#bucky x reader slow burn

[tteotlma]

Sugar and Skin

1. First Encounter || Next

Bucky’s never been sure if normalcy is something he’s cut out for. But when he meets you—a baker with a pretty smile—he starts to think maybe he could try.

TattooArtist!Bucky x Baker!Reader (1.4kw)

tw: 18+ MDNI, mild language, subtle tension, implied attraction, slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers a/n: happy new year! this year i'd like to actually begin and complete a multi-parter story so this is my attempt!

---

“Welcome in!” Bucky heard as he stepped into the bustling cafe shop. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, and baked bread quickly engulfed him. He looked around for the source of the voice while taking in the neatly curated shelves of novels, mismatched wooden tables and the large handwritten chalkboard menu boasting about an array of the day’s specials. Despite its charm, Bucky felt heavily out of place in his chipped leather jacket, and mud cracked boots. 

With the patrons weaving past him like he was another display in the shop he continued scanning the area noticing a few stray cats lounging throughout the space. They basked in the early afternoon sunlight that poured through the large windows. One, a sleek gray cat with white mittens and socks stretched lazily on the windowsill, while another a white cat with piercing blue eyes, watched the room with curious intensity.

The customers greeted the felines as they entered the shop and followed the line that formed at the counter where a young man with boyish charm and unruly brown hair was expertly managing the register. Meanwhile a man with a clean shaven jawline and an infectious grin moved confidently between the counter and the coffee makers. 

“You need some help?”

Bucky turned to the voice, finding himself at the end of the display case with a woman on the other side. Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun, a few stray strands escaping to frame her face. She barely paid him any mind as she deftly unloaded a giant tray of assorted pastries and bread into the glass showcase, her movements quick and practiced. The faint smudges of flour on her apron and the way she handled each item with care hinted at her role in crafting the delicacies.

“You look a little lost,” she said without looking up, her tone teasing but not unkind. "Can I help you find something, or are you just here to admire the cats?” she asked, finally glancing up at him. Her gaze was sharp but warm, assessing him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

 Her teasing tone caught him off guard, making him glance up sharply. His ears seemed to perk slightly, before he quickly refocused. “Pick up,” he said, his voice low and clipped, offering her a tight-lipped smile that was more reflex than intentional. 

She let out a small hum. “Name?” 

“Steve.” 

“Oh yes–” Her demeanor instantly changed as she put the tray down, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let me get that for you.” Her hands masterfully opened a paper bag with clear cellophane, and slid open the sliding door to the showcase.

“Sam!” She yelled, causing Bucky to jolt. “I need Steven’s special.” She called out, and Bucky's eyes flicked back to her. Steven.

He heard a faint reply from across the cafe commotion and watched as she used the metal tongs to grab two bear claws from the wax paper lined tray. Bucky almost let out a snort but instead, he opted to shove his hands in his pockets, glancing down to his boots. He watched as crumbs of dirt crumbled from his shoe and littered the linoleum floor.

“What’s the Steven Special?” Bucky suddenly heard himself say. He looked at her through his lashes. He watched a small smile sneak across her lips. 

“A medium white chocolate macchiato, with two bear claws.” She said, fingers crinkling the bag shut as she slid it across the clear surface. This time Bucky let out a snort. Before he could thank her, she went back to unloading her discarded tray. He hesitated on grabbing the bag. 

“So you’re the new guy then?” She asked suddenly, quickly glancing at him. He looked at her. “Stevie's mentioned he’s expecting a new comer, and I’ve never seen you before so—” she explained. Stevie.

“Then yeah.” He gave a curt smile, reaching for the bag on the counter. 

“Thought so,” she said, her tone a hint lighter now as she turned back to her work. “He’s been talking ‘bout you for weeks, you know.”

“Nothing bad I hope.” 

 She turned to set down the now empty tray, glancing over her shoulder, a glint in her eye. “Depends on your definition of bad.” Her tone was playful but laced with just enough intrigue to make him pause. She spins swiftly, closing the display case. 

“Nah,” She shrugs with a smirk, “He’s just psyched you're here, it’s kinda cute.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. She waves a hand in the air.

“He’s just got this way of talking about things—”

“Order up.” 

The sudden burst out causing the both of you to abruptly turn toward the man holding out an oat-colored to-go cup.

The woman cleared her throat, shifting back to allow space for the man to step in. Her smirk faded into a polite, neutral expression, her focus now on adjusting a tray of napkins nearby.

“Steven’s special,” the man announced, his grin wide and easy, breaking through the tension that had lingered just a moment earlier.

Bucky’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned toward the man, who was now leaning casually against the counter, holding the cup out as if he were presenting a prized trophy.

Bucky nodded and reached for the cup, his movements deliberate. “Appreciate it,” he said, his voice steady. 

“No problem,” the man replied, his tone light and teasing. “Better get it to him quick, he’s been talking about the claws all morning.” 

“Noted,” Bucky muttered, though his gaze flickered back toward the woman, who was now bent over another display, her attention fixed on her work as if the earlier exchange had never happened.

The man cleared his throat sharply, drawing Bucky’s attention. When Bucky turned toward him, he was already side-eyeing the woman before shifting his gaze back to Bucky with a deadpan expression. It wasn’t accusatory, but there was a challenge in the look—like he’d caught Bucky doing something he shouldn’t be.

Bucky’s brow twitched in response, his face otherwise impassive, and he adjusted the bag in his hand.

“Thanks again,” he said curtly, stepping back from the counter.

Sam held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned his attention away from him.

Bucky stepped toward the door, the hum of the café enveloping him once more. His grip tightened slightly on the bag as he moved, but something tugged at his attention, making him glance back one last time.

The man was now leaning against the counter, his posture relaxed, but his head tilted toward the woman. Whatever he’d said caused her to laugh softly, her shoulders shaking with the motion. The earlier ease in her posture had returned, her movements efficient and unbothered, as though their exchange had been nothing more than a routine part of her day.

She brushed a strand of hair from her face as she replied, her voice lost in the café’s hum. They shared another laugh.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, though his face betrayed nothing as he turned back toward the door. Pushing it open, he stepped into the cool air outside, the bell above jingling faintly as the door closed behind him.

As he walked down the street, the warmth of the café began to fade, but the soft intensity of the exchange lingered. He shook his head with a quiet huff of air, the bag crinkling faintly in one hand while the other held the to-go cup. His boots scuffed lightly against the pavement as he approached a sleek, dark car parked a few steps ahead.

Bucky unlocked it with a press of a button, the quiet beep breaking the stillness. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he set the paper bag on the passenger side and the cup in the holder before resting his hands on the steering wheel.

For a moment, he sat there, the hum of the café replaying in his mind. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear it.

With a twist of the key, the engine purred to life, the quiet power of the car grounding him. As he pulled out onto the street, the cool air rushing through the window carried away the lingering warmth of the café—but not entirely.

---

Next

a/n: I know there's barely anything there but I have an idea and im jsut trying to roll with it -- so if you have any ideas let me know! i’m begging — pls reblog to support!

[pommeauromarin]

I'm sorry, but for me, friends to lovers is the superior trope. I love me a little enemies to lovers, but it doesn't hit the same. The tension, will they won't they, the angst, the fact that they know each other so well and that's why they won't confess, too scared to ruin what they have, or they just believe it's all they CAN have ARGH YES PLEASE SPECTACULAR GIVE 14 OF THEM RIGHT NOW

[holylulusworld]

How to cure a grump masterlist

Summary: You’re losing your job on Christmas.

Pairing: CEO/Boss!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, grumpy Bucky, awful boss, mistake identity trope, kinda fake dating trope, snowed-in trope, fluff?

MAIN STORY

How to cure a grump (1)

How to cure a grump (2)

How to cure a grump (3)

How to cure a grump (4)

How to cure a grump (5)

How to cure a grump (6)

How to cure a grump (7)

How to cure a grump (8)

How to cure a grump (9)

How to cure a grump (10)

How to cure a grump (11)

How to cure a grump (12)

__

SNIPPETS

Htcag - A post Christmas snippet

TBA

[levanswrites]

In the Mood

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: He tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list.  His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

warnings: angst. aka the tortured mind™ of james buchanan barnes. sexual frustration, internalized guilt. mention of erectile dysfunction/anxiety around intimacy. eventual fluff.

word count: 1.5k

Bucky’s got… a list. 

Steve’s the one who planted the idea in his head—ways to keep his feet moving, even when his mind couldn’t. Granted, Bucky’s list isn’t tucked into a literal pocket-sized notebook, but it's there.

Some parts are harder than others—debts, loose ends, reparations.

Others, more straightforward. Try sushi. Learn how to download that album Sam won’t shut up about. Figure out the whole ‘zodiac sign compatibility’ thing.

And then there’s the… in-between. Somewhere between the boring and the impossible.

Pieces of normalcy that don’t sit quite right. Loose shrapnel from the fallout of who he once was. 

Like learning how to smile at strangers without feeling like he’s giving something away. Or making small talk that doesn’t spiral into awkward silence.  

Some things feel closer to second nature, though he still needs the safety net of familiarity and trust, like that time he flirted with Sarah just to rile Sam.  

But then again, the prospect of anything with real stakes, like when that blonde barista slipped him her number, sends him running for the hills. 

And between all the tiger photos on Tinder and—again, what the fuck was the deal with all the zodiac signs?—he’s quickly discovered that ‘dating’ in the 21st-century isn’t quite like it used to be. 

You ever hook up with a girl?   

He had just stared at Sam, then, with a slow lift of his metal arm like it was explanation enough.

Of course, there was the whole other issue of… mechanics. 

Something so unspoken and personal he’s barely admitted it to himself.

And he’s tried just about everything short of pills to fix it.

Articles, advice columns. Porn. Even dug out an old magazine or two for nostalgia’s sake, half-hoping it’d jog something loose. 

But most nights he’d come up limp, staring down a bottle of cheap whiskey as restlessness swallowed him whole.

And he tells himself it’s fine. 

Gotta keep moving—bigger things to do, too many items on his list. 

His libido doesn’t even crack the top ten. 

Until he met… you.

Caught him off-guard one night, in the produce aisle of some corner bodega, when he was busy frowning at a peach that didn’t look like a peach.

Donut peaches. Crazy, right?

Cocked him an easy smile, a basket full of groceries by your hip as you plucked a different fruit off the stand, its skin leathery smooth and blush pink. 

They’re out of season, though. Might wanna try these nectarines. 

Your smile stayed with him longer than it should’ve. 

So did the sound of your laugh, bright and untroubled, when you apologized for what he could only assume was an irresistibly charming grimace on his part. 

Shoot, sorry, occupational hazard. 

I like your jacket, by the way. 

And just like that, you had him.

The next few weeks were a blur of excuses to visit your small bakery, down by 22nd street. Setting up his laptop like he actually had work to do, just so he’d feel less like a creep when you’d step out from behind the register and spark up easy conversation. 

And somehow, between testing all your newest bakes and staying back till closing to walk you home, he’s missed that fragile window where it felt appropriate to tell you who he is—was. Whatever.

That the gloves weren't some quirky fashion choice, or because he’s got poor circulation. 

But then again, maybe it wasn’t all that accidental.

Because you’re virtually the only person alive who knows him as Bucky—only Bucky—and he thought offering up the truth would change things.

The way you smile, call him handsome. Tug him closer by the lapels of his jacket. 

Kissed him outside that wine bar in Brooklyn, then fixed his hair and the corner of his mouth where your strawberry lip gloss smudged. 

Grabbed his hand and draped it deliberately over your thigh, that one time he took you to see a picture about aliens and space wars—though he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember a single plot point afterward. 

That memory is a warm thing that turns cold fast. A flicker of heat curling low in his stomach, his hand twitching instinctively toward the space between his legs. 

Then, the spark would fizzle out, like a bucket of ice water dumped over his thoughts.  

And that’s when the spiral would start, the endless rabbit hole that is sex advice by strangers on the internet. Hunched over a dim screen, browser history stacked a mile high with unanswered questions about modern dating, with one particular query searing into his thoughts:

How long should you wait before having sex with someone for the first time?

Because, supposedly, the internet says three dates. To see if you’re really compatible. 

After that point, why even bother? 

And he had to lean back and hold his breath at that, because, shit—tomorrow was date #3. 

So when he showed up to the jazz bar you’d been wanting to try, at exactly ten minutes to 8, the bouquet in his gloved hand was quivering. Like the time he asked out Lucy Ann from the 7th grade.

He'd sought temporary reprieve in the way you gasped, delighted, branding a smile on his cheek with a chaste kiss. Just like you had for the flowers on the first date, then again at the second.

(Because, apparently, no one does this kind of thing anymore, and he had scoffed because—jesus, did guys make it this easy to impress a date nowadays?)

Later, you’d pulled him close under the neon glow of a sidewalk marquee, kissing him soft and slow like you had all night.  

Taste of merlot and something sweeter on your lips when you'd muttered: my place?

And that brings him here, in the narrow hallway of your apartment, just a couple steps from the door because you couldn’t wait for the couch.  

He’s got you pressed against the wall, lost in the plush yield of your lips, the smooth curve of your cheek under his thumb. Because he loves this part, he really does—the way you arch into him, slide your hands under his jacket. Your breaths, shallow and sweet, mixed in with the heady scent of your perfume.

How you smile, for no apparent reason other than the fact that kissing him seems to make you happy. 

But then there’s that quiet thought, again.

And he desperately wishes he was holding your hips for a different reason than to pull away. 

“Maybe,” he pants, swallowing hard because your eyes were making it hard to focus, “maybe we shouldn't…”

Your gaze settles on him for a brief moment, hazy and heavy-lidded. From the wine or from something else, he’s not sure he wants to know. 

Then, you pull back promptly, slipping under his arm and disappearing somewhere behind him. 

Now, he’s blinking, staring at an empty wall. 

Convinced that he’s fucked this all up, heart leaping to his throat, something pounding in his head—

Until he realizes that the vibration drumming against his ears is music. 

The soft croon of a clarinet, the brassy blare of trumpets—a familiar melody sweeps over him, and it makes his brows pinch because he knows this one.

A tune he can recognize, for once, wedged somewhere between humid nights on Coney Island and crowded USO dance halls. 

“C’mon!”

Your high pitched laugh against his ear, a gentle tug at his wrist. 

It hits like whiplash, then, the realization of what you’re asking him to do.  

And he feels like an assuming jerk for all the scenarios he’s been playing through his mind since last night—because while he was busy coming up with excuses for why he couldn’t get hard, or why he’s got a metal arm, or why he wakes up in the middle of the night hearing screams that might be his own—you had wanted to… dance. 

He lets himself be drawn by your radiant smile, into the tiny pocket of space where your kitchen meets your living room.

His heart stutters when your hand slides to his back, the other lacing around his gloved fingers. He’s supposed to lead, isn’t he?

Yet, his steps flow in tune with yours, falling into place like they never strayed in the first place.

“Not too bad,” you tease, eyes sparkling, body swaying. 

“…I gotta be honest, I—oh!” A high, happy sound tickles your throat when he spins you, arms arching high over your head. “—didn’t peg you for a dancer!”

His fingers itch to hold you closer. Adoration humming under his skin, threaded with disbelief, because how the hell did he manage to find this? To find you?         

“Guess I’ve got a few surprises left.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Mm, I like that. I’ll have to see what else I can get out of you.”

And the way you say it—all innocent and just a hint too sweet—sends a sudden rush of heat through him.

His breaths halt, feet frozen to the floor.

Shit, is that…?

Heat licks at his nerves, sparks jumping under his skin, and before he can stop to question it, it’s there. 

And instead of running, he leans in. 

The next twirl is deliberate, his hand steady against your waist as you come spinning back to him. 

He grins, the thrill of something new rising to the top of his list.

“Just try to keep up, huh?”

a/n: my first bucky fic! was a bit nerve-wracking branching out into other characters, but this was a lot of fun :) lemme know what u think!

[drabblesandsnippets]

Sunshine - Part 1

Hot Bucky Summer 2024 - Week 5

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Plus-size female character (unnamed)

Prompt: “We’re…” | [Friends with Benefits | Exes | Enemies to Lovers] @buckybarnesevents

Summary: (2k) Series Masterlist Ramblings of the first few months of having Bucky as a roommate. In this AU, Bucky owns a photography business.

Warnings: 18+ Only. Slow burn. Grumpy/Sunshine Trope. Happy Bucky (is that a warning?) - he's a photographer in this AU. Female character’s nickname is Sunshine. Mention of anxiety and insecurities - she’s also no-contact with her family (there’s trauma that will be mentioned later in the series). Very brief mention of porn. Brief mention of masturbation.

---------------------------

The first time she met Bucky, she wasn’t sure what to expect. She was already desperate to find someone after her last roommate had left her in a lurch, suddenly moving out of state. After several weeks of searching, her list of requirements had been narrowed down to two things - pay rent on time, and don’t try to kill her in her sleep.

Through a network of friends and acquaintances, Bucky’s name came up - a previous coworker’s best friend who had been looking for a place and seemed to meet her criteria. She wasn’t exactly excited about living with a man, but Bucky came with great references and bringing his sister to their first meeting definitely earned him points.

Not that she had much of a choice, given her limited options, but she felt fairly confident about Bucky. Even with his overly-positive demeanor and extroverted nature - a glaring contrast to her shy, anxious, introverted personality - they got along almost instantly. 

While usually uncomfortable with strangers, Bucky managed to put her at ease, more than happy to keep the conversation going without ever making her feel like she was being put on the spot. Their differences seemed to compliment each other - she’s a homebody and he enjoys going out. They’d rarely cross paths.

