#james bucky buchanan barnes

[kijrbds]

when they serve bisexual realness

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Little Lady

Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mom!Reader

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

Word count: 1.6K+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit—!”

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

Lady Bug hadn’t come back yet.

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head at his gestures.

Then… waved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

Bucky smirked. “Her, what now?”

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

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

°❀⋆🐞.ೃ࿔*:･

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you at least get the towels?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I supervised! That’s more important!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed , and Bucky didn’t hesitate.

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

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

-end

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[beowulframbles]

Did this scene alter anyone else’s brain chemistry or was it just me. I was the most sane motherfucker about this. And by sane, I mean insane. I was not normal.

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES

Thunderbolts* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

[barnesandashes]

need a ride? | oneshot

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader

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

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

wc: 8.6k

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

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

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

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

So, you weren’t exactly pleased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could give you a ride.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Organizing his schedule? Check.

Managing his appointments? Check.

Handle communicating with the press? Excellent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He really needed an assistant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I take it that you’re walking home.”

“Fuck!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir Barnes—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One word, just one.

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

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

So fuck it, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skipped two or three beats in recognition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit in front.”

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

“What?”

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

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

“Thought you needed a ride?”

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swore you moaned at the sight.

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

“God, yes.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god, Barnes. Just put it in.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He drew a low chuckle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“B—Bucky, please come inside me.”

Who was he to deny your request?

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

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

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

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

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

You gave him a small smirk.

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

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

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

“Nah, baby. You’re getting a raise.”

© barnesandashes, 2025.

[yikesdrama]

THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS BABY!

Bucky getting his arm ripped off again and being thrown across the room, only for Ava to quickly snatch up the arm, as Walker is already pulling Bucky upright, so that Alexei can toss him over his shoulders like a rag-doll, while Yelena runs for the elevator.

— Thunderbolts*

i love how they all came together for Bucky 😭

[navybrat817]

Bucky is all pouty when he wants your attention.

Can you just imagine, nonnie? Not just pouty, but he’s like an animal. Truly. 

Pay Attention to Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky just wants your attention.

Word Count: Over 400

Warnings: Just Bucky Barnes

A/N: Just a sweet and silly thing for Saturday before I take the kiddos to the pool. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Because your man loves your attention. He can't help himself. You affectionately compare him to a dog one day because of how excited he gets when you get home and how he’ll follow you around. It’s sweet. 

And when you don't pay attention to him, he’ll find a way to make you. 

Bucky will pull you into his lap and rest his chin on your shoulder if you're talking with others. Not to interrupt, but so you know he’s there. And he once laid across you like a weighted blanket when you were watching television because the movie was boring to him and you were much more interesting. 

“I love you, but you are not a lap dog,” you mumbled against his skin. 

“Love you, too,” was all he said. 

Today is no different. He wants your attention. You know he does. And he’ll have it. 

So he huffs when he stalks into the living room and silently dares you to look at him but you aren't. You feel his eyes on you when he huffs again with that grumpy glare and you try not to smile as you continue to read your book. He may even snarl a bit when he sits beside you and all it does is make you roll with your eyes. “Is that supposed to intimidate me, Sarge?” you ask with laughter in your voice. “Try harder.”

Bucky gently pokes your arm and says your name which reminds you of Alpine batting you with her paw. “Hey. Hey. Look at me,” he demands in a quiet voice, but you keep your eyes on the page. He groans after a moment and you swear he's two seconds from dramatically flopping himself down on the ground. “Damn it, look at me, please.”

“Since you used your manners,” you tease and shut the book. When you look at him, you see a pout on his handsome face. “What’s so important that you had to interrupt my reading time?”

The super soldier not only takes the book from your hands, he puts his head in your lap. You freeze for a second as he gets comfortable. “I need you to pay attention to me,” he says, taking your hand and putting it on his head. 

“Fine,” you giggle and stroke his long hair, his moan soft and content. “My needy man,” you whisper, gazing down at him with love in your eyes.

Because as much as Bucky loves your attention, you love giving it to him. 

