkward. Once again, he’s reminded how Mary has shown absolutely no desire to engage in sexual contact with them. He hopes she doesn’t think this is a ploy to force physical contact. She was the one who suggested it, after all.

She starts at the base of Bucky’s skull, rubbing her thumbs in small circles. “As I go along, try to tell me which areas feel the worst,” she murmurs, and Bucky hums in acknowledgement. Steve watches as she pushes and circles and kneads Bucky’s neck, working down on into his shoulders. He’s struck by how feminine and tiny her hands look against Bucky’s body … and then has to steer his mind away from the thought of how tiny they might look in other places.

“Ah, fuck,” Bucky gasps, when she reaches a certain spot on the left side of his neck.

She freezes. “Bad?” 

“Nngh. Good,” he slurs. “That whole area from there goin’ down into my back ‘n all around my shoulder blade is where it’s worst.”

“Okay.” She tentatively presses around in and around the left side of his neck and shoulder. “Oh, yeah. It starts right here and goes down.” She slides her hand down the muscle and hums. “Oh, I can feel it.”

(Steve tries really hard not to think sexual thoughts.)

“Riiight here? and … here?"

Between the cushions, Bucky’s voice comes out in a series of garbled moans.

“That’d be a yes,” Steve interprets, and Mary actually shoots him a grin at that. Glad to have cut the tension a bit, he dares to take a few steps closer to the bed. He peers down at what Mary’s doing, the way her fingers dig in at sharp, focused points in some places and rub more gently in others. “It’s your trap that’s the worst,” she mutters distractedly, feeling around with her hands and staring off into space with the tip of her tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth. It’s cute. “Mmm, but probably your levator scapulae, too. Those tend to get fucked up hand in hand.”

“Mmrr.”

“And here: your rhomboid.”

“Ooh!”

“Tender?” 

“Shuyeahhh,” Bucky grunts, then his breath hitches when she digs into another spot. “Oh, yep yep right there. Was’that?”

Steve can’t help but grin. Bucky sounds like he’s drooling at this point.

“Your trapezius muscle. It's big. Does a lot of work, covers a large area. Probably the main offender.” Mary hums and feels around a little more. “Oof, yeah. You’ve got a whole bunch of tension right here.”

“You can feel it?” Steve asks, fascinated. He can't see anything.

“Yeah. Here, gimme your hand.” Steve is taken aback when she grabs his hand and guides his fingers into place, her own smaller hand pressing down. “Riiight there. You feel it?”

Steve swallows thickly. “Ah, yeah.” His eyes flick from her hand on his hand on Bucky’s back, up to her face, and back again before she can catch him looking. “Y-yeah it’s hard.” He grimaces at his choice of words (If he's not careful, "it" soon will be).

“I’m gonna focus on this one for a few minutes,” Mary tells Bucky. Then you can guide me around to the other bad spots.”

“Sounds good,” he slurs. Steve is about to take a step back again, but then Bucky calls out, “Hey Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Pay attention to what she’s doin’. It feels really fuckin’ good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmhm. You can learn n' do it next time,” he says dreamily. On his back, Mary’s hands still for the briefest of seconds. “S’goood.”

Steve nods and comes back to sit on the bed. “Okay,” he agrees, scooting in close and glancing at Mary. Her face looks pinched all of a sudden, her expression stiffened as if in annoyance. “I promise I’m not as dumb as I look,” he jokes, and watches as her face smooths out and she smiles a little.

“Oh! Oh no it’s … it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ll teach you how.”

“Don’t mind me, m’just a teaching tool,” Bucky drawls, and Steve laughs and pats his shoulder. 

“Yeah you are. So shut up and let her teach.”

Bucky grunts and shuts up. Steve looks to Mary for instruction. He can tell she’s uncomfortable, but she manages to hide it well and keep herself on track. The more he pays attention, the sooner she can get herself out of this and never have to do it again. “Ready to learn,” he tells her.

“Now when you’re doing this, you can get more leverage if you straddle his waist.” She says this like it’s a foregone assumption that she would never dare to sit on Bucky’s waist, and Steve is sure she doesn’t notice the grumpy huff of breath Bucky gives.

“Right,” Steve says, pained. “Okay, so where are the bad spots again?”

“Put your hand here.” She takes his hand again and places it just to the left of Bucky’s spine at the level of his shoulder blade. “Slide your fingers out. There. Feel that difference? Feel how it changes when you move out to just … there?” She guides his fingers, and Steve nods. 

“Y-yeah.” Mostly, he’s just thinking about how nice Mary’s warm, oiled, tiny hand feels guiding his hand around. “Yeah.”

“The trap’s on top, but there are other muscles underneath of this one, and that differentiation you feel is where the rhomboid is ending and the—”

She keeps talking, and Steve tries to pay attention and learn, he really does. But his mind is a veritable sieve, for how well he retains the information. It’s all in one ear and out the other, ninety percent of his attention stuck on Mary’s hands on him, guiding him, pressing on his fingers and gliding his touch over Bucky’s skin. Fuck, how did they wind up here? 

Eventually, having taught Steve the basics, Mary lets him go and works on Bucky’s shoulders for a little while more. For the most part it’s quiet, with Bucky making soft grunts of pain whenever she finds a new cluster of knotted muscle, and sighs of relief once she works them out. 

Her hands linger on Bucky’s mid back when she’s done. She doesn’t seem to know what to do. “Erm. Okay. I think … I think that’s it.”

When neither Bucky nor Steve says anything, she retreats on her own, getting off the bed and looking between Bucky’s prone form and Steve’s sorrowful expression. “So, kay. You can get up, if you want. Just move slowly.”

Bucky’s right hand gives her the thumbs up symbol, but the entire rest of his body doesn’t move. “Thanks Mare. Just give us a second. That was really good. Thank you. Thanks for teaching Steve.”

It’s the “Thanks for teaching Steve” that seems to do it. Mary’s expression firms up and she nods curtly, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her. Steve stays sitting on the bed next to Bucky in silence for a long minute, then says knowingly, “Got a boner?”

“Yep.”

*To anyone who's only ever had store bought, pre-packaged palmiers: I'm so sorry. Along with Madeleines, those should never be eaten more than a few hours max after they've been baked.

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This has been a fill for:

@anyfandomdarkbingo

Card: sarahyellow / sarah-writes-stucky

Square N3: Body Swap

@matchat3a @bethexo07

[eekshade]

I’m very for angst right now- Bucky in his Winter Soldier ‘mode’ in some way hurt his boyfriend who then was sent to the hospital. Later on when Bucky’s back to normal he realized what he did and feels very sad about it and visits his partner

sorry this took so long, i know it's not really what you were looking for, more of a hurt/comfort than angst.

Sorry, Sweet Home.

Bucky Barnes x m!reader

Word Count: 644

Warnings/Info: made this on my phone, this isn't really angsty, more fluff than anything, just a hospital scene; no actual violence, not proofread, no real warnings

Bucky sat in the pure white and blue hospital waiting room, speckles of color pop out in the minimalist paintings of nothing in particular. Tears pricked in his eyes as the guilt of harming you caused him to shudder deeply. How could he do this? How could he let himself slip like that? How could he hurt you when all you wanted to do was help? He felt numb as he shifted uncomfortably in the stiff seat.

The doctor came to him, Bucky didn't fully know what was said to him. The sound of his heart and nondescript buzzing flooded his ears. His body moved by itself as he made his way through the spotless hallway to your cleansed, pale room.

His eyes land on your somnolent body, he blinks to clear his eyes of the warm tears. His mind races a mile a minute, his self hate and shame boils in his heart. His body feels like it's going to give out underneath the weight of it all. His thoughts come to an abrupt end at the sight of your warm, shaky smile.

“Buck…? You okay?” You whispered, voice soft as a small kit.

“Am I okay?” His voice cracked deeply, taking a breath before continuing, “Are you?” He made no effort to move closer to you - the guilt stopping him.

“Of course I am, I can take you any day.” You jested, he let out a soft whimper at that.

“Honey, can you please come over here?” You pleaded with a warm smile.

He nodded hesitantly, pulling up a chair to the side of your bed. Knees pressed against the soft plush of the mattress, the contrast of the cool metal bringing him no comfort.

“I am so sorry.” He apologized, voice barley audible out of fear that if he spoke too loud, he wouldn't be able to get the sentence out. Tears running down his soft cheeks, the salty taste enters through the corner of his lips.

“Hey, no no no, don't do that. It's not your fault.” The pads of your thumbs gently wipe the tears off of his pretty face.

“-But I put you here? How could this not be my fault? I let myself go, and I let myself hurt you.” He croaked, “ I'm a monster.” He avoided eye contact like the plague, opted to look at his hands tangled with yours.

You broke into laughter, warm and bubbly, he looked up at your face, confusion gracing his angelic features.

“Sorry, I just, I love you so very much. Do you know that?” You snickered.

“Callin’ yourself a monster, but - god, I mean, look at you.” You say with a harsh snort.

“What does that mean?” He smiles at you, guilt seeping out of his system at your antics.

“Well, for starters you have an entire bookshelf of only fantasy, you organize your clothes by color, you're insanely good with kids, you love carnivals, you fold your socks, you are a cat whisperer, do you need more?”

He looks at you sweetly, opening his mouth to respond, but he closes it when he can't find the right words to choose. He looks down at his lap, a lovely smirk on his lips. He's trying to hide it almost like he's embarrassed of himself for being so easily swayed.

“Look at me.” You responded curtly. His blue eyes swiftly look up at you, shaken by your icy tone.

You lean in and leave a quick tender kiss on his slightly chapped lips, he chases your lips as you pull away. He whines as you stop him from continuing. You rest your forehead on his, your breath mixing together, “I love you, Buck, so so much.” You mumble into the small space between you two.

“I love you more.” He kisses your cheek.

“Sure sure.” You scoff, catching his lips once more.

MARVEL MASTERLIST

[the-iceni-bitch]

𝕾𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕰𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖍 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖂𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝕳𝖊'𝖘 𝕭𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚛 𝙱𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜

𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚙𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝.

𝙰𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚊 ~ 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢

𝙰𝚗𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊 ~ 𝙰 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜

Words: 1.3k

Relationship: minotaur!Bucky Barnes x chubby!prince male reader

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (m/m sex, fellatio, rimming), soft reassuring Bucky, fatphobia, self-loathing language, hurt/comfort, SMUT!!! 18+ ONLY!!

A/N: Who knows, maybe I’ll actually get all of these churned out before February. Wouldn’t that be neat?

You told yourself you were not going to cry. Not in front of your brothers, and definitely not in front of your father.

Your little mental pep talk did nothing to stop the stinging in your eyes, though. It was hard to stay strong when they were being so cruel. The flat of one of their tourney swords smacked against your stomach when you missed your chance to shield it and all of them laughed. All of them except your father, who just looked angry and disappointed in you. Just like he always did.

The hours in the training yard were always torturous, but they had become especially unbearable ever since your mother had announced her intention to begin the process of finding you a wife. For some reason their taunts about your soft belly and questioning of your manhood began to sting all the more. Not even your haven in the library was safe, you could hear their japes and laughter following you through the corridors of your family’s castle. You hated it, and you hated them, the prospect of finally running away becoming more and more tempting as their unkindness grew to be too much.

Today you didn’t think you could take it. As soon as training was complete and you were out of your leathers you made your way to the castle gate, trying your best not to run and give them further cause to torment you. You couldn’t be around them anymore. There was only one place where you felt truly safe, truly yourself.

The ruins at the edge of the city took less than half an hour to reach, and as soon as you saw them you felt a sense of peace. The broken fountains still flowed with clear, sweet water that you could drink or bathe in, fragrant flowers bloomed in the shade of the shattered rocky walls, and soft grass covered the ground that wind through a labyrinth of stones and statues.

But the thing that made this place feel truly like your refuge was hidden, known only to you and yours alone. You heard the deep rumble of his voice before you even saw him, the tears you had been struggling to hold back beginning to fall as you let yourself collapse on a bed of hyacinths.

“Little prince?” You could feel his massive hooves making the earth tremble as he rounded the corner to find you, trying to smile in spite of yourself and failing miserably. “What is wrong, my love? Why do you cry?”

“The same reason I always cry.” As soon as Bucky knelt next to you you rested your head in his lap, letting out a pathetic sob but unable to care when he stroked your head with a massive hand. “I hate my father and my brothers, they make me so miserable. Maybe I really will just live here with you and survive off honey and wine.”

“It is not a bad way to live, little prince.” Bucky smiled warmly at you when you turned your body so you could peer at his face. “But you deserve all the riches and spoils of castle life. My little prince should be pampered.”

“I’m too pampered.” Your little huff of frustration made Bucky chuckle. “I am! I’m soft and weak. Even though I hate hearing it from them I know they’re right.”

“That’s enough.” The deep growl of Bucky’s voice let you know he was not pleased with you speaking about yourself in such a way, and you swallowed the rest of your self-loathing when you saw his brow furrow. He was suddenly pinning you to the ground and blowing out heavy breaths that warmed your face, and you were reminded just how enormous the minotaur you had taken for a love was. “You are not weak, and your softness is beautiful. Would a weak man let a monster love him? Would a weak man be able to show such vulnerability? I will not listen to you say such things about yourself, not when you are the man I am in love with. I do not know how many times I will have to show you just how much you are worth, but I will do it over and over again.”

Your attempt to argue was quickly muffled by his lips, every thought in your head suddenly disappearing when his thick, warm tongue lapped at yours and his hands tugged at your tunic. Before you knew it you were bare beneath him, gazing up at him with widened eyes when he pulled back from your kiss then whimpering as he began to nuzzle his way down your torso.

“Buck…”

“Hush.” He stopped at the soft bulge of your stomach, kissing every inch of skin reverently as your cock started to twitch and grow hard. “Just let me love you, little prince.”

All you could do was sigh and let your eyes drift closed as he kept kissing and licking your stomach, relishing the feeling of his strong hands gripping your fleshy thighs and spreading them wide while he worshiped his favorite part of you. He adored how soft and bountiful your body was, how sensitive you were to his ministrations and the noises that escaped from you when you finally relax and let him love you like you deserved. When you giggled at the ring in his nose tickling your navel you could feel him grinning against your skin, a soft chuff of his breath warming your stomach before his tongue flicked out to tease the head of your cock.

His mouth on you was like elysium, your body rolling under him and your breath leaving you in a whine as he began to drag his broad, heavy tongue along the length of you. Bucky always did his best to take his time and appreciate every inch of you, but you couldn’t help but get worked up so quickly it was almost embarrassing. You never really could be embarrassed around your minotaur, though. He knew every inch of you and loved you just the same. He was the only truly comforting thing in your life. And by the gods, he made you feel incredible.

Hours or merely seconds may have passed since he started licking your cock. Time lost all meaning when you were with him like this, but you would never complain about it. When his lips wrapped around you it was impossible to keep yourself from moaning obscenely, your back arching as he began to take you deeper and deeper into his hot, wet mouth.

Then his tongue slithered lower, dragging over your balls then even further even as he kept his lips wrapped tightly around your cock. Your body arched and you cried out beneath him when he started to lap at your sensitive rim, barely holding yourself back from erupting in his mouth. But then Bucky hummed around you and you couldn’t contain yourself any longer, digging your fingers into the soft grass beneath you as you filled Bucky’s mouth with your seed.

“Mmmm,” Bucky grinned and licked his lips as he pulled away from you, winking when you could only whimper in response to the sight of your cum dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “My little prince is so sweet. Was that enough or do you still need to be convinced you are worthy of being cherished?”

“It… it was more than enough.” You sighed when he kissed you, laughing softly when he wrapped you in his arms and rolled onto his back so you were laying on top of him. “I can never stay sad when I know you love me, Bucky.”

[espinosaurusrexex]

You get your first flowers from Bucky

a/n: somebody send me some flowers please, banner is not mine

word count: ~500

warnings: crying, every guy in the world being stupid - except Bucky ☺️

･ﾟ✫* 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ｡✭･ﾟ

"For me?"

You looked at the bouquet in Bucky’s hands, a pretty smile painting his features as he stood in your doorway.

"Of course they’re for you, doll. You see any other gorgeous dame around?" He watched the hall jokingly before returning his smile to you and encouraging you to take the flowers with a nod.

"I- I don’t know what to say, Buck." The bouquet was beautiful, colorful pastels mixing in one frame of green and the man holding it was even more gorgeous. But the unfamiliarity of the situation brought a horrifying realization.

"You don’t have to say anything. Just put them in a vase and get your shoes."

His gaze wandered from your bare feet back up to you when he heard a sniffle. You were crying, and panic began to rise in Bucky's chest. Usually women didn’t react that way - well, in the 40s, that was. He didn’t know what to do when they started crying because of flowers. Was that a thing?

"I’m sorry," you heaved when you noticed his expression falter, the thick tears falling from your eyes so fast you couldn’t wipe them away anymore.

"It’s okay, doll. What’s wrong?" It was stupid to weep about such a common gesture, but for you, it meant so much more.

"I love them so mu- much..." you sobbed, the sweet smell of the colorful bouquet filling your nose before it started running as well.

This was not at all how you had planned for this evening to go. Your eyes were puffy and Bucky looked as though he had witnessed a car crash.

"I can throw them out if they're the reason. I-" his hands flailed in the air. "What can I do to make it better?"

"Nothing, they're perfect. You're perfect, it's just..."

"What, doll?" He grabbed your shoulders, smoothing his hands up and down with a gentle pace.

"I've never gotten flowers before, and getting them from you just makes it feel extra special..." The hiccups had died down. Now there was only a slight tremor in your voice when you looked at him through glassy eyes.

Bucky's heart ached. How could an amazing person such as yourself have never gotten flowers before? He shook his head while stepping into your apartment and closing the door behind him. When he pulled you into a tight hug, he kicked his shoes off.

"How about a night in instead, sweetheart?"

You shook your head against his chest, the smell of his cologne filling your body and easing it immediately. "No, we don't have to. I'm sorry... just caught me off guard."

"It's okay. I'm happy as long as I can spend time with you. Doesn't need to be in an expensive restaurant. Besides, I think I just figured out another way I can spend that money."

Your smile warmed his soul and when he laid you both down on the sofa, he silently decided that every other guy you'd ever met was an idiot for not getting you flowers. He would give you flowers for the rest of your life if it meant reliving these moments for eternity: With you in his arms, happy and surrounded by the faint smell of spring.

Wanna be added to the Taglist?

@circe143

[foreverrandomwritings]

these jealous prompts with my babygirl bucky pls 🦾🤍 romantic relationship

“hey—  look at me.  why are you all upset?”

“i promise there’s no one else.  you have my heart completely.”

Blind Dates

Summary: Loving each other had been difficult since neither of you were aware of the feelings the other harbored. What happens when it gets too much for you to handle?

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x afab!Reader

Warnings: Alcohol and fluff.

Word count: 1105

Masterlist M's Hundred Celly Masterlist

You had a crazy road leading you to becoming friends with Bucky. It had started out as you being friends with Clint, then Natasha, eventually Steve, then Sam and now Bucky. Even though everyone around you could see the love you had for each other, the two of you couldn’t see it. Thinking the other strictly wanted a platonic relationship. 

That had worked out decently for you up until Sam started setting Bucky up on blind dates. He had seemed a little reluctant to go on them but you figured that was probably because it had been a while since he had dated. You knew from Steve what a ladies man he used to be. Which you understood completely, even after everything he’s been through he still had charm. 

But the more dates he went on the more you pulled away from him. It hurt to see him constantly going out with other women while you pined for him from the sidelines. He had noticed the distance growing between you. When he asked about it you would make up an excuse and tell him it was okay. 