It was perfect.

-------------------

Two days after Bucky moved in, she woke up to him singing. 

To his credit, he didn’t actually wake her up with the singing - it was just a lot to take in at 7 o’clock on a Monday morning. A 30-something year-old-man singing and dancing in her - their - kitchen while he made coffee.

Bucky had every right to be there, but it didn���t stop her from getting secretly irritated. How could he have that much energy so early in the morning? She could barely open her eyes and wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed. He looked like he was ready to tackle whatever the day brought.

He didn’t even take offense when she couldn’t muster more than a couple words and grunts for responses. He just continued on with his singing, and when she returned from her shower, there was a thermos of coffee waiting for her.

It was unexpected.

-------------------

It quickly became a routine for him. Whether he had a late night out, or an early morning himself, Bucky would leave her coffee. And, after the first couple of weeks, it became lunch too.

She wasn’t used to people doing things for her - even her friends knew not to offer because it made her uncomfortable - but no matter how much she tried to resist, Bucky always had an answer.

“I was already fixing some for myself,” he had told her with an easy-going smile. He enjoyed cooking, and this way none of it would go to waste.

Bucky even bought her an insulated bag for the days she had to go into the office, with the explanation, “It was a buy-one-get-one thing.” 

If it were any other man, she might think there was some sort of ulterior motive. But, it quickly became clear that this was just who Bucky was. A kind, considerate person who enjoyed life to the fullest and made it his mission to bring as much happiness as possible to the people around him.

It was exhausting.

-------------------

It’s not that she wasn’t a happy person. She just enjoyed her quiet solitude after a life of hardship and strife, and sometimes it was hard to watch Bucky be so carefree.

He was close with his family, whereas she had no relationship whatsoever with hers. He spent most nights out with his friends, and even though she had a couple of good friends, it mostly consisted of texts and sporadic get-togethers. 

She wasn’t jealous, or complaining about her own life, it was just a lot to take sometimes. Not only Bucky’s constant positivity, but that nothing ever seemed to bother him. When things would go wrong, he refused to let it get to him, instead deciding to see the silver lining in everything. 

If he came home drenched because it started raining during his walk, he’d still have a smile on his face. He’d talk about how he loved the smell of the rain, and how much the plants needed it.

A friend canceling at the last minute was just a sign that he was supposed to be doing something else. Like, cook her dinner, or work on his business.

If a client flaked or asked to reschedule a photo shoot, he’d take the opportunity to send them a card or edible arrangement, as if the scheduling conflict was his fault.

When she accidentally spilled a drink on the new rug he bought, he made a joke about finally getting to try out the stain remover tool he bought on a whim.

Nothing seemed to faze him. 

It was irritating. 

-------------------

Bucky’s nickname for her started about a month after he moved in. After an unplanned late night of binge watching a new show together, they both had an early morning. She, of course, woke to him doing his normal song and dance in the kitchen.

Due to no fault of his own, she found it extra frustrating that morning - probably because her period was about to start - and she was unable to hide her mood. When he was nice enough to ask if he could fix her breakfast, all he got in response was a slow blink and a slight shake of her head before she left to take a shower.

Bucky, of course, took it all in stride, finding her hatred of mornings amusing. It made him try even harder to get her to see the beauty in watching the world wake up, much to her chagrin. 

And the next morning, she found a new travel mug waiting for her on the counter, the words “Good Morning Sunshine” etched across the front.

Ever since, it’s been nothing but that.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he’d call out as he passed by her closed bedroom door while her alarm blared in her ear. She’d groan and ignore the smile that threatened to grow on her face.

On the mornings he’d be gone before she was awake, he’d come home later with a, “Heya Sunshine, you give anyone hell today?” They both knew that no matter how much people annoyed her, she was too shy and self-conscious to ever tell anyone off, but it still made her laugh and roll her eyes.

Every night would end the same way. Bucky telling her, “Goodnight Sunshine, try not to stay up too late.” She was a night owl and Bucky was a - well, essentially, an every-hour-of-the-day kind of person. No matter what time of day it was, he’d always have the energy to have a good attitude.

It was unnerving. 

-------------------

After several months of living with Bucky, she still wasn’t used to it, but at least there was no longer any part of her that thought it was an act. 

Bucky was genuine, and he was nothing but consistent - not just with how laidback and happy he always was, but as a roommate too. Paying his rent on time. Offering to buy groceries for both of them. Cleaning up after himself (even her, sometimes). Pitching in with the chores. Giving her space. 

While she still found herself occasionally irritated by his positive demeanor, she couldn’t deny that it had started to slowly rub off on her. 

One morning she found herself humming a song while she was drinking her first cup of coffee, even before her morning shower. She hadn’t even noticed she was doing it until Bucky started humming along with her, and it immediately made her groan, accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll.

“What are you doing to me?”

With a soft laugh and a shake of his head, Bucky told her, “I’m just along for the ride, Sunshine.” As if he wasn’t responsible for making her subconsciously try to see the good in things after a lifetime of waiting for the next shoe to drop.

It was confusing.

-------------------

She didn’t really have anything to complain about. She’d spent most of her life with roommates, sharing her space with others - even people she didn’t really get along with - so if her only issue with Bucky was his boundless energy and enthusiasm, she was doing pretty well. 

He rarely even had people over, telling her more than once he preferred to go out. It wasn’t immediately clear if he was just telling her that to assuage any guilt she might feel about being uncomfortable with having other people in her home, but it was easy to accept his explanation.

Despite his exuberant personality, it never felt like he was blowing smoke up anyone’s ass. If he didn’t like something, he never seemed to lie about it. He just managed to spin it into a positive, making the other person still feel comfortable with their opinion. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met.

It still took her some time to feel comfortable letting her guard down around him, to really let him see the person she was underneath all the masks she felt like she had to wear with others. There were parts of herself that she still hadn’t been ready to share with him, but she didn’t really mind when he’d stay in to spend the evening with her.

They were friends, and soon the invitations started. 

“A few of us are hanging out at Steve’s, wanna come?”

“Heya Sunshine, you feel up to a movie night at Sam’s?”

“We’re doing a casual dinner thing at Nat’s, everyone’s been asking about you.”

She had yet to accept any of the offers, but as the weeks went by, it was hard to pretend she wasn’t at least a little curious. Bucky spent so much time with his friends and she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to spend time with him outside of their apartment.

Especially after the things she gleaned about him from his friends, during the brief encounters she’d had when they stopped by. Like when Steve laughed after she made an offhand comment about Bucky never getting mad. “That’s because you’ve never given him a reason to be mad.” She had been hoping for an example, but the conversation got cut short.

There was also that time when Sam made a joke about Bucky’s dating habits. “You go any longer and you’re going to forget how it all works.” From what Bucky had already shared with her, he got out of a relationship last year and now he was more interested in focusing on his friends, his family, and his career. 

It wasn’t lost on her how attractive Bucky was, but it also wasn’t something she gave much thought to. They were roommates, and friends, and it would be absurd to think about him in any other way. 

Even if she did accidentally overhear him in the shower the other day. She had come home early and just as she walked by the bathroom door, she very clearly heard him moaning. For the briefest of seconds, she had felt frozen in place, but after hearing him again, she quickly went to her room, ignoring her racing heart and flushed skin.

It turned into days of pretending she never heard anything, days of pretending that it didn’t make her think about other things. Like what he had been imagining. Or, what kind of porn he might watch. Or, what kind of lover he’d be. 

It was ridiculous.

-------------------

Since the moment Bucky met her, he’d felt an undeniable pull. There had been something about her that called out to him. That made him want to get to know her, to help her, to do whatever he could to bring happiness to her life.

Unbeknownst to her, at the time he learned she needed a roommate, he had been crashing in a friend’s spare bedroom for free. There had been no intention to move, but he couldn’t stand the idea of her being stuck with someone that might take advantage of her situation.

Besides, his business had been going well and he could more than afford the rent. It just made sense for him to move in with her. 

Bucky knew he wasn’t the perfect roommate by any means, but he did everything he could to make her feel like it was still her home too. There wasn’t anything about her that he wanted to change, he just wanted to bring some positivity to her life.

The coffees, and the lunches, and the dinners were all a part of that. As were the Netflix marathons and late night conversations they started to share. Becoming friends with her had always been a goal of his, and it had never been about more than that.

It never even mattered that he thought she was attractive because he’d never let his eyes linger or his thoughts wander. They were friends, and all he wanted was for her to be a part of his life, including becoming friends with his friends.

Somewhere along the way though, something changed. The attraction he had for her started to grow and he found himself having to resist the urge to smell her hair when they’d sit on the couch to watch TV.

He started having to force himself not to look her way when she forgot her robe and had to rush from the bathroom to her bedroom wrapped in just a towel that barely covered her luscious curves. 

The times at night when she’d be alone in her room with music playing, he’d lock himself in his own room and workout, trying not to imagine her touching herself and the sounds she might make.

As hard as Bucky fought it, not wanting to ever do anything to make her feel uncomfortable in her own home, he eventually convinced himself that it would be better to lean into it. To allow himself to think about her, to fantasize about her, as long as he kept his eyes and his hands to himself, he’d eventually get over it and she’d never have to know.

She’d never have to know that he’d spend his walks thinking about what turned her on.

She’d never have to know that he started taking longer showers so he could fantasize about what she might taste like.

She’d never have to know that he ended every night the same way, fucking his hand while he imagined it was her. 

It was wishful thinking.

---------------------------

Series Masterlist | Next Part

Hot Bucky Summer Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[arcadia-smith]

One touch

Part 1 // Part 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

Summary: You’ve lived your whole life carrying pieces of others—memories, emotions, pain. A single touch is all it takes. You never meant to fall for Bucky Barnes. Not when one touch showed you the full weight of his past—every wound, every scream, every drop of blood spilled. But the problem with avoiding someone is that it only makes you want them more. And Bucky is just as drawn to you as you are to him.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Bucky's memories, kinda slow burn.

Note: Might be inspired by that one POV I saw ages ago. Finally, wrote smth on it.

You’re careful, always. Gloves in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, avoiding unnecessary contact. But you weren’t expecting to meet him that day. You weren’t expecting his steel-blue eyes, the hesitant way he reached for you, the calloused warmth of his palm.

James Buchanan Barnes. You thought maybe it would be something vague, like the usual flickering memories you caught from strangers—forgotten birthdays, the feeling of laughter in their ribs, the taste of their last sip of coffee.

But the moment your hand slipped into his, you knew you had made a mistake.

Pain.

It surged through you in an instant, stealing the air from your lungs, making your knees nearly buckle under the weight of it. The sharp bite of a knife slicing through flesh. The suffocating grip of restraints against metal wrists. The echo of voices shouting commands in Russian, the chilling sensation of being stripped down to nothing but a weapon. The screams. The red star. Blood, so much blood—on his hands, on his soul, dripping onto snow-covered ground. The sensation of metal replacing flesh. Terror. Rage. Regret. The unbearable weight of loss.

You ripped your hand away, eyes wide, heart hammering. Bucky was staring at you, brow furrowed in confusion.

"You okay?" His voice was rough, but his concern was genuine.

You force a smile. A lie. “Yeah. Just—just got a little dizzy.”

It’s the first of many lies.

You avoided touching him after that. It was difficult. Bucky's a tactile person, more than he realized. A hand on your back when guiding you through a crowded space. Sitting beside him on mission briefings, careful not to let your knees brush. You handed him files with your sleeves pulled over your fingers. You trained in the same room but always kept your distance. It was exhausting, this careful, deliberate avoidance, but you had no choice.

He was kind, in a quiet, unassuming way. He made you coffee in the mornings when you were both in the compound kitchen too early for anyone else to be awake. He told you about the books he had been reading when sleep didn't come. He listened when you talked, really listened, like what you were saying was the most important thing in the world.

He made you want things you shouldn’t.

But you knew what was inside him. You felt it. You felt him break, over and over again, and you didn't know how to hold that without breaking too.

Bucky wasn't just the things Hydra made him do. He wasn't just the broken memories and the pain. The way he always waited for you to enter a room first. The way he softened when he talked to Sam’s nephews. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

He remembered things about you, little things you barely noticed about yourself. And it terrified you because you were falling for him.

And worse? He was falling for you, too.

“You don’t like touching me.”

You froze, coffee cup halfway to your lips. You were both sitting in the compound’s common area, the glow of the city outside casting long shadows across the floor.

“I don’t like touching anyone,” you corrected.

Bucky didn’t look convinced.

"Steve told me you have some kind of.. gift or whatever he called it." He huffed.

"A gift," you shook your head. It was all but a gift. "i can see.. and feel... memories of a person, whenever I touch them."

“What did you see, when you shook my hand that first time?” Bucky questioned, not knowing if he really wanted to hear the answer.

You hesitated. He deserved an explanation, an answer, but how could you explain something like this? How could you tell him that touching him had nearly broken you? That you’d spent weeks trying to separate your own thoughts from the pain you’d absorbed? That even now, sometimes, you woke up gasping, ice spreading through your veins, memories that weren’t yours pressing against your skull? He didn't deserve that. After all he'd been through.

"You were quite a skirt-chaser back in the day." You shrugged, hoping he'd let go of the topic.

Bucky let out a short laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s what you saw?”

You forced a smile, lifting your cup to your lips. “That’s what I’m telling you I saw.”

You weren’t sure if he was buying it, but either way, he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, stretching his metal arm along the back of it, close but not touching.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “I might’ve been a flirt, but I was always a gentleman.”

You raised a brow. “That so?”

“Absolutely.” He smirked. “Always asked for a dance first.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “How chivalrous.”

Bucky chuckled, but you could feel the shift in the air. He hadn’t forgotten your deflection. The momentary ease between you wasn’t enough to erase the unspoken weight of his question.

What did you see?

What did you feel?

You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

The ice-cold metal of an operating table. The burn of a shock collar. The sting of a fresh wound being ignored, a voice barking orders in Russian. The absolute, gut-wrenching terror of realizing—over and over—that you weren’t in control of your own body.

And beneath it all, buried so deep it nearly went unnoticed—loneliness. A yearning for something, someone, anyone to remind him he wasn’t just a weapon.

You couldn’t tell him that.

So instead, you clung to the lighter pieces, the moments before the pain, before the war. The golden haze of 1940s Brooklyn, the warmth of laughter, the way the air used to hum with the promise of something better.

“Steve always said I was a pain in the ass back then,” Bucky mused, snapping you back to the present.

You glanced at him, offering a small smile. “Some things never change.”

That made him laugh, real and genuine this time, and for a moment, the weight in your chest lightened.

The next few days were a blur of subtle moments, quiet exchanges, and the uncomfortable tension that lingered between you and Bucky. You tried to keep your distance, pretending that everything was fine, but the truth was far harder to swallow.

Every time Bucky walked into the room, the pull was undeniable. You’d find your gaze drawn to him, and when he caught your eye, you’d quickly look away, as if your body was betraying you, desperate for something you couldn’t have.

And then there were the little things—the way his presence seemed to fill the space around him, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, like he was trying to break through some invisible barrier that you’d put up.

You didn’t want to feel that pull. You couldn’t afford to. Because no matter how much your heart ached to close the distance between you and him, you knew the consequences.

That afternoon, when you were leaving the training room, you almost collided with Bucky in the hallway. He stepped back just in time, his eyes flashing with surprise as you tried to regain your balance.

“Easy there,” he said, his voice low but steady, his hand brushing your arm to steady you.

You froze. The moment his fingers made contact with your skin, everything came rushing back. The sharp pain of a bullet slicing through muscle, the flash of a bomb exploding too close, the heartache of losing everything that had ever mattered. The memories of the wars he’d fought, of the things he’d been forced to do, filled your mind so quickly you barely had time to breathe.

You pulled away instinctively, your body trembling, your chest tightening as you fought to keep it together.

“I—I’m sorry,” you gasped, avoiding his eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. You didn’t want to look at him. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you might just break, and you couldn’t do that. Not with him. Not when you already knew the kind of pain he carried inside him.

Bucky took a step forward, his expression softening as he reached out, his hand hovering just shy of yours. “You’re not okay,” he said quietly, his voice full of concern. “What’s going on?”

You shook your head, willing the storm inside you to settle. “I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Just… tired. Long day.”

Before either of you could say anything more Steve appeared at the end of the hallway, calling out to Bucky.

“You coming, Barnes?”

Bucky hesitated, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer, as if he was torn between walking away and staying.

Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll catch up with you later,” he said to Steve, before turning back to you. “We’ll talk soon, yeah?”

You noded and you couldn’t breathe until he was gone.

The next day, Bucky found you in the courtyard, sitting by yourself, your eyes distant as you stared at the horizon. He walked up slowly, as though unsure of how to approach you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t look up. “It’s a free country.”

Bucky settled next to you anyway, the quiet between you comfortable for a moment, but not for long. He was too aware of everything. Too aware of you.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice low.

You shifted uncomfortably. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” His tone softened, and you finally turned to meet his eyes.

“I told you, I don’t like touch. And it’s not something I can just turn off. And it's hard to be around you... when all I want to do is touch you, for you to touch me, kiss me..”

You got up on your feet but before you could turn, you felt the weight of his hand on your arm, gentle, but firm. Your breath caught, heart pounding in your chest. His touch was warm, steady, nothing like the icy remnants of war that had scarred him, but you still felt the sharpness of his past pressing against you like a shadow.