Just imagine how needy he gets with sex. Love and thanks for reading! ��️

[fckmebarnes]

"people are allowed to dislike things"

WRONG. NO ONE is allowed to dislike bucky barnes.

[danysdaughter]

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 2.7k words

summary | bucky asked to learn about edging—he just didn’t expect to be blindfolded, tied to a bed, and brought to the brink twice before even getting inside you.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, edging, orgasm denial, begging, 69 position, face sitting, oral sex (receiving and giving), restraints, bondage, blindfolds, dom/sub elements, reader is a teasing little shit, accidental orgasm, post-nut confessions, friends to lovers, dirty talk

a/n | by popular demand. maybe a series. I actually have part 3 done, it's over 4k words, will post it maybe Tues or Wed

Taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

divider by @cafekitsune

His arms were stretched above him, wrists bound to the headboard with silk scarves—deep blue, smooth, soft, but knotted just tight enough to hold.

“Too tight?” you asked, fingers brushing over the delicate bindings, eyes flicking down to his face.

Bucky looked up at you, his bare chest rising slow with each breath. He tugged lightly—testing them—then gave you a crooked smirk.

“I could snap these in half if I wanted.”

Your brow lifted. “But you won’t.”

His smirk faded just slightly, replaced by something softer. More hesitant. “Are you sure about this?”

You leaned over him, your thighs straddling his hips, hair falling like a curtain between you as your voice dropped low.

“You said you wanted to know what edging was like,” you murmured, your fingers skating down the center of his chest. “I figured we’d learn in real time.”

He shifted beneath you, bound but still twitchy. “I read about it,” he muttered. “Didn’t sound very nice.”

You grinned, slow and wicked. “It’s not supposed to be nice. It’s supposed to be maddening.”

His eyes flicked to yours—nervous, excited, turned on out of his mind.

You leaned in closer, voice brushing his ear.

“It’s delayed gratification. Every time I get you close and pull away? The orgasm you finally get will be so much better.”

He exhaled hard.

Your hand slid lower.

“And if you’re good—” your mouth grazed his jaw, “I’ll let you come while your mouth is buried between my legs.”

His hips bucked instinctively, and the scarves tugged tight above him.

You smiled.

“Oh—and this,” you murmured.

Bucky tensed as you reached behind you and pulled out a strip of black fabric. Smooth. Soft. Purposeful.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, eyes narrowing just a little.

You leaned in again, lips inches from his as you began tying the blindfold behind his head. “Enhancing your senses. Or something.”

“Or something?”

“It’s very scientific,” you said seriously, even as your grin gave you away. “Like, ninety percent of your brain’s sexual response is... sensory rerouting. Or whatever.”

He huffed. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Sounds real enough,” you said, finishing the knot.

He blinked under the blindfold, adjusting against the headboard, visibly trying to breathe through this new shift. He was hard already—still—and growing more tense by the second.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” he muttered, voice low.

You shrugged, that wicked smile creeping across your lips. “Nope. But hey—first time for everything.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, probably to suggest something logical, like a safe word, or releasing one wrist just in case—

But you didn’t give him the chance.

You leaned in and kissed him, hard and slow, your lips moving over his with purpose.

To shut him up. To distract him. To take control.

And when he moaned into your mouth, wrists tugging slightly against the scarves again?

You knew you had him.

You shifted lower, settling between his legs, the sheets rustling softly beneath your knees. Bucky lay perfectly still, jaw tight, hands flexing uselessly in their restraints. The blindfold kept his lashes fluttering, the rest of his face caught somewhere between restraint and pleading.

You reached for the waistband of his boxers.

“Gonna take these off now,” you said quietly, voice like silk. “That okay?”

His head nodded once—shaky, deliberate. “Yeah. Yeah.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband and slowly, painfully slowly, began to peel the fabric down his hips. His breath hitched. The elastic caught momentarily on his cock, and then it sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip.

Your breath caught.

You dragged the boxers down his thighs, then all the way off, letting your eyes drink him in as you tossed them aside.

God, he was beautiful.

Strong, thick thighs spread wide beneath you, all that power gone pliant. His abs tensed as you let your fingers drift gently down his hip, over his inner thigh.