The final straw though was when you saw him on one of the dates. You had decided to have a drink and dinner by yourself at a local restaurant. Your dinner had just arrived when you heard a familiar voice. You paused mid bite looking around until your eyes landed on him. He had on your favorite red Henley, nice form fitting jeans and a pair of dressy casual shoes. 

From where you were sitting you could see the women he was on a date with. She looked nothing like you. Different hair color, different face shape, she dressed more provocative than you did, her eyes were even a different color from yours. You felt nauseous as she reached across the table to stroke his flesh arm. 

Flagging down the waiter you asked for a box and the check. He brought it out hastily packing your food away as you put cash with the check. You told him to keep the change as you slipped from the table and towards the door. You smelled his aftershave as you passed their table. Which was conveniently on the way to the door. 

You heard him call your name as you slipped into the busy streets of the city. Quickly you blended into the crowd and made your way home. You thought about taking the subway or hailing a taxi as you walked. But you decided you needed to clear your head some and the walk back to your apartment would give you the time to. 

You regretted that decision though as an unexpected storm came pouring down from the sky. Huffing you pulled the jacket you had on tighter around your body. The bag of leftovers hanging lazily from your fingers. Your teeth started to chatter the closer you got to your block. But you hadn’t been paying attention enough to notice.

Once you rounded the corner that would take you to the tall brick building you noticed a figure sitting on the stoop. You were on high alert instantly scanning the area around you for any possible threats. Seeing none you cautiously made your way to the steps. As you got closer you could make out the person drenched in rain. 

“Buck?” You called out towards him. His head shot up as he heard your voice. 

“Doll, did you walk here?” He was out of his seat now striding over to you in a few steps. 

“Uh yea. Have you been waiting here for long?” You asked him, eyes shooting towards where he was sitting before looking towards the ground. 

“About an hour. I saw you while you were leaving the restaurant. I called out to you but you didn’t answer me. I followed you outside and you were gone. I thought you got a cab but once I got here you weren’t here so I decided to wait for you.” You shrugged your shoulders at the end of his sentence trying to remain emotionless. 

“Hey—  look at me. Why are you all upset?” He brought a finger to your chin lifting your face up to see you. He had always been able to see through your facades. The rain had started coming down heavier. His hair was sticking to his forehead and his eyelashes were littered with rain drops. 

“I’m not upset Buck.” You searched his eyes for a hint of the love you felt for him. You were surprised to see exactly that in his blue eyes. 

“I know you’re upset, please just talk to me.” His rough fingers slipped from your chin to your cheek. You took a deep shaking breath at the contact. 

“I don’t like seeing you or hearing about you going on dates. I don’t like that you are with someone that isn’t me.” You told him shakily, not trusting yourself to not cry. 

“Doll, I promise there’s no one else. You have my heart completely.” His eyes darted towards your lips as you slipped your tongue between them, licking some of the rain off them. 

“Then why have you been going on dates?” You asked him skeptically, he looked ashamed as he spoke. 

“I just needed to get my mind off you. But it never worked. You’re all I can think about. Day and night my thoughts are filled with you.” Your eyes were now on his lips as he spoke. Imagining them melded to yours. The knowledge that you ran through his mind as much as he did yours, warmed something deep inside you. 

“Kiss me Buck.” You looked at him as the rain continued to pour around you. 

“Are you sure, doll?” His voice was hesitant as he looked at your face. Studying it closely for any signs of hesitation from you. When he saw none he was slowly moving forwards. 

The kiss was soft and slow. His hands remained on your face as yours came up to cup his own. The bag of leftovers falling from your grasp. You continued to kiss out on the sidewalk covered in rain for what felt like hours until he pulled away. 

“You're shivering, let’s get inside.” You nodded, as you led him up your steps into your apartment. Once you entered you went into your room giving him an extra set of clothes before slipping into some of your own. 

You grabbed a blanket and got settled on the couch as he changed. When he slipped into the room you gestured for him to join you and he did. You fell asleep that night laying on top of him, his arms wrapped around you securely. He had his first nightmare less sleep in years as your scent and warmth surrounded him. You would talk about what this meant for the both of you in the morning. For now you would enjoy the embrace of the other.

A/N: A surprise out of schedule post today in honor of it being my besties birthday! Happy Birthday Love @theeleggymeggy! Plus a bonus gif as an extra present!❣️❣️

Tags(open): @wkndwlff @sylviebell

[gaysindistress]

Hey lovelies!

Would yall be interested in some Bucky x m!reader content? I’ve noticed that some of yall have he/him in your bios and I want to give you guys the content you want.

[cristinatheloser]

One thing about me is I’m reading a fic whether or not I’ve watched the show/movie that the certain character has been in! Am I confused half of the time? Yes, but is the character and plot line immaculate?Yes

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 3658

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains background themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, self-harm, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

3. Cream filled Sponge Cakes (with chemicals)

Bucky

They plan out what they’re going to do when they get to the hospital on the car ride over.

“I think it’s best if you wait outside at first,” Bucky says, glancing away from the road for a second to try and gauge Steve’s reaction to this. He looks neutral. “Just because she’s already pissed,” he adds. “And it’ll probably be overwhelming having one person telling her they’re taking custody, let alone two.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “That makes sense.”

Bucky holds his hand out over the center console, waiting for Steve to take it. He does, and Bucky grips his hand tight. “I’ll get the initial stuff out of the way. I’m sure there’s gonna be a ton of paperwork.”

“What if she refuses?” Steve worries. “She can, right?”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah. I don’t have any legal hold on her. Yet. I’ll just have to try and talk sense into her, get her to see that we’re better than the alternative.”

Steve gives his hand a squeeze back. “You can do it.”

Bucky sighs. “I hope so. I really do.” Inside though, he’s already not so sure.

They get to the hospital about forty-five minutes after Bucky’d hung up from the phone call with the police officer. He spots a cruiser parked outside when they approach the emergency room, and it rankles his nerves to think of Mary being forcibly shoved into the back seat of said car.

He goes to the check in desk with Steve and asks for Officer Santiago. “I got a call about an involuntary hold. My submissive,” he says. 

The woman at the desk does a double take at that, looking up and down Bucky where he stands like she’s just realized he’s a different species. “Oh,” she says. “You're one of those?” 

Bucky ignores it, but he can sense Steve tensing up by his side, indignant on his behalf. “Yes,” he says. “I am.” He’s not going to waste time getting on his spiel about mental illness and stigmatization. They’ve got bigger problems right now. “I’m going to need her records,” he says, injecting authority into his tone. “And any paperwork for transfer of custody. The cops brought her in. Name’s Mary.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to look self-assured while he waits, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if the woman demands a last name.

It takes her several minutes to gather everything up for Bucky. She hands it all over to him and says, “That’s the paperwork for custody. The attending physician should be able to provide you with her medical workup.” She points to a set of double doors. “You go down that hallway and to the left. Bed number four.”

Bucky nods and thanks her, then turns to Steve.

“I know,” Steve says, putting on a brave smile. “I’ll wait here.”

“Baby.” Bucky steps close, pulling him into his arms. Steve’s physically just a little bigger than him, and Bucky has always liked the novelty of that. He kisses him gently and then rests their foreheads together for a moment, letting Steve feel their connection. “I love you,” he says quietly. “You’re the best thing I could ever hope for, you know that?”

Steve’s smile is more natural, now. “Yeah I know it.” He gives Bucky another kiss and stands back. “Hey, what about this?” He knocks on Bucky’s shoulder—the metal one. “She know about that?”

Bucky realizes that he’s not wearing his glove, and tries to remember if he’d had it on at the café. He frowns. “Oh well. I don’t think that’s going to be her main focus, not after I explain everything to her.”

“Yeah.” Steve gives him a light push. “I Love you. Now on and get the hard part over with. I’ll be here when you need me.” 

Bucky nods. He knows he will. He goes back to the check in desk, one last question on his mind. “Is there a food court or something around here?”

Mary

Mary’s taken a break from saying pissy things to the cop who’s guarding her. She’s been so angry, she’s felt like her skin’s boiling. But now she’s starting to get tired, too. She hadn’t slept last night, just stayed up and gabbed on the phone to that crisis counselor. 

She grits her teeth as she fumes about that, feeling betrayed all over again. That bitch had called the cops on her!

“You can tell me anything you want to. I’m here to listen, remember?”

Liar!

“I hope you know I don’t have insurance,” Mary snaps at the officer. He’s sitting in a chair in her little curtained off area. He regards her coolly, saying nothing, and she jerks her head to indicate the emergency room. “And I’m not paying a single red cent for any of this.” So far, they’ve taken her blood, her pulse, an EKG, and sent in nurses, a resident, and several shrinks. They’d tried to put an IV in her but she’d ripped it out as soon as nobody was looking. “I’m suing the hospital,” she adds. “And you. I’m suing the whole police department.”

“Okay,” Santiago says, annoyingly calm.

Mary growls, rattling her hand where it’s cuffed to the bed rail. “This is unconstitutional!”

There’s the sound of a throat clearing, and then the curtain to their area is being pulled aside. Mary’s eyes go wide when she sees who it is. “You?!”

Bucky smiles politely at her. “Me.” He steps into the curtained room, a little snack bag in his hand. He holds it up to show her, and she sees the Hostess logo. It’s a bag of little … sponge cake pastries. “Best I could do on such short notice. They’re for you, if you behave,” he says, talking to her like a pet being offered a treat.

Mary wrinkles her nose. “Pass. D’you even know all the chemicals they put in those things?”

Bucky shrugs and turns to offer them to officer Santiago, who more than happily accepts. Mary pouts as she watches him rip open the bag and stuff one in his mouth.

“How are you doing, Mary?”

She turns her attention to Bucky and scowls at the way he uses her name like he knows her. “Awful,” she says. She jerks her head at Santiago. “Officer Dickwad over here won’t let me have my phone.”

“Language,” Santiago says dispassionately, through a mouthful of cake. 

“Shut up and eat your fucking donut, Rent’a’cop.”

Bucky

He puts his foot down once she starts flinging curses and insults at the officer. As a paramedic, Steve is always in and out of emergency rooms, often working in coordination with law enforcement to deal with uncooperative patients. So Bucky knows just how much drama and belligerence these guys have to deal with on the regular. 

“Hey,” he says sternly. “Don’t disrespect him. He’s just doing his job.” He’s not mean about it, but it’s verging on what Steve likes to call his “Dom” voice, and Bucky can see how it affects Mary. She freezes up, all of her focus on him. For a few seconds, she even forgets to be angry. Bucky takes the opportunity to step close to the bed. He eyes where she’s cuffed to the rail. “Mary,” he says gently. “I know you don’t want to be here. I know you’re angry.”

“You’re damn right I am,” she growls. “They just showed up and threw me in a cop car! Didn’t even give me a choice!”

Bucky reaches out and places his hand atop her cuffed wrist. It’s his metal hand. Her eyes widen when she sees it, but she doesn’t pull away. “I know,” Bucky says. “And I’m sorry it happened that way. But do you understand why people were concerned for your safety?”

Her face tenses up as she tries to hold back some emotion (something tells Bucky it isn’t anger, this time). “They called the cops,” she pouts. “They lied to me.”

“They did,” Bucky agrees, wanting to placate her. “But you were hurting yourself, honey. And you were talking about doing worse, weren’t you?”

She can’t meet his eyes, instead staring at where he’s holding her wrist. “I … I talked about a lot of things,” she mumbles. “It was just talk. I don't even remember half of it. I didn’t … I wasn’t really gonna do anything.”

“Can you show me where you hurt yourself?” Bucky asks, careful to keep his voice gentle. “I want to see how bad it is.”

Mary shivers, shaking her head sadly. Her hair is loose and hanging messy around her face, so Bucky reaches up to tuck it behind her ear. He hears her give a quiet, shaky inhale. “Come on now,” he coaxes. “Let me see.”

For a long moment, it seems like she won’t obey, but then her shoulders sink down and she takes a deep breath and lets it out, whispering a tiny little. “... kay,” as her hands creep down to take hold of the tee shirt she’s wearing. It’s extra large, going all the way to her knees, and it’s all she’s wearing. Bucky doesn’t know if the police brought her in that way, or if it’s something the hospital gave her to put on after being examined, but either way, he schools his expression as she edges the tee shirt up her leg, higher and higher, until it becomes apparent that she is wearing underwear, and she’s bared her hip to him.

Cutting, then.

Bucky looks her over, not as upset by the fresh cuts so much as the old ones. They litter the skin of her upper thigh and hip—some so old they’re scars, some still in various stages of healing. Bucky forces himself not to touch, even though his brain is screaming at him to fix fix fix! There’s nothing here that can be fixed easily—certainly not with a bandaid. Bucky takes a moment to calm himself down before he asks, “How long have you been doing this, honey?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers. She shoves the tee shirt back down and meets his eyes. “Why are you here?”

Moment of truth, Bucky thinks. “The police called me. They got my number from your phone. They wanted to call your Dom to come get you.”

She frowns, looking confused. “But … you’re not—”

“Officer Santiago,” Bucky says quickly, cutting her off. “Could you give us a moment alone please?”

“Sure.” Santiago gets up and takes his bag of cakes with him. “Just a couple’a minutes,” he warns, then steps outside the curtain and pulls it shut. Bucky can see as his shoes walk away.

“You told them you were my Dom?!” Mary hisses.

Bucky looks at her sternly. “No. They assumed I was. You had me in your phone.”

“I … I did?”

Bucky’s mouth quirks. “Yeah, you did.”

“Well that doesn’t mean anything,” she huffs. “I’m not even submissive.”

“I think you know that’s not true,” Bucky says. He reaches up and gathers her hair back in one fist and pulls—gently, just enough to put the barest of pressure on her scalp—forcing her to raise her chin. She visibly reacts to it, softening into his grip, eyes slipping closed and features going slack. “You like that,” Bucky says, making it a statement rather than a question, because it’s obvious she does.

Her eyes open slowly. “S’nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.”

He releases her hair, cupping the back of her neck instead. He grips her firmly in his hand, and this time she nearly moans, lips parting and the sound coming out before she can fully stifle it. Bucky’s mouth curls and he hums. “And that? Is that ‘nothing’ too?”

“Please.” She’s having a hard time maintaining eye contact, which is typical. There’s a little pinch between her eyebrows that’s so sweet and needy, Bucky wants to kiss it. It makes her look like she might cry, and that thrills him too. “Please,” she whispers. “I just wanna go home.”

“You’re not going home, Honey,” he tells her, keeping the grip on her neck steady and petting at her hair with his other hand. She’s going down a little, likely so easily because of the alcohol in her system, because of how deprived she’s been until now. She whines a little at his words and he shushes her. “They won’t let you. You’re either gonna have to let me take you, or else stay here in the hospital, in the psych ward.”

Mary whimpers. “No.”

“Shhh,” he soothes. “I know. I don’t want that for you either, but you have to make the choice. If you want to leave here, then you have to sign the paperwork that gives me custody of you.” He tilts her chin up. “Look at me now, Honey.” She’s sluggish, so it takes a second, but her eyes come up as she obeys. They’re a little glossy, pupils blown wide, and Bucky gives her neck an encouraging squeeze. “Good girl,” he praises.

She practically melts at hearing that. “Please …” she says again. 

Bucky would bet money that she doesn’t know what she’s asking for. He does, though. He knows down to the marrow of his bones what a ‘please’ like that means. “Don’t worry, Doll. I’ll take care of you. I will.” He bends and pecks a kiss to her forehead, then steps away. She makes a weak noise of protest and he shushes her. 

“I’m just gonna go get officer Santiago back. … And my husband, Steve.”

She blinks at the word ‘husband’. “Steve?” she repeats, shoulders shrinking as she pulls into herself. “But—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky promises. “He’s a very nice man. You’ll like him.”

Mary looks unsure. Bucky’s glad she’s down, otherwise he’s fairly certain she’d be arguing by now, maybe even pitching a fit and cursing. Instead, what comes out of her mouth is a hesitant little, “... He’s like you?” 

“No. No he’s not designated. He’s—”

“Normal.” She says it so sadly, sounds so demoralized. Bucky has to fight the urge to correct her, to give her a speech about how, ‘just because they’re designated, it doesn’t make them abnormal’. He bites his tongue. What’s more important right now is that she’s making progress in accepting the reality that she’s almost certainly submissive.

“Yeah,” he says. “Steve’s not like us. But I wanted him to come in here and meet you. Do you think you can do that for me, Sweetie?” The pet names come naturally, are a part of his dynamic as a Dom, and Bucky can tell that she responds favorably to them. “Hm? Answer me, Mary.”

(And of course, the use of her name gets instant attention and obedience.)

“Okay,” she says. “Yes.”

He smiles and gives her a heartfelt, “Good girl,” wanting to show her that he’s pleased, that she’s doing well. “I’m gonna go get him, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Steve

Steve is equal parts excited and nervous to meet the woman Bucky has found, the woman they’re going to be taking care of. … Maybe more, if things work out. 

He holds Bucky’s hand as he’s led back to where the emergency room beds are. Bucky draws back the curtain and Steve sees the cop sitting there, looking bored, … and her.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Hey.”

She’s pretty—which is saying a lot, because that’s Steve’s first thought, despite the state of her. She’s got goo gobs of dark eye makeup that it looks like she put on once she was already drunk, and by now it’s been smeared to kingdom come by tears and her own hands. Her hair sits messy and unbrushed around her shoulders, and her eyes are glazed and tired from a high that’s probably going to wear off soon and leave her looking even more exhausted than she already does. 

“Hey,” Steve says, eyes flicking up and down her body where she’s sitting on the bed. She’s wearing nothing but a big tee shirt, and Steve allows himself one glance down at her shapely legs, then resolutely keeps his eyes trained upwards. She’s a disheveled mess, but even like that, Steve can see how she drew Bucky’s attention, that day in the café.

“Hi,” Mary says.

Steve smiles hopefully. By his side, Bucky squeezes his hand in encouragement, and offers, “Mary, this is Steve, my husband.”

Steve watches her face, curious to know what she thinks of Bucky being married. He’s expecting displeasure maybe, imagining that a submissive would feel jealous or upset, if their prospective Dom was already attached to someone else.

But she seems to stay calm, sitting there and taking Steve in with slow blinks, even looking a little bit shy herself. “... You’re big,” she eventually says. “I thought you’d be smaller than him.”

Steve grins and he hears Bucky’s scoffed, “Size has nothing to do with our dynamic.”

Steve knows he’s got half an inch on Bucky, more muscle mass too, but he’s never felt bigger than his husband. Bucky’s personality, his dominance, is larger than Steve.

Mary’s still staring at him, a thoughtful little pinch between her eyebrows. Steve waits in expectation of a question, but none comes. “What?” he asks. He pulls up the room’s extra plastic chair and sits close to the bed, offering her his hand. He’s surprised when she takes it. Steve stares thoughtfully at his hand as she drags her fingers over his fingers, his palm, still not saying anything. He looks over at Bucky, concerned. “Did they give her drugs?”

Thankfully, Bucky chuckles and shakes his head. “She’s down,” he explains.

Oh. Okay. That’d explain her calm affect. Steve had come in here halfway expecting a screaming hellcat. He hadn’t expected this. He turns back to Mary, giving her a friendly look. “Did you have questions you wanted to ask me?”

She bites her lip, clearly working something out in her head. “Bucky said you two have a ‘dynamic’.”

“He did.”

“But he said you’re normal.”

Steve’s lips thin once he figures out what she means. “We’re all normal,” he scolds. “But no, I don’t have ‘Dominant or Submissive Personality Disorder’, if that’s what you mean.” He puts sarcastic quotes around words to clearly convey his distaste for the classification. He wants her to know how ridiculous he finds it.