You looked down at his hand, at the way his fingers barely brushed your sleeve. It was a simple gesture, but to you, it was more than that. It was the invitation. The risk. The question you both had been dancing around.

You swallowed hard, fighting the sudden wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. But when you met his eyes, the vulnerability there, the honest want for connection, it nearly broke you.

You wanted to pull away. You wanted to stop, to keep him at arm’s length, but something inside you shifted, and you found yourself taking a step closer, just enough for your fingers to brush against his.

The world tilted.

The memories flooded you—faster, sharper this time. The face of a man who wasn’t quite Bucky anymore, wasn’t quite the soldier he’d been. The ache of betrayal, the desperate longing for redemption. The faces of people he’d loved and lost, the quiet rage of a man who had been turned into a weapon and was still trying to find his humanity.

Your chest tightened as the memories crashed over you, and you gasped, pulling your hand away, stumbling back like you’d been burned.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice ragged. “I—I can’t…”

Bucky’s face twisted, a flash of pain crossing his features “I’m sorry if I—”

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “It’s not you. It’s me. I just… I can’t keep doing this.”

[moniquesha]

exfil masterlist

congressman!bucky x avenger!reader (in progress)

The past was never meant to catch up to you. Yet, no matter how far you ran, it always found a way back; This time in the form of a message, a threat, and ten stolen cases of something that should’ve never existed. The old world you abandoned is closing in, forcing you to rely on ghosts you once called allies.

Warnings: 18+, violence, trauma, angst, strong language, smut.

part one: ghost of the past.

part two: to hell with that!

part three: first job back.

part four: happiest birthday, stark.

[magical-reid]

Ricochet

Pairing: Bucky x Fem! Reader

Slow Burn/ Enemies to Lovers

Word Count: 1.4K

Summary: Bucky and the reader's relationship starts off rocky, marked by tension, mistrust, and bickering, especially due to their shared past with Hydra. However, over time, their interactions soften as they begin to understand each other better, with moments of respect, mutual concern, and subtle attraction emerging amid their fiery exchanges.

Reader’s POV

The elevator ride to the top of Avengers Tower was too quiet, too long, and too nerve-wracking. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—I was supposed to be excited, grateful even. Joining the Avengers was a big deal. The deal.

But all I could think about was the man waiting on the other side of the shiny metal doors.

Bucky Barnes.

The Winter Soldier, they used to call him. The Ghost. The most terrifying assassin in history. Now, they called him an Avenger. A hero. A man trying to rebuild his life, just like me.

Except, he hated me.

The elevator dinged, interrupting my downward spiral. I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag, straightened my back, and stepped into the common area.

It was bustling. Clint Barton was leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee. Wanda Maximoff was cross-legged on the couch, nose deep in a book. Sam Wilson was half-shouting something about a sparring session.

And then, there he was.

Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, piercing blue eyes narrowed in a look that could melt steel. Bucky Barnes.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

I saw her before she even got off the elevator.

The new recruit—great. Another kid with a chip on their shoulder and something to prove. Fury had said she was talented, promising even. But Fury said a lot of things, and I wasn’t buying it.

Especially since she was Hydra-trained.

I crossed my arms tighter, keeping my mouth shut as the others greeted her. My stomach churned as I watched her, trying to read her body language. She stood tall, confident, but there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Good. She should be nervous.

“You’re the new girl, huh?” Sam said, clapping her on the shoulder like they were old friends.

“Yeah,” she replied, glancing my way for half a second before looking back at Sam. “I guess I am.”

Her voice was steady, but I caught the slight clench of her jaw. She knew who I was, knew what I thought about her being here.

“Welcome to the Tower,” Sam said, oblivious. “What’s your specialty?”

“Close combat,” she said. “And infiltration.”

“Great,” I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear. Her head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” I said, pushing off the wall. “You’ve got ‘infiltration’ written all over you.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

It took every ounce of restraint not to throw my duffel bag at his head. He was testing me, pushing my buttons, and it was working.

“Okay,” Sam said, stepping between us with a strained smile. “Let’s just… ease into this. No need to kill each other yet.”

Yet.

The tension lingered, thick as smoke, as Bucky gave me one last icy look before brushing past me and disappearing down the hall.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

The new girl—Y/N. Fury had mentioned her name in passing—was trouble. I didn’t need Steve’s optimism or Sam’s over-the-top friendliness clouding my judgment. People didn’t just walk away from Hydra clean.

I knew that better than anyone.

She was going to slip up. Eventually, she’d prove me right.

The problem was, part of me almost didn’t want her to.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Two Weeks Later

Reader’s POV

I’d managed to avoid Bucky for the first couple of weeks, which was harder than it should have been considering we lived under the same roof. But there was no avoiding him in the field.

Our first mission as a team had gone sideways fast. Hydra—not that it was surprising—had set up a trap, and now half the team was scattered in the woods outside the compound while Bucky and I were stuck together.

“Stay close,” Bucky barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos.

“I know how to stay alive,” I snapped back, dodging behind a tree as bullets tore through the air.

“Yeah, but for how long?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I slid my knife from its sheath, took a deep breath, and bolted toward the nearest Hydra soldier. The element of surprise worked in my favor. I took him down quickly and efficiently, just like I’d been trained.

But the second soldier saw me coming.

“Damn it,” I muttered, raising my blade, but before I could strike, a blur of black and silver tackled the guy to the ground.

Bucky.

He stood over the unconscious soldier, shaking his head. “You’re reckless.”

“I’m fine,” I bit out, wiping blood from my cheek.

“For now.”

“Why do you even care?”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him as more soldiers approached.

“Stay behind me,” he growled.

I wanted to argue, but something in his tone made me listen.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

She was going to get herself killed.

I didn’t trust her—not even a little—but I didn’t want her blood on my hands. She was brash, stubborn, and reckless, but she wasn’t incompetent. That’s what made it worse.

Because if she wasn’t Hydra anymore, if she really had turned her back on them, she didn’t deserve to die like this.

“Bucky, behind you!”

Her voice snapped me back to reality just in time to block the incoming blow. The Hydra soldier hit hard, but I hit harder. I turned and delivered a swift kick to his chest, sending him flying into a tree.

When I turned back to Y/N, she was watching me, something unreadable in her eyes.

“You okay?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Good,” I muttered. “Let’s keep moving.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later

Reader’s POV

By the time we made it back to the jet, I was running on adrenaline and pure spite. Bucky hadn’t let up the entire mission, barking orders and criticizing every move I made.

But he’d also saved my life. Twice.

“You’re lucky I was there,” he said as the jet doors closed behind us.

I rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”

Clint, sitting in the pilot’s seat, let out a low whistle. “This is gonna be fun.”

Bucky ignored him, his focus entirely on me. “You want to survive out there? Start listening to people who know what they’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I snapped.

“Do you?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

“Better than hiding behind everyone else.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he might actually yell. Instead, he turned and stormed toward the back of the jet.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky’s POV

She was infuriating.

She didn’t know when to quit, when to listen, when to shut up. But damn it, she had fire.

I hated that I noticed it. Hated the way my heart skipped when she called me out, the way my mind replayed her voice when I was alone.

I hated the way she looked at me, like she was daring me to prove her wrong.

But most of all, I hated the thought of something happening to her.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Weeks Turn to Months

The missions kept coming, and so did the tension. Every time we worked together, sparks flew—anger, frustration, heat. But somewhere along the line, the edges softened.

It started small: a hesitant “good job” after a successful mission, a shared smirk when Tony made a particularly bad joke.

And then, one night, everything changed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Reader’s POV

The training room was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of fists hitting the punching bag. I’d come down to clear my head, but I wasn’t alone.

Bucky was there, shirtless and focused, his metal arm gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

I froze in the doorway, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.

“Gonna stand there all night?” he asked without looking up.

I scowled, stepping into the room. “Didn’t know you owned the place.”

He smirked, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “You here to train or to sulk?”

“Both,” I admitted, grabbing a pair of gloves.

We worked in silence for a while, the air thick with unspoken tension. It wasn’t until I landed a particularly satisfying hit on the bag that he finally spoke

Part 2

[blueseasfanfics]

Friction - Part 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you're targeted by a violent stalker, Sam Wilson hires Bucky Barnes to guard you in an isolated safe house. This causes tension as you both get on each others nerves in an increasingly dangerous situation. But, you slowly come to realize you're more alike than you thought. Will it be too late when you finally let yourself trust him?

Word Count (for Part 1): 2.3k

Tags: Slowburn, reluctant attraction, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, bodyguard, hired to protect, fluff and angst, nightmares and comfort, eventual smut, reluctant attraction.

T/W: Some non-graphic depictions of violence, guns, eventual smut.

A/N: Hello. This will be just a few parts. I'm envisioning 5. Who knows though. Will be posted on my AO3 as well (linked here). Also, feel free to send short one-shot requests. I may not answer them all but if one inspires me, I'll write. Enjoy!

“If you keep staring at me, I’m going to sprint down the hill into oncoming traffic.”

“There is no oncoming traffic.”

“I’ll keep running until I find some.”

“Good luck.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking another swig of your coffee. Bucky Dumbass Barnes leans against the porch railing, watching you. You flip him off and he rolls his eyes, looking instead at the dirt road ahead.

The day is calm and cicadas are buzzing loudly. You draw your knees up to your chest as you watch the wind play with the grass, making it flatten and swirl into ever-changing circles.

It’s so incredibly boring out here, away from the city. There’s no coffee shops, or long walks down busy streets, or movie theatres. The lack of movie theatres hurts the most. All you want to do is sit with people, too many people, anonymously sharing a laugh or a cry in a dark room. Free people don’t appreciate the amount of community that is shared within the walls of a theatre. The insight gleaned from hearing their murmurs to their friends about the attractiveness of the actors or the stupidity of the dialogue. You miss connecting with them and feeling, finally, like one of them. Anonymously. With the ability to leave afterwards, free to go about your business.

But now, all you do is watch the grass as Bucky watches you. Solely because of one stupid person with an obsession.

You chug the rest of your coffee and get up, limping past Bucky and letting the screen door slam behind you. He huffs, but you couldn’t care less.

The safe house has a rudimentary kitchen. Though, fancier than your own due to the coffee machine Sam brought as an apology for forcing you here. As you start another cup of coffee, you tap the counter with a finger. Sam said this would only be for a month. Just until they found out how He was tracking you. Then you could go back to your blissful anonymity in New York.

That is, if they could even find who He is.

That’s the flip side of the coin. You can disappear, until someone wants to find you. Then, it’s all that much easier for them to never appear to you at all, except when they want to. The little voice in the back of your head whispers his name to you, but you close your eyes and silence it. He’s gone. He must be.

The coffee drips from the machine. It’s been overworked the past two weeks, both from you trying to cling on to whatever sense of normalcy you’ve cultivated outside of this house, and from Bucky trying to stay awake.

How long did Bucky say he was going to stay here for? Couldn’t have been more than a month. He’s always been sick of you within the hour in past missions. It’s a miracle he’s still around two weeks in. Once he’s decided he’s done, you can go back. Or when whatever Sam bribed him with is gone. And then, who else does Sam trust enough to know where the safe house is? He barely let you know. You’ll be going back in no time.

Sure, there’s a homicidal maniac after you, leaving traps that have caught you twice already and broken your leg both times, but now that you know his M.O. you can catch him. You’ve handled yourself before, who’s to say you can’t again?

The coffee machine beeps, and you take a sip from the cup. Your bad leg twinges, angry at supporting you for this long, and you grit your teeth. Your own body doesn’t believe in you. That’s a tough pill to swallow.

The screen door slams again as Bucky comes inside.

“There’s no more coffee.” You mutter, and he reaches into the cupboard by the door and pulls out a bag. Opening it, he comes over to the machine to refill, and you move gingerly out of the way. He doesn’t notice, or care, and continues.

“This is the last bag, though. We’ll have to go into town to get more.” He says to the coffee machine.

“I don’t think it’ll answer you.” You say.

“You don’t want me looking at you. I’m happy to grant that request.”

“I don’t want you watching me. That’s very different.”

“You’ll have to get used to me doing that.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Thank god. You’re the most irritating woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know who’s stalking you, but it must be the only person in the world who could put up with your bullshit.”

“At least someone can put up with mine. I don’t think anyone can handle this long with you.”

“I’m okay with not having a psycho leaving bombs on my doorstep.”

“My balcony. He left them on my balcony.”

“Touchey. Or however the fuck you say it.”

“Touché.”

He rolls his eyes, not answering you and instead methodically glancing over the sparse living room. After two weeks you know what he looks at. The boarded up back door, the windows with trip-wires stretched across the sills, the cameras blinking red and pointed at every egress point. If he wasn’t such an ass, you’d be impressed by the level of care he’s putting into his job. You know it’s just about the money, though. Money that’s quickly running out.

“How much did Sam pay for?”

“Coffee? Two months supply. You’ve been drinking it like the damned Energizer bunny, though.”

“No, your money. For your ‘services’, or whatever you call the peeping tom bullshit.”

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw. His neck muscle flexes beneath his collar. You’d think it was attractive if it wasn’t his jaw.

“That was one time. I knocked, and you didn’t answer. I told you to always answer. I didn’t ‘peep’ at anything, anyway.” He finally says after a minute of counting.

“You’re not my keeper.”

“For the next two weeks, I am. And then it some other poor idiots job to watch you.”

That makes you freeze, putting your coffee down.

“What?” You say, and he glances over at you.

“What, you want me to stay now?”

“No! What do you mean someone else will be watching me?”

“Well, if Sam and them don’t find Him, you’ll still need to stay here.” He’s talking slowly, as if talking to a particularly dumb child.

“That wasn’t the agreement. Sam said a month.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Sam. Besides, you want to go back there? Back to your apartment, that He knows about? Hell, He knows the security camera blindspots. And you want to waltz back in like everything is fine?” Now, he’s looking at you. You really hate it when he does that. He seems to always be studying you, picking you apart with his ice-cold eyes. It makes your heart jump into your throat.

You break the eye contact by looking into your coffee.

“I just want to go home.” You finally say into its dregs. You swallow the rest of it, putting it on the counter harder than you meant to. “I’m taking a shower. Try not to come in, weirdo.”

“Easy enough.” He mutters as you walk up the stairs.

- - -

That night, you’re running.

You don’t need to look behind you to know He’s there. You’re barefoot again, running on the rough cement of the lab, scraping your bare skin against the walls as you round the corners of the never-ending basement prison. The burn from your wounds is nothing to the one in your head. It’s making your vision blurry and your eyes red-hot, and you know he’s closing in on you.

Sprinting now, the lights behind you close one by one with an electric thud, like a giants footsteps getting closer to stomping on you by the second.

Thud. You’re blinking back fire. Thud. Your heart is giving out.

Thud. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, sending chills down your spine as he finally-

Crash. You startle awake, a scream still ripping through your throat. You grab the closest thing to you -another coffee cup- and throw it towards the door that just smashed open. It narrowly misses a barely clothed Bucky as he ducks backward.

“Fuck!” He shouts, “Don’t surprise the guy with a gun! Gun safety 101!”

You notice now that he is holding one, its metal nose glinting off the moonlight coming through the bent blinds. His steel fingers share the same gleam.

“Don’t break into a sleeping woman’s room!” Is the only thing you can manage to yell back, turning away from him to wipe hot tears from your face quickly.

“I think the fact you were screaming loud enough to wake the dead is reason enough to come in here! I told you to not lock this door, by the way, so the whole breaking and entering thing is your fault.” He barks.

“Shut up, Bucky.” You whisper.

“Is someone in here? Why were you screaming?” The floor creaks under him as he steps into the room, looking around the corners.

“No one is in here, just go back to bed.” You’re gripping the mattress now, trying to calm down. He’s not making it any easier as he stops to stand behind you. There’s a soft ting of a bullet hitting the ground as he uncocks the gun, but he doesn’t leave.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes I did.”

“There were two questions.”

“I’m glad you know how to count.” You need to breathe. 1, 2, 3- shit. 1, 2- shit! Do you know how to count?

He’s quiet for a moment, and you almost think he’s left until he speaks again.

“Why do you insist on being so difficult?”

“Because I need to be.” You say breathlessly. Running a hand through your hair you stand up shakily, moving around the bed and going to the door. He’s standing in front of the doorway, not moving. In the dim light of the moon, the only part of him not shrouded in shadow is his metal arm. You try to avoid looking at it, knowing somewhere deep down that he hides it from you for a reason, with long sleeves even in the harshest sunlight. But the only other place to look is his chest or his face, which makes your cheeks feel hot even now. You settle on looking down at the bullet on the ground between you both.

“I need some water.” You murmur after a moment of him staring down at you.

“You need to answer me.”

“Please, Bucky.” You plead. Your defences fall for just a moment, but your lungs are starting to collapse. The world is starting to swim, and you’re not sure if its panic, tears, or the pain in your leg screaming at you to sit back down. Whichever one, you really don’t want Bucky to see it.

“Go back in bed. I’ll get it for you.” His voice is calm now. Quieter. Exhausted, the only answer you can manage is a nod, doing as you’re told and laying back down. You stare at the crack in the blinds and try to blink away tears as you listen to him rummaging in the kitchen.

He comes back too soon. He sets the glass on the nightstand behind you, but you don’t hear him leave. Sighing, you turn around, and finally look at him in the face.

His eyebrows are knit together, and as he looks at you, you can feel him studying you again. This time your stomach flutters.

You break eye contact again, sitting up and sipping the water quietly.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“Sorry for crashing in.”