Your gaze dropped to his cock—hard and straining, flushed deep red at the tip, the vein along the underside throbbing. He was leaking freely now, precum smeared across his lower stomach, the kind of mess that made your mouth water.

You reached for him.

Wrapped your hand around the base—warm, heavy, pulsing in your palm.

He groaned, deep and broken.

Your thumb slid over the tip, gathering the slick there, and you started to stroke—slow, languid, base to tip and back again, no rush, just pressure. Measured. Precise.

He twitched in your grip.

His whole body arched slightly, restrained and helpless, breath pouring out in ragged gasps.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered, stroking him a little faster. “All from just a few little touches.”

“Jesus—” he breathed. “You’re driving me insane.”

You smirked, leaning closer, breath ghosting over the head of his cock.

“Good. That means it’s working.”

You kept stroking—slow at first, deliberately teasing, your hand sliding up and down his cock in smooth, controlled movements. The slick from his own arousal made each pass easier, messier. His breath hitched each time your grip tightened near the head, every movement wringing another helpless sound from his throat.

“Shit,” Bucky groaned, arching his back slightly, wrists pulling tight against the silk restraints. “Feels so good…”

You smiled, leaning forward, letting your lips hover just above the head of his cock, not touching—not yet.

Then you picked up the pace.

Your strokes grew faster, more purposeful. Your other hand cupped his balls, gently massaging, rolling them in your palm with just enough pressure to make him twitch.

His thighs tensed beneath you.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, hips jerking, muscles locking tight as you worked him faster. “Don’t stop—don’t—fuck, I’m—”

You stopped.

Just like that. Your hand left him.

He cried out, an almost desperate, broken sound escaping his throat as he bucked into the empty air.

“No—” he groaned. “Fuck—why—why did you stop?”

You sat back, slowly licking your fingers, watching his cock twitch helplessly in front of you.

“Because,” you said softly, “that was the edge.”

He panted, face turned toward the ceiling, chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles.

“That—was cruel.”

You grinned. “That was the first lesson.”

You leaned in close again, lips brushing his jaw.

“Now we do it again.”

You watched him pant beneath you, cock flushed, pulsing against his stomach, his whole body trembling with frustration and heat.

You reached up and gently tugged the blindfold away.

His eyes blinked open—glassy, wrecked, beautiful.

“Think you can handle more?” you asked softly, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

He swallowed, throat working. “Depends what you’re planning.”

You smiled.

Then shifted—slow and deliberate—climbing over him.

Straddling his chest.

His eyes widened just slightly as you braced your knees on either side of his head, your dripping core hovering just above his mouth.

“I was thinking…” you purred, lowering yourself just enough that he could smell you, “you could eat me out while I suck your cock.”

His mouth parted, breath catching.

“Are you serious?”

You smirked. “Bucky. You begged for this. You fantasized about it.”

His hands flexed in their restraints, body tense beneath you.

“You wanna taste me?” you asked, your voice low, sultry.

“Fuck—yes,” he said, already trying to lift his head. “Please.”

You lowered yourself slowly, your pussy brushing his lips—and he groaned, hands pulling at the scarves, tongue darting out instantly to lick a firm stripe through your folds.

The moment his mouth closed around your clit, your breath hitched.

And you rewarded him.

Sliding down his body, you reached for his cock again, wrapping your hand around him, stroking slow.

Then your mouth followed.

Warm.

Wet.

Deep.

He moaned into your pussy, tongue flicking desperately against your clit as you swallowed him down, your mouth working in rhythm with the roll of your hips against his face.

The sound of his groaning against you while your mouth dragged over the length of him? Filthy.

Perfect.

You were both shaking now, caught in that beautiful tension—heat, friction, mouths and hands and bodies tangled in something raw and so fucking good.

You moaned around him as his tongue curled inside you.

And he bucked beneath you, completely gone.

You lowered yourself fully onto his face, letting him take all of you—and he did, with no hesitation.

Bucky groaned like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted in his mouth, his tongue dragging through your folds in slow, deliberate licks before latching onto your clit with reckless devotion. His lips sealed around you, his tongue flicking, swirling, pressing just right, like he was memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

You gasped around his cock.