“Babe,” Bucky warns quietly from behind. “We’re not getting political right now, okay? Just focus on her, on what we have to do.”

“Right, sorry.” He knows that Bucky’s right, so he tries again, telling Mary, “I’m ‘normal’, but Bucky and I still have a very intimate relationship together. We’re husbands. So yeah, we’ve developed our own dynamic. When I’m with him I tend to follow his lead, so to speak.” He smiles and shrugs. “It works for us.”

Mary looks like she’s thinking this new information over. There’s a slowness to her, a dreaminess in her expressions and her reactions.Steve figures it’s a combination of her being down, and not being sober. In fact, he can smell the vodka leaking out of her pores. It’s actually pretty horrible. “So does that make sense?” he prods her gently. “Mary?”

“… Yeah, I think so.” She eyes him up and down, looking back and forth between him and Bucky. “What will you do?” she asks Steve. She blushes a little from asking the question, so he deduces that she’s asking what he’ll do with her; what their dynamic together will be, outside of her and Bucky.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, because that’s all he knows for sure, and he wants her to feel safe. Steve knows that it’s absolutely crucial for this woman to feel safe right now, if they’re going to take her home with them. “Bucky and I both will.” He holds her hand—the one that isn’t cuffed to the bed—enveloping it between his. “It’ll be much better than staying here,” he promises. “You’ll be so safe. And much happier.”

Mary’s body draws in, seems to actually get smaller as she pulls back into herself. “I’m never happy,” she says mournfully. It hurts Steve’s heart to see it, so he knows it must be killing Bucky, given his overly protective instincts. Steve glances over at him. “Babe?”

Bucky has a clipboard full of papers, which Steve knows must be the custody orders. “Here, Honey,” he tells Mary, handing her the clipboard and the pen. “This is what you have to sign to be able to come home with us.”

It kind of bothers Steve that Bucky doesn’t encourage her to read through the documents more thoroughly, but he doesn’t say anything because he knows they have only the best intentions for her. She’ll be safe with them. He watches as she signs her signature in the places Bucky points out, trying to scan some of the fine print as she goes. Anxiety is written across her face and she starts to bite at the chapped skin on her bottom lip. “But, um … what if I’m not what you think?” she worried, not looking at either of them. 

Bucky pets her hair and reassures her. “You are, sweetheart. Trust me. And we’re gonna take you to a therapist anyway, to get an official diagnosis.”

Normally Steve would be scoffing at the word “diagnosis,” but he’s too busy watching the two of them together. There’s a strange feeling in his gut, at seeing his husband touch Mary like that, at hearing him call her pet names and calmly take control of her. Steve’s never seen Bucky dom another person before, and he … he kind of doesn’t hate it. In fact, it’s actually making him feel all the more attracted to Bucky, and curious about Mary. Like he wants to help, wants to get to know her.

She signs the rest of the documents without making a fuss, so Steve figures he’ll be getting that chance.

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card: sarah-writes-stucky

Square G5: Dom!Bucky Barnes

[eekshade]

Hello Eli.

I love your Bucky stories.

Could you write something about Bucky and his boyfriend?

After Bucky returns from a long mission, Y/N surprises him with a romantic dinner.

Surprise!

Bucky Barnes x m!reader

Word Count: 1101

Warnings/info: use of y/n, reader is playfully cocky, Bucky and reader live together in an apartment, reader drinks wine, fluff hopefully, not proofread

Y/n frantically raced from counter to counter putting away the ingredients that were no longer needed. His phone buzzed harshly against the counter catching his attention, “Just parked, see you soon.” The message sends his heart into a frenzy. He glances around the warm, dimly lit room, a smile growing on his s/c face as the feeling of pride bubbles in his chest. He takes a small spoonful of the simmering, soft orange sauce, bringing it to his lips; his smile grows as the tangy, slightly thick substance melts on his taste buds.

With a final nod he sets the spoon back onto the counter. He grabs two wine glasses, white napkins (that thankfully arrived on time), and two white candle sticks. The items are neatly placed in their respective places, the wax from the candles rubs off onto his shaky fingers causing an uncomfortable sensation to run through his veins and up his spine.

The loud sound of the door unlocking broke through the quiet apartment, causing the male to jump and swiftly walk to the nearest mirror checking out his appearance, straightening out the suit that draped across his torso. He hears Bucky take a few steps into the main entrance before stopping.

The smell of spices fill the brunet man’s nose, partnered by the soft jasmine and neroli candle lit in the corner of the room, bring a strong sense of comfort to the older man. A confused smirk dances on his chapped lips, he drops his bags next to the front door. Walking farther into the apartment, curiosity turns to amusement when he realizes what his boyfriend has done.

“Darling…?” he calls out, slight anxiety naws on his brain thinking he has forgotten something important “What’s this all for?” He glances around in search of his lover.

The younger man comes out from around the corner, his nervous smile brightens at the sight of Bucky’s lovesick eyes, “Surprise!”

“I -” Bucky searches the other’s face for something, anything, “I’m sorry but I don’t understand.” He says defeated.

“Well, I know how hard you’ve been working and I wanted you to know how proud I am.” As y/n says this he slowly makes his way to Bucky like a fox stalking a brittle, white bunny.

“Thank you doll.” Bucky says feeling unable to comprehend how someone could love him this much.

Y/n takes Bucky’s hand in his own, leading him to the small table adorned in a white table cloth, a dark red overlay and a black runner layered on top. A bundle of roses and baby’s breath sit in a darkly colored vase, candle sticks and all one could think of sat across the placements on each side of the vase.

Y/n pulls out Bucky’s chair for him, laying a quick kiss on the elder's temple as he sits. “And after I can draw you a nice warm bath,” y/n says, dragging out the first word, “even bought you some bath salts and such.” He mumbles onto Bucky’s forehead before leaving another kiss.

Y/n goes to move but Bucky grabs his wrist gently tugging him down to his level, “I love you.” Bucky quietly gushed before planting a suave kiss on y/n’s lips.

“I love you,” y/n echoed, “now can I get the dinner I have just so lovingly prepared?” He jested, Bucky grinned back as he let go of y/n’s wrist.

Y/n walks into the kitchen for a few moments fixing up two plates with the orange pasta gently grating parmesan cheese on top of the dressed up noodles, elegantly walking back to the table and setting them down while softly spinning to go retrieve the deep, dark red wine, before pouring it into the two glasses, finally he pulls a lighter out of his pocket lighting the candles.

“Thank you, y/n.” The use of his first name caused him to glance up only to be met with a teary eyed Bucky.

Choosing to not embarrass the other y/n decides to go the humor route, “Thank me after you’ve tried it, lemme tell you I may or may not be the best cook to ever grace this lovely planet.” Bucky rolls his eyes lovingly at the e/c man.

Bucky is unable to hide his smile as he takes a bite, y/n’s eyebrow quirked up and hummed at the other man, “Oh yeah, I think you might just be.” He grins up at y/n.

“‘Course I am” y/n scoffs.

…

After a slow dinner Bucky feels the tiredness of the day, hell the last few weeks, start to overtake him. Y/n stands and takes the plates to the sink quickly rinsing them before placing them in the dishwasher, Bucky comes up to the other with the empty wine glasses going to wash them. Y/n grabs the glasses out of Bucky’s hand and puts them in the sink while softly scolding him.

“Let me take care of that.” Y/n uttered, “Your night isn’t over yet, come on.” Y/n leads him to the bedroom and connecting bathroom, he follows - content.

“Go to the bathroom and undress, I’ll be quick.” Y/n softly ordered, opening the closet to take out pajamas for the two of them.

“Well, I would say take me to dinner first but…” Bucky snickers.

Y/n rolls his eyes, “Just go.” Bucky puts his hands up and backs into the bathroom.

Bucky whistles eyeing what y/n put together earlier. He sits on the edge of the tub taking off his shoes, he then stands and grips the hem of his shirt pulling it over his head. Y/n walks into the bathroom immediately going to the tub turning on the water letting it run until it turns warm, on the hotter side. He slips the plug into the drain, gathering the supplies, sprinkling the salts into the water.

Once the water is all nice and ready y/n helps Bucky into the water. He steps away to turn on some slow jazz (particularly one album that Bucky listened to all the time when he was much younger), y/n kisses Bucky again right above the eyebrow, he stands to make his exit, both men laughing when his knees pop.

Y/n closes the door and makes his way back to the kitchen to finish cleaning up, and unpacking Bucky’s bags. He smiles widely at the thought of the man in the other room, listening to the very quiet music that drifted out through the home.

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[the-iceni-bitch]

He Gives Me Everything and Tenderly…

Pairing: detective!bottom Bucky Barnes x younger!top male reader (Sarge and Officer Beefcake, NLLYL AU)

Words: ~5k

Summary; Bucky is just fine on his own. He really is. He’s used to it. Even after meeting you and thinking about you a whole bunch, he’s still fine. And he does not appreciate his friends’ meddling.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (mentions of male masturbation, salad tossing, protected anal sex, spit as lube and lube as lube, kinda public sex), meet cute, reverse age gap, tall/beefy male reader, bottom!Bucky Barnes, Bucky is grumpy, hints of angst, love at first sight? lots of friendly teasing, m/m relationship, SMUT!! 18+ ONLY!!

A/N: Welp, this was something I wrote entirely in one sitting and I can’t say I’m mad about it at all. This is my first ever male reader fic and I am both incredibly nervous and very excited to share it with all of you! Big ass thanks to the absolutely amazing @howdoyousleep3 for hyping me up and providing some much appreciated perspectives (remember lube, people!)

I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on all the latest filth, follow my sideblog @the-iceni-library and turn on notifications!

Bucky was exhausted. A long ass shift at the end of a long ass week and he was done, looking forward to going home and drinking a cold beer on his couch while he didn’t talk to anyone for a whole 48 hours. God, he hated people.

Except Darcy, and the cute little peach. Even though he wanted to get the fuck out of there he still stopped by the dispatch desk to chat with his girls and let them cheer him up a little.

“Hey Sarge!” He shook his head when Darcy called him that, her stubborn insistence to call him by his military rank after however many years just one of the many things that endeared her to him. “You look like shit, you finally getting out of here? Maybe gonna see someone special tomorrow?”

“The only people he’ll be seeing are Sam Adams and Johnnie Walker, maybe James Bond… hey!” The peach gave him an adorable scowl when he threw a paper clip at her, rubbing her cheek where it had hit her and sticking her tongue out at him before turning her attention back to her screen. “Don’t act like I’m not right, I’m there every time you drunk dial Nat while you’re binge watching old movies and lamenting your lack of a love life.”

“Tell your girlfriend to quit putting me on speaker or I’m gonna call her ex to chat from now on.” Bucky grinned when she rolled her eyes at him, bringing his attention back to Darcy and sighing when she was giving him a sympathetic pout. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m fine. I like being alone.”

“You’re lying, but fine.” Darcy shrugged at him, grinning when there was a sudden commotion at the doors and a mess of recruits came charging through into the hallway after Sam. “Hi Sammy, boys! Ooh, hey there beefcake, you run laps around all those slugs on the course again?”

“Maybe.”

Bucky choked when you were standing next to him, trying not to ogle you swathed in those gray sweats and feeling like the world’s dirtiest old man all of a sudden. “They’re getting better, starting to catch up. You shouldn’t call them slugs, Darce.”

“Please, like Wilson hasn’t called them worse, you’re too nice.” Peachy girl grinned when she turned in her chair again and saw Bucky looking like his jaw was about to hit the floor. “Have you met Detective Barnes, beefy?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.” Bucky took in your name with an almost hysterical laugh when you reached out and shook his hand, not entirely sure what had come over him as he felt his neck getting unbearably hot and struggled to come up with something to say. “Well, I’ve gotta hit the showers, always lovely talking to you ladies.”

“Bye!” Both of them were grinning wickedly at Bucky once you were gone, chuckling when he just spluttered nonsense and looked at the floor. “What the fuck was that, Bucky?”

“Shut up.” He was flabbergasted, he’d never felt such an unbelievable attraction to someone right off the bat, except, once. But he never thought about that. “It wasn’t anything.”

“Oh, nothing at all?” Darcy was still grinning when Bucky growled at her, shaking her head and leaning back in her chair while the peach kept laughing. “So you weren’t staring at his ass when he walked away?”

“Of course not.” It had only been a little bit, you were so fucking tall your ass was impossible to miss, and so high and tight and… no, nope. “What the hell kind of nickname is beefcake, anyway?”

“You saw him.” Peach was practically cackling at this point, the redness on Bucky’s face so entertaining she was considering taking a photo to send to Nat. “The man is grade A USDA prime meat, what would you like us to call him?”

“You’re a couple of pervs.” Bucky just scoffed and ignored them when they told him it takes one to know one, flipping them off over his shoulder and almost forgetting his bag when he stormed out of the precinct to start his much needed alone time. “Inappropriate, gonna talk to HR about you two!”

If it had just been the one interaction, Bucky probably could’ve handled it. Yeah, he had jerked himself off thinking about your broad shoulders and tiny waist and that masterpiece of an ass, but only once, okay three times. But it was just over the weekend, he’d forget about you eventually.

Except for the fact that suddenly he was seeing you everywhere. Every damn time he was in the precinct, there you were, smiling that slightly crooked smile and laughing and making every person light up when you walked through the room. And in the fucking sweats every time, it was like torture. Torture that was made worse by the fact that Darcy and peach were always grinning at him like they knew something he didn’t, and they had apparently told Sam whatever they supposedly knew, so now that man was basically parading you in front of Bucky’s desk every chance he got and making him talk to you and get to see how fucking charming you were. He hated it.

“I do, I love cats!” Sam was chatting with you right in front of Bucky’s desk again and he was plotting how he could get away with murdering the man. “Have a little ginger idiot at home who has maybe two braincells, but he’s my baby.”

“Wow, that’s adorable.” Bucky almost growled at Sam when he grinned at him. “Bucky has a kitty of his own, don’t you, Buck?”

“Yes.” Sometimes he even hated his friends, this was ridiculous.

“I love that, knew you were a cat person.” Bucky almost groaned when you placed your hand on the desk so close to his, looking up at you through his lashes and trying so hard not to melt into his chair when he saw you smiling at him. “What’s her name?”

“Alpine.” You smelled so unbelievably good, Bucky had an incredible urge to lean up and bury his face in your neck, but managed to just turn the photo of his cat around to show you instead. “She’s three.”

“She’s gorgeous.” You winked and Bucky almost swooned, there was something wrong with him. “Shit, I’ve gotta get out of here, got a birthday party to get to. It’s always real nice talking to you, Detective.”

“You too.” Bucky swallowed thickly and shook his head when you walked away, his scowl coming back immediately when he saw Sam looking like he just ate a damn canary as he smirked at him. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything.” Sam chuckled when Bucky just hunched over his paperwork and tried to ignore him. “Buuuuut… hoo boy, you like him.”

“I do not.” Murder was the only answer to these affronts. “He’s too young.”

“Bullshit, is peach too young for Nat?” Sam snorted when Bucky just grumbled under his breath, rolling his eyes at the man’s stubbornness. “You like like him, you need to get over that massive hang up, Barnes, it’s holding you back!”

“Man, fuck you!” Bucky jumped when he realized that Sam wasn’t there anymore, so he was just yelling at the bullpen, every member of the team giving him looks of varying amusement before they bent back to their work. “Sorry.”

It was a legitimate hang up, especially when it came to you. Because you reminded Bucky of him.

Specifically of when he was young, when Bucky first realized he was in love and overlooked all of his flaws and just wanted to be wrapped up in him all the time in spite of the fact the man would only look at Bucky like his old friend who he could tell about every single disgusting conquest he made. And that meant you were dangerous. Bucky refused to do that to himself again, it had taken him too long to get over that malicious bastard, and nothing had hurt him more than the realization that he had wasted so much time loving someone who barely gave a fuck about him. He didn’t care how sincere and charming you seemed, he wasn’t going to fall for that same shit all over again.

But it didn’t stop any of his friends from dragging you in front of him at every opportunity, and even though he was polite and listened to you and answered all your questions, it didn’t stop him from snarling at them as soon as you were gone. He didn’t care what they thought he needed, he was fine.

He wasn’t lonely. He didn’t wake up grinding his hips into his mattress after dreaming of sharing his bed with you. He didn’t wonder what you would look like with soft morning light falling across your face while both of your cats jumped on you and Bucky made you breakfast. They all needed to worry about their own lives and quit fucking with his.

Which is why he should have been suspicious as hell when Nat and her little peach and Darcy insisted on taking him out for drinks on a Friday night. All of them together. At a dive bar that was typically just cops. Like they didn’t usually go uptown and dress up.

“Well, look at that, is that Sam?” Darcy bounced on her toes and waved when she spotted Sam with all of his recruits, her and peach squealing while Bucky shot Nat an exhausted look. “Gosh, I completely forgot they’re celebrating the academy graduation, what are the chances?”

“Shocking.” Bucky couldn’t stop growling when Nat just shrugged at him. “I can’t believe they dragged you into their scheming, Romanoff.”

“They’re young and excited, it’s cute.” Nat wrapped her arm around Bucky’s shoulders and started pulling him towards the group. “Besides, you deserve someone nice, and to spend the night with someone besides Alpine.”

“Alpine doesn’t take up that much room on the bed, and I like to spread out.” Bucky just resigned himself to having a miserable night, even when you gave him an easy smile once you laid eyes on him and waved eagerly. “And he might not be nice.”

“Buck, you won’t know unless you give him a chance.” Nat sighed as she rested her chin on her best friend’s shoulder, pinching his cheek and trying to get him to at least give her a grudging smile. “And you know how good my asshole radar is, I’m getting no pings from the beefcake.”

“Yeah, alright.” Bucky steeled himself when you started walking his way, feeling a little tight in his chest and watery in his eyes as he did his best to give you a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi Detective.” Your smile got even wider when Nat introduced herself, shaking her hand warmly then turning back to Bucky and crossing your arms over your massive chest. “Can I get you a beer?”

“I don’t…” Bucky caught himself when Nat looked at him expectantly and blew out a deep breath. “Yeah, a beer would be great.”

“Fantastic, for you too?” You winked at Nat when she nodded before hurrying off to get their drinks with an undeniable bounce in your step that Bucky found he enjoyed very much.

“Listen, Buck.” Nat gave you a very thorough look while you waited at the bar, wrapping her arms around her girl when she came to sit on her lap and Darcy sat across from them. “Even if it doesn’t last, you’re a special kind of idiot if you don’t at least have sex with that man.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky felt himself blush up to his ears when all of the women just nodded enthusiastically and started detailing what the two of you should do to each other. “You three are worse than frat boys, oh my god.”

“C’mon, sarge…” Darcy snapped her mouth shut when you came back with Bucky’s and Nat’s drinks, giving Bucky a meaningful look and making a little circle with her thumb and forefinger then pushing her opposite finger through it while your back was turned until Bucky felt like he was in fucking high school. “Hi beefcake!”

“Hi Darce!” You were sitting so close to Bucky he could smell you again, he had to start chugging his beer so he didn’t reach out to bury his fingers in your hair. “I’ve always wanted to ask, why does she call you ‘sarge’?”

“Oh, it was my rank when I was discharged.” Bucky couldn’t handle the way you were looking at him, like he was the most interesting thing in the room, he wanted to fall into your eyes and get lost. “From the army. Darcy’s sister served with me, so she knew me then and the nickname stuck.”