“Sorry for screaming.”

“Not for the coffee mug?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that.”

You flick your eyes up at him, and you think for a moment you see a smile, but it quickly falls away once he looks in your eyes. You both look at each other for a second, two, three, before its his turn to break contact. He runs his metal hand through his tousled hair, glancing down at his gun, the bed, the window, anywhere but you.

“When I, hmm.” He takes a deep breath. “When I have a bad night, I have to ground myself.”

“Ground yourself? Like a naughty kid?”

“No.” He pinches the skin between his eyes. “My senses. Y’know. Five things I see, three things I hear, one thing I feel. Until I calm down.”

“Oh.”

“Are you still on edge?” He glances down at your free hand gripping the mattress. You loosen it.

“I guess.”

“Do you want me to stay in here?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to stay in here. To...watch over you.” He’s still looking away from you.

“Aren’t you already doing that? Hence the gun?”

He rolls his eyes.

“If you don’t want me to, I’ll just-”

“Yeah. If you can. Stay here, that is.” The permission comes from a part of you that you’ve shoved down. Or thought you shoved down. Now, it’s speaking from the middle of your throat, stealing any breath you have with it.

He finally looks at you again, then slowly nods.

“Okay. I can. Let me grab a blanket.” He walks out of the room, and you’re finally able to breathe again.

Laying back down, you try to ground yourself. You see the armchair across from the foot of your bed, the window, the bent blinds, the broken patch of ceiling above you, the barely touched glass of water on the nightstand. You hear the croon of an owl outside, the orchestra of a grasshopper, the creak of the floorboards as Bucky comes back in. Closing your eyes, you try to focus on sleep.

You feel Bucky’s warm hand brushing against your skin as he pulls your blanket up to cover you, leaving you cold when he moves away.

Your muscles relax as you hear him settle into the armchair. Inexcusably, your brain tells you, he calms you. Happily, your heart slows, letting you fall into a dreamless sleep.

[nexiva]

You made me hate you

Part 4

Bucky x reader

Warnings: ok now they really hate each other, really angsty part and a lot of swearing (again)

Summary: A not so nice morning in the kitchen with Sam and Bucky

A/N: I couldn’t wait any longer haha so enjoy this part :)

Masterlist

Five months. Five months of avoiding each other like the plague. And when we do run into each other? Jesus Christ, even Captain America himself would bolt from the room.

Barnes has gotten a little more… how do I put it? Confident. In the wrong way. About three months ago, he was still trying to talk to me, still trying to convince me—just like everyone else. But I wouldn’t give in. I would never forgive him. Maybe after all this time, it seems childish, but I didn’t care. I stood firmly on my ground.

And once everyone realized I wasn’t going to change my mind, that’s when things started heating up. Barnes was starting to get so cocky. The worse my remarks got, the more he started snapping back at me. I could see I was driving him insane—not that it was my intention. I just didn’t want to see him. But since he was already there, I couldn’t stop myself from throwing sharp comments his way. Until, finally, he had enough and started fighting back.

“Fuck, Sam, I swear I tried everything. But she wouldn’t even let me get a word in. I’m so done with this. Guess some amends just can’t be made.”

I walked into the kitchen with every intention of ignoring Barnes and making myself a great breakfast.
“Morning, Wilson.”
“Hey, Y/L/N.”

I could tell Sam was uncomfortable, but that didn’t stop him from asking a stupid question.
“So, Bucky and I were about to go for a run. Do you wanna join us?”

Oh God. Pathetic.

Barnes practically choked on his coffee, barely stopping himself from suffocating (what a shame that would be).

“If I were you, I wouldn’t let him outside. He might ‘accidentally’ run over someone and then claim he was forced to do it.”

Oh, I knew that one was going to hurt. But it rolled off my tongue so sweetly that I couldn’t stop myself.

Barnes threw his cup against the wall. Sam flinched slightly.

“You are a cunt, you know that?”

Bucky stepped closer like he was about to throw hands. I got up immediately.

“What? You gonna kill me too now? Finally finish collecting the whole family, asshole?”

And he just stared.

Nothingness in his eyes.

I wanted it to hurt. I wanted him to feel exactly the way I did. But strangely, there was no satisfaction in seeing him suffer. It wasn’t as enjoyable as I had imagined. So much time had passed, my rage had only grown, and yet… I couldn’t put a name to that stupid feeling inside me. Oh no, it definitely wasn’t sympathy or guilt—it was just exhausting.

For the first time, I saw something in his eyes. Fear?

I didn’t care to figure it out. Not at that moment.

“Fuck you,” was all he said before leaving the kitchen.

I sat down with a small smirk but also with a hint of uncertainty (hopefully, it didn’t show).

“Um, so that went well?”

Sam, not knowing what else to do, sat down with me.

“Y/N, aren’t you tired of this?”

The bastard could actually read my mind sometimes.

“Despite everything, you two have a lot in common. He was under HYDRA, you had NEXUS. You really should—”

I couldn’t listen to him any longer.

“Despite everything? You mean the fact that he killed my sister? And HYDRA? NEXUS? We have nothing in common. I never killed anyone for someone else. No one ever controlled me like some brainless puppet!”

“Because Fury saved you! You little brat! You think you wouldn’t have done the same as him if Nick hadn’t stepped in?”

Silence.

A long, awkward silence.

I had no idea how to respond. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to admit he was right—even if he was.

“I wonder if you’d say the same thing about him if Fury hadn’t shown up back then. You need to get it together, Y/N, because everyone is tired of your shit.”

Sam stood up, looked at me, and walked out.

I couldn’t admit he was right. I couldn’t get rid of the fog in my head. That horrible memory.

I refused to back down.

The kitchen felt emptier than before.

Sam’s words hung in the air like a goddamn storm cloud, suffocating me, pressing against my chest. "Everyone is tired of your shit."

I clenched my fists. Fuck him. Fuck them all. They didn’t get it. They weren’t the ones who had to wake up every morning and remember that someone ripped their soul apart like it was nothing. They weren’t the ones who had to stand in the same room as the murderer and pretend like he was just another member of the goddamn team.

I grabbed a piece of toast and took a slow bite, staring at the shattered ceramic from Bucky’s cup still lying on the floor. Someone else could clean it up. I wasn’t going to.

The compound was quiet now, except for the faint hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside. I let myself breathe. But my hands were still shaking.

Then I heard it—the door slamming shut.

I exhaled through my nose, already knowing who it was.

“What the fuck do you want now, Barnes?”

Silence.

I turned my head slightly, and there he was, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like he hadn’t cooled down one bit since storming out of here a few minutes ago.

“I’m not done talking.”

I let out a dry laugh. “That’s funny, I could’ve sworn you told Sam you were done trying.”

His nostrils flared. Good. I wanted him angry. I wanted him to feel something.

He took a step forward. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Y/N.”

I shot him a look. “Oh, I don’t? Enlighten me. Please.”

His eyes darkened. “You think you’re the only one who lost someone? You think you’re the only one who wakes up every day hating the person in the mirror?”

That caught me off guard. For a second. But I didn’t let it show.

“The difference between us, Winter Soldier?” I stood up, stepping closer until there were just inches between us. “I lost my family. You were the one pulling the goddamn trigger.”

He swallowed hard. I saw his fingers twitch—just slightly. Like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall. Or grab something. Maybe grab me.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let out a bitter chuckle and looked down.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was lower now. Tighter. “Every goddamn day, I think about the people I killed. I hear them screaming in my fucking head. And you?” He shook his head, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “You don’t even want revenge anymore. You just want something to be angry at.”

I stiffened.

He saw it. He fucking saw it, and I hated him for it.

“Go to hell, Barnes.”

His lips curled into a humorless smirk. “Already been there, sweetheart.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left, leaving me standing there, fists clenched, pulse racing, and for the first time in a long time—completely speechless.

[tteotlma]

Sugar and Skin

2. Second Impressions || Previous - Next

a simple favor for Steve leads to an unexpected second encounter and a lingering trace of powdered sugar that's harder to ignore than it should be.

TattooArtist!Bucky x Baker!Reader (3.9kw)

tw: 18+ MDNI; mild language, subtle tension, implied attraction, slow-burn, strangers to friends to lovers. a/n: NOTE!!! If u see "{{...}}" then that means i think u can skip it and be fine. and i think i finally decided on a weekly schedule.

“White chocolate macchiato?” Bucky called out as he pushed the glass door open with his back, swinging around to face an empty storefront. 

“Don’t judge!” He heard from the back room, as he set the bag and cup on the counter. 

“Never pegged you for the type.” Bucky smirked, watching his best friend practically float towards the pastry on the counter. He watched in bewilderment as Steve tore the bag open and took an enormous bite. 

“Yeah well, how many years has it been?” Steve asked with a mouth full of bread, crumbs of almond slipping from his lips. Bucky didn’t say anything. Steve took a swig of the hot coffee and melted into the seat beside him. 

“It’s like Christmas in a cup.” He held the cup with both hands to his chest, a dopey grin plastered on his face. Again, Bucky just stared.

“Listen, you may not get it but once you actually slow down you start to find things you never even knew you could enjoy.” Steve rolled his eyes. 

“I didn’t say anything.” Bucky held his hands up in defense as he leaned across the counter. 

“You didn’t have to, I know that look on your face.” 

“Just never thought I’d see you practically jizz in your pants over a cup of coffee, and a danish.” Bucky jabbed at the blonde in front of him.

He watched as Steve stilled in his throat before groaning, dragging a hand down his face as he shook his head. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“And you’re apparently unpredictable,” Bucky shot back, slouching against the counter with a smirk. “White chocolate macchiato? Really? Who are you, Steven?”

Steve glared at him, from the corner of his eye. Eyebrows furrowed. 

“Just never thought I’d see you practically cum in your pants over a cup of coffee and a bear claw, is all Stevie,” Bucky quipped, emphasizing the name as he rocked forward against the counter, arms crossed.

Steve froze mid-sip, his eyes narrowing slightly before he set the cup down with exaggerated care. “Guess you met Y/N,” he said, his tone casual, though there was an edge of something unspoken.

 “Y/N,” Bucky repeated, testing the name as he tilted his head, studying him. “That the baker?”

Steve nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. She runs the café with this guy Sam. They’re partners. She handles the baking and the day-to-day stuff; he’s the coffee guy.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, tutting his jaw forward. “Didn’t realize you were so invested in her business model, Steven.” He continues to study his face, resting his leather padded elbows against the granite. 

Steve gave him a dry look, shaking his head. “They’re good people, Buck. Been going there for years since before this place opened up. Y/N’s always just somehow been there for me. You know how it is—some people just stick.”

Bucky just stared. He locked eyes with Steve, and watched as the jewelry attached to the end of his eyebrow quirked up as he silently questioned him.

“What’s the big deal anyway? Why do you even care?” Steve finally blurted out, his fingers crinkled the paper bag in his hands, signalling that not only he was getting irritated but that Bucky was behaving strangely. He stepped back, and blinked.

“Nothing—I don’t care—just didn’t expect you to have something like that going on,” Bucky said, his voice quieter now, though his words still carried a pointed edge. He put his hands against the counter, studying Steve’s reaction.

Steve blinked, his head tilting slightly as if trying to figure out what Bucky wasn’t saying. “Something like what?” he asked, his tone casual, but his gaze sharp.

Bucky hesitated for a beat, his jaw working as he tried to shrug it off. “I don’t know,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the coffee cup. “This whole… thing. The bear claws, the macchiato, the… normalcy.”

Steve’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, his tongue brushing lightly over the ring adorning his lip, though a slight furrow creased his brow. “It’s not a thing, Buck. She’s a friend—a good one. Don’t make it weird.” He took another swig of his sweet drink. 

“I’m not making it weird,” Bucky shot back quickly, his voice defensive. He shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable under Steve’s gaze. “Just didn’t peg you for it, that’s all.”

“For what?” Steve pressed, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing.

Bucky straightened, his smirk returning though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For someone who’s got his coffee order memorized by a baker, Steve. That’s all.”

Steve snorted, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re reading way too much into this,” he said, but there was something unspoken in his tone, something that made Bucky’s jaw tighten again. 

“Maybe,” Bucky muttered, pushing off the counter as he adjusted his stance.

The sound of the door swinging open cut through the moment, the brass bell bouncing sharply against the frame. Bucky glanced toward the entrance, catching the figure stepping inside, but his attention quickly shifted back to Steve.

Steve’s gaze flickered to the newcomer, then back to Bucky. He squinted slightly, as if assessing something unspoken, before pushing himself up from the chair. Grabbing the remains of the danish, he took one last bite before tossing it casually onto the desk. Without another word, he moved to greet the client, leaving Bucky standing there, the earlier conversation still hanging heavily in the air.

“But it’s still a hell of a danish, apparently,” Bucky muttered under his breath, his eyes flickering to the discarded pastry before walking towards the back office.

Bucky lingered by the doorway, watching as Steve greeted the newcomer with that same easy grin he gave everyone. The client, a guy in his early twenties, handed over a folded piece of paper—probably some Pinterest-inspired design that would drive Steve nuts later.

Steve took the paper with a nod, already slipping into professional mode, but Bucky’s thoughts stayed stuck on their earlier conversation. The weight of Steve’s words hung in the back of his mind.

He leaned against the office door frame, absently running his thumb along a faint tear in the leather of his jacket. It wasn’t the baker herself that was bothering him, he told himself—it was the way Steve had talked about her. Like she was more than just someone who made a good danish.

Bucky huffed quietly, glancing toward the counter where Steve was already sketching something out for the kid. He tried to brush it off, but the thought lingered, like a splinter under his skin.

Pushing off the doorframe, he headed toward the back. He didn’t need to stay and hear more—it wasn’t his business anyway. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

—

{{As you threw your head back to laugh at a joke Sam had suddenly thrown out, the bell above the door jingled lightly catching your attention. You glanced up just in time to see him—the man in the leather jacket—pushing the door open, stepping into the cool afternoon air.

Your gaze lingered briefly, watching as he walked past the window, his broad shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. There was something about the way he moved—deliberate, careful, like he didn’t quite belong here.

Sam’s voice cut through the café’s hum as he leaned against the counter, watching the door swing shut behind the man in the leather jacket. “What was his deal?”

You looked away from the window, your brow furrowing. “Who?”

He gestured toward the door with a sharp nod. “Steve’s “friend”. Looked like he was ready to bolt the second he walked in.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you placed loose napkins back in their holder. “Maybe he’s just not an outside person.” 

Sam scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right. Like that explains the way he was looking at you.”

That made you pause, your hand hovering over the counter as you turned to him. “Looking at me? He wasn’t—”

“He was,” Sam interrupted, his tone flat but edged with something harder. “Like he was trying to figure you out or something.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as you turned back to your work. “You’re imagining things. He didn’t even say more than a few words to me.”

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t looking,” Sam muttered under his breath, the smirk tugging at his lips doing little to mask the irritation in his voice.

Your lips pressed together as you glanced toward the counter, catching Peter juggling cups and fumbling with the register, his expression one of barely concealed panic. You exhaled sharply and jutted your chin toward him. “I think Peter needs your help,” you said, keeping your tone casual, but the shift was deliberate.

As the café settled back into its usual rhythm, you found yourself distracted, your hands working on autopilot as you adjusted the remaining pastries in the display. It wasn’t like you to dwell on customers—especially not ones who had barely spoken a word to you—but something about him stuck.

It had to be the contrast, you decided. Steve was always so easygoing, the kind of guy who fit in anywhere, his warm demeanor making even the busiest days feel manageable. But his friend? He couldn’t have been more different if he tried.

Where Steve carried himself with an open confidence, the man in the leather jacket had felt... closed off. He hadn’t looked uncomfortable, exactly, but there had been something guarded about him. Like he didn’t belong here and was painfully aware of it.

You shook your head, brushing the thought away as you wiped your hands on your apron. That’s all it is, you told yourself. The difference has you caught off guard, that’s all.

Still, as you moved to refill the sugar containers, you couldn’t shake the image of him standing at the counter, his quiet presence somehow filling the space. You huffed softly to yourself, determined to let it go. You had more important things to think about than some friend of Steve’s who probably wasn’t planning on sticking around anyway.}}

“Please, please, please.” You crossed your arms over your chest and rolled your eyes, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. 

“Steven, I have a shop to run.” You said, switching the “open” sign to “closed” after locking the double doors. 

“It’s Wednesday. You guys close early on Wednesdays—Please.” Steve begged over the phone, his tone dripping with exaggerated desperation. 

“I already did you a favor by ordering the books for you, and now—“ 

“I’ll owe you one.” 

“That’s what you said last time,” You deadpanned, switching the phone to speaker, so you could begin counting the money in the register. 

“And I still mean it. Just add this to the tab,” He said, his obnoxious smirk practically audible through the phone.

“Fine, Rogers you win.” You scoffed, reaching for your phone “I’ll stop by when I’m done.” You hung up and pocketed your phone with a sigh. 

“You headin’ over to Steve’s place?” A voice behind you asked, making you jump. 

“Sam, you scared me,” you said, counting the last of the dollar bills in your hand before compiling it into a neat pile and handing it off to your colleague. “And yes. I have to drop off that box over there.” You nodded toward a medium sized box on a folding chair in the corner of the back room. 

Sam swiftly took the stack from your hand and switched spots with you. “And he couldn’t come because?” 

“Said something about back-to-back bookings,” you replied, standing off to the side and wiping the counter for any remaining crumbs.

“You think his friend is gonna be there?” 