Your mouth stretched around him again, tongue flattening beneath the head as you swallowed him deep, slow strokes that made his hips jerk beneath you. You hollowed your cheeks, moaned low around him—just to make it worse—and the sound vibrated up through his length.

He moaned into your pussy, and the vibration alone made your thighs shake.

Your hands gripped his thighs, his hips, anything—but his hands were still tied, his body helpless beneath you. His only weapon was his mouth, and god, was he using it.

Your hips rocked against him in time with your strokes, chasing your high, grinding into his face as he feasted on you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

“Just like that,” you gasped around him. “Fuck—Bucky—”

You felt it building.

The tight coil deep in your belly, his mouth never stopping, his tongue relentless.

You sucked him deeper.

Faster.

And just as he groaned again—vibrating with desperation—you came.

Hard.

Your entire body clenched, thighs trembling around his head, back arching as your orgasm crashed through you like fire. You cried out, lips parting around his cock, head tilting back as the pleasure pulsed through every nerve ending.

Bucky groaned—his tongue still lapping, still savoring every last drop of you.

And then?

You pushed up.

Lifted your hips off his face.

Pulled your mouth off his cock with a slick pop.

His hips jerked upward.

“Fuck—no—” he gasped, voice ragged, cock twitching in your hand. “I was—please—I was so fucking close—”

You smirked, breathless, licking your lips as you sat up on his thighs.

“I know.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, glancing down at his flushed, twitching cock.

“Lesson two: just because you got me off, doesn’t mean you get yours.”

He groaned in agony, head tipping back against the pillows, chest heaving.

And still—his cock was hard.

So very hard.

Bucky was trembling beneath you.

Sweat slicked his chest, his abs tight, his cock flushed an angry red as it twitched helplessly against his stomach. His jaw was clenched, mouth parted, breath ragged like he was barely hanging on.

And he wasn’t.

His wrists flexed again in the restraints—not from frustration now, but need. Desperate, aching need.

“C’mon, baby,” he rasped, his voice low and cracked and wrecked. “Please. Please—give it to me. I need it.”

You tilted your head, your lips curling in that familiar, wicked grin.

“What do you need, Sergeant?”

His eyes locked on yours, burning with something raw. Unfiltered.

“You. Inside you. Now.”

You let the silence hang for just a second longer.

Then finally—finally—you shifted.

Your hands braced on his chest as you lifted yourself, hovered above him, your dripping core poised right over the tip of his cock.

His eyes blew wide.

He felt it—the heat of you, the way your folds barely brushed his head.

“Fuck—fuck—please—”

You lowered yourself slowly, letting the very tip of him slide inside you—just barely.

And that was all it took.

The second you sank down even an inch, his whole body locked.

His back arched, his head fell back, and he let out a deep, broken groan—like it was being ripped from his chest.

And then he came.

Hard.

Hot.

Sudden.

“Oh—fuck—” he choked, his hips jerking up once involuntarily as he spilled inside you, cock pulsing helplessly as he gasped through the high.

You froze—eyes wide—as you felt it.

The heat.

The rush.

His orgasm hitting you in one unexpected, uncontrolled, wrecking wave.

You stared down at him, lips parted in shock, your body still poised above him with only the tip inside.

He blinked up at you, dazed and red-faced, voice hoarse.

“…Shit.”

You blinked again.

Then grinned.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely able to hide the gleeful amusement in your voice.

You blinked once.

Then again.

“…Did you just?”

Bucky stared up at you, wide-eyed, flushed, completely wrecked.

“No,” he said immediately, too fast. Too flat.

You raised a brow.

“That is probably the worst lie ever spoken in the history of existence.”

He opened his mouth like he might argue.

But then your body shifted just slightly—and you felt it.

The warmth.

The evidence.

“Considering I can feel your cum inside me,” you said sweetly, “you wanna try that one again?”

He groaned, dragging his hands—still tied—to the sides of his head like he could disappear into the mattress.

You smiled, all smug satisfaction and teasing heat.

“Well,” you murmured, “at least we learned something tonight.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Yeah?”

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and smug.