“I didn’t know you served, my dad was in the marines.” You could see Bucky starting to tense up and bless you, you backed off, keeping that easy smile on your face while you nudged his foot with yours. “It’s okay, that’s not something we have to talk about right now, tell me about Alpine, how’s the little lady doing?”

“She’s- she’s good.” Something about the way you instantly pivoted the conversation and didn’t make Bucky feel like an ass for almost clamming up had him relaxing pretty much instantly, grinning back at you and rolling his eyes a little playfully when he thought about his little furry troublemaker. “She’s a brat, but good. Almost gave me a heart attack last week when she somehow managed to climb up to the ceiling beams in my apartment.”

“Oh shit! Really?” You chuckled warmly when Bucky just nodded and took another sip of his beer, plucking at the edge of the label on your bottle and leaning forward a little so you could hear him better. “She get down on her own or did you have to get a ladder?”

“Well, after six hours of pleading and begging, I did finally manage to entice her with some tuna.” Bucky kept watching your face closely, the earnestness he was so wary of constant and never wavering while you listened to everything he said intently. “She’s too smart for her own good, I swear.”

“Fuck, I can’t decide if my situation is better or worse.” You laughed when Bucky scoffed, pushing at his shoulder and shaking your head when he looked at you with mock offense. “No, I love my boy, but he’s a dumbass of epic proportions. The most worrisome thing he’s ever done is get his whole head stuck in a mason jar. Theodore is an idiot.”

“Theodore?” Bucky was vaguely aware of movement next to him after he emptied his beer and set down the bottle, but he couldn’t stop watching your lips move. “That’s adorable.”

“Aw, yeah, my niece named him.” Your smile got even wider somehow and it was making Bucky melt, another bottle of beer appearing seemingly out of nowhere on the table and immediately finding its way to his lips. “It’s her favorite chipmunk.”

Cats. Talking about your fucking cats was apparently the kick in the ass Bucky needed to let almost all his concerns about having anything with you go, letting himself relax and be easy while you told him all these sweet, endearing little things about yourself. How much you loved your niece and how much of a star she was at figure skating. How good you were at baking and you didn’t care what he said, you were baking him a loaf of sourdough to prove it. How you played three different instruments and spoke two languages. You were too goddamn interesting.

And you managed to get him to talk about himself too. How close he was with his sister and mother and how much he loved seeing them as often as possible. How he secretly enjoyed knitting and always made sweaters for the family at Hanukkah but would kill you if you told anyone about his hobby. How he collected old records and could spend whole days just listening to music and drinking good whiskey.

Bucky was more than a little thrilled that you seemed to be hanging on his every word and scooting closer to him until you were right next to him and your shoulders were practically touching.

He had lost track of how many beers he’d consumed by the time people started dancing, but he knew it wasn’t too many as he was just very pleasantly buzzed and staring at your plump, kissable, pillowy lips and wondering what it would be like to suck on them.

“Hey, James.” Bucky had just told you his first name and for some reason the fact that was what you were choosing to call him was making him dizzy. “You wanna dance with me?”

“Oh, um…” Bucky chewed on his lip while he thought it over, he had two left feet when he was sober, and he also wasn’t sure he would be able to control himself if you put your hands on him. “I don’t know…”

“Hey, no pressure.” You winked like you did every time you said something disarming and Bucky decided that he loved that about you. “Just wanted to ask, but if all you want is to talk, that’s a-okay.”

Bucky was struggling with himself. You barely seemed disappointed, it had maybe flashed across your face for a second, but he believed you when you said it was okay. You even leaned back against your chair to give him space, zero hints of malice in your expression and just that perfect, easygoing look that made Bucky feel like you were fine taking no for an answer and you would never hold it against anybody.

And for some reason, that finally sealed it for Bucky that you weren’t him.

“I wanna dance.” Bucky winced when he almost knocked over his bottle when he set it down, grabbing your hand and pulling you to your feet so he could drag you towards the makeshift dance floor. “Let’s go.”

Your laugh made Bucky beam at you over his shoulder, humming along to the music and turning to face you once you were in the middle of it. His breath caught when you were right there, letting you frame his waist with your hands and pull him even closer while you started rolling your hips to the music. Bucky very quickly decided that he liked having your hands on him, shaking his head and gripping your wrists to keep you in place when you tried to lean back before he slid his palms up your arms and over your chest.

Somehow, even though he knew you were big, your massive size hadn’t fully registered in Bucky’s brain until he was in such close proximity to you. It’s not like Bucky was small by any means, he hit the weights, he never skipped arm day, he’d even been called beefy himself a few times. But you… goddamn. You were like nothing Bucky had ever seen before. He was starting to get woozy from it.

Then you ducked even closer and pressed your cheek against Bucky’s temple and he couldn’t help it, he gasped. He could feel your lips moving against his skin but he couldn’t hear anything you were saying, a low buzzing filling his ears while his fingers dug into your firm chest and he rolled his hips against yours. This was dangerous, he was not going to have sex with you without even a proper date, he wasn’t that easy.

He kept repeating it in his head over and over. When you slipped your arms around his waist and squeezed as you kept guiding his movements. When he buried his face in your neck and groaned when he finally got to breathe in your scent fully. When you nipped at the shell of his ear and made some kind of noise that sent a vibration through Bucky’s whole body. And especially when you grabbed his ass and gave such a dirty grind of your hips that made him feel how fucking hard and massive you really were.

It didn’t matter how much he repeated it though, it only took three songs before Bucky found himself with his back against a stall door in the bathroom with his pants around just one of his ankles and his toes barely brushing the floor while he practically sat on your face.

One of his knees was flung over your shoulder while you licked at his hole, his whole body shivering when you hummed against his skin and dug your fingers into his thighs and he didn’t even care that he was getting eaten out in a public bathroom and enjoying it quite loudly.

“God, I knew you’d be fucking sweet.” You growled but barely pulled back, gripping the thigh that was on your shoulder and pushing it up until it was pressed to Bucky’s side so you could see his face. “You taste so goddamn good, James, once I get you in bed I’m gonna make a full meal out of this ass, shit.”

“Oh… Jesus Christ.” Bucky could barely breathe when your mouth was on his hole again, he could feel your jaw working while you moved your lips and tongue like you were making out with him, all while you kept your intense eye contact and let his cock rest on your face like you didn’t even care. “Oh my fucking god.”

Bucky could feel your chuckle when a whine escaped from his throat without his permission, his eyes rolling when your tongue fluttered all around his twitching skin before you were dragging it over his hole again and sucking until Bucky almost squealed. But then your tongue punched into him and the squeal was ripped out of his chest, his breath heaving almost painfully while you fucked him with the thick muscle until his dick started leaking and twitching against your forehead. It was insane that you were so good at this, you were so young, but your mouth worked like you were a fucking pornstar and it had Bucky feeling some kind of way.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you, James.” It didn’t sound like a question, you were telling him, your face serious while you licked your way up his taint until you could nip at his balls while you slid a finger inside him. “I need it, need to feel you come on my cock, god, you’d better fucking hold it until I’m inside you or I’m gonna spank you, I swear to fucking god.”

“Yeah… yeah, oh my god, please.” Bucky felt like he was losing his mind when you sucked on his balls and pushed a second finger inside him, his legs shaking and his eyes rolling back in his head while he grabbed your hair and held on for dear life. “Oh shit… fuck me, I can hold it, I’ll be good, just fuck me.”

You leaned your cheek against his hip and kept grinning at him while you reached your free hand into your wallet to grab a packet of lube, chuckling when Bucky huffed at you when you ripped it open with your teeth and squirted it all over the fingers you were plunging into his ass.

“You brought lube with you?” Bucky was trying to remain huffy but it was difficult when you were scissoring his hole open so slowly and shit, it felt amazing. “What exactly did you think was going to happen tonight?”

“God, I dunno, James.” You looked meaningfully at the fingers that were currently knuckle deep inside him, wiggling them a little when you looked back up at him with a cocked eyebrow and snorting when he whined. “Would you prefer I didn’t have lube right now? Because I can stop…”

“No, don’t do that.” So much for not trying to seem desperate, Bucky was panting he needed you so bad. “I’m just… talking, I’ll shut up. I can be good.”

“Yeah? You’re gonna be a good boy for me James?” What were you doing to him? Bucky couldn’t help but whimper when you spat on your fingers to slick them up even more and added a third, nodding and rolling his hips into your hand when you just barely teased his sweet spot as you kissed the inside of his thigh. “Yeah you will, my good boy, opening right up for me.”

“Mmhm, yours, oh holy shit.” The addition of your fourth finger turned Bucky’s whole body into jelly, your hold on his thigh the only thing keeping him from crumpling to the floor when you licked a wide, flat stripe up the underside of his cock. “Holy fucking shit, pleasepleaseplease…”

“Shhh, don’t you worry, James, I’ve got you.” You groaned when he let go of your hair to shove his fist in his mouth when he gave you a tortured cry, slowly pulling your fingers out of him and setting his feet on the floor so you could stand. “Turn around for me, sweet thing.”

“Yes… yes sir.” Bucky let his eyes flutter closed when you kissed his temple and turned him around, pressing his cheek against the cool metal and arching his back when you placed one hand on his hip and used the other to pull out a condom. “I need it.”

“I know, handsome.” Your voice was muffled while you used your teeth to rip the wrapper open, nuzzling into the tendrils of hair that were resting against the back of Bucky’s neck so you could kiss him there while you rolled the condom over your length and emptied another packet of lube all over your dick. “You gonna call me sir while I fuck this sweet little ass?”

“Ye-yes… oh fuck!” Bucky practically screamed when your tip just barely slipped inside him, arching his back and whining when you wrapped your arm across his throat and growled in his ear. “Fuck… ‘s big, so big, fuck me.”

“You can take it, big guy, keep being good for me.” You grinned against Bucky’s cheek when he rose on his toes as you kept going, smacking his ass and chuckling when it made him clench as you increased the pressure on his neck. “You feel fucking incredible, Jesus. Been thinking about getting you like this since the first time I saw you, you know that? Did you think about me too, James?”

“N-no.” Bucky already felt extremely vulnerable while he was split open on only half of your cock, he didn’t need to admit to you that he had been dreaming about wrapping his legs around your tiny little waist while you fucked him slow and deep. “I didn’t.”

“Pretty sure you’re a liar.” You grinned and yanked his head back at the same time you gave a final snap of your pelvis and Bucky sobbed, his body shaking violently while you rested your hips against the plush curve of his ass and dragged your tongue along his jaw while you let him adjust. “That’s okay though, big guy, you can think about this. Now, I’m gonna apologize, because this is gonna be a lot faster than I would like, but we are in public.”

Bucky didn’t have any response except a yelp when you started driving your cock into him almost viciously, his breath punched out of his lungs each time your hips bounced off his ass while you sucked on his ear. He felt like he was about to explode, your cock driving into his swollen prostate each time you bottomed out until his balls started pulling tight to his body and his cock twitched. You must have felt the change since you dropped the hand that wasn’t attached to the thick arm that was currently choking him to grab his cock and start stroking him in time with your thrusts.

“Fuckfuckfuck…” Bucky felt like such a whore but he didn’t care, turning his head as much as possible so he could rub his nose against your cheek while he whined. “I’m so close, don’t stop.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want, James.” You groaned when his hole clenched around you, squeezing his cock and his throat at the same time and kissing the corner of his lips tenderly while you gazed into his eyes. “Gonna take care of you. Can’t wait to be able to take my time, enjoy you, god, could spend a whole fucking night in this ass, you’re so goddamn warm and tight. But I need you to come for me right now, James, make a mess on my hand, lemme make you feel good, c’mon.”

The thought of you in his bed and fucking him raw and open had Bucky tumbling over the edge of his climax with a shout, his desperate noises muffled by your lips when you smashed them to his as he quaked in your arms and shot his cum all over your fingers. He sobbed when you didn’t stop stroking him even once he was milked dry, his eyes rolling back when you throbbed inside him and almost lamenting the fact that you were filling the condom instead of pumping your cum deep in his guts and determined to get to the point when he would finally get to feel all of you. As soon as you were done you were bringing your cum soaked fingers to your mouth, keeping eye contact with Bucky as you sucked his cum off them slowly and groaning at his taste then pressing your lips to his again so you could share with him.

“Jesus fuck.” Bucky couldn’t think of anything else to say, smiling almost sheepishly at you after you had pulled out of him and tossed the condom, letting you turn him around and nuzzle at his cheek before you were bending to help him step back into his jeans.

“My sentiments exactly.” You gave him another one of those winks and he wasn’t even mad when he blushed violently. “You gonna be as big of an ass about me taking you on a real date?”

“I wasn’t an ass.” Bucky huffed when you stood back up and wrapped your arms around him, nipping at your bottom lip and grinning when you growled playfully at him. “I was wary.”

“Sure.” You kissed him slow and deep and smiled against his lips when he melted into you before pulling back so he could breathe. “Pretty sure the girls and Sergeant Wilson would agree with my assessment, but we can use your word.”

“Oh shit, they’re still out there.” Bucky screwed his eyes shut and moaned at the thought of the commentary he was going to have to endure, shaking his head when you chuckled and opened the stall door to start pulling him back to the bar. “Can’t we just climb out the window or something?”

“Yeah, I don’t think either of us could fit through that window, James.” You nodded at the tiny one by one glass square and kissed his temple when he sighed defeatedly, holding his hand and letting him follow you when you opened the door. “Besides, if you think I’m not going to enjoy showing you affection in public, I’ve got some bad news.”

Bucky’s retort was cut off by an absurd amount of hollering when you opened the door, his face getting unbearably red and the desire to either tell all of your friends to shut the fuck up or just book it out of the bar overwhelming. But then your arm was around his shoulders and your lips were pressed against his temple, and maybe he could put up with his friends being smug rowdy assholes for the rest of the night if you kept smiling at him like that.

[espinosaurusrexex]

Imagine Firefighter!Bucky taking you in after a fire at your apartment building

･ﾟ✫* 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡  ｡✭･ﾟ

You and Bucky have been friends ever since your friend dragged you to her boyfriend's work Christmas party, claiming she’d be so bored without you there.

Bullshit, 'cause everyone was so sweet and easy to talk to. Bored your ass - and speaking of asses - all the guys had pretty nice ones.

So, it just happened that you became part of their little friend group of your friend, her boyfriend, Bucky, and some other firefighters from the station.

But Bucky was definitely the one you were closest to.

Any time you’d say your goodbyes he’d say some good-natured firefighter wisdom like: “remember to stop, drop, and roll!” With that cheery smile of his.

Yes, he’s a flirt.

Of course, you never thought they’d come in handy one day.

But, of course, you’d ended up in many situations, in which they actually saved lives. And, of course, for some miraculous reason, Bucky was ALWAYS the firefighter on call.

Somebody threw a lit cigarette into a trash can - you were there when it nearly exploded

Somebody chose to extinguish a burning fryer with water at McDonald’s - your fries did not make it

A random cat decided to get stuck in a tree - you were the virtuous pedestrian to call 911

And Bucky would always tease you about how bad luck followed where you went, or how he’d always have a job as long as you were alive

But you knew he’d never mean it with any harm - he just liked to tease you

So when he got a call about a fire at your address, he made sure to be the first one in the fire truck

And when he arrived he’d search the crowd for you and make sure you were okay

And he would even push Steve on his way to your apartment to be the one to check if everything was fine

Of course, it wasn’t - because apparently that bad luck slur had some truth to it

None of your stuff got destroyed, but the captain said it was too dangerous for you to move back in until the floors were checked for any further damage (yes it was that stupid annoying kid from the apartment below yours)

And as soon as that information came through, Bucky was already next to you with a bag full of your clothes and his spare keys dangling before your eyes

You’d talk to him later about going through your underwear drawer, but for now you were just happy you had somewhere to sleep

Unfortunately, though, that night's sleep didn’t come to you easily

You kept jerking awake, dreaming of fires in your apartment and waking up startled and confused when you weren’t surrounded by familiar walls

So the third time you’d woken up and almost knocked a lamp over, Bucky was already in the doorway picking you up and carrying you off to his bed

You wanted to complain - you really did- but it was so warm and cozy, and you were so tired, it must have slipped your mind

You woke up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee the next morning and a dashing smiley (and shirtless) Bucky

As a thank you, you offered to make pancakes and Bucky was proud of himself for dragging you home with him

The following mornings were pretty much the same, with you waking up tangled in each other, preparing breakfast, and just living in purely innocent and domestic bliss

Which was why you didn’t mind when the fire department called and Bucky told you the move-in date back to your apartment would be postponed for a while longer

And actually, maybe Bucky just told you that because he liked the idea of your staying a little too much - just because of the pancakes, of course…

taglist: @circe143 @valkyrie418 @mirikusashes @noideawhyimdoingthislol @nikkitc0703 @lethallyprotected @erynnnn @misshale21 @wattpaduser200 @buckyseddie @adoreyouusugar @km-ffluv @almosttoopizza @sociallyimpairedme @royalwritersoftheuniverses @i-l-y-3000 @mrsgweasley @prettylittlepluviophile @dinwifey @stuckysgirl27 @wintermischief @supersecretblogformytreasures @broadwaybabe18 @fridayiaminlove @buckybarnessimpp @goodkittyspost @justafangir1 @simpxinnie @bisexual-buckyfan @blackhawkfanatic @augustbucky @kandis-mom @harleycao @ashhsage

[cthulhu-calling]

Illusions of Love I

Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff x f!Reader

Summary : You’re interning for the brilliant Natasha Romanoff, world renowned Egyptologist and art historian and the woman you’ve had a crush on for the longest time. The only problem is, she’s married. And what’s even worse? Her husband is the most attractive man you’ve ever met.

Warnings : fluff, smut, angst, threesomes, LDR, inaccurate information about Egypt (sorry)

Author's Note : This is a NatxBuckyxf!Reader story. Whatever I've written about Egypt and ancient Egypt is made up and I cannot vouch for it's validity. Please feel free to correct me if I am wrong. I've tried to be as respectful as possible and I apologize if the content offends anyone.

I always imagine reader as a woc but try not to use many descriptive words so my fics can be read by anyone. This work is not beta'd and any and all mistakes are my own. Comments and feedback is always appreciated.

Word Count : 1603

series masterlist

Sweat was running in rivulets down your spine, the sweltering heat of the sun beating down on you as you ran towards Dr. Romanoff’s tent, a pack of archeological brushes in one of your hands and the other shielding your face from the harsh sun.

You had been interning for her for almost six months now. For the past two months of your internship, you had been helping Dr. Romanoff out here in Egypt, just west of Alexandria. They believed they were a step closer to locating the elusive tomb of the enigma that was Cleopatra and her lover, Antony.

Seeing that Dr. Romanoff was one amongst the most brilliant minds of the century and largely considered the greatest Egyptologist since Carter himself, it was no surprise she had been involved in the aforementioned archeological dig.

You’d been in Alexandria for almost two months now and Dr. Romanoff’s husband, Mr. Barnes was coming to visit having planned to stay for a week. That’s why you were in such a rush today to finish as much work as possible so she could go to receive him at the airport. She had invited you out to dinner with them but honestly, you knew she was just being polite. They were meeting after months and they probably wanted their time alone. Plus, you didn’t need more of a reminder of just how single you were.

Opening the flap of her tent, you rush in and hand her the brushes as she asks for particular ones.

While she continues to brush and clean an artefact found in a smaller tomb, you observe her. Brows furrowed in concentration, lower lip gently tucked between her teeth and hand movements precise. Her wavy hair held back by an embellished claw clip in a tight low bun at the nape of her neck, a few errant strands framing her face gracefully.

Droplets of sweat line her brow and flow down the side of her throat but she pays them no mind, soldiering on with her work.