You paused, your movements halting mid-swipe. “I-I don’t know—” The sudden stutter caught you off guard, and you tensed. “What’s with all these questions anyway?” you added, more annoyed than curious.

“Nothing, just…I can take it if you want.” Sam said, slipping some money into a plastic bag and putting the rest in the register before shutting it with a soft click.

“Oh,” you said, feeling silly for your earlier outburst. “Thanks, but that’s okay. There’s some stuff I have to talk to Steve about anyway.” Was that a lie? Sam looked at you. Crap. It was. 

———

The entire walk there, you wracked your brain trying to think of anything you actually needed to talk to Steve about. The books were already paid for, and the pastries were an afterthought—a gesture more for your own sense of courtesy than anything else. There wasn’t anything urgent, not really. 

If you were being honest, Sam could’ve just as easily dropped the box off himself if you’d let him. 

You adjusted the boxes in your arms, and the purse on your shoulder, feeling the rough edge of the worn cardboard dig lightly into your palm. The other box, filled with leftover pastries from the café, teetered slightly on top as you shifted your grip.

The early afternoon sun filtered through the trees lining the sidewalk, casting dappled shadows that danced at your feet. The air was crisp but not biting, a faint breeze carrying the warm scents of bistros and freshly fallen leaves. It was a pleasant enough walk, you supposed, though you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were overthinking it. 

Maybe it was Sam’s question that had thrown you off. Or maybe it was the memory of Steve’s friend—the man with the leather jacket and the sharp blue eyes. The way he’d lingered at the counter, quiet and guarded, but somehow impossible to ignore.

You exhaled, shaking your head as if to dislodge the thought.

It doesn’t matter, you told yourself firmly. You’re just doing Steve a favor. That’s it.

Still, as you neared the shop, you shifted the boxes in your hands again, noticing the faint warmth building against your palms. The moisture made the edges of the cardboard feel slicker than they should have, and you tightened your grip to steady them.

When you reached the door, you nudged it open with your back, the faint chime of the bell ringing overhead as you stepped inside.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice cutting through the quiet hum of the tattoo machine in the distance.

You looked around the small tattoo parlor, the black furniture standing out in contrast to the white walls. More stuff had been added since the last time you’d stopped by—large and small plants now decorated the interior, their vibrant greens softening the otherwise sharp and minimalistic space. A new piece of art hung on the far wall, bold lines and intricate designs that drew your attention for a moment before your gaze shifted.

The space felt more lived-in now, more personal, like it wasn’t just a shop but a place someone cared for. The faint hum of the tattoo machine came from one of the rooms in the back, mingling with the subtle scent of antiseptic and something faintly woodsy, maybe a candle burning somewhere out of sight.

“Steven?” you called again, balancing the boxes in your hands as you glanced toward the counter.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be tied up with a client, but the shop felt quieter than usual. Setting the boxes down carefully on the counter, you adjusted the pastry box to the side  before looking around again. 

“Steve?” you called again, your voice louder this time as you leaned slightly over the counter, scanning the back area.

The faint hum of a tattoo machine that buzzed steadily suddenly stopped in the back room, but no one answered. You sighed, stepping back and glancing around the shop once more, your eyes lingering on the plants and new art pieces scattered throughout.

The soft creak of a door caught your attention, and you turned just as someone stepped out from the back.

It wasn’t Steve.

Your breath hitched briefly when you recognized him—the man from the café. Except this time there was no leather jacket adorning his figure, he wasn’t wearing it, just a black t-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. His sharp blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

“Oh,” you said finally, trying to mask your surprise. “I thought Steven would be here.” 

“He had to step out.” 

You nodded, pursing your lips as you glanced toward the counter. “I just brought some stuff for him,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the boxes. “Books he ordered. And some leftover pastries from this morning.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the counter before returning to you. “I’ll make sure he gets them.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing your hands off on your jeans, though they weren’t dusty. The silence stretched for a moment, the faint echo of the tattoo machine still lingering in the air. You shifted slightly, glancing toward the box of pastries before blurting out, “You… can help yourself too… if you want.”

His brow arched slightly, his sharp blue eyes holding yours for just a second longer than you expected. “Appreciate it,” he said simply, his tone even, though you thought you caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze.

You felt your cheeks warm, and your hand drifted to the seam on the side of your jeans, fidgeting with the fabric as though it might keep you steady.

He didn’t move from where he stood, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His steady gaze made your fingers itch, and your nail dragged against the denim fabric audibly now.

That’s when you noticed the black latex glove on his left hand, the stark contrast of it catching your eye. His arm, adorned with intricate tattoos you hadn’t noticed before, drew your attention—the sharp lines and shading that curved around his forearm and bicep were as striking as they were detailed.

When he crossed his arms, the movement only emphasized the muscles beneath the ink, the casual strength in his stance making it hard to look away.

“You’re Steve’s friend, right?” you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them. You’re startled by your own voice, and for a moment you wondered why you hadn’t just left right then and there. 

He didn’t answer right away. His head tilted just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was deciding whether or not to engage. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and deliberate.

Silence stretched between you again, heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. You nodded as you shifted your weight. “Well... I should get going,” you murmured, your tone quieter now. “Just let Steven know I stopped by.” 

You turned, ready to make your exit, when his voice cut through the stillness.

“Bucky.”

The name came softly, but it carried weight, stopping you mid-step. You froze for a moment before turning back, your brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

His arms were still crossed, the black latex glove on his left hand catching your eye again as he adjusted his stance. “My name,” he said, the words simple but steady. “It’s Bucky.”

“Oh,” you said, feeling the word catch awkwardly in your throat. You glanced at him, searching his face for a moment, then straightened slightly. “Nice to meet you... Bucky.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to make your chest feel a little tight. “And you are?”

You hesitated for a second before giving him your name, the sound of it hanging awkwardly between you as you watched for a reaction. 

“Y/N,” he repeated, the weight of your name on his lips making your cheeks flush. Before you could respond, Steve’s voice rang out from the back.

“Hey, glad you made it!”

You turned to see him emerging from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag, his grin easy and familiar. “Y/N, can you bring the books back to my room? I just need to finish cleaning my station.”

“Sure thing,” you replied quickly, eager for something to busy yourself with.

“And Buck, mind ringing up this guy while I handle things over here?” Steve added, gesturing toward the lone customer waiting at the counter.

“Got it,” Bucky replied simply, stepping aside to let you pass.

As you moved toward the back room, you felt his gaze linger a little too long, the weight of it brushing against your skin in a way that made your steps falter slightly. You didn’t look back, though the heat crawling up your neck made you wish you had.

Bucky’s focus only shifted when Steve cleared his throat, nodding toward the counter. His sharp gaze flicked toward Steve, a quick, pointed look passing between them, before he turned to handle the transaction, his movements deliberate but unhurried.

You stepped into the back room, the soft scuff of your shoes blending with the faint hum of the tattoo machine in the distance. Steve was already moving to clear off a cluttered table, his grin easy as ever.

“Thanks for doing this,” he said, nodding toward the box of books you carried.

“Don’t mention it,” you replied, setting the box down carefully. “Though you might want to remember I’ve been keeping track, and it looks like you’ll be paying me back for the rest of your life.”

Steve let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

You smirked. “And you’re lucky I’m nice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he teased, pushing off the doorframe. “Thanks again, Y/N. Seriously.”

His sincerity caught you slightly off guard, but you brushed it off with a shrug. “No problem, Stevie.” 

He raised his hand, palm out, and you met it halfway with an easy high five, your fingers curling briefly around his in a quick dap before you stepped back with a small smile. “See you later,”  he said with a grin as you turned toward the doorway.

Pausing just before stepping out, you peeked your head into the front room, your eyes scanning the space. The customer was gone, and so was Bucky. The faint creak of the office door swinging shut must’ve been him slipping into the other room.

Relieved, you stepped fully into the front of the shop, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you made your way to the front. Walking past the counter you caught sight of the pastry box slightly skewed with the lid ajar, the faintest crack catching your attention. Frowning, you reached out to fix it, fingers brushing over the edge as you led it back into place. That’s when you noticed it—a missing pastry. 

Your hand stilled, your pulse quickening despite yourself. Powdered sugar clung to the rim of the cardboard box, and littered the counter surface, a subtle, almost careless trace left behind. 

Your chest tightened, a flicker of heat creeping up your neck. It could’ve been the customer... but your mind stubbornly circled back to someone else. You shook your head, brushing the thought away as you made sure you had your things. The stillness of the space was broken by the low hum of the tattoo machine, its steady buzz filling the air once more.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped out into the cool air, the lingering warmth of the shop clinging to you. Even as you walked down the street, the faint image of sharp blue eyes and a missing pastry hovered in your mind, refusing to fade completely.

----

Next

a/n: please reblog to support! I also love feedback, and comments :)

taglist (lmk if you want to be added!) : @cheezemanz @shirukitsune @miharuwrites

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

Bucky Barnes | Series | Loose

Part two of the Rebellion Series

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Plot: You and Bucky have no idea whether you can trust each other. There is an understanding, but you're not sure of what that understanding is and why it seems to run so deep.

Warning: Angst, violence and fluff (?)

Words: 4,1OO

It is hard enough already for Bucky to fall asleep at night. Yes, it has gotten better in recent years, but there will always be that part of him – awake and aware – that registers every sound and movement, even when he should be knocked out. Though he wouldn’t admit it, that part of him sat more alert ever since you had joined the building. Perhaps because Bucky still wasn’t so confident in your allegiance.

He can’t stop overthinking it. He has seen what you’re capable of. Would you be capable of even more if people cornered you? If you felt like you had no other choice but to manipulate and kill your way out? After all, wasn’t it possible that you felt like you had moved from one prison to the next?

You’d been a delight at dinner two nights ago, but Bucky can’t turn off his brain. This is the part that made you win people over. The way you’d gotten along with Natasha like a house on fire, the way you’d shared stories like you and his team had been friends all along… Yet you had no trouble letting a side of yours slip through the cracks that tantalised Bucky beyond belief. The way you had looked at him, teased him–

The faintest rustle has Bucky shooting back to his current place in time. Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. He holds his breath in an effort to hear better.

Nothing.

However, something doesn’t sit right. Something is off. He’d learned that hypervigilance was a side effect of his trauma, but he had a hard time believing his intuition would betray him like that. Not when he had relied on it so successfully for years.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he whispers to the dark ceiling.

“Yes, sergeant Barnes?”

“Is everyone in their respectable rooms?” he tries.

“I cannot divulge that information,” the voice sounds and Bucky sighs. He musters up some strength and swings off his duvet before climbing out of bed.

Yeah, he doesn’t trust you for a second.

…

Your heart is pounding in your throat. This isn’t part of your skillset – the escape and combat. Though perhaps if you do the former correctly, you won’t have to resort to the latter. Escaping the compound had been surprisingly easy, which strangely made your chest hurt. It was way too easy to escape. But it made sense. Steve had told you that you weren’t being held captive and you being here was all in good faith.

Faith you just broke by making your escape.

You probably should have been more patient. Winning their trust a bit more and then making an escape, make sure they really don’t see it coming. But the dinner had made you antsy and impatient. You had to get out.

If you’re entirely honest with yourself, you know that getting attached to a new group of people and deciding to escape then – or worse, leading them into their demise later – would be worse than getting away now that no one has attached themselves to you. Or you to them…

Breaching the edge of the surrounding forest, you finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding. You did it. Out of sight, out of mind. You’re free. No more captivity, no more expectations. All you need to do now is leave the country, change your name and possibly dye your hair. Sounds easy enough. A bit dramatic, but not impossible.

That is, until you get dragged backwards by a hand over your mouth and you lose your footing. The hard body behind you is the only thing keeping you from tumbling to the muddy forest grounds. Your breathing is ragged as your hands both fly to grab the forearm attached to the hand covering your yelp.

The metal forearm.

“Rule number one of making your escape: never assume you’re in the clear,” Bucky’s voice rumbles through the night air, his mouth so very close to your ear. “Shouldn’t have dropped your guard when you reached the edge of the forest.”

His gloved hand removes itself from your mouth, but you know better than to make a run for it, or to scream. He twists you by your shoulders and you muster some playful guilt to your face, masking your disappointment. Disappointment… but you feel strangely relieved. Maybe the largeness of finally being free felt somewhat overwhelming. Move to another country and change your name? It’s ridiculous. And that, when the people here have been so patient and kind to you…

You let out a soft laugh, “Worth a shot, no?”

Bucky studies you intently and something in your gut stirs at it. Not even Natasha seems to have as good of a read on you as Bucky does. It makes you feel naked. Makes you feel like all of your carefully crafted plans are flimsy and no good. Makes you feel like you have to stay far, far away from Bucky. Like you need to run. Now.

And how the hell did he manage to figure out you were making your escape?

You wait for him to tell you off, preach against your indolence and call in backup to shove you into something more similar to a prison cell. But Bucky sighs, disappointed and tired.

He seems so, so tired.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says and you furrow your brows at him.

His defeat has your chest clenching tightly. You want him to punish you, scold you. At least show that he cares. Why? You’re not sure. Maybe you need to know that the relief you felt from being caught is somewhat mutual in a sense. That the people here don’t just see you as a weapon, despite the burden, but that you’re someone worth saving. Worth keeping around.

Worth healing.

“That’s it?” you ask. “No scolding or punishment?”

Bucky scoffs humourlessly. “You get a kick out of punishment, darling?”

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.”

“I’m not your fucking baby sitter,” he mutters and starts walking back to the building, rightfully assuming you’ll follow. “If you want, I can ask Steve to tell you off in the morning. He’s better at that sort of thing anyway.”

Some pathetic part of you wants to sulk at his response like an ill-tempered child. “Then why come after me?”

It stays quiet for a second as you cross the field towards the compound. “I couldn’t let a poor escape plan be successful.”

You can’t help but snort at that answer and decide that fine, you’d play along for now. But you wonder if the curious Bucky you’d seen a few days ago had completely vanished since that dinner.

…

The next morning, Bucky gets cornered by you after breakfast. He looks down his nose at your defiant face.

“You didn’t tell anyone about last night?” you ask him and he raises his brows, unimpressed.

It had surprised you that no one at breakfast mentioned anything or gave you even so much as a dirty look. Clearly, none of them are aware that you tried to make your escape last night. And you cannot for the life of you figure out why Bucky is taking it easy on you. Is he smart enough to assume that your own guilt will do more damage than he ever could? Is this part of some bigger scheme of his? Perhaps he is actually as tired and unbothered as he looked when you saw him in those woods.

“What happened last night?” he asks with a telling smirk. The current look on your face is worth the lack of sleep he had tonight. It’s too easy to rattle you. You roll your eyes and Bucky smirks even wider at that. Is he… flirting?

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” you try again.

Bucky remains quiet and fights to keep a straight face. He did expect your question, but why didn’t he tell anyone? Because he thought you and him would get along after those tiny moments during that first dinner? Because the team would have let you walk away? Because Bucky doesn’t want you to go… Because he thinks he can help. Help the world. Help you. He thinks he can help you. And you can help him. And–

“Want me to tell them now?” he says instead.

He barely notices the flash of panic in your eyes before you cover it with an annoyed scoff and turn on your heel to walk away. He watches you. Every step until you are out of sight.

“You said she trusts you,” Steve’s voice sounds from behind him and Bucky schools his face back to bland interest before he turns to Steve. “That doesn’t look like she trusts you.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

Steve frowns pensively. “Well, speed up the process. We have an important mission and we need her for it.”

“What?” Bucky almost loses his restraint, his body flaring in alarm. “Steve, she hasn’t had any training. She was locked up for months. It’s too big of a risk–”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate, Buck,” Steve tells him regretfully, but instantly notices that Bucky isn’t buying it. “This is the thing we needed her for.”

“She isn’t some kind of weapon!” Bucky exclaims and he notices Natasha turning away from her conversation in the nearest common room to see what the commotion is about. He gives her a warning look, then lowers his voice. “Steve. This could’ve been me,” Bucky breathes. And there it is. Recognition flickers in Steve’s eyes. “We can’t use her like this. She’s all alone.”

Steve looks past Bucky’s shoulder as if you’re still walking away from him. Angry frown, uptilted chin and swaying hips– Bucky almost looks. Then Steve sighs and looks back at his friend. “Take all the time you need. If she’s ready, I’ll explain the mission to her. I think she might want to help.”

…

Bucky reads over the file until his eyes turn bleary. Steve was right, you will want to help.

He thinks you can handle it, but… what if you encounter a trigger on the way? What if it all becomes too much? Bucky realises he isn’t nearly close enough to care this much, and he doesn’t, but who else but him is going to care whether you live or die? Sometimes Bucky wonders if even you care whether you live or die. What would have happened to Bucky if everyone had given up on him? He knows damn well that he’d be long dead if not so many people found him useful.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Bucky never had a choice. So he finds himself knocking at your door at 10pm with the file in hand.

After opening the door, you barely manage to get a word out before Bucky extends the folder towards you. “Steve needs your help on this. It should be fine, but the choice is up to you.”

Quick. Brief. He’s just the messenger and the decision is all yours. Bucky turns and makes to walk away – before you can spot all of the thoughts crossing his mind – but your voice stops him.

“Will you be there?”

The question takes him by surprise. Turning back towards you and slowly walking to the doorframe you’re standing under, he creases his brows together. “You need me to come along?”

You shrug abashedly. “Will you?”

Bucky studies your face intently. “Yes,” he lies. He’ll figure something out with Steve.