“You’re terrible at edging.”

You reached up, your fingers gently undoing the knots around his wrists. The silk slipped free easily, falling in soft coils onto the sheets. He groaned quietly as his arms dropped to his sides, muscles loose, completely spent.

You lay down beside him, cheek resting against his shoulder, your body still warm and glowing, every nerve thrumming from everything you’d just done.

He stayed quiet, chest rising slowly beneath your hand.

Then you tilted your head, glanced up at him with a sly smile.

“So…” you said, voice low and lazy. “How was it?”

He let out a breathless laugh—half-mortified, half-stunned. “Like being emotionally mugged by my own dick.”

You snorted, burying your face in his shoulder. “That’s… definitely going in the quote book.”

Then, after a moment, you felt his fingers twitch slightly against your waist.

He cleared his throat.

You glanced up, catching the tiny flicker of hesitation in his expression.

He was thinking.

Hard.

And that alone made you smirk. “What? Got another fantasy to confess?”

But his voice was quieter this time. Not sheepish. Just… uncertain.

“I was actually wondering,” he said slowly, like he was piecing the sentence together in real time, “if you… maybe… would want to go out with me?”

Your brows lifted in surprise.

You turned your head on his shoulder, looked up at him. His cheeks were flushed—still pink from the exertion, the orgasm, the confession.

“You mean like... a date?” you asked, eyes searching his.

He gave a short, nervous huff of laughter, eyes flicking up to the ceiling.

“Yeah. I just…” He shifted a little, like the words didn’t sit quite right in his mouth yet. “I don’t want this to just be sex. Or whatever this is. I like being around you. Even when you're impossible. Especially then.”

Your teasing grin softened just a bit. He was rambling. And adorable.

“You’re asking me now?” you said, one brow arched. “While I’m literally still dripping with your cum?”

His jaw dropped slightly, horror and exasperation all mixed in. “Jesus Christ—don’t say it like that—”

You leaned up, kissed him just below the corner of his mouth, still grinning. “Relax, Sarge.”

Then you met his eyes, warm and open.

“Of course I’ll go out with you.”

His whole body relaxed under you, like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally let go.

You nuzzled closer, dropping your head back on his chest, sighing dramatically.

“But you are buying dinner. Since you came before the real show even started.”

He groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

You smirked.

“Not a chance.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes soft now, sleepy but focused. “You are amazing.”

You grinned. “Obviously.”

A beat passed.

Then his hand slid over your waist, pulling you a little closer.

“Redemption round tomorrow?”

You kissed his jaw, sweet and slow.

“We’ll see if you earn it, Sergeant.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@princeescalus @s-sh-ne @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @lilac13 @fayeatheart @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @person-005 @muchwita @Ruexj283 @jarnesbames108 @iheartfictionalmen1 @daddyslilbrat962 @bucky-baby-barnes @bonnietate26 @1lorenzo-lover1 @heymydearheart

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[widowsweet]

What does the Super Soldier hide?

Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Reader. Thunderbolts* x Mutant!Reader.

Summary: The Thunderbolts find an enigmatic message on the cell phone of the most grumpy soldier on the team. Intrigued by the mysterious sender, they decide to investigate on their own - but it doesn't take long for Bucky to realize that something is happening.

WC: 4,8k

Warnings: Fluff, found family vibes, Bucky being soft, team chaos, telepathy (mild), domesticity overload, slow burn revealed relationship, Yelena flirting lightly with the reader. (18+ insinuation, no explicit content!!)

A/N: The reader, in this story, is a mutant. Her gifts include telepathy and the ability to enter and manipulate people's dreams - something she has learned to control over time.

I'm considering turning this story into a mini-series with Bucky Barnes and the mutant reader, but nothing is guaranteed yet. For now, enjoy reading.🤍

Bucky Barnes was a private guy. He didn’t talk about his personal life—not because he didn’t trust anyone, but because he had learned, the hard way, that the less people knew about him, the better. And honestly? Having his past dragged into the spotlight as a former war assassin and now, as a “new Avenger,” was more than enough. He just wanted a bit of peace. A normal life.