“You don’t have to continue standing there Y/n, take a little nap if you so wish.”

Ah, busted.

“Uh- I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone,” you apologise and walk out into the blazing sun. You couldn’t wait for the cold embrace of the night, a much needed reprieve from this sultry heat.

Walking to the little basin in the shade, you splash some of the water on your face, pretty much exhausting whatever is left. Shrugging off your loose fitting cotton shirt, you cover your head and face with it, your stupid little hat had blown away earlier in the day.

The drying water gradually cools your face as you sit in the shade, against the side of the tent. The bandana around your neck was completely drenched with sweat but provided a cooling effect so you opted not to remove it, no matter how much it stank of sand and perspiration.

Before you realise it, you’re dozing off, mouth agape and head thrown back. Attractive. You don’t even hear Natasha call for you. A little frustrated and also a little worried, she walks out, looking for you. She hopes you’re not passed out from dehydration or a scorpion sting.

She finds you dozing off without a care in the world. The sight brings a smile to her face as she moves closer to you bending down and tugging at the helix of your ear which causes you to jolt awake.

“I wasn’t sleeping!”

“No need to make excuses dear, I quite understand. Anyway, I need to ask a favour of you. Dr. Nasser will be heading down here in a while,” you nod your head in understanding,“and I won’t be able to go pick Bucky up. Could you please meet him at the airport instead?” She pleads and you shrug your shoulders in assent.

A smile is quick to take over her face and she pats your head affectionately.

“Off you go.”

Rolling your eyes, you wave bye and walk off without a word. She usually did most of the talking, naturally. She was the professor after all, not you. As you stalked off to change into clothes that didn’t reek of sweat and to put on some deodorant, you wonder what Mr. Barnes is like. You hope he’s nice and not a sad old git.

You change out of your stinky tank top in favour of a baby blue linen shirt, opting to stay in the same cargo pants. You’d have to get a new hat as well. You really should have packed better but for now, the baseball cap you’d borrowed from your brother (he’d argue that you stole it) would have to suffice.

Mr. Stark, the man funding the dig, had hired a car for Natasha specifically, her being the chief Egyptologist. Of course, you used the car just as much as her and had developed a rapport with the driver, Mr. Hassan. He was a loud man in his late 50’s, short and balding with an infectious laugh, his English polished to perfection with the amount of tourists he interacted with on a daily basis. What surprised you to quite an extent though, was the degree of fluency in French. The talkative man could make friends with anyone by virtue of which, he had the best stories. As you drove to the airport, he was telling you the funniest story about a German tourist who had somehow found himself having unwittingly purchased a herd of camels.

Mr. Hassan drops you off at arrivals as he goes off to park his car. You wait with a sign in hand. You’d hastily made one with a random piece of paper and a ballpoint, scribbling his name and phone number onto it. You hoped it was legible but if it wasn’t, there wasn’t much you could do. You tried to make the letters more pronounced by over writing on them but it just made an even bigger mess. You’re just surprised the paper hadn’t torn yet. After about half an hour of waiting, you watch a man walking in your direction, squinting at the sign in your hands. You were taken aback, no doubt. The tall, dark haired man was in his late thirties or early forties, his physique more suited to that of a model rather than an investment banker. His white shirt is well fitted and you can see the well defined muscles of his arms when he fixes his laptop bag on his shoulder.

“Mr. Barnes?” you question as he approaches you.

“In the flesh. You’re Miss Y/l/n, I presume?” he asks, holding out his hand which you shake. It’s a firm grip, something you hadn’t really appreciated about someone before.

“Yes, but please call me Y/n,” you say awkwardly.

“Great, then I must insist on you calling me James,” he says with a blinding smile thrown your way. You agree sheepishly, still struck by how attractive the man is.

“I’ll just give a call to Mr. Hassan, the dig site is pretty far from here,” you pull your phone out, calling Mr. Hassan. You make idle chit chat while you wait and you find out that it’s actually their anniversary this weekend, which is the reason why James is visiting. They’ve been married five years.

“What about you?” he asks and you know it’s a natural progression as questions go but how do you tell a man that it’s his wife you’re crushing so hard on? Luckily, Mr. Hassan pulls up at just the right moment, providing you with the distraction you need. He places James’ suitcase in the back as the two of you get in. There’s no room for any other ‘incriminating’ questions as Mr. Hassan manages to engage Mr. Barnes in a discussion about something that you simply cannot be arsed to recall. With the temperature cooling down, you doze off for a little while, only waking up just as you reach the site. Dr. Romanoff is waiting for you, well, for James.

As you grab his suitcase from the trunk, you avoid looking at the embracing couple. Once they pull away, with James’ arm still around her waist, you ask if you should leave the suitcase in Dr. Natasha’s tent.

“Absolutely not, I can do it myself. As long as you point the tent out to me,” he says, taking the suitcase from you.

“Yes, that should give you time to get ready. Dr. Nasser has invited all of us to dinner at his house,” Natasha declares.

“Oh,” you say, tugging on the strap of your messenger bag. The idea of dinner with them makes you uncomfortable despite the prospect of Mrs. Nasser’s amazing cooking. The first time you had dinner at Dr. Nasser’s home, you were enlightened. The mediterranean and middle eastern influences were apparent in the traditional feast she’d cooked. Not only that, the woman was the best company (as opposed to her husband, short spoken and ill tempered). The thought of having to sit through dinner with the beautiful couple makes you queasy.

“Do you already have plans Y/n? If so, cancel them. You’re coming,” she says in her classic stern tone that you haven’t been on the receiving end of in a long time.

“Yes ma’am,” you say, offering her a salute. Bucky laughs as Natasha rolls her eyes at you. You didn’t have any plans but seeing her act like she has a right over you, it does something to you. You don’t know how you’re going to handle six more weeks of this.

[foreverrandomwritings]

•M’s Hundred Celly Masterlist•

I still can’t believe I have over 100 followers! Thank you all so much truly I wouldn’t be here without you! Here is the masterlist for my hundred celly!

•Top Gun Maverick✈️

~Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia

Schoolboy Crush (fluff)

Opposites Attract (angst/fluff)

Changes (angst/fluff)

~Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Fuck Darlin' (smut)

Steel Beach Party (fluff)

~Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

Car Troubles (fluff)

Branching Out (angst/fluff)

~Natasha “Phoenix” Trace

What’s In The Honeymoon? (fluff/smut)

Consequences (smut)

~Robert “Bob” Floyd

Flower Crowns (angst/fluff)

Laser Tag (angst/fluff)

~Javy “Coyote” Machado

Training Accidents (angst/fluff)

Darts With a Side of Secret (fluff)

•Marvel❤️

~Natasha “Black Widow” Romanoff

Uncompleted Missions (angst/fluff)

~Bucky “Winter Solider” Barnes

Blind Dates (angst/fluff)

~Loki Laufeyson

Loki and The Librarian (fluff/smut)

•Supernatural👻

~Dean Winchester

Burgers, Fries and Pies? (angst/fluff)

•Twilight🧛🏻‍♀️

~Rosalie Hale

Out and About (angst/fluff)

•Teen Wolf🐺

~Stiles Stilinski

Treehouse Therapy (angst/fluff)

[gutsby]

Trigger Tease

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your honeymoon from hell takes you straight to a strip club south of Madripoor, where Bucky teaches you how to give a lap dance, shoot a gun, and kill a man all in one night—and maybe agree to have his baby, too.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Oral (m! & f!receiving). Sex in a sauna. Sex in a strip club. Praise & degradation. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Double homicide. Dickriding. Beefy, mob boss Bucky hates birth control and bad men—loves babies and killing HYDRA operatives for his wife.

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, but that was no matter. What counted now was making the shot, and getting it right.

You sincerely hoped you wouldn’t fuck this up.

It was no secret that the Barnes’ bloodline was steeped in dealing, stealing, gunslinging, and laundering cash. Staggering privilege, too. From the sandy shores of Curaçao to Luxembourg and Guinea-Bissau, any living heir to the dynasty could have expected to find safe refuge and respect just about anywhere that they went. It was all but engrained in their DNA at this point.

All that is to say, Bucky had no trouble finding a foreign hideaway in a pinch. He liked the Swiss Alps the best.

After your short and sweet conversation with ‘Joey’ over the phone—HYDRA hijacking the intercom system—he and Sam and Steve had made the split-second decision to reroute the plane to Zürich, and now you were here.

72 hours into a four-day ticking time bomb and totally clueless as to how you might stave off impending death, and mitigate other casualties, the best that you could.

The stress fucking with Bucky made it worth it, though.

In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing that day, you’d found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time lately: pinned against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.

“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.

You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.

“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”

This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.

The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.

“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.

After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.

Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.

“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”

You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?

“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.

“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.

In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure all the while. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was far better sustenance to him than the whole fucking meal he’d eaten that morning.

Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.

You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.

“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.

“Everything OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.

Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.

He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.

“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”

“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”

Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.

“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.

“Another,” you choked, not thinking.

Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.

Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.

“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.

“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”

Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.

“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.

You opted to pull at his hair instead.

Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.

“I said how many?” he pressed again.

“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.

Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt at a rapid-fire pace. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Bucky—”

“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”

Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs—Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.

He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.

Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.

“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”

But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.

Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.

“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”

You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,

“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”

“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”

“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”

Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.

Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over. Bucky soaked in your every sound, and the few tears that would inevitably spring to your eyes, like sweet nectar.

You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouth and his and pushed them past your parted lips.

“Suck,” Bucky said, clenching his jaw as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”

You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.

That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.

He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.

“I need to fuck you now.”

Bucky’s words couldn’t have hung in the fog-infested air for more than a millisecond or two before he had you back in his arms and carried to the far end of the sauna.

At the door—or, rather, on it—with your back flush against the wood, you felt Bucky pin you in place with his hips and press his erection to that soft, cramped space between your bodies. You tightened your legs around his middle and sucked in a breath when you felt him pulse.

Then the head of his cock was circling that slick, taut ring of muscles like all hope for his future happiness lay there: right between your legs in the softest and sweetest recesses of your body he could reach. His eyes could’ve been engulfed in flames and still not betrayed a fraction of the smouldering desire that lay behind them now—he drank you in with a single look and sighed.

“Can I— do it, now?” The term ‘fucking’ swiftly lost all lustre when he was an inch from your heat and ready to press in; he just needed to be in you, a part of you, now.

“Yeah,” you breathed. You pressed your forehead to his.

Bucky ran his tip once more down your slit and had just begun to ease his hips forward when a moan snagged in his throat. He braced you firmer against the door, letting your arms drape over his shoulders, and was just about to slide his length inside of you, then—

Thump, thump, thump.

Three knocks in quick succession.

You jumped, the sudden raps reverberating up the door.

Bucky held you to him, tight, and planted a hand beside your head as if to hold the whole frame still. Then, through gritted teeth,

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Need you downstairs. Now.”

It was Sam.

“Can it wait?”

“No.”

Bucky frowned. Scratched the wood surface reflexively.

“Can it…wait?” he tried again, tone laden with a silent but pointed, ‘Is it urgent enough to drag me away from my wife when I’m less than an inch away from being seven inside her?’ Evidently, Sam got the gist, or was just keen to get him out, because he returned, quick:

“Yeah. Legal’s here.”

‘Shit’ was Bucky’s wordless expression below you.

Then a ‘Shit, shit, shit, just shoot me now’ kind of look that raised an eyebrow on your own frazzled face.

Wasn’t the arrival of Bucky’s legal team a good thing? He’d been agonizing for days, badgering Sam and Steve to no end over when they’d hear back from his retinue, and here they were. You couldn’t ask just yet, as your husband was lowering you to the floor and stepping back from the door, chest racked with a shuddering breath, but you wanted to know. You reached for a towel.

“Fine. Fuck. I’ll be right out.” As it was, Bucky had chosen to forgo the dry-off altogether and just started chucking clothes on his body, eyes roaming all over.

You turned from the sound of Sam’s retreating steps and found him moving fast, graceless—shoulders hunched, head bowed, pants wrestled almost angrily up his legs. He found his balance, barely, bracing his weight against the sink, then nearly tore the porcelain fixture off the wall with how hard he kicked it trying to get his left shoe on.

He muscled into his dress shirt and flushed bright red.

In a second, you had either side of the crisp white button-up between your hands, frowning.

“Any reason why we’re so upset?” you asked after a beat.

Bucky puffed a short breath over your head as you secured the first button. Then the next. Then the next.

“What? Apart from the fact I’m not balls deep and about to give you your fourth orgasm?” he grumbled.

You shot him a look.

“I mean it’s— not ideal, getting a visit at a time like this,” Bucky continued once he’d sufficiently contained half a smirk and could don a more serious look, “If we were getting any good news they would’ve just called.”

Hell, great news could’ve made it in an email. The whole aggregate of his legal team taking the trip from Brooklyn to Zürich meant that shit had most likely hit the fan in a big way. Bucky wasn’t thrilled to learn the ‘how’ just yet.

Instead, he cupped your cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb along its curve once you’d made it to the last button of his shirt. He started to lean in, hoping to delay the briefing downstairs with a quick diversion to your lips, but he stopped about an inch away from your face.

You’d lowered your touch, slipping it under the band of his boxers. He was still as hard as you’d felt him last.

Bucky let out a grunt when your fingertips grazed the soft tufts of hair adorning that part of his abdomen. He sucked in a breath when they sank even further.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” you said, voice dulcet and slow as you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft.

Again, a sound rumbled deep inside Bucky’s chest, and the thumb resting on your cheek stirred. In fact, it had no other choice—your head was starting to move.

Descending, slowly. Sinking to the floor in front of him. Positioning yourself right above the bulge in his pants.

Now Bucky’s palm was laying flat on your head, resting light as it ever had while you drew him even closer.

“Baby—”

“Yeah?” you hummed, just then tugging him out and bringing your mouth to the swollen, leaking head. Bucky gripped a good handful of your hair and rutted his hips without meaning to, and you smiled, “Can’t have my husband showing up hard as a rock to his meeting.”

You were right. There was no way Bucky was getting rid of this wood without the help of his hand or one of your holes. And, under any set of circumstances, he would’ve much preferred the latter to the former. He groaned when you took his tip to your lips and stroked him softly.

You made remarkably quick work of the man with just a minute or two, your mouth, your hand, and a tiny bit of spit—a record-breaking feat, Bucky had thought to himself with some embarrassment. But you weren’t concerned with his stamina in the slightest, focusing instead on the ways in which you might maximize his pleasure in the same way he’d done for you. Stretching your lips, loosening your jaw, and taking him down as far and as frequently as you could manage without gagging around him, you had him good. Deep. All but aching for release as he took a firm hold of the sink behind him.

“That’s a—fuck, that’s a good…fuckin’ girl.”

You bobbed your head once or twice more, flitting your gaze to his face, and felt the warmth unload in ropes—glazing your throat and every soft, square inch of your mouth as he did. Practically flooding your tongue with his cum. Bucky groaned and made a fist in your hair.

“Baby…shit,” came the sound of disbelief under his breath when you pulled off just enough to breathe.

You were careful how you took in air; flaring your nostrils the slightest bit, feeling a twitch at the corners of your lips as you tried not to smirk. Then, with an obscene sort of precision and purpose, you gave something else a try.

You stuck your tongue out at Bucky to show him the warm, oozing load he’d just left in your mouth.

Your husband’s response was immediate: evidently, he loved nothing more than a show of himself inside you, displayed like a prize between your two rows of teeth. You watched him grit his own to suppress a moan.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethed. Still reeling from his high.

Then he paused, in awe for a second, before dropping one finger to your mouth and swirling his touch along the sticky, opaque puddle resting over your tongue.

You closed your lips around him, snug, and held his gaze.

A weaker man might have come undone. Bucky just let out a breath and smiled.

“If you wanna play show-and-tell with my cum I can find someplace to put that, doll,” he said, low as ever, then,

“C’mere.”

You didn’t need the powers of telepathy to understand what he’d meant. Should’ve known better than to dip your toe in the cumplay game with a man who arguably harbored the world’s biggest breeding kink and really wanted to knock you up. The realization had you back on your feet in an instant. Having swallowed fast, pried your lips off his digit with a pop, and licked the corners of your mouth, you rose without the threat of a second thought.

Your pale yellow dress was the first thing you grabbed—the first thing Bucky tried to yank off of your body when you’d slipped it up your legs and staggered backward.

“Not happening, Barnes,” you giggled, pretending not to see him advance when you stepped back.

But Bucky had never been big on civility in times like these. He lunged forward and nearly tore the barely-zipped frock off your frame, eliciting a shriek and another arch look from you as you started toward the door.

You were amazed you made it through—your husband had had to stop to tuck his dick back in his pants before stumbling after you—but when you took off down the hall, you knew it was only a matter of time before you heard his footsteps thundering fast after your own.

The tips of your toes had just barely grazed the first step down the stairs when hands seized your hips. You yelped.

“BUCKY!”

Whether on account of your own practiced agility, or the fact that Bucky’s palms were still sticky and slick with his sweat, you managed to wrest yourself out of his grip just long enough to get a start down the stairs.

“COME HERE!” Bucky boomed loud, trying his hardest not to laugh as he chased after you.

You screamed without meaning to. Yanked your wrist out of his reach when you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and felt your husband close the distance in quick. You tried to be firm, insistent, primed with the kind of fine and unfuckwithable attitude that signaled you meant business. You didn’t, though—the series of giggles bubbling up in your chest said as much.

You descended the last step with a hitch, almost losing your shit within a foot of the landing, when Bucky scooped you up in his arms and held on tight. His lips were at your ear in a second, breaths coming in quick.

“Hell, I’ll give you one right here, honey,” he sneered before flipping you back around to face him.

He pressed you flush to the wrought iron railing, then over it, pushing you back bit-by-bit until you had no choice but to jump and latch your legs around his hips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t—”

“Give you a baby right now?”

“—get off of me!” You were laughing now, squirming when he nipped at the space just below your ear.

One more second and he might’ve convinced you. Your Bucky was persuasive like that, too smug and self-assured for his own good but one hell of an advocate when he wanted to be. At length, he opened his mouth to take an even bigger, teasing bite, when a voice cut in,

“Barnes.”

He stopped. You froze. Together, you reluctantly turned your heads in the direction of the sound and found a keystone conference table situated at the far end of the room—seating a dozen-odd faces with identical, muted expressions of surprise. Mild discomfort, for some.

Wild discomfort for your mother and father, you saw.

Bucky set you down and simultaneously yanked the hem of your dress back into place. Flashed a smile for the ages and snaked an arm around your waist as he started to lead you over.

“Nat! Hi,” he tried, far too casual, “Long time no see.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard and hoped like hell your husband had remembered to zip up his pants.

The woman at the head of the table—the source of the voice you’d heard—raised a brow. One cherry-red curl from her sleek, cropped bob threatened to fall out of place as she tilted her face to regard you both. The smile Bucky proffered had done nothing to repair her glare.

Some wordless exchange passed between the two of them, and next, you felt a hand directing you to a seat across the way—Steve. Smug as ever. Smirking just then.

The empty chair beside your mother. The horror.

You were dimly aware of some introductions being made on your behalf and a round of awkward, disjointed congratulations around the table. Greetings from Nat, Sam, Steve—conceited little shit—a few you knew as Bucky’s groomsmen, a couple members of the security detail, and several more friendly, unfamiliar faces, including a smartly dressed blond named Sharon. Your husband had taken a seat by the latter at the end of the table.

“Momma.” You weren’t sure why you felt the need to whisper when the attention had turned back to Natasha and other matters, but you did, “Where have you been?”