“What if I can’t do what you need me to do?” There it is again. He doesn’t get why this vulnerable side of you keeps surprising him so much.

“You’ll be useful,” are his terrible words of comfort. He wants to palm himself in the face.

The suppressed smile you give him heats his face and he’s sure you’ll call him out on his horrible people skills, but you stay quiet. The silence grows and grows and Bucky starts to shift nonchalantly, wondering if he should walk off and let you read the file in private.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“You’re coming?”

“Yes,” you affirm and look up at him, handing the file back. “Do you not want me to go?”

“It’s your choice,” he tells you and gently takes the folder.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Some wall snaps up inside of him at that tone – at that hopeful look in your eyes. “You could use the mission to make your escape,” he says with a shrug and makes to turn away from you again. “I won’t stop you this time.”

He walks away, leaving you to gape at his retreating form.

…

The mission was simple enough.

Sam, Natasha, Bucky and you would be attending a gala. Supposedly, there is a certain divide between the guests in attendance. Your job is mainly to feel out just who will be willing to join your cause. What goes unsaid is that you’re also required to butter them up to spring into action when your team would deem it necessary.

The party is in full swing and everyone is finally losing their mask of formality and enjoying their evening. You just hit the sweet spot of their susceptibility and you sweep into casual conversation about politics. Seeing who keeps quiet, who isn’t scared to speak up, whose faces harden at the prospect of change, etcetera. All of your antennas are on and when you know people have stopped paying attention to you, that’s when you dare a glance across the room where you know Bucky is standing.

All dapper and handsome, wearing a very expensive suit.

All of you have taken thorough action to look exceptional and to blend in perfectly with the high class crowd. Being charming is easy enough, looking it was a necessity – yet, all of it does still feel very far removed from yourself. Like a betrayal to the woman who was locked up mere weeks ago. However, being a true professional, you don’t allow your thoughts to linger too much and channel back to the matter at hand.

Then you feel it.

The searing heat that starts at your legs and spreads all the way up to your chest and cheeks. Like a virus burning over your skin. And you know what it is – know who it is. So you look back in the direction of Bucky, if only to catch him in the act.

But he’s unbothered. Brooding and observing from the bar in the shadow of the room, somehow alone and undiscovered by most of the crowd (a skill you assume he has acquired over the years). And his eyes are still on you. They glide down and back up for even more emphasis and you swallow away the dryness in your throat.

Gliding a sensual hand over the arm of the man next to you, you excuse yourself with a warm smile and slowly stride over to the culprit. Bucky waits patiently, and you swear you see a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as you walk over. He hands you a spare glass of champagne and turns his back to the room when you’re close enough to hear him.

“It’s working,” he says and you swear he sounds slightly impressed.

“Did you assume I’d fuck up?” you taunt and lean over the bar, sipping at the glass flute between your fingers. Bucky turns to you and his eyes sweep over the curve of your partly exposed back, the hollow of your spine and the curve of your ass. Then he holds his breath for a moment.

“Wouldn’t be mad if you did,” he tells you and his tone sounds gentle. You know that’s why he’s here, even though neither of you said it out loud, you know he’s here to stick up for you if you can’t get it done yet. If you’re not ready to be that person again.

Just like he probably knows that you’re here because the guilt of trying to escape from your saviours was eating you alive. And you didn’t want to prove Bucky right by escaping. You had glanced at the exits a few times and debated it, yes, but then looked at your team and thought against it. Looked at Bucky and–

“We’ll leave in five minutes,” Bucky murmurs as he finishes his glass. “I noted down all the people you signed as potential allies and who definitely isn’t.”

“There’s a few we can convince to help,” you cut in.

“What? The woman who runs that capitalist shitshow?” Bucky frowns. “Nah, she’s only motivated by money.”

You smile at him knowingly. “Money is a great motivator and our movement could benefit her greatly, so you just have to nudge her in the right direction.”

Bucky studies your face then and you might have found it less penetrating when he looked at your body with that stare. That intrigue. “And you already have a plan to tip her over to our side,” he concludes.

“You chose me for this for a reason, did you not?” you ask.

His eyes drop to your mouth. “I like a woman who takes her job seriously.”

You have no idea where that came from, but decide to go along with it anyway. You smirk and empty your flute, gently setting it down on the bar after. “Here I was, thinking you didn’t like anyone,” you purr and saunter off to find your other teammates and round up today’s mission.

You turn around when you hear Bucky yelling out your name, but then the room spins and debris flies everywhere. You’d cry out if the wind didn’t whoosh from your body and your ears don’t hollow out. You want to voice your discovery, as futile as it is, but the scream dies in your throat.

Someone just blew up the building.

…

It feels like there’s ash in your mouth. And throat. Your body bleats in pain, but nothing too severely. Maybe you’re in shock. Maybe you can’t feel a limb that’s no longer there. Maybe–

The room is dark except for an orange hue that travels over the ceiling and walls every few seconds. You’re slumped in a velvet chair and your fingers pluck softly at the fabric. One by one, your senses weave together and you hear the soft sounds of someone working on something. Paper ruffling, some gentle work, someone who’s trying to be quiet. You rasp in a raw breath and see a shadow at the bottom of your vision. But your body is relaxed. Or… Well, as relaxed as it can be.

There was an explosion.

“Have some water,” Bucky offers from his kneeling position between your legs and nudges his chin to the glass at the small table next to your chair. His voice is soft, raw. And when you squint at him while you blindly reach for the glass, you see soot on his face, dust on his suit.

“Are you alright?” you ask and your voice reminds you to take the drink. The water feels like heaven in your throat and you nearly gulp down the whole glass.

Bucky pauses at your question and surely he didn’t expect that to be your first question. “I’m fine,” he grumbles and focuses on the task at hand. Which, you quickly realise, is cleaning up the wound on your thigh.

Next to him, there’s a small container with small shards of glass in there and a used pair of tweezers. You feel the prickle of the wound at your thigh and observe closely as he presses some gauze to the puncture wounds. His hands are firm and steady as he wraps a bandage around your thigh to secure the gauze. His calluses scrape against your soft skin and you almost swear he takes more time than he should securing the bandage.

You heave a deep sigh and straighten up in the chair. “Natasha and Sam?”

“Natasha was sent to hunt down the ones responsible and needed an aerial patrol, so she took Sam.” Bucky clenches his jaw and you have a feeling it took some convincing to get Bucky to not go after the bastards himself, to let Natasha handle it instead. “There were deaths, lots of wounded.”

You flinch at that.

Bucky notices it. The glaze over your eyes and the tightening of your fingers into the soft fabric of the chair. He barely allows himself to hesitate and he covers your left hand with his right one, taking your fingers and stroking his thumb over your knuckles. “We got out as many as we could, no one saw the explosion coming,” he explains and hopes the information brings you some peace. He’s desperate to take that haunted look off your face, but doesn’t know how.

He gives you time then. Allows you to sort through your memories and shush them. He strokes his thumb gently and squeezes your fingers every once in a while to anchor you to here, to being safe. Your breaths go from shallow to deep as they slow. He hears your heartbeat steady and watches clarity fill your eyes again.

Fuck him. Those eyes.

“Tomorrow, we go over your list and see what we can do. Let’s get some rest for now.” He pushes to a stand and moves to remove his hand from yours, but you hold onto him.

“I’m sorry for trying to escape,” you rasp and Bucky tenses at that. He did not expect that confession. Didn’t expect an apology either – he didn’t think one was warranted.

You slowly push to a stand and Bucky’s heartbeat spikes as you wobble on your legs before you steady yourself. His eyes search your face frantically and he tries not to linger at your lips for too long. You gently stroke a hand down his arm before brushing past him in thanks, and Bucky has to take a deep breath. A flash of you doing the same thing to one of tonight’s guests comes to him and jealousy hits him, a little too viciously. Just like it did when he saw it earlier tonight.

He turns around and watches as you walk up the small bag he packed for an instance like this. You pull out some clothes and Bucky shamelessly stares while you do it. He almost sighs as the sight of that orange hue travelling over your form, most of the sleek dress still intact and definitely still doing its job of making you look good enough to eat.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he blurts. But he stands still as he watches you freeze. You slowly turn to him and tilt your head at him curiously.

Then, a slow smirk spreads over your face and your brows raise playfully. Bucky frowns as he tries to read the expression on your face, even if the lightness of it makes him want to drop to his knees in relief. This is much, much better than that haunted look that was there mere minutes ago.

Until one of your hands lifts from the bag, a small scrap of lace dangling from your fingers. “I am never letting you pack our getaway bag again.”

Bucky matches your smirk and strides over to you, close enough that you have to tip your chin up to maintain eye contact. “You can choose not to wear it,” he shrugs and the nonchalant gesture makes your legs weak. Slowly, he starts unbuttoning his own pants and shirt, stripping himself of his clothes and tempting you to break that eye contact. “But we’re sharing a bed, so you decide what is less tempting for me to look at.”

It takes everything inside of you not to balk at this… flirtation. But it’s nice – so fucking nice to deflate that balloon of tension after a mission like the one you had tonight. To have banter and humour and perhaps a little friendship.

“I better not catch you looking at all,” you snipe, but have a hard time keeping the smile off your face.

Bucky smiles too then and gives you a wink powerful enough to set your clothes aflame. “Too bad. You can’t ask that of me and look like that.”

That does render you a bit speechless and Bucky takes his win as he strips himself to his boxers. Climbing under the sheets, Bucky’s powerful body shifts and ripples with movement.

This is going to be a long night.

[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.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

🍵Consider tipping your friendly neighborhood starving artist smut author!

✍🏻Commissions: reach out via Tumblr DM or contact here

This has been a fill for:

@anyfandomdarkbingo

Card: sarahyellow / sarah-writes-stucky

Square N3: Body Swap

@matchat3a @bethexo07

[drabblesandsnippets]

Sunshine - Part 2

Hot Bucky Summer 2024 - Week 6

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Plus-size female character (nickname is Sunshine)

Prompt: “I won’t be able to stop myself.” | [Sex Pollen | Gone Feral | Fuck or Die] @buckybarnesevents

Summary: (5k) Series Masterlist After a night out with Bucky’s friends, things will never be the same.

Warnings: 18+ Only. Slow burn. Grumpy/Sunshine trope. Happy Bucky (is that a warning?) - he's a photographer in this AU. Mention of insecurities and anxiety (she's a bit of a mess, okay?). Use of weed. Use of alcohol. Questionable drunk thoughts & decisions. Masturbation.

---------------------------

Bucky can’t stop.

Whether he’s awake or asleep, she’s there, occupying his thoughts. 

When he’s out with his friends, he imagines her there, getting to see her laugh and have a good time.

When he’s working, he thinks about what it’d be like to take her picture. To pose her. To touch her. To boost her confidence.

And when he’s asleep, he dreams of her, waking up harder than he’s ever been in his entire life.

It won’t stop, no matter what he does.

It’s even gotten to the point where Bucky’s considered telling her to start looking for another roommate, to offer to help her find someone. But, she’ll ask why, and he can’t lie to her. 

He’d have to tell her that he can’t stop thinking about her. That he can’t stop fantasizing about her. That he can’t stop picturing himself sneaking into the bathroom late at night to listen through the thin wall, hoping to catch the sounds she makes when she touches herself.

His confession would not only make her uncomfortable, but she’d never forgive him, and rightfully so. He’d just be another person in her life that ended up hurting her. So he selfishly does nothing, other than continue to allow himself to indulge in the fantasies, keeping it strictly to when she’s not home, or after she’s already gone to her room.

When they are together, he forces himself to keep his thoughts strictly PG-13, never risking giving her a reason to think he wants more than a friendship. Bucky doesn’t know as much about her as he’d like, but her avoidance of physical touch and vague answers about past relationships gives him no reason to think she’d even be interested. It’s just not worth the risk.

All he can hope is that eventually his feelings will fade, and until then he’ll continue on as normal. Inviting her out, hoping she says yes, while secretly starting to feel grateful that he’s been able to keep the two parts of his life separate. It’s been easier that way.

And then Steve opens his big fucking mouth. 

He wasn’t even supposed to be here for at least another hour, but here he stands in their kitchen, drinking one of Bucky’s beers, laughing at something Sunshine’s saying. Trying to get her to change her mind after Bucky extended the invitation.

Of all the times for his friend to get involved, it has to be on the night they’re heading to a bar to check out some live music. A crowd of noisy drunk people is so far out of her comfort zone that Bucky can't help but jump to her rescue, telling her, “It’s okay. Maybe another night.”

For some reason that Bucky hasn't figured out yet, Steve won’t let it go, interjecting before Sunshine can respond. “It won’t be too crazy, I promise.” With a friendly smile and a lift of his beer, he adds, “And if it ends up not being your thing, any one of us will be happy to bring you home.” 

It’s ridiculous to think that Steve is flirting with her, but the thought still crosses Bucky’s mind and it has his irritation growing, the sneaking feeling of jealousy threatening to build inside him. Resisting the urge to snap at his friend to be quiet, he keeps his attention on Sunshine, telling her, “You’re more than welcome to join us, but please don’t feel obligated because of this one.”

Her eyes bounce between the two men as she shifts uncomfortably and her cheeks flush, but she’s quick to shake her head. “It sounds like it could be fun… I’m just… um.” The anxiety building in her is palpable, causing Bucky’s concern to grow and his irritation at Steve to reach new levels. This is all his fault. Just as he opens his mouth to assure her, again, that there would be no hard feelings, she mumbles, “I’m not sure what to wear.”

The shy, awkward words cause Bucky’s chest to tighten and if he wasn’t worried about making this whole thing worse, he’d tell her exactly what he’s thinking. That it doesn’t matter what she wears because she always looks good. She could go dressed exactly as she is now - sweatpants and a worn t-shirt - and she’d still have his attention the whole night.

And then Steve beats him to it, the smile on his face conveying nothing but friendliness, but the words still get under Bucky’s skin. “You’ll look good no matter what you wear.” 

Bucky wants to be the cause of the blush that spreads across Sunshine’s skin. He wants to be the reason she rolls her eyes and laughs at the compliment. And if it were him saying it, he’d make sure she believed it too. He wouldn’t let her leave this kitchen without knowing, without a doubt, that she’s always beautiful.

That's not an option though. He has to watch her dismissively shake her head as she takes her leave, and the moment she’s out of earshot, the tension in Bucky’s shoulders grows. With a hard glare aimed at his best friend, Bucky asks, “What the fuck was that about?” There’s not much that can rattle him these days, but if there’s anyone that knows how to push his buttons, it’s Steve. 

Steve continues with the innocent act for a beat longer, making a show of taking a long, slow sip from his beer before he finally asks, “What? I can’t be nice to your roommate?” He’s immune to the subtle warning twitch of Bucky’s jaw, having spent years perfecting just how far he can take things without pissing Bucky off too much. 

When it comes to Sunshine though, his fuse is much shorter, and whatever game Steve’s playing, Bucky needs it to end now.

“Enough.” Bucky pushes himself off the counter he’s been leaning on, forcing himself to head towards the fridge instead of getting in Steve’s face. “Leave her alone.” Even as he says it, Bucky knows this isn’t really about her. His best friend never does anything just to piss him off. There’s always a reason behind his provoking, usually one Bucky doesn’t like.

“She said she wanted to come. You want her to come. So, what’s the issue?” And there it is. Steve’s agenda. Involving himself in things that don’t concern him. Trying to goad Bucky into a conversation that he doesn’t want to have. One that he’s been skirting around for weeks.

Refusing to take the bait, Bucky rolls his eyes and ducks his head into the fridge to grab a beer. He’s tired of his friends using the excuse that they’re ‘looking out for him’ when they try to insert themselves into his love life (or lack thereof). He’s not putting up with it tonight.

“You had your fun,” Bucky tells him, keeping his tone even as he twists the cap off the cold bottle in his hand, making it clear he’s reached his limit. “You got your wish. No more games. Leave it alone.”

The only goal is to make sure Sunshine has a good time tonight. 

-------------------

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. 

One minute she’s making a ‘joke’ about celebrating her recent promotion with a night filled with weed, games, and social media, and the next she’s agreeing to go out to a bar with them. 

She rarely goes out, and when she does it’s not to a crowded bar. It’s been a long time since she's even felt the desire, a brief stint in her early 20s spent anywhere but home having convinced her it wasn’t for her. A part of her life she barely remembers and one she definitely doesn’t want to revisit. 

Shaking the flash of memories from her head, she lifts her hand to wipe the light sweat covering her upper lip and keeps digging through her closet, searching for whatever will feel the most comfortable. Pajamas. At home. Alone. (Or maybe just with Bucky). 

She rolls her eyes at the thought and narrows her selections down to a few shirts, a couple of which she hasn’t worn in months, and the one pair of jeans that doesn’t dig into her stomach every time she sits down. Despite Steve’s friendly encouragement, she’s nervous, studying her reflection in the mirror as she tries on each shirt, growing sweatier with each change. 

None of them feel right. They’re either too tight, too big, or show off too much cleavage. This is her first time hanging out with Bucky’s friends and she doesn’t want to choose the wrong thing. She wants to blend in, draw the least amount of attention.

Several outfit changes later, she’s in a simple v-neck t-shirt, brushing her hair out of her reddened face, pulling the damp strands into a quick bun. The desire to wear her hair down was quickly overruled by her desire to not overheat and look like a mess tonight. 

It takes her a few minutes of sitting on her bed to cool off, trying her best not to look like she just ran a marathon, but as nervous and anxious as she is about tonight, she’s also excited. This has been a long time coming, and the edible she took a little while ago should help before they even get to the bar.