Your mother and father were perched in their chairs like prisoners. There were no shackles to be seen but an air of discomfiture and compulsion bound to their every feature. You couldn’t be sure if it was humiliation on your behalf—they had just witnessed their son-in-law promise to put a baby in you for all present to hear—or something more.

For once in your life, you hoped it was just the prudish, sex-averse tendencies of the two rendering them silent.

You tried your mother again when she hadn’t responded.

“Momma.”

“Now is not the time.”

Her voice was clipped. Abrasive.

You knew better than to test that tone another time. You sank back in your seat and let your gaze roam the table, flitting between your father and Bucky a few more times than it probably should have. Surely, your dad, who had screwed Bucky over to hell and back, obliterated your wedding, and jeopardized your lives for a few more million in his pocket would have warranted some sidelong, hateful look from your husband. A glance or a stare, certainly something to show that he knew, and hadn’t forgotten.

No—Bucky was occupied with Sharon at the moment.

You watched your father twist his signet ring on his pinky, jerking the gold back and forth as if hoping for it to break, or save him. He didn’t look at Bucky, either.

“Natasha Romanoff is the Barnes’ retained legal talent for all things maritime crime and narcotics trade-related. Some estate planning, too,” a voice rumbled beside you.

You made a low ‘Hm’ to feign understanding of whatever the fuck Steve had just said, and nodded.

Then, when your eyes wandered left again,

“Sharon Carter, criminal liaison and kingpin informant. Been in bed with the Barnes’ as long as I can remember.”

He really couldn’t have used a worse string of words if he had tried. You cocked your head just slightly and stared at the pair. You considered holding your tongue.

“And she’s been in bed with Bucky how often before?” You’d decided against self-restraint for the time being.

Steve blinked a little harder.

“What do y—”

“I’m not asking if, but when, they fucked,” you interrupted.

Steve blinked again, as if to clear a string of cobwebs from his eyes, and couldn’t quite find the words to answer your question. Either the truth or some half-baked crock of bullshit—there was no in between.

“Once,” he answered, at length. Honest.

You figured as much.

In any other situation where you were faced with one of Bucky’s former fuckbuddies, you probably would’ve felt more than a twinge of jealousy. Might’ve even cast a dark look in the girl’s direction and willed her not to even breathe the same air as him. Then you remembered you weren’t fourteen years old and could behave with some modicum of maturity when it came to some old flame of your husband. They weren’t even sitting that close.

You winced when Bucky gave her shoulder a playful squeeze, though. That facial tic you couldn’t control.

“So to recap,” Natasha announced, having just plodded through a few dull formalities up front, “Barnes got the intercom call from Schröder at 1500 hours, Friday.”

Every head nodded.

“Schröder gave Barnes exactly ninety-six hours to recover the $90 million lost in the…mishap, in Brooklyn—” Natasha’s eyes flickered to your father no longer than a second, “—and today is Monday. We have twenty-four hours to come up with the funds, or face the…penalties of Schröder’s exploding offer. Whatever those may be.”

You knew what ‘those’ were. Ms. Romanoff was either too kind or too diplomatic to say it, you reckoned, but the threat Joey Schröder had made to Bucky had been patently clear: procure the cash or your wife’s family dies.

That was why you’d been so surprised to see your mother and father seated at the table that morning—Schröder had further stipulated that there was to be no contact between you and your parents in the time it took to come up with the money. You’d been completely cut off, in the Alps, since the day of the attack, left to wonder without reprieve whether HYDRA’s bloodless henchmen had taken hostages of your parents, let them abscond to Brooklyn, or simply killed them both and sent the rest of you all on a wild goose chase to get hold of the money.

Now if they’d only had sex once, why was she looking at him like that?—The intruding thought couldn’t be helped when you peered over again—Surely the most platonic and professional working relationships didn’t call for looks like that.

Shut the fuck up. Shut the entire fuck up, please.

The lives of those closest to you were on the line and all you could think now was how well you compared to this random woman in giving Bucky head? Brain fucking rot.

You scrunched your nose and turned back to Natasha.

“…and up until this morning, Schröder’s whereabouts were unknown,” she continued, careful as she spoke.

It seemed that part had caught Bucky’s attention, too, because he was tilting his head away from Sharon and shifting his gaze to the woman at the head of the table.

“And now?” he cut in.

“I’m getting there, James.”

Sharon smiled a little at that, tracing her nail on the notepad in front of her. She muttered something to Bucky, who disregarded her remark entirely.

“Do we know where Schröder is?” he barked.

Across the table, Sam shifted in his seat. He glanced to Natasha, then Sharon.

“I believe we have modestly reliable intel—” he began, only to have his speech mowed over by an impatient, increasingly irate Bucky.

“No. No— we don’t do ‘modestly reliable’ for this, Sam. We either know where the fuck the guy is or we don’t.”

That last fragment seemed to hang in the air a couple seconds longer than needed, and a tense silence fell over the table. It took a new voice—one you hadn’t heard much at all yourself—to reignite the conversation.

“I know it,” Sharon said, “I know he’s in Madripoor.”

Madripoor? The make-believe safe haven for terrorists? You couldn’t tell if she was kidding at first. Then Bucky flitted a look to the side, and his expression was grave. Natasha’s, too. Maybe there was a Madripoor after all.

“Or he will be there, most likely, tomorrow night,” Steve interjected. The hands that had been folded neatly in front of him were now tapping a light and mindless beat on the table, “He’s got the Foxy Den rented out for a…thing.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Where else but a titty bar would Joey host his ‘things’?” he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

So Madripoor was real, and it had strip clubs. Wonderful.

It seemed Natasha was keen to regain control of the conversation, because she presently broke in,

“Keep in mind that time is of the essence—a private flight from here to the Indonesian archipelago is sixteen hours minimum. We most likely can’t afford to fly private, b—”

“Since when the fuck can’t I afford to fly private?” Bucky spat.

You hated how short and plainly nasty he was being to all those around him. If you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought these folks were at fault somehow, but they weren’t. Your father, the real culprit, was sitting right under Bucky’s nose, and he wouldn’t even look in his general direction. Your husband flared his nostrils with a new surge of indignation, and Sharon patted his hand.

“She’s not talking finances, bub,” the blond started, “She’s saying your jet is on a no-fly list, we don’t have time to charter a new plane, and there’s a hefty fucking bounty on your head if you ever set foot in Madripoor. We need to get you on a commercial flight, undercover.”

“Fuck that.” Bucky’s response was reflexive. He rose fast.

If your parents could have appeared any more stiff and uncomfortable you might have mistaken them for two charming, thoroughly terrified wax figures. Your father continued to fiddle with his ring as he watched Bucky.

Natasha tensed as well. As soon as Bucky was up on his feet, pacing around at the end of the table, she was urging him to relax, Buck, this isn’t anything we haven’t done before—sit down, please. Bucky didn’t sit, and he most certainly didn’t relax, but he did kick a stool across the room.

“I am not going back to that shithole.”

The stool tumbled onto its side, one leg splintered in half. You made a mental note to look into some anger management classes. Your parents, along with most of the table, flinched at the crashing sound, while your husband stood, supremely agitated, and did not even regard the broken chair. He turned away from Natasha.

“Yeah, well, that ‘shithole’ is our only hope of getting Schröder behind bars and you out of custody, Bucky,” Natasha called as he started to pace away.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky tilted his head to the side. He contemplated snagging a bottle of Macallan 25 off the bar cart by the window but decided against it.

“Have you been listening to a word of what I’ve said all weekend?” Natasha returned, almost as biting, “Turned on MSNBC or CNN or any other news outlet in the last forty-eighty hours?”

She dropped her own notepad on the table and scanned the area in search of something else. Sam and Steve took that as their opportunity to jump in.

“Bucky,” Sam started, calmly, “There were over a dozen foreign attachés and two heads of State at your wedding, half of whom are now being hospitalized for injuries they sustained in the attack.”

“So?” Bucky snapped.

His eyes were already trailing back to the cart.

“So you think the U.N. Security Council was just gonna let that slide?”

“Two-thirds of its members have been up in arms, practically chomping at the bit to get someone pinned for the fucking thing—that leaves you or Schröder on the chopping block,” Steve chimed in.

“So one more federal probe. What’s the big deal?” Bucky hardly realized he’d taken a tumbler in his hands.

Just as he’d turned to pour himself a drink, guided more by bare muscle memory than anything else, Natasha raised a manila folder—the item she’d been looking for. He’d filled his glass half full when the folder was flung his way like a frisbee. He narrowly saved himself a papercut—or ten—by ducking his head, almost spilling his drink.

“The fuck, Nat?!” he bellowed.

“Extradition, Bucky. Search warrants for your Brooklyn residence, all your money service businesses up the Eastern Seaboard, and a whole hell of a lot of other financial records that we do not need dredged up in this mess.” Natasha pointed to the folder on the floor, which had just spilled a litany of documents at his feet.

“Let them.” Bucky wasn’t fazed by the warrants, walking over them as he drank, “I’m not going to Madripoor."

This time, it was Sharon's turn to roll her eyes as she swiveled in her chair to face Bucky. She was turned from you now, but you could almost smell the smug, knowing look she raked over your husband as she uncrossed her legs and leaned back.

"We don't have time for this," she said, coolly, "If you have any hopes of getting the Counter-Terrorism Committee off your ass and Schröder in custody, you'll listen to Nat."

Bucky paused, weighing her words in his mind before meeting her gaze again. He brought his glass to his lips and drained it.

Then, perhaps feeling a bit emboldened by the idea that she was the only one to have shut Bucky up—to have made him listen, as it were—Sharon piped up again. You didn't need to see her face to know for certain there was a smirk etched across it,

"Don't look so glum, honey. We have no choice here."

It startled every last soul at that table, yourself included and Sharon especially, when the cup in Bucky's hand sailed across the room and shattered on the edge of a cabinet close by. Before the glass had so much as splintered and scattered half of its jagged shards along the floor, your husband was stalking, then stopping, then looming over Sharon with an implacably dour look. And a jaw set tight as you'd ever seen it.

"My choice," he seethed, so low the words almost came out in a murmur, "is to protect my wife. Whatever you, or Natasha, or anyone else has in mind comes second to that. Do you understand?"

Sharon nodded that she did.

A hushed silence fell over the room once more, only now its duration was greater, and the cause of it—your red-faced, fuming husband—had turned his back to the group and was retrieving from the bar cart another glass. Another drink. Natasha followed his path with a vigilant eye.

"Bucky," she said.

Bucky didn't answer. Filled his new glass to the brim.

"Bucky," Natasha tried with a little more volume and vigor.

Your husband lifted the cup to his mouth and started to guzzle, against every shrill and helpless plea from his liver, you guessed. You wanted to object, to take leave of your seat as quick as you could and knock the thing out of his hand before he could finish, but Natasha had you beat—not with any physical act but a word to slow him down: "Barnes."

Then, a few more to get him to stop entirely:

"Look. Over there."

She pointed to a slip of paper somewhere at the top of the shuffle.

Bucky shifted his gaze to the floor. You saw him lick both corners of his mouth, bathed in whiskey residuum and a light, nascent spatter of stubble. He looked almost menacing in spite of the grin that kicked up.

"What's this?" he murmured.

"The terms of Schröder's newest offer. The one he made this morning."

Bucky's second glass was discarded in an instant.

He dropped to his knees, seized the paper in his hands and pored over the bare, 11-point Times New Roman typeface like it was the single most precious set of words in the world to him. There were several mountains of text, and you sensed he couldn't begin to under the legal jargon with just one cursory look.

"What? What's'it mean?" Bucky wouldn't tear his gaze away, even as he shouted to Natasha.

Your own eyes probably should've been fixed on Bucky, or in your lap, or out the window, reflecting in silence on what the fuck could be going on and why it felt as though things were suddenly coming to a perilous head. Instead, you pivoted to Natasha. Her face was tilted to you.

Then she spoke to Bucky, still crouched on the floor a few feet away from her, but she kept her focus on you. She spoke carefully.

"Schröder won't take the money, Bucky."

"What?"

Bucky's gaze combed over the page, desperate to make sense of what was printed in front of him—"The hell's this all mean, Nat, tell me what it means and what he wants, for fuck's sake."—and he flipped the document. Read some more. His eyes flitted from line to line in a full-blown terror.

Then the eyes stopped in one spot.

Bucky stood.

Fisting the letter in one hand and making a wild, inarticulate gesture with the other, he probably could've seared a hole in Natasha's head with the force of his stare. She refused to meet it.

"This is a joke, isn't it?"

All of a sudden, your father leaned over your mother to you,

"We can make it work. We can keep you—"

"Hey. Don't talk to her. Don't fuckin' look at her. Is this—"

"—safe. We'll keep you safe, darling, I swear."

"—some kind of sick fucking joke?!"

You stared at your dad in disbelief. Bewilderment. Then you chanced a look at Bucky, who had all but gone blue in the face as he approached your father from the opposite end of the table, letter still crushed in his hand.

Your father averted his gaze.

He knew.

You saw him flick the gold signet on his pinky once more, and for reasons you didn't yet understand yourself, you couldn't look away from it, or him.

Surely this scared-shitless son of a bitch could speak to you now. He'd have to. There was no way he wouldn't when the problem was staring him right in the face and his son-in-law was practically apoplectic with rage in front of him.

Something clicked in Bucky's brain.

He knew.

Your husband’s breath caught with the full weight of the realization, and he blinked. He didn’t hesitate; he simply sidestepped Sam and Steve—who had stood as soon as they saw the look of understanding cross over his face—and he seized your father. You heard a scream, most likely from your mother, and you saw Bucky swing, but the act barely registered as real until his fist first cracked against your dad’s skull. Again. And again. And again.

Somewhere in the raucous din and sounds of punches, kicks, and muffled groans, a discharge of blood, and the dim recognition that some of the stuff was dousing you, too, you managed to make out several words, disjointed:

“—FUCKING KILL YOU—SOLD HER—SOLD HER?!”

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, it was true, but it was an alter-ego he’d been given from his earliest days as a made man. A caricature of himself that was to represent everything he did and was capable of doing in places like Madripoor.

You didn’t know that side. You didn’t like that side.

It was Bucky, and it wasn’t—pummeling your father’s face in the ground after learning that he had offered you up, again, in satisfaction of a debt. Sparing no feelings when he spoke to Natasha, Sam, Steve, Sharon, or anyone, making clear his wife’s safety was paramount.

Maybe you were meant to feel proud. Or flattered. Or safe. But oddly, the longer you’d stared at the bloodied, bruised fist he held above your father’s face and the half-deranged look of anger on his own, the more you began to wonder if the fury was for your protection, or simply a knee-jerk response to the thought of losing a possession. A mere object that he couldn’t bear to part ways with.

You had thought long and hard about where the Soldier stopped and Bucky began. No matter where you landed, you were far from comfortable with the conclusion.

Now, even as you stood two feet away from the man in an upper-level lounge of the Foxy Den, roughly half a day removed from the whirlwind turn of events that almost sent your father to hospital, you hardly knew what to say.

“Zip me up?”

The closest thing you’d had to conversation in hours. Bucky obliged.

You viewed your new dress in the mirror from the side and made a face. Pretended to examine the tight black number but were really just zeroing in on the sight of Bucky’s knuckles as he dragged the zip up your back. He hadn’t bothered to mend his hands, and you hadn’t thought to offer to bandage them up. You tried not to stare.

The hands paused at the top of your dress and froze.

Then crept back slowly, taking the zip along with it.

“Wanna—?”

“Bucky!”

One low groan, followed by a palm to his worn and wearied face. When you spun around, he didn’t move.

“Are you serious?” you bit.

“Will you talk to me now?” Bucky retorted.

To be fair, neither he nor his Winter Soldier persona knew how to solve the silent treatment from a pissed-off wife. This was brand new territory—being ignored for hours on end—and frankly, he had thought a playful request for sex might make you more amenable to conversation.

He had thought wrong.

You stared daggers at his handsome face and raised a finger as though to warn him, then stopped. Opened your mouth as if to speak, then appeared to decide against it. A steady, pulsing bass from the floors below was all that could be heard, and momentarily, you were reminded of why you were all here in the first place:

Locate Schröder. Corner Schröder. Capture Schröder. Bring the bad man to justice—or else just pump the motherfucker’s head full of lead and be done with it.

You weren’t too familiar with the particulars of the plan, but that had seemed to be the heart of it. Bucky never intended for you to stray from the safety of the lounge upstairs, where half of his team were casing the club through dozens of surveillance cameras, and he would likely take off with Sam and Steve the second you’d finished dressing. Now would be the time to talk.

And you planned to. Eventually.

For now, though, you’d let him sweat it out.

You had long envied women with effortless sex appeal and charisma. The kind that seemed to be made for the stage, capable of transfixing any audience, or individual, with little more than their aura alone. You’d never felt a fraction of that allure emanate from yourself before, personally, but looking at Bucky now brought you as close as you’d ever been. He was enthralled by your every move, he was intrigued at all times, you could see.

He was visibly aroused before you had even touched him. You knew it was cruel and unkind before you were even fully conscious of what you were doing, but you did it.

Someone had to teach this man how to control his anger—and his urges—somehow. Who better than you?

You drew closer to Bucky until your fronts almost touched.

“Baby,” you murmured. Simple, nearly plaintive.

Bucky blanched. Could it be? Had his bullshit gambit actually paid off and made you want to talk, or possibly do more? His hands immediately went for your hips, but you were quick to shove them off. You poked one finger to his chest and shook your head.

“We can talk,” you said, measured.

You pressed into his sternum and pretended not to see a short-lived look of defeat, followed by confusion, cross Bucky’s features. He let you walk him back a step or two.

“Okay. What about?”

Where the hell could you even begin?

“Sit first,” you urged him.

It was then that he realized you’d been walking him toward the plush sectional couch behind him—a cozy little touch to the VIP room only marginally diminished by the fact that it was coated in liquor, coke, and glitter. Bucky sat down anyway.

You didn’t follow, choosing instead to stand as you appeared to…scratch something on your back? Your husband looked on in muted curiosity as you reached behind yourself and tilted your torso just slightly.

Then he heard a zip. A hitch. Another, longer drag.

Bucky knew he was fucked before you ever slipped the dress off your body. You were to make quick work of it, eyes never leaving the man in front of you as you peeled the fabric down your legs and off of your frame entirely. When you were down to just your underwear, you hadn’t even needed to see his face to know exactly where his gaze was likely to land—this part was new to him. You kicked the dress aside and let him stare.

To be fair, it wasn’t every day he got to see a Ruger LC9 strapped to your thigh. Hidden in plain sight now that you were stripped bare before him in just your bra, panties, and garter-like holster across the top of your leg.

“Where’d you get that?” Bucky nearly choked, eyes wide.

“TJ Maxx,” you huffed, “Where the fuck do you think?”

“I never said you could— And Sam and Steve—”

Bucky paused, suddenly aware of how indignant and stupid he was starting to sound. He had given orders to the rest of his team not to let you carry a gun under any circumstances, but here you were. If he weren’t so violently aroused by the sight of you wearing the thing, he probably would’ve been fuming.

“A couple guys from your security detail were kind enough to make an exception,” you smiled, words verging on smug, “And who’s to say what I ‘can’ and ‘can’t’ do, hm?”

Bucky looked as though he were priming himself to stand when you lifted one stiletto to rest between his legs on the seat. A silent and quasi-sweet threat in one gesture.

“I didn’t say you can’t— well—” Bucky faltered at the last.

“You just said you never gave me permission!” You threw your hands up in exasperation, “That doesn’t sound very equitable to me, James.”

Bucky let out a frustrated sigh of his own.