At least she’s stopped having inappropriate thoughts about Bucky. Well, for the most part anyway. She’ll still occasionally think about accidentally overhearing him in the shower, and she tries not to think about the really intense dream she had about him not that long ago, but it’s not everyday anymore so it’s easy to pretend it doesn’t exist.

And, hopefully, getting to see Bucky in his element tonight will put all this to rest. With any luck, she’ll get to watch him flirt with random women and finally learn what his type is. She assumes it’s the complete opposite of her. Someone bubbly and positive. Someone perky. Thin. Pretty. 

-------------------

Sunshine’s not wearing anything Bucky hasn’t seen her in before, but he swears there’s something different. Maybe it’s the passing streetlights illuminating her beauty, or the smile that’s been on her face since they got in their shared ride, or maybe it’s the light breeze coming in through the cracked car window, the wind blowing wisps of hair along her temples. 

Whatever it is, he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes off her, and an even harder time not letting his thoughts stray. The only saving grace is that Steve’s keeping her preoccupied from the front passenger seat, giving her all the gossip about their friends. How they all met. What everyone does for a living. The kind of shit they get up to when they hang out. 

“One of these days, ya gotta get Buck to tell you about the time he convinced us to break into a private club to go swimming.” 

Bucky doesn’t miss the way Sunshine’s eyes widen and her mouth opens in surprise, but he holds up his finger to correct Steve first. “Technically, it was ‘trespassing’ since I already had the key, and we wouldn’t have gotten caught if you hadn’t tripped the alarm on the way out. I told you exactly-.”

Steve is the first to interrupt him with a bark of a laugh, but before his best friend can start listing the useless defenses he has about that night, Sunshine speaks up, drawing both of their attention. “I’m sorry. You wanted to break into a private club?” 

Bucky’s reminder of ‘trespass’ earns him a glare that he takes in stride, laughing it off. “I worked there. I was allowed to use the pool. Whether or not I was allowed to bring guests was a gray area.”

Steve jumps in to finish, telling her, “It was not a gray area. We almost got arrested.” 

“We did not,” Bucky laughs, rolling his eyes at his best friend before turning his attention back to the woman that’s been driving him crazy. The look of slight amusement and bewilderment she’s giving has him clenching his hands in his lap, rubbing them along his jeans, wanting nothing more than to reach out and caress her cheek. To tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Not letting a second of silence fill the air, he explains, “There was no risk of getting arrested. I did get fired though.”

The nonchalant shrug Bucky gives her only adds to her state of confusion, and he can’t help but think how cute she looks, with her slightly furrowed brow and the crinkle along the bridge of her nose. Hiding the grin growing on his face, he glances out the window, taking note of how close they are to their destination.

Probably thinking he’s doing him a favor, Steve’s more than happy to keep the conversation going, telling Sunshine, “Don’t let his sunny disposition fool you.” The subtle warning look that Bucky shoots him, a silent reminder of their earlier conversation, has Steve quickly adding, “He’s the greatest guy I’ve ever known, don’t get me wrong, but he’s about as innocent as -.” 

“Nope,” Bucky interrupts him with a loud laugh, reaching forward to grab Steve’s shoulder, refusing to let him finish that thought. Steve laughs with him, but keeps his promise, letting the subject drop, turning back around in his seat for the last remaining seconds of their trip, much to the happiness of their driver.

This is the first time Sunshine’s learning there’s more to him than meets the eye, and as she grows quiet, Bucky can only imagine what she’s thinking. Until now, she’s been limited to witnessing the sweet, happy, enthusiastic side of him, leaving her with the assumption that he’s a Boy Scout - a goody two-shoes. 

He’s far from it, and as much apprehension as he has about how she'll react to getting know this side of him, there's also a jolt of excitement that he can't ignore. Maybe this will make their friendship even better.

-------------------

This is what she wanted. To get to know Bucky better, to see what he’s like out in the world, with his friends, with other people. But, she feels caught off guard. Like, none of her conversations with Bucky, or the interactions she’s witnessed between him and his friends prepared her for this.

The whole time that he’s been trying to get her to come out of her shell, he’s been hiding parts of himself. He’s been careful with her, never crossing a line, probably choosing his words carefully. There’s no doubt that Bucky’s been doing it for her benefit, but now it all feels like a lie. Like he hasn’t been able to be himself with her, and it hurts her feelings.

Whatever foolish expectations she had for the evening have flown out the window, and she’s more than grateful when the car pulls to a stop, the three of them spilling out onto the busy sidewalk. Fighting the urge to get right back in the car to take herself home, she follows the men into the bar, doing her best to avoid Bucky’s gaze.

He’s probably worried about her. Probably thinking she’s in over her head, that she’s realizing she made a mistake coming tonight. He’s probably thinking I told you so. That she’s not cut out for this - the bar, his friends, him. 

The racing thoughts leave her just as quickly as they come, Steve getting her attention as he takes the lead to wind them through the crowd, Bucky in step right next to her. “I’m glad you decided to come tonight.” When all she manages is a slightly-forced smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes, Steve adds, “After everything Bucky’s told us about you, we’ve been looking forward to this.”

She steals a quick glance at Bucky, not at all surprised to find him already looking at her. He’s been watching her since she agreed to come tonight, like it’s his job to make sure she doesn’t get overwhelmed, like he’s expecting her to have a nervous breakdown at any moment. The smile he gives her only seems to prove her point, and it doesn’t help when all he innocently asks is, “What? You don’t talk to your friends about me?”

Of course she does, but it does nothing to quiet her concerns about what he’s told his friends about her. Are they expecting her to be an anxious mess? That she’s going to suddenly bolt in the middle of a conversation? What exactly-. She’s interrupted by Steve again, who’s looking at his phone.

“Buck, Nat found a table, and Yelena already disappeared.” He says it with a laugh, as if it’s a normal occurrence, not waiting for a response from Bucky before he says, “Why don’t you go help her keep our spot. We’ll get the drinks.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bucky open his mouth, and they all know what’s about to come out. The offer to switch places, have Steve go sit at the table while she and Bucky get the drinks. And for a split second, she wants him to. It would be so much easier.

But, how is she supposed to prove that she can handle this? That she’s perfectly capable of having a good time if she can’t even be alone with Bucky’s best friend for a few minutes? Both her and Steve answer at the same time - Steve telling him that they can manage a few drink orders, while she says it’s a good idea.

Obviously seeing that this isn’t a fight he’s going to win, and not wanting to risk losing their table, Bucky takes his leave, but not without giving them both one last look. At some point tonight, she and Bucky are going to have to hash this out, but not until she’s had a few drinks.

Keeping close to Steve, she follows him the rest of the way to the bar, not missing how he occasionally glances back to make sure she’s still there. She might feel like she doesn’t know Bucky as well as she thought, but there’s not a doubt in her mind that she’s safe with his friends. She has no reason to be worried about being alone with any one of them.

Well, other than for the fact that she has no idea what Bucky’s told them, or how they're going to treat her tonight. Maybe that’s why Steve wanted a minute alone with her. To tell her all the ways they’re going to help her, to make sure she doesn’t freak out or get overwhelmed. It wouldn’t be the first time a stranger’s given her unsolicited advice.

As if reading her mind, Steve sets her at ease, casually telling her, “He’s had nothing but great things to say about you.” With a raise of his arm, he gets the attention of the bartender to place their orders before turning his gaze back to her, the smile never leaving his face. His hand is still raised between them and he starts ticking things off on his fingers, recounting, “You’re the best roommate. You have great taste in music. And books. And movies.” With four of his digits raised, he lifts his thumb to add, “You’re hilarious. Should I keep going?”

She quickly shakes her head, a laugh bubbling out of her as her skin grows warm. These are all things Bucky’s told her, it’s just strange to hear them from his best friend, who she barely knows. With the effects of the edible having started to kick in a couple minutes ago, she feels comfortable enough to joke, “Is this the part where I’m supposed to list all the great things about Bucky?”

“God no,” Steve immediately tells her with a playful roll of his eyes and a grin that she’s sure has gotten him out of many a things in life. “I have to hear how great that man is all the time. I’d rather drink.” There’s no malice in his tone, no hint of resentment or frustration - this is just their relationship. They love each other and they give each other shit. Like brothers. Like family.

Ignoring the ache in her chest at the thought of family, she lets Steve talk her into doing a couple of the shots lined up on the bar for them. Not that it takes much convincing. There were never any plans to get through tonight even remotely sober.

-------------------

They all know. All of Bucky’s friends know that he has feelings for her, but they think it’s just a crush, like he’s in fucking high school. They have no idea that he can’t stop thinking about her, that it’s bordering on obsession. Not even Steve knows the extent of it. 

And tonight, they’re all too drunk to notice he’s been watching her, not out of concern for her mental well-being, but because she’s mesmerizing. Because Sunshine’s doing exactly what he’s been dreaming about for weeks - laughing and dancing and looking like she belongs right here. With his friends. With him.

The alcohol flowing through him makes it difficult to focus, and before he realizes it, Sunshine catches him in the act. Her attention had just been bouncing between joking with Nat and Sam, and watching the band currently playing, the music keeping most of the patrons on their feet. And now she’s staring right at him, as if she can read his mind. 

For a moment, he actually believes it, her brow slightly furrowing as she makes her way around the side of the table, reaching out to steady herself along the back of a chair. 

He has to fight the urge to help her, keeping his hands around his half-empty glass, the condensation wetting his fingers. After all the months of living together, all the conversations and late night Netflix marathons, he’s never touched her and now it’s all he can think about. It's the only thing on his mind, and she must be able to tell, because the look she’s giving him is telling him that he definitely fucked up. 

Just as he opens his mouth to apologize, she asks, “Can we go outside?” 

The only response he can muster is a quick nod of his head, and he silently follows her, his thoughts racing with what to tell her. How to explain himself. How to assure her that he’d never cross any lines. 

By the time they’re outside, the light breeze cooling their warm skin, he still doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t know how to fix this. All he can do is watch her, almost losing focus at her flushed skin and glassy eyes. Even drunk and stoned, she’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“Are we friends?” The question blindsides him. Makes him stand there, stunned, confused, and silent. Trying to work out why she’s asking that, of all the things she could be asking right now. With a slight slur to her words, she continues, telling him, “I like dirty jokes and inappropriate humor. I like teasing my friends and giving them shit about stupid stuff. I’m not great at rule-breaking, but I wouldn’t lecture you about it.”

The hurt in her eyes betray the joking tone she’s keeping, clearly trying to make light of a situation that’s been bothering her all night - since she learned that he’s not the wholesome, straight-laced guy she assumed him to be. 

So he did fuck up, just not in the way he thought. 

“I never thought you would lecture me,” he promises her, keeping the shaking of his head to a minimum, his eyes quickly losing focus. He blinks the blurriness away and gives her a warm smile, shoving his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to comfort her with his touch. “I just never wanted to put you in a situation where you were uncomfortable, Sunshine. Especially in your own home.”

The quick peak of her tongue wetting her lips has his cock stirring in his jeans, and it takes all his self control not to keep his gaze on her mouth. To ignore the flash of need to kiss her, to feel her lips on his, to taste her. He’s so busy trying to pretend he’s listening to her that he just barely catches what she's saying. 

“I'm more uncomfortable with your early morning singing and never-ending enthusiasm than I’d ever be with a dirty joke.”

Her response catches him off guard, and all he can do is laugh. All this time, he's been working so hard to reign in the parts of himself that might bother her, or make things awkward, and it was the complete opposite of what he should have been doing.

-------------------

She likes making him laugh. The crinkle of his eyes. The flash of his teeth. The slight shake of his head that has him lifting his hand to run it through his hair. She wants to feel it, to run her fingers through the soft strands. It’s the perfect length to grab hold of while-.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, laughter still pouring out of him. For the briefest of moments, she thinks she said it outloud, but quickly realizes what he means. 

After tonight, things will be different between them, like they’ve given each other permission to really be themselves. And as they return to the rest of the group, she can’t stop thinking what it’s going to be like from now on. The kind of jokes he’ll make. The off-hand comments she won’t keep holding back. The teasing they’ll get up to. 

All the inappropriate thoughts she’s been ignoring return ten-fold and she wonders if he’s a tease in bed. If he likes to drive his partner crazy. If he likes to be in control.

By the time the night is over, and they’re sharing a ride back home, she can’t stop stealing glances at him. Her eyes drifting to his mouth, wondering how he kisses. His five-o’clock shadow and what it would feel like between her thighs. His strong hands on her body.

That’s how she ends up in her bedroom, after a quick trip to the bathroom and a brief goodnight to Bucky - wishing like hell they had hugged, wanting the intoxicating smell of him to linger on her clothes and skin - she’s under her covers, naked and writhing at the touch of her own hand, her fingers teasing her nipples, the hand between her thighs ghosting over her swollen clit.

It’s easy to convince herself that because she has no idea what he’s really like in bed, this doesn’t count. This is just a fantasy that could be about anyone. Bucky’s just filling that role. He’s just a face for her to picture while she buries her fingers inside her dripping pussy, the palm of her hand pressed hard against her clit.

It gets harder to pretend as the pleasure builds and the fantasy becomes more intense, picturing him between her spread thighs, fucking her hard and fast, his growl of dirty words filling her head. And soon, she’s fantasizing about him hearing her - how he’d burst in and join her, bury his head between her thighs and fuck her with his tongue.

She’s not drunk enough to allow herself more than a couple seconds of unabashed noises, as if she’s really trying to tempt him, before she’s reigning it back. It’d never happen, but at least she has tonight. At least, for right now, she can pretend it’s him making her come, her hand quickly coming up to cover her mouth so she doesn’t scream his name.

-------------------

He shouldn’t be doing this. Bucky knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t stop himself. He blames it on the alcohol skewing his sense of integrity, but it’s a lie. He knows what he’s doing is wrong, and yet he stands here, barely breathing, his ear pressed to the thin wall that separates the bathroom from her bedroom.

Refusing to give in to the temptation to touch himself, he keeps his sweaty hands on the wall, his fingers tensing and flexing against the hard surface. He’s not sure he’ll be able to forgive himself for eavesdropping like this, but touching himself at the same time would be a step too far. The guilt would eat away at him until he was forced to move out without warning.

Bucky doesn’t know how long he stands there, his heart racing and his eyes closed, all his focus trained on what’s happening in her bedroom, until he finally starts to hear her. The barely audible gasps, the muffled moans, the occasional cut-off cry that has his cock straining against his jeans. 

It’s better than anything he could’ve imagined and as wrong as this is, he can’t stop. Visions of what she’s doing plays through his mind, the possibilities of how she touches herself, what she’s fantasizing about, what’s causing the incredible noises spilling out of her.

And then the obvious signs of her getting closer suddenly has him sobering up. She’s drunk. Neither of them are in the right state of mind, and no matter how much he wants to stay right here to listen to her come, he hasn’t earned that right. He’ll never earn that right.

It still doesn’t stop him from ending the night the same way he’s ended every night for the past several weeks. This time, though, as he slowly strokes his cock, he doesn’t have to imagine what she sounds like. It’s all right there in his head, playing on a loop, working him quickly towards an intense orgasm, the sound of her name muffled as he covers his mouth with the palm of his hand.

There’s no doubt that he’ll regret this tomorrow, but as his cock stays hard in his grip, he can’t seem to care. It feels too good to stop, and it’s not long before he’s stroking himself again, his body aching for her touch. He’ll never have it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t live in this fantasy for just a few moments.

And if he’s lucky, he’ll forget all about this by the time morning comes.

---------------------------

Prev Part | Series Masterlist | Next Part

Hot Bucky Summer Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[dysfunctionalmaki]

Say My Name

Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Chapter 03/?

Summary: You work all around at the local country club, to your advantage you flirted and used your beauty to get what you want, though with this certain woman your own way can't seem to work.

Warning: This work contains smut and foul language, minors DNI!!

A/N: This update came too long but with the holidays going on, I was occupied but I assure this work could be smooth sailing from now on.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───

You were nervous, that's the simplest way you can describe what you're feeling, the table by the window was occupied by Wanda who was having her lunch alone, you were too sure that your eyes would always meet with hers whenever you'd look her way. Yelena even noticed the way you're fiddling with the pen you're holding, Bucky had to steal it away from you since he can't stand the constant clicking sound that came from the object. “Well, what the hell are you doing here? Go do your pretty girl things that you always do, Y/N.” Barnes teased and you can't help but roll your eyes.

“What? No! Y/N, you're not pulling that shit with a married woman.” Yelena retorted, trying to play with your conscience until she chuckled. “Just kidding, go do your thing, her husband's an ass.” she snorted which made you laugh nervously, looking around the room you looked eyes with the redhead once more. Slightly raising her hand to get your attention, you went to be at her service after all you’re still her waitress. “What time are you heading out?” She asked casually which made you widen your eyes a little but you looked at your watch. “In four hours… I'm sure you won't push around your salad for that long.” You say which made the older woman smile. “I have some errands to do but I think it'll be nice to tell Yelena that you won't be going home with her.” Wanda says as she took her designer handbag, taking out her purse so she could get her credit card to pay for her meal.

Doing your job, you went to take it and bring it over to the counter. You weren't sure why you're so nervous, you've done this before… you've hooked up with people way shadier than Wanda, in fact… she's probably the most normal one you're about to go after. When they're finished with her card, you went back to Wanda to return the item to her. She smiled as you returned and took back her card, placing it back in her purse before putting on her sunglasses that made her look even hotter considering how well it matched her outfit. “I’ll pick you up, make sure those two keep their mouths shut about us.” she softly says before getting up from her seat, clearly talking about Yelena and Bucky who were basically watching from their stations.

Placing a hand on your forearm, gently squeezing on it and letting go of you almost immediately, then you watched her walk out of the restaurant with such elegance and style, she didn't have to wear the most obvious designer clothing to scream out that she's loaded, the way she carries herself and her aura was enough to tell that she's that kind of person. Getting inside of her luxury car that the valet got for her, that kind of vehicle was enough to tell you that she is surely a powerful woman. Making your way back to your station, the two gave a certain look and you're immediately reminded of what Wanda told you to do. “So… I hope you two can shut your mouth about this.” You say then Bucky shrugged. “I can keep my mouth shut, I don't know about this one.” Barnes teased while using his thumb to point at Yelena who's waiting on the drink he's making. “Just be careful with what you're doing, you're playing with fire here, Y/N.” she warned you, shrugging with what your friend said, you just went on to do your job.

Hours went by and you were exhausted, you've told Yelena that Wanda’s most probably picking you up, and you think that the older woman was… well, ‘man’ of her words. Heading into the restroom so you could freshen up after your shift, finally you've let your hair down, spray on perfume that has worn off hours ago, and finally you clock out. Heading to walk outside the country club, you see the familiar car that has picked you up once. Making your way towards there, you hear someone call your name and it's coming from a car that just pulled up. “Y/N, how are you darling?” The familiar voice called to you which surprised you, Wanda was about to open the door for you from the inside but confused by what made you stop.

“Diana? Hi! How are you home so soon?” You greeted the other woman who just exited her car, Diana wrapped her arms around you the moment she got close to you, you went to look at Wanda’s car and you're sure as hell that she's watching all this happening. “The meeting went well, everything goes to my approval hence why I'm back here early, didn't tell you ‘cause I'm planning to surprise you… seems like I did.” she says as she batted an eye towards the redhead’s car. “Well, yeah- I'm actually surprised.” you say then you looked at Diana before gently pulling away from her arms. “Mhmm, are you coming with me or not?” she asked so casually. Meanwhile, Wanda can't really hear what you and this woman was talking about, though she could sense there's something between you and this stranger but she didn't want to pry much instead she just waited.

“I- I'm afraid I can't, I made a commitment and I really stick by my words… you know that.” you say which made Diana roll her eyes. “Sure, but you know where to find me and you'd have to promise that you're going to make it up to me.” She says which made you bite the inside of your cheek. “Of course, you know I always do.” You say and finally you bid your goodbyes to her, and Wanda unlocked the door for you… now, you awkwardly get inside her car. “She looks familiar.” Wanda commented the moment she finally drove off. “Oh, she's also a member of the club so you probably ran into her a couple of times if you went here back then.” you say while the redhead nod in response.

“So, I'm going to ask the same question that I asked you last night in our texts… You're aware that I am a married woman, right?” she asked then you simply answer with a yes. “You like trouble don't you? The way that woman held you? There's something there isn't it?” she softly chuckled then you took a moment to think what to answer. “Well, it's no secret that Diana and I do go out… completely casual and no strings attached.” you say causing Wanda to raise a brow. “I hope you're not expecting the same thing with me, Y/N.” the redhead softly spoke. “I don't like sharing at all.” she added with the most innocent smile that she could put on.

“But I think you and I both know what I want.” you say honestly and Maximoff looked at you for a moment. “Oh, you're getting straight to it?” she chuckled before biting her lower lip. “Well, this is how it usually is, right? The married woman goes for the girl she wants to experiment with and once it's done… it's done.” you say, causing the older woman to laugh softly. “Marrying a man is more like the experiment.” Wanda scoffed, she went to drive a little longer and finally you both arrived at some motel out of town, well, she probably chose this one so no one could recognize the both of you and especially her.

Getting out of the car, you went after her just tailing behind her, heading into the motel the older woman asked you to do most of the talking so you did, you chose a decent room for the both of you. While you two were in the elevator, you went to move a little closer to Wanda’s side. “It's Diana Prince… I think she works for Wayne's company.” Wanda says all of a sudden. “Yes, that's her. Do you know her?” She shook her head at your question then you nodded yours. “Well, it's probably just I've seen her whenever I have to do some errands when I do business meetings with their company.” she added. “And you're aware that I'm married to a man who's somehow related to Stark too, right?” you nodded your head once more.

The moment the elevator, Wanda went ahead first and you followed after her, though you had to go first eventually since you're the one holding the key card. The moment you two were inside, Wanda went to look around the room for a moment, while you placed your bag on the chair by the desk near the bed. “What do you mean you don't like to share?” you ask her and tracing back to what she said earlier. “If you want to get me and have me, I want you to have me and only me.” Wanda says and she turns to face you. “Come on, I'm sure you're aware how much of a pretty face you are.” she added which made you even more confused.

“You really want me to put it into simpler terms?” Wanda says with a sigh before composing herself, walking closer to you. “I want to be the only one kissing this lips of yours, be the only one who gets to mark you up… take you whenever I want and whenever I need.” the more the redhead talked about her whims for you, you can't help but feel your body warm up. Eventually, you felt her hand resting on your waist. “You're going to have an affair with a powerful woman, Y/N, are you sure you're ready to take the heat?” she asked as she pulled you closer to her, fingers slowly digging into your skin. “I- uh- You mean I have to drop every possible connection that I have?” That was the question you could ask, sure it does sound stupid but your mind stop working when this woman had you under her spell.

“Well, you're quite greedy if you want to keep me around and still have other people, don't you think?” she asked then finally your face was only a couple of inches apart from hers. “I mean… I know I'm a catch, sweetheart.” she confidently says. Unsure of what to say at this point, all you know is that the both of you were staring at each other's lips, you didn't know how it occurred and who made the move first all you know is that the both of you started kissing… It was needy, hot, and desperate. To your surprise, it was Wanda taking the control here, you were always the one in control… they always have the hots for you and not vice versa, but this woman certainly has her way for you.

Eventually, you found yourself going at Wanda’s flow, you could feel the warmth of her tongue against yours, her wet muscle just swirling against yours. You walked backwards, trying to get a feel whether you're near the bed or not and as the back of your leg hit it, you slowly sank to your knees and sat on the mattress. This time your hands were around the older woman's waist, you were trying to take control this time… your hand was hiking up the blouse that she was wearing, yet you were stopped when she held your wrist. “Who said that you could touch?” Wanda purred as she parted her lips from yours just so she could speak. “I've got to have you first before you get me, malysh…” she spoke in her thick sokovian accent that caused butterflies all over your stomach.

“I- uh- I'm yours…” you stuttered which made Wanda chuckle. “We both know you're not there yet, sweetheart.” she says and you know damn well that she's not wrong. “But, we'll get there.” she whispered against your lips, now she crashed her lips against yours once again. The redhead straddles your lap, her lips moving perfectly with yours, you never felt this desperate… desperate for someone's touch, lips, and warmth. “Give me a chance tonight…” you mumbled against her lips which made her smirk. “No, I want you to crave for me… to the point you'll have no choice but to submit yourself to me.” she answered.

For a couple of hours the both of you didn't do anything but make out, and you've never felt so frustrated, neither of you took your clothes off. Here you are facing the mirror by the sink at the mirror, and what's worse? You're alone, the older woman had to leave since she had to be home when her husband unexpectedly came home. Taking your phone from your bag, you went to call someone.

“Hey, I know it's late and you're probably tired but I was wondering… if you can pick me up?” you hear a soft laugh from the other end. “You didn't score? You're not in your game, darling?” Diana teased which made you chuckle. “I guess you can say that.” You went to tell her where the motel was, this woman actually drove this late so she could get to you, she asked what your room number is and not even an hour later she was knocking on your door. “Should have come with me.” she says before leaning instantly for a kiss and you made sure to give her that satisfaction.

Spending the rest of the night with Diana instead of Wanda whom you came here with, lavishing on Prince’s warmth and taste on the same bed where you made out with the redhead you had earlier. You really are playing with fire after all, it's either you burn brighter than the fire you caused or be burnt, and you know you're never one to back out from a challenge.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───

Taglist: @esposadejoyhuerta @reginassweetheart @lvinhs @alexawynters @mfd-101 @dorabledewdroop

[shamrockqueen]

Predator in the desert

Chapter 3

Pairing : Winter soldier x reader (post apocalyptic AU)

Warnings : Desperation, starving behavior, references to war, duality of the mind, emotionless man

Word count : 2020

Chapter 1

Bucky MasterList

You stopped breathing, the ghost of an echo bouncing through your ears after he’d yelled at you.

Your eyes snapped from his cutting and cold gaze, further down to the glimmer of his fearsome metal fingers as they closed around the old brass knob on the door. The only opening to the room, the only way out, and you wouldn’t be able to reach it, let alone slip past his solid stonelike frame.

You weren’t ‘calm’ by any means, but he had your attention, and even as you continued to shiver, it was all he really needed.

“Are you hungry?”

You flinched as he spoke; his voice edged only with a lack of patience as it reached out to you with heavy hands to shake you from your reeling thoughts.

You didn’t answer just yet, feeling your pulse thrum along your skin wildly. You just laid there, stunned as you stared at those metal fingers tightening around the knob of the door and trying to ease your own breathing before it made you feel numb.

“I asked if you were hungry.” He was much more stern, and even a little louder this time, watching with equal disinterest as you gasped back and struggled to answer.

“Y-yes… I‘m hungry.”

You spoke weakly, your lips shaking and your eyes welling with a wet dribble of tears. Like a small break in the smallest of bones as you gave in to the absurdity.

Of course you were hungry. You’ve been hungry since you were a screaming infant, just as everyone doomed to a life in the wasteland had been. Food in any amount was a luxury, whether it’s warm meat and grains or smashed bugs you find crawling along the floor by your bedroll.

This promise of food without a single bat of his eye should have felt like a dream come true, but something in your stomach felt heavy before clenching with a sharp cramp. That familiar pang of hunger pains morphing viscerally into obvious fear as your guts knotted together.

This was the only moment in your miserable life that you didn’t crave food, as you were consumed only with dread.

You didn’t want to take anything from this unholy amalgamation of man and metal. It was like cowering beneath the boogeyman, a monster of jagged teeth and twisted limbs that could steal your last shred of innocence, only to find an unreadable being that looked no different from yourself. He didn’t wear enough of his lethality on his skin, leaving you to spiral at the possibilities of what these chains binding you to his lair really meant for your near future.

It was no better than being a rabbit caught in a cage. There is the offer of water and now food, but the danger of your captivity, just as the chain around your leg, was a staunch reminder that none of this would be out of kindness. There is no good reason that you are here—none that could be conceived as all the terrible reasons swarm your aching head.

His expression never seemed to change as he took in every reaction you gave him, seeming to read it like new data to further his own strange purpose. When he was finished searching your jumbled tomes, whether having found his needed information or losing interest, he dragged that door open and disappeared through it before shutting you back inside that room. Only this time, you were alone with the crushing silence he had once held above you.

A silence quickly broken by the hard clack of a lock turning shut in the flimsy wooden barrier this soldier had placed between you two.

He fit the stories from old fantasies of war. An old story long left covered in dust, detailing how both sides ate away at one another until the bones were bare and empty of their marrow. He bore the red star, the mark of a demon of irradiated sands. One head severed from its ranks meant two would splinter out in its place, biting and gnashing its way through the wasteland.

The great hydra was supposed to be dead, a final rest assured long before your own birth. How wrong they all were apparently, and as you recounted those scary fairy tales, your stomach twisted harder and harder.

You tried to steady your breathing, letting it stutter and shake before it finally met an even rhythm.

‘You really did need to calm down’ The traitorous thought was the last fly to buzz through your brain before you let the muscles in your shoulders fall loose to hit the floor.

Your ankle still felt heavy with its new iron cuff, and you struggled back onto your elbows and further onto your feet, the sound of the chain dragging along the wood the only noise left to taunt you.

Your eyes narrow at the brassy knob, a small spark of defiance finally igniting in your chest only to fall short of catching a flame.

You were frustrated at best, hot tears stinging your eyes before spilling out over your dirty cheeks.

‘Why me? For fucks sake, why?”

How were you significant enough to be stolen? Did he pity you, thinking that keeping you would be better for your well-being, like a lost kitten climbing among the rocks he had scooped up?

Why would a monster want to help you? Why would he bother to care for you when he could do what any other villain would do to others who strayed too far from home?

But, this room didn’t look like a pen to keep his livestock. It had a small window at its other end, barred on the outside of the glass for your protection. The bed wasn’t shabby, only worn, and with actual blankets and pillows.

If you were to be kept, you suppose he chose to keep you well.

You turned back to the door, its knob within reach, but you didn’t jump to futilely pull or tear at it. You reach forward, a shriveled shard of hope still tearing at your heavy heart as you slide your fingers around it.

You know it was locked; you heard it happen, but you still clung to the possibility of this being a terribly real nightmare instead. Maybe your mind would let you open the door, but as you twisted the handle, it of course did not budge.

You stood closer, your head falling to your chest as you pressed your fingers to the wood. Your mouth opened with a shaking exhale of an empty scream, and new tears flooded over to wash the rest of your grimy face.

You did not expect the door to push forward on its own, nearly smacking you in the face as it knocked you back. You land on the floor unceremoniously. Still so weak and unsteady, you weren’t even a suitable match for an old door.

The man was back, standing over you with a plate in his human hand. He sighed before setting the platter of promised food on the bed, stepping over you in the process.

He spoke evenly, saying, “I didn’t mean to hit you,” but his voice didn’t carry any ounce of guilt for knocking you back on your ass. Would this have been the first time he’d knocked you down, or was it simply the only time he hadn’t meant to do so?

“Are you alright?” he asked as he leaned over your crumbled form, reaching towards your reddened cheek where the wood had initially smacked you.

You immediately shied away from his touch but didn’t fight to scramble backward.

He leaned away but offered you his less harrowing hand to help you off the floor instead of leaving you to do so by yourself again.

You never answered his last question, but as he didn’t press further, it was possible that he wasn't really interested either way.

He gestured to the plate of food he’d set on the bed and said flatly, “Eat.”

You looked over at the plate still perched on a pile of blankets. A slab of cooked meat, diced cubes of root vegetables, and a mush of something boiled, green, and leafy. It was the best thing you’d ever seen.

Actual meat the size of your hand coupled with real vegetables possibly rich with those vitamins and mineral-things the doctor used to talk about. Whatever it was, it made your tongue wet as you swept it over your cracked lips.

A small part of you still wanted to be cautious, as another balled its fists in frustration from being kept away from a beautiful plate of healthy food.

You opened your mouth, only to choke back on the words with a wet cough. You sputtered again, crying like a sad child for him to witness before finally speaking.

“Are you going to drug me?”

"No,” he answered quickly and with little care.

You watched for any signs of a farce, a twitch of an eyebrow, a quirk of a lip, anything. His eyes held their dull, disinterested blue as he waited for you to make up your mind.

You ventured closer to the plate, pressing a dirty finger against the still hot morsel of meat. It was light in color, like white meat off a rabbit, but you needed to be certain before going past this thin line you had drawn for yourself.

Your lips stuck together as you nearly whispered a squeak of a few words, “Is it people?”

The ‘P’ was sputtered by the drop of collected tears, making the sound more pronounced as it left your lips.

“No”

You looked back at him at the subtle change in his voice. With one word, one syllable, it was oddly unmistakable. He sounded a little offended, and yet he didn’t lift a finger against you.

That last ‘no’ was all you needed before throwing yourself at the plate, scooping at the wet potatoes and greens with your fingers to wipe the tasteless sludge over your tongue in ecstasy.

You tore at the meat with your bare teeth like a hungry dog in a frenzy of unending starvation.

You weren’t human anymore; no longer yourself. It was shameful how you felt. In this moment, as you tore at a lump of fat with your back molar, you wanted this more than ever.

You wanted to be a pet if it meant the promise of this minimal care. You wanted to be kept; you wanted the fresh water and food; damned be the consequences.

You weren’t thinking clearly, not until you licked the last stain of grease and green vegetable smudge off the plate with your desperate little tongue. You hadn’t realized you were panting, gasping at the air, and holding the plate with white knuckles and numb fingers as if he could fly off and never return.

His expression had shifted for only a second. A split moment where his eyes widened a single centimeter before returning to their natural steely state. His shoulders stayed stiff with new concern. It was all a subtle change you had missed during your indulgence.

“Do you want more?” He asked, his voice still tainted with that unspoken concern.

You swear you could nearly feel your heart stop at just hearing those words. You were still desperate, and you nodded frantically.

He reached carefully towards you for the plate, giving you his metal fingers instead of the soft fleshy digits of his other hand. Possibly anticipating being bitten when pulling away the saucer. You let him take it from you, watching as he repeated his earlier actions of leaving and locking you inside the room.

There was a burn of shame somewhere in your stomach, but it was greatly overshadowed by a deep desire for sustenance. And, this man, what should be a monster in your eyes, was unbothered to fulfill such a desire.

You stood in place, not reaching for the door like the captive you are, not waiting on the bed like a puppy missing its master. But, by god, you wanted that fucking food.

Chapter 4

More post apocalyptic AU

Tags : @itsswritten @cjand10 @dear-lolita @took-a-wr0ng-turn @scott-loki-barnes @ihavetwoholesforareason @potatothots @toozmanykids @wintrsoldrluvr @heletsmelovehim