“C’mon. You know what I mean, honey…I just…want to keep you safe. You know that.”

“Self-defense is a pretty integral part of safety.”

“No one’s ever taught you to shoot!”

“You never bothered to ask!”

This was getting a little too aggressive and Jerry Springer-eqsue for your liking. Not nearly sexy or seductive enough to be heading in the direction you wanted. Bucky always brought the bickering out of you, but you had to stay strong. Slow and steady and all that bullshit.

So, before he could respond to your last remark, you lowered yourself over him. Brought both legs to bracket his hips and hovered carefully in place above the bulge in his tactical pants. When he swallowed beneath you and raked his gaze over your body, you felt a twinge of relief.

You sank further down. Dragged your lower half over his own and earned a groan from deep within his throat. Again, his hands flew to your waist to get a good grip, but you pried them off before they could ever fully sink into the flesh.

“What?” Impatience palpable in Bucky’s tone.

“No,” you answered simply.

“No?”

“No, you don’t get to touch me. You don’t own me.”

Your husband shifted under your body, hands helpless at his sides and masseter muscle visibly clenching beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth. He shook his head.

“I never said that I did,” he managed, after a pause, “Baby, I love you.”

“And beating the shit out of my dad was your special way of showing that?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Or snapping at Natasha. And Sam. Steve. Sharon,” you added emphasis to the last name without really meaning to, and Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. I…lost my temper, I—”

“Couldn’t control your anger. Or wouldn’t. All because my dad made some stupid deal with a man and offered me up as collateral.”

“Because Joey wants you for himself!” Bucky snapped, voice suddenly raised to a near-deafening pitch. He shifted his hips and inadvertently grazed the heat between your legs, drawing a subtle pinch in his brow at the friction, “The deal your dad made was to give you over to Schröder in satisfaction of his own fucking debt—you think I was just gonna sit by and let that happen?!”

In spite of the animosity, you pressed your body to his even harder and watched him fold—if only slightly. He breathed a sharp inhale through his nose and flexed both his hands, as if wanting to make fists. However, he knew better than to move himself around at a time like this.

“What? Like the deal you made with him?”

Your words were clipped, almost cruel. You knew it would hit a nerve in Bucky, and sure enough, he met you right where you wanted him: enraged.

“That’s fucking different,” he seethed, “I would’ve paid your father’s debt without— without anything in it for me.”

“But you didn’t, and you got me.”

“And I love you. I don’t wanna lose you.”

The abrupt vulnerability in his voice was all but agony to hear. For a second, it seemed the anger had fled—or at least been eclipsed by some softer, sweeter shade—only for Bucky to blink again, shake his head, and wear that stupid, hardened look that said, ‘I am not losing this.’ Your hands reached for his belt and started in on the zip.

“You have a real fucked up way of showing love, James.”

To your surprise, Bucky let you continue, unhindered. Blue eyes meeting yours in a cold look.

“Makes two of us,” he mumbled, shrugging his boxers and trousers out of the way anyway.

That was probably true. No person in their right mind would think fucking their husband was the safest, most surefire way to let him know they were pissed at him, but both you and Bucky were working on communication skills, still. You’d get to healthy, non-sex-fueled fights at some point.

As it was, Bucky was fumbling around your thighs, trying to pry them open even wider for better access through your panties. That you allowed, but the second he tried manhandling you over his crotch, you pushed back.

“I wanna do this— without your help,” you said, firm.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Bucky agreed. He let you line yourself up with his length, brace your weight against his shoulders, and when you paused, he made a soft, ‘Hm?’ and glanced down where you looked. Before you could remove the pistol from its holster, he set his palm atop the cool metal.

“Leave it,” he murmured.

His eyes flashed with desire. It was almost more than you could bear, despite the plain fact that riding someone with a firearm strapped to your thigh probably violated every NRA gun safety rule known to man. Whatever.

You lowered yourself onto Bucky, slow, and sucked in a quick breath as he filled you. Your husband groaned.

“Fuck,” followed shortly thereafter, almost timid to crawl out of his mouth as you sank to a fully-seated position on top of him. He gripped the armrest beside him.

When your hips first stirred, you thought the man might burst a blood vessel trying not to move right along with you. You pressed a hand to his chest and reminded him, gently but with purpose: let me fucking do this, Bucky, and he relented. Fisting the couch cushion in something close to a death grip, he nodded his head and heaved a short breath and watched you all the while, grinding on him.

“My pretty…pretty girl,” he managed through his teeth.

He was doing better than you expected. You watched his face contort with pleasure when you lifted yourself up to the tip of his cock and slide back down. You squeezed his shoulders, and you let out a low whimper yourself, and dammit all, you felt that pesky fucking knot already forming in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down and frowned, wanting this to last so much longer.

Fortunately, when your eyes found Bucky’s again, you got the sense that he was in the same boat as you: brow furrowed tight in concentration and lips parted slightly, panting in time with each one of your movements.

“Baby,” he said, the single word treading close to a plea. He paused, dropped a glance to the spot where your bodies were coupled, and swallowed. He cursed aloud, then continued, quietly, “Baby…’m’sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You bounced a bit faster.

“For— fuckin’ hell, honey— for being a…dick.” The last part of his sentence was pierced by a grunt and a moan, but you heard it just the same.

You clenched around him and tried to keep steady. Manage a small, shit-eating grin above him, even.

“Being a dick?” you repeated, pretending not to know what he meant. When his cock grazed over a particularly sensitive place inside you, you just swallowed the moan and kept going, fingers taking hold of some short tufts of hair at the back of Bucky’s head as you rode him.

“Possessive. Controlling. Kind of a—” Bucky paused to grunt when he bottomed out inside, hands aching to hold you, “—piece of shit.”

Finally, you were getting somewhere. Not nearly close enough to cure the rage or the dark, grating impulses churning inside of him, but good enough, for now.

You reached for his hands and set them over your hips.

The next most natural thing was to lean down and kiss him—let his tongue invade your mouth as soon as he’d caught your lips and show you, with a wordless and fast-moving show of affection, that he missed you. And meant what he’d said. With his hands moving quick to cup your cheeks, hold you to him while he kissed you and stroked deep inside your walls, he gripped you tighter than he had in a while. You could feel strips of tension and desperation bleed through his every fingertip.

“Wanna…fuckin’ kill anyone who even thinks…of— fuck,” Bucky’s words were almost slurred at this point, so close to the point of release it seemed every wild and wanton thought that crossed his mind was likely to dance off his tongue, unchecked. You loved to see him in it this deep.

You also had to remind the murderous alter ego that violence was not the answer…always. You let him pull you closer, bodies pressed flush against each other while you fucked, but you made sure to tilt his chin up to yours so he could see the expression on your face as you spoke.

“Hey,” you pinned him with one stern look, “No murder.”

Bucky frowned.

“Yes murder,” he retorted.

You sighed.

This shit was worse than teaching a dog not to bite.

Instead of pulling back or being strict this time, though, you decided you’d give positive reinforcement a try. You squeezed his short locks of hair, gently, and rolled your hips even tighter to his, eliciting a stuttered groan. You bounced up and down on his cock, pulled him into your chest, and brought your face within an inch of his.

“Promise to be good, and I’ll let you cum inside me,” you murmured into his lips. Not the wisest offer you’d made to date, but one that Bucky seemed to want more than the air in his lungs the second the words escaped you. He pulled you in for a kiss, immediately.

“Fuck, you mean it?” he breathed, in between each sloppy, frenzied movement of his mouth.

“Yeah,” you tried not to grin at how eager he seemed, “You’re gonna apologize to everyone, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky barely seemed to register anyone or anything but you and your pussy at the moment, yearning for the go-ahead to let himself free inside you. With a nod of your head, you’d let him start meeting your motions with gentle thrusts of his own, and both of you were teetering precariously close to the edge with that added pressure. In spite of both your hot and heady, near-anoetic states, you endeavored to hold out a little longer, legs aching.

“Gonna try and talk to Schröder first?” you panted.

Bucky rutted into you hard, lips twitching into a frown.

“Doesn’t…deserve it,” he grunted, barely able to get the words out as he grabbed your hips and thrusted harder, “A fucking bullet between the eyes is what he needs.”

You eyed him soberly, or as serious as you could manage with the force of his strokes nearly sending you into a spiral. You fought back a moan and gripped him tighter.

“Bucky.”

“Bunny.”

Damn, that name.

“Promise me you won’t kill him—or anyone—tonight.”

“Baby—”

“Promise.”

His thrusts were getting sloppier; with his hands hoisting you just above him and his cock practically drilling into you now, speech and coherent thought were some of the toughest things to accomplish, but he tried it, anyway. Bucky would swallow his pride and accede to his wife, no matter how fucking badly he wanted to cum—and kill that Russian mob boss with both his bare, bloody hands.

He could be better than the Winter Soldier. He would.

With a rough, labored breath, Bucky pulled you in for a kiss and felt you squeeze around his cock like a vice. Still thrusting, clutching you, kissing you hard, he saw both of your releases coming in fast and had to act even quicker.

“I— I promise,” he stammered.

That was all either of you needed, or could bear, quite frankly. In the next second or two, you felt a cord snap in your lower half and a deep, punchy flurry of pleasure follow shortly thereafter, fingers sinking deep in Bucky’s shoulders as he bounced you on his cock and held you close. With your walls still pulsing around him, you felt him chase his own high at a breakneck pace, shooting his load inside you a moment later. It was bad, it was brash, it was a really fucking dumb idea to be playing around with the odds of making babies at a time like this, but it also felt good. Exhilarating, even, feeling him empty his balls in that space between your wet, aching walls and filling you up with his seed.

Maybe just one little mini-Bucky wouldn’t—

STOP.

You barely had the energy to acknowledge, much less arbitrate that bone-crushing conflict between your brain and reproductive organs, so you shut the thoughts up with a quick, messy kiss to Bucky, whose chest was still heaving from the peak of his release, holding you to him.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Maybe even two—

FUCK YOU.

The internal war wouldn’t go away that easy, it seemed.

You kissed Bucky long and hard regardless, hoping the shit would sort itself out before you really had to think. Or worry. Or plan. It was dumb and a bit short-sighted, but feeling that hot, erratic pulse between your legs did a pretty good job of making it seem just fine for right now.

Bucky’s expression was lax. Soaking in the feel of your cum-painted insides still squeezing around him, gently. Had he been anywhere but the heart of Low Town on a covert mission in a strip club, hunting down the head of HYDRA with a whole troupe of trained assassins, he probably would’ve liked to stay that way a little longer. But, as it was, he could already hear folks filing in and out of the lounge, footfalls growing heavier as his team loaded up with guns, grenades, and whatever other weapons they could fit beneath their formal attire.

“Don’t look so sad,” you said as you lifted off of Bucky. Carefully pulling your panties back into place as your husband watched you do it, practically forlorn.

“Too late,” he returned in half a groan, yanking his own clothes where they needed to be and trailing a look up your legs, “Might feel better if we tried it again, though.”

“I bet.” You pulled your dress over your head.

Your husband had just tightened his belt and was rolling his shoulders to get a knot out of his neck, it seemed.

“What are your thoughts on ‘Bucky Jr.’?” he asked casually.

“Don’t start with this shit.”

“Jamie for a girl, maybe?”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your baby talk and death threat tête-à-tête continued for quite some time—just a couple minutes, but they felt like years to you—and before long, you were rubbing the gun under your dress and casting a glare in Bucky’s direction, and he got the sense that it was time to head back to the group. He looped an arm around your waist and led you out into the main space.

The living room was little more than a makeshift headquarters at that point. You’d been expecting to see more faces, but the only ones you found were Sam, Natasha, and a few silent, beefy individuals you assumed were part of security. Where Sharon and your parents had gotten off to was anyone’s guess. You took a seat on the couch.

“Anything yet?” Bucky questioned, approaching the panel of surveillance screens with a wary eye.

“We’ve had intermittent visuals on the second floor for forty minutes or so—” Sam motioned to one screen on the left, “—but Schröder hasn’t moved. Hasn’t done anything but bullshit and booze and buy rounds for his group. Won’t even talk to the dancers, which is weird.”

From what you’d been told, the goal was to get Schröder off the second floor, up to one particular private suite on fourth, then send in an agent dressed as a bottle girl to make entry as soon as the rest of the party had arrived, keeping in contact with HQ, and Sam, via PTT earpiece all the while. The details from that point were hazy, but you’d gotten the sense that someone—or, more likely, a sizable and duly-equipped group of someones—was lying in wait somewhere in the suites surrounding them. Steve had been tasked with leading the incursion, though where he could be found, or whom he was with, remained largely a mystery to you. Recon in a bustling, crowded area with music blaring on all four sides was a formidable undertaking, and you could tell both Sam and Natasha had been having trouble keeping tabs on every player. They seemed on edge, monitoring the screens.

“Won’t talk to the dancers?” Bucky’s brow pinched in.

“Won’t talk to anyone outside of his inner circle,” Natasha said, grim, “Which leads me to think he’s not staying here long. Probably called his associates in for a speedy-quick deal because he knows he’s being tailed.”

“Hasn’t engaged with any of our undercovers?” Bucky pressed.

Natasha and Sam shook their heads. Your husband groaned.

“Then how the hell are we getting him upstairs to the champagne room? If he hasn’t budged and doesn’t look like he’s planning to stay?”

The looks on the faces in front of him said there wasn’t one readily available answer—or any answer at all. Bucky turned back to the screens and seemed to survey the whole panel, gaze cooling with the first inkling that this operation may be classed a failure in the very near future.

He barked some half-coherent babble about strategy, security, and failsafes, then barked for Steve.

And, as if on cue, Steve appeared at the threshold of the room a moment later, breathless and slightly flushed.

“Rogers, you’re suppos—” Sam started, eyes widening at something you couldn’t quite discern from his arrival.

“I know, I know,” Steve cut in, fast, “Want the good news or bad news fir—”

“Just spit it out,” Natasha said, preemptively unnerved.

“Schröder’s headed to the suite right now—”

Bucky raised both eyebrows at Steve as he continued.

“—but they won’t let Wanda in.”

‘Fuck’ was the first audible word from your husband, then Sam, in short order. Wanda must have been the agent playing bottle girl upstairs. This didn’t sound good.

“Why the fuck won’t they let her in?” Bucky snapped.

“Someone might’ve tipped his security off. Or else they’re just being extra cautious about who’s let in.”

Steve fiddled with one cufflink on his suit and tried not to appear too despondent, but the implications of this single event were huge, you could read on every face in the room. Wanda had been meant to do something important before the rest of the brigade mobilized—take some key step that couldn’t be omitted from the plan.

“So we retreat.” Natasha was not one to mince her words, per usual, “Get your guys out of the suites now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“No,” he said, sharply, “We’re not doing that.”

“Bucky.”

“We’ll get someone in there. We’ll find another way.”

Your husband was already pacing the space in front of you, and you looked on with uncertain eyes. You chanced a look to Natasha, Sam, and Steve, all of whom shared similar, albeit slightly more wearied, expressions as they watched and murmured among themselves.

“None of our people are getting up there, Barnes. Schröder’s got a goddamn sixth sense about our agents or something,” Steve said, at length.

“They’re all in masks—for a fucking masquerade—and we can’t get one person in?! In-and-out, that’s all it needs to be,” Bucky growled.

“We can’t get in there, that’s the point,” Sam sighed, “Masks or no masks, they know our people too well and won’t let us through.”

“We can at least try, for Christ’s sake. That’s what we came this whole fuckin’ way to do, right?”

When no one said a word in response, Bucky scowled,

“Right?”

There was a lull in the conversation that seemed to last for minutes, when, in reality, couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. Tensions were high. You could tell from the look in Bucky’s eye he was trying not to lash out as he normally would, but in no time at all, you saw a fractional break in his resolve. You feared he might fly off the handle, or else compromise something that couldn’t be spared at a time like this. You swallowed.

“I’ll go.”

It was stupid.

Every face turned to regard you as if you were stupid, you assumed as soon as the words had left your mouth.

But then, much to your surprise, Steve was perking up, eyes suddenly brighter as his gaze tilted to you.

“She could,” he said, shortly.

“Should she?” Sam seemed to murmur at once.

“Sure, why not?”

“I can think of plenty reasons why not,” Natasha was quick to counter, but beneath that pensive expression, you could’ve sworn you saw the smallest degree of contemplation. Even hope, from the looks of it.

‘NO’ was Bucky’s wordless, immediate, and resounding answer as he kicked whatever furniture—a footstool, this time—was closest to him and sent it flying toward the door. It seemed that self-control of his had worn off fast.

“No,” he affirmed in a word a second later, jaw clenched, “She is going nowhere near that suite.”

He didn’t even spare you a glance while he spoke. He was too busy eyeing the others, Steve specifically, as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths and a light, blooming tinge of pink rose the length of his neck. If it weren’t for that staunch and menacing look on his face, he would’ve almost looked cute, you mused to yourself.

But, pretty man be damned, you wouldn’t stand for being ignored. Fuck that noise.

“I will,” you returned, a little more resolute this time.

Now Bucky had no choice but to pivot to you. His expression softened some, but not by much.

“No,” he said, again.

“Yes.”

“Baby—”

“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me, Barnes. You said someone who wasn’t an agent could make it up there, and I can do it. Or try, at least, like you just said.”

If your attention hadn’t been fixed on your husband, you probably would’ve caught sight of more than one thinly veiled smile from the group around you. Natasha, in particular, all but tickled to see someone stand up to Bucky and give him a taste of his own shit—and live to tell the tale. The sight of her boss’s eyes almost glossy in the first tender look she’d seen from him in years was almost too much to bear. Steve stood grinning beside her, and Sam narrowly stifled an exhale of amusement. Neither you nor Bucky flinched from your positions.

“We can’t risk you being around him. They’re already all on high-alert,” your husband said after a calming breath.

“As are all your trigger-happy comrades waiting just ten feet outside the door, right?” you replied, “What is it, like, five, ten of them in total?”

“Twenty,” Steve interjected. Bucky shot him a look.

“I don’t care. I don’t want you up there when that fucker was just trying to— to kidnap you last week. I’m not—”

“Right. Right. Trying to kidnap me, not kill me. If Schröder wanted me dead, he would’ve made pretty quick work of that before,” you cut in, tone a touch more deliberate, “Even if he sniffs me out, he’s not gonna screw this whole deal by hurting me now.”

But the mere suggestion of harm to you had seemed to raise every hair on its end for Bucky, and then he was shaking his head, evidently more stubborn than ever.

“No, fuck. Don’t start,” he snapped with his newfound indignation, then, quieter, “Please…don’t, honey.”

You wouldn’t bow that easily.

“Why not?”

Truly, Bucky couldn’t be certain if it was the lilt in your voice, the pinch at the sides of your lips, or simply the sincerity consuming your eyes as you spoke to him, but the man could not stomach the thought of you, his own wife, being a stone’s throw from mortal danger and beyond his protection—or control, he wasn’t sure which one of the two was more dominating. Some cruel and unforgiving knot inside him came to tighten, and twist, and, nauseating as it was set on escape, the white-hot surge rose like bile in his throat. Before he could stop it, the words were spilling out through his teeth like froth:

“Cause I fuckin’ said so, that’s why. That’s it. It’s settled. You’re not allowed anywhere near him, you hear me?”

What Bucky hadn’t expected was the swift ascent back to your feet. The cool and almost careless expression as you rose, as though his words hadn’t registered at all.

He certainly hadn’t expected you to check him with your shoulder as you passed, knocking him slightly off-balance as he turned, in shock, and watched you give him one manicured middle finger over your left shoulder.

“Rogers, I’d like you to escort me upstairs.”

Worst of all, Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to listen.

Fortunately for him, the night was still young and with it, more than ample opportunity to be proven wrong again. And again.

“And again,” Steve murmured low in your ear as you walked side-by-side down the corridor on fourth floor, “If you get even the slightest bad feeling, you leave.”

“Might as well dip right now,” you muttered, adjusting your mask. Your attempt at humor fell flat with the man.

“I’m serious. We’ll be right outside and listening in from headquarters, but HYDRA is not a faction to fuck around with, or underestimate—as I assume you know by now.”

You did. Or would, eventually.

After the mask, you were busy trying to yank the back of your cocktail waitress dress to cover the full swell of your ass, not just the upper two-thirds. Unsurprisingly, it was a tougher task than you had been prepared to handle. Your new heels were tight and impossibly high, your new dress a mere scrap of pink fabric riddled with sequins and glitter, and your mask—holy fuck, were you glad Mardi Gras was not a year-round affair. Bucky had insisted on the fluffiest, stuffiest, full-face covering to ensure that no one would be able to recognize you, but in exchange for your anonymity, you had had to give up breathing, it seemed.

And then there was that vial of poison between your tits.

Sam had assured you that it was a nonlethal dose before handing it over; Steve had urged you, discreetly, to pour Schröder two for good measure. Natasha had overheard the latter and threatened legal action if he ever tried killing a target without her permission. You hadn’t spent much longer getting ready in the bathroom after that. Then you’d brushed past your husband the second you’d stepped out and strapped that last, semi-lethal ‘accessory’ to your bra before taking the lift upstairs.

As it turned out, you weren’t able to escape him entirely.

While you walked with Steve, Bucky was in your ear.

Literally—the man was talking nonstop through your earpiece and clearly had no intention of shutting the fuck up anytime soon. You silently wondered if there was a way to adjust the volume on the gadget as you ambled along.

“Honey.” There was a slightly more mechanical buzz to Bucky’s voice over your private line. You ignored it.

“So just find the cup he’s drinking from and pour the serum in?” you reiterated to Steve for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Your companion nodded, rattling off a few extra precautions while Bucky’s tone rang out a bit louder:

“Honey? You there?”

At last, you stuck your finger to the tiny flesh-colored device in your ear and snapped, “What?!”

“I love you.”

This fucker.

“I love you too. You’re still high on my shit list, though,” you answered, low and begrudgingly.

“Did I hear ‘hit list’? You’re gonna let me tap that later?”

If you didn’t have about fifteen different reasons to hate the man’s guts, you almost would’ve chuckled. At length, you muttered a quiet, ‘Kiss my ass, Barnes,’ and turned back to Steve, who was just then leading you closer to a room roped off and marked ‘EXECUTIVE SUITE.’ Your stomach did a flip as you paused around the corner.

“Right there. All you gotta do is knock and say a guy named Zemo sent you,” Steve spoke slowly, as if he were teaching arts and crafts to a five-year-old and not a woman about to embark on a high-risk sedation mission.

You nodded and took the silver tray from him carefully.

All the platter contained was an oversized bottle of Brut and a silver bucket, but damn if it didn’t feel like you were carrying the world and some change on that thing. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and turned in the direction of the door just a few yards away.

The time for painstakingly descriptive instructions and pep talks was long past you now. You nodded to Steve one last time and started to wobble over.

The entryway was flanked by two muscle-bound men. You approached with a smile.

“Hi. Zemo sent me.”

You didn’t know who the fuck Zemo was.

You hoped they wouldn’t ask, or notice how stilted and awkward you’d sounded just then. You swallowed a peach-sized lump in your throat and smiled again.

The one on the left grunted. The one on the right gave a nod. Without a word spoken between them, the former opened the door and made way for you to step over the threshold. You couldn’t help but notice both with their eyes trained straight on your tits as you passed by.

There was no way that had just worked. No pat-downs or harrowing threats? Not a single, searing interrogation into your identity or what you might be there to do?

Men were dumb, you decided, far too easily deceived by a decent pair of tits—HYDRA security personnel or not.

But you already knew that. You stepped inside.

The fetid stench of half a dozen blazing cigars and booze spilled on every surface were the first to greet you. A wave of smoke, then a bone-jostling bum bum bum to the beat of what sounded like a Don Toliver song came next. You almost couldn’t bear to make your feet move.

But then, shortly, you had to because a shrill, shimmer-doused beauty was waving you over toward the kitchen.

“Ba-by!” she shrieked, gesture growing frantic, “Bring it over!”

You walked with the tray out in front of you, careful with your steps across the sticky floor. When you made it over, where one other girl was stirring wildly at some concoction on the counter, you stopped, and had only to stand for a second longer, because the redhead that had beckoned you was taking the tray, setting it down, and grabbing something thin and pointy. You’d barely even registered it as an ice pick until the thing was thrust in your face.

“Crush it up,” she ordered, one curt nod toward a block of ice nearby. Evidently not giving a shit who you were or where you’d come from either. You guessed Wanda had just gotten unlucky, or they’d all stopped giving a fuck once Schröder’s men had really started drinking.

And drinking they had been, as your eyes surveyed the scene. Half-naked women with fully-clothed men, dressed head to toe in the finest of suits that were probably soaked through to the bone with sweat and Stolichnaya. You almost shivered at the sight of all the masked, wildly gyrating pricks, fumbling desperately through one verse of ‘After Party.’ You could vomit.

But where was your prick? That grimy little shit, Joey.

“Back of the room by the couch,” Bucky said, as if he’d read your mind.

Then a beat.

“Wait. Shit. That isn’t him. Schröder’s over by the door.”

How many tall, lanky blonds could there be in this place? You cast a sweeping look across the room and received your answer in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail—there were a shit ton of Joey lookalikes all around.

“Careful. Mr. Schröder’s been on edge all night. Might bite your head off if you stare too long.”

The girl that was stirring had apparently caught you looking. She set the spoon aside and turned, but not before chancing a quick glance at the man Bucky had identified to you as your target. The man lifted his gaze.

You chipped away at the ice even faster.

Crush the shit, make a drink, pour the serum, and get it in him. Now. Don’t draw his attention just yet, though.

Something in your head told you to steal another look. You knew it was a bad idea, but you went on and did it anyway—and fortunately, felt a wave of relief at seeing that he’d retreated somewhere back with his friends. The ice pick in your hands made it through the last block.

“I’ll serve the shots, you bring the bottle to Mr. Pierce.”

Mr. Who?

“One of Schröder’s associates. Roll with it.”

It was Natasha’s voice now. Measured, but tense.

“He’s the older gentlemen straight ahead. He probably ordered the champagne for him and the others.”

That was Sam. You could only imagine how all of them looked huddled around the surveillance panel with the transmitter to your earpiece being passed about from person to person. The grip Bucky must’ve had on his gun, or his switchblade, or whatever weapon he could seize to make himself feel a little less helpless. But he was—as were you. And truthfully, there was nothing either one of you could do about that until Schröder was in custody. This was the first step toward reaching that goal.

So you walked with the bottle, now bathed in a tub of ice. You tried to keep steady, but the staggering drunks all around were making that tough, to say the least.

When one man struck you straight in the chest, elbows jutting out as he danced, you stumbled back a step. Nearly lost the tray for half a second, then recovered.

Until the dipshit hit you again.

This time you truly almost sent the bottle sailing for the floor, grip slipping on the tray and knees buckling underneath you as the force of the blow set you back. You bit a quick, ‘Fuck!’ in the air, seized the platter twice as hard and braced your weight against something firm behind you. A shelf, a TV stand, or something. Maybe a half-wall if you were lucky enough not to have careened against some expensive piece of furniture. You sighed.

“Everything alright?” a voice rumbled behind you.

Or a person. Yeah, a person would be pretty fucking bad to bump into at a time like this. Your whole body froze.

You turned.

“Ye-es sir. Yes, sir.” You quickly righted your tone the second you realized it was someone important.

Not Schröder, but someone who seemed to be big-name enough; you just weren’t sure who. The man smiled down at you from under his Venetian mask.

“Is this for me?” he nodded toward the tray, half-teasing.

You swallowed.

“Are you Mr. Pierce?” you asked.

The man’s grin stretched even wider.

“Nope, I’m Ward. but I can take you to Pierce.”

For the first time that night, your heart swelled with some promise. You thanked him quietly, gratefully, then made as if to follow him back through the crowd, when all of a sudden, you stopped. That heartfelt swelling in your chest halted right along with it. You almost dropped the tray.

“Schröder!” Ward bellowed.

No, no, now you were actually going to lose your shit. There was no way in hell you were keeping a grip on this silver little plate any longer without crying or screaming or shitting your pretty, pink, sequin minidress right there. You almost shrieked when a hand reached for the tray.

“Pierce got you doing all the heavy lifting, huh, honey? The bastard.” Even through his own ornate mask, you could tell Joey was grinning—glinting with conceit, as was his prerogative. He took the load off your hands.

“Take it easy now, he’s just—”

“Staring at your rack. Pull your top up, baby, please.”

The chatter in your ear had switched from Sam to Bucky at nearly lightning speed. You glanced down at your cleavage and tugged the fabric up quick, heart beating even faster underneath it.

In front of you, Joey Schröder was all teeth. A gruesome spectacle in spite of its seemingly benevolent intentions, one smile could have turned your stomach sideways. And it did—you wanted to throw up again—but you knew you had bigger fish to fry, and evil mobsters to poison. You didn’t flinch when Schröder nudged you in the shoulder and made his way ahead, coaxing you to follow.

You didn’t tense and didn’t protest. Didn’t blink when he led you straight through the party, around a few topless performers on poles, and into a backroom lounge.

In fact, your mind practically sang as he led you inside.

It was just every other nerve, muscle, and trembling tendon not under the immediate control of your brain that needed soothing. You could’ve sworn the men on the couches would see your legs shaking as soon as you trudged into the room and sniff you out on sight.

But if they had, they didn’t show it.

No one moved when you entered, save for a few lopsided grins and tilts of happy, masked faces. Sizing you up. Drinking you in. Far too easily mistakable for a band of apex predators that had just caught wind of their next meal, and not a room full of sleazy Russian mobsters. You bit back your grating disgust with a smile.

“Got a present for ya, Pierce,” Schröder announced.

A honey-blond head flecked with silver and white sat up from the sofa. Presumably the one who’d ordered the champagne.

“Oh yeah? What’d ya pay for her?” he returned, mouth curling up in a wicked smile.

Even above the booming music, you could make out peals of laughter as the men around you shared in some lewd, crude comments and several whispers exchanged between them. You would’ve liked to grab your bottle by the neck and break it over the nearest patron’s head, but then you remembered yourself, and your mission. You stilled beside Schröder and let them crack a few more tasteless jokes at your expense. Schröder chuckled and set the tray down in front of a thoroughly amused Pierce.

Then he grabbed you by the waist.

“Right. I forgot to ask—what is your price, sweetheart?” he said, swiftly pulling you up to his front.

Your hands flew to his chest reflexively. Your nose scrunched in a wince at the sound of an electric shout:

“GET HIM OFF OF HER!”

“Bucky, hey, hey, we can’t just—”

“NO! THAT’S NOT PART OF THE FUCKING PL—”

The line went silent. You scratched at the space behind your ear, trying hard not to betray any pain on your face, or the fear for what might be going on downstairs.

Clearly, you failed on both fronts, because Joey’s grip only tightened. He peered down at you, curious.

“You deaf or somethin’, sugar? What’s your price?”

You batted your eyes, momentarily struggling for words.

But then, somehow, you managed to choke out, stomach churning with bile:

“Whatever you want, sir.”

You felt your soul drain out through the soles of your shoes as you’d said it. Something fell from your face—most likely a light behind your eyes and any semblance of self-worth as you stood before the man who had tried to buy you, drug you, and kill half your family, and then pretend like you wanted to dance for him, or do more.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right by any means, but it was all just roleplay.

Roleplay.

You had to keep telling yourself that as you let Schröder’s hand glide up your spine and grip the back of your neck, tilting your head up to his. It was just like your husband and his cold-blooded Winter Soldier persona, you tried to convince the increasingly frightened voice in your mind. Just like him, just like your sweet and soft and sadistic—

“Bucky,” you whispered unconsciously.

You knew he couldn’t hear you now. It was almost insane to think anyone could save you now but yourself.

“What?” Joey exhaled sharply.

You froze in fear.

“Five hundred bucks,” you corrected your error quickly.

You weren’t sure Schröder was convinced.

“Five hundred bucks for one lap dance and some fun?” he scoffed. Then he squeezed your neck a little tighter and drew your face within an inch of his own. You could feel the hot puffs of breath, smell the rancid liquor on his tongue, but you stayed where he held you in place and tried not to grimace when he said, “That’s a damn steal.”

Your lips were shaking something awful under your mask. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kissing this vile, soulless bastard would taste like, but you feared it might come sooner than you knew, because Joey was drawing you even more rough and tight into his chest.

Just when your mouth was less than a hair’s breadth away from his, though, you heard a woman’s scream.

Then another. And another. And another.

Before long, almost half the suite had erupted in shrieks, it seemed, and the sounds of their horror were shortly supplanted by a series of explosions. And gunfire.

Johann Schröder dropped your body like the worst habit known to man and went bounding away from the turmoil as fast as he could. This time, you did trip over your heels and took a nasty little nosedive to the ground. Fumbling, crawling, then sliding across the shag carpet on your belly with your eyes in wild search of somewhere to hide.

You spotted a coffee table and muscled your way over.

“SCHRÖDER!” a voice roared from somewhere behind.

Again, you knew better than to look, but the fear of not knowing who, or what, might be barreling your direction at any second outweighed more sensible considerations. You stole a look over your shoulder and nearly screamed.

A man with a pitch black balaclava stormed into the lounge and wasted no time setting sights on his intended target—raising a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun to his face and firing the second the impulse struck.

You watched a once-handsome, lively, and drunk man turn to shredded, fleshy carnage in less than an instant and fall right beside your head with a thud. Your hand was your only defense to keep the shriek inside your chest, but even that blockade was crumbling fast as the blood-soaked assassin wrenched the body in the air.

The gunman tore the mask from his victim’s head and inspected the face—or what was left of it. He cursed.

You could tell from your close proximity to the blues of his eyes, and that sigh, you wouldn’t need to ask at all. You just sat there and stared, knees hugged to your chest as Bucky threw the body back down as hard as he could.

“FUCK!” he bellowed, voice flooded with rage.

Steve stumbled in with his gun at the ready. He eyed the man on the floor, then you, then a dozen other flailing, desperate partygoers trying to escape the suite all around you. You just drew in even tighter to the table.

“What happened?! Where’d he go?”

Rogers, like you, seemed unable to look away from the carcass, but for entirely different reasons. He appeared to be studying it just as your husband had been.

“It’s not Schröder!” Bucky yelled.

“Where the fuck’s he— shit.”

Suddenly, an unknown assailant opened fire on the two men from the opposite end of the room. Both dove for cover, but not before Bucky grabbed you and dragged you, full-force, behind the sofa. It didn’t seem there was time for sweet words or consolations, his eyes wide and half-crazed as they bore into yours just in front of you.

“Don’t move,” he barked, readjusting his grip on his gun in one hand and feeling around all over your sides with the other. On seeing and feeling no trauma, he nodded his head and moved his hand to your cheek, just briefly.

“Honey, I need you here—right here for me, alright? Don’t move a muscle,” he spoke low as Steve covered from above, rapid-fire shots ringing out on both sides.

Rushed and furious as he was, he couldn’t help but linger on that face a half-second longer than he intended. You were shaking your head and hugging your knees, meeting his eyes with what seemed to be reproach.

“You promised, Bucky,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

You were in shock, that was what it was, he kept telling himself. You didn’t know what you were saying, and he needed to turn away to help Steve, but then you were eyeing that body—that man he could’ve sworn was Schröder when he’d pumped him full of bullets—and you were turning back to him with unmistakable disgust.

He would’ve fallen to his knees and begged his wife for forgiveness if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. Like your life and his, and Steve’s—and Sam’s, now, bursting onto the scene with a semi-automatic rifle of his own as he helped his friend gun down the last of the stragglers. Bucky knew he had to help them, too.

So he’d stumbled back on his feet, less conscious than acting on pure impulse, and he joined in on the gunfire.

He reckoned he liked it. However long it lasted. He just rolled his shoulders once and sent the rounds flying; he ducked and he moved and he stood and he crouched and he fired every shot as if it were as easy to him as breathing. He didn’t think. When the three of them had cleared the lounge, and Sam and Steve tore off toward the two or three remaining rooms at the rear of the suite, Bucky still wasn’t fully present in his body. All he knew was that his clip was near-empty and his side was in pain—and the room they had emptied was safe. For you.

For you—where the fuck had you gone?!

Bucky barreled past the spot behind the couch where you were supposed to have been, but weren’t, and made a beeline for the closest room over. And nothing. More empty, threadbare, and bloody rooms filled with bodies that didn’t belong to you, and shortly he was yelling for Sam or Steve or anyone in that massacred suite to help him find his wife. The breaths in his chest were heaving.

He turned once, twice, eyes roaming wildly and hand grabbing fast for more ammo. He couldn’t find any more. Beads of sweat began to collect on his brow, and just when he turned to call for backup once more, he paused.

In his periphery, he saw two forms.

He stopped fully and turned to the side.

If it was fear he had felt just then, he wasn’t aware of it. Instead, it seemed a white-hot and blinding ire had taken over, and rather than grow timid, or afraid, he went cold.

“Bucky…don’t,” you managed in a strangled, hoarse tone, throat visibly contained by a blade being held to it.

Behind you, a man stood masked and unflinchingly calm.

Bucky knew that wouldn’t do—no matter how hard or helplessly you pleaded with him then not to do it, please don’t do it, Bucky, please. All he heard in his head was the throb of his pulse, and all he saw before him was red.

He fired without a second thought.

The round just grazed the edge of the man’s cheek.

Bucky swore. Tried to fire his gun again. It was empty.

Still not thinking, much less hearing his wife’s desperate cries for him to spare the man’s life, he grabbed the smallest, sharpest object that was closest to him and charged your would-be attacker head on.

Both men fell to the floor, but only Bucky was mobile.

Only Bucky held the weapon now, as his opponent’s knife had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and he was wielding it now faster than he ever had before, he thought—an ice pick, of all fucking things—driving it into the man’s face and neck and chest without the slightest regard for anything else.

Somewhere far outside his mind, he heard you scream. Felt you claw at his arm, grip at his shirt, make some wild, shrill, and vehement pleas that he couldn’t begin to understand in this state, and he continued. Hadn’t even considered slowing down until the man’s carotid was shredded in two and spewing blood all over his front.

Bucky couldn’t be sure how long it lasted like that; all he remembered was stumbling back, energy spent, fist still holding the pick and eyes duly glued to the body he’d just stabbed through and maimed until no life was left.

He saw you crawl over the body.

He wanted to warn you not to touch it. Lifted a hand and tried his best to form words, but nothing came out.

He watched you lift the mask.

From that point on, he was certain he had to have been seeing things that weren’t really there. Trauma-induced psychosis, he tried to assuage himself silently—that was the only explanation for the scene unfolding before him. Surely it couldn’t be you cupping that face, pinching that skin, shaking that cold and lifeless, blood-drenched frame beneath you as a sob racked through your own.

That signet ring on a pinky couldn’t have been real.

Bucky didn’t want to believe that gruesome discovery made manifest before him—in many ways, he couldn’t—but then it was painted clear as day as the cries endured, nothing changed, and a helpless, frantic wail rang out:

“DAD!”

—

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