At the moment, the Thunderbolts were scattered around the main lounge of the base like poorly placed pieces on a board.

Yelena was sprawled out on the couch like she had no bones, head thrown back, eyes closed, looking more dead than alive. Next to her, Alexei was lightly snoring in an armchair, hugging a pillow that clearly didn’t belong to him. Ava stood by the window, headphones in, eyes vacant, like she wished she was literally anywhere else. John Walker was flipping a knife between his fingers, clearly too bored to cause trouble—for now.

Bucky had left a short while ago. Said something about sorting out an issue with the transport from the last mission—not that anyone had really paid attention. He just tossed his phone onto the arm of the couch, grabbed his jacket, and walked out, leaving behind his usual trail of quiet grumpiness.

The room was silent. No conversations. Just the occasional building creak and the collective weight of boredom in the air.

Then the phone screen lit up, vibrating softly against the cushion near Yelena’s leg.

The message flashed for just a few seconds, but it was enough. Ava, closest to it, caught a glimpse of the contact name and narrowed her eyes.

“Sweetheart?” she read quietly, frowning.

Yelena, who had seemed asleep moments ago, opened one eye.

“What?”

“Barnes’s phone.” Ava nodded toward it, not touching. “Someone just texted him. It’s saved as Sweetheart. With an emoji. A pink heart.”

That was enough to make Yelena sit up with a speed no one expected.

“Repeat that.”

“Sweetheart. That’s what it says.”

Walker raised an eyebrow, slowly making his way over, still twirling the knife in his hand.

“Wait. Barnes? The same guy who growls if we ask whether he sleeps? He has someone saved as ‘Sweetheart’?”

Alexei, now awake thanks to the noise, noticed the group’s focus on Bucky’s phone and shuffled over, scratching his beard.

In a matter of seconds, they were all gathered around the couch, standing in silence in front of the device like it was some kind of sacred artifact. No one dared to touch it—not even Walker.

The screen lit up again. Another message.

“Sweetheart💝: Is it cold out there? I’m making soup for us ☺️💗”

Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.

“Am I dreaming?” Yelena whispered, staring at the screen like it might explode. “Barnes has a girlfriend?”

“Or a very well-hidden fling,” Ava muttered. “Knowing him, this person probably lives in a bunker.”

Walker let out a low whistle, half-amused.

“That’s it. We’re finding out who this woman is.”

“Or man,” Yelena corrected.

“Or alien,” Alexei added, dramatic as ever.

“Whoever has the guts to send Barnes a heart emoji deserves to be studied.”

Ava shook her head slowly.

“You guys aren’t letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Yelena replied, already pulling out her own phone. “Time to plan a mission.”

Bucky, the moment he stepped back into the room, immediately sensed something was off.

It was too quiet. And not the usual kind of quiet—the kind that came when everyone was too tired to throw jabs at each other or fight over the couch. This was a different kind of silence. Staged. Artificial. Almost… too peaceful. Like they’d cleaned up a crime scene a little too fast before the cops arrived.

He paused for a second near the door, his eyes scanning the room.

Yelena sat on the couch, legs crossed, a cup of tea in her hands.

Ava—who practically lived with her headphones in—was without them. Sitting stiffly, her expression so neutral it practically screamed “I’m trying to act normal.”

Alexei was flipping through a magazine—upside down.

And John Walker was… smiling.

Bucky frowned.

“I fixed the issue with the transport,” he said flatly. “Just a problem with the hangar’s authentication system. It’s working now.”

“That’s good,” Ava replied—way too quickly.

“Nice,” Yelena added, sipping her tea with the forced elegance of someone pretending to be a civilized human being. “Very… efficient of you.”

Walker just nodded, still wearing that weird smile.

Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly, but didn’t say a word. He walked over to the couch and grabbed his phone from where he’d left it.

The screen was still warm.

“I’m heading out,” he muttered, more to himself than to them.

And just like that, he left the room.

The following weeks were… suspicious, to say the least.

Suddenly, the Thunderbolts seemed way too interested in Bucky’s personal life. And not the healthy, supportive kind of interest you’d expect from a functional team. No—this was nosy interest, badly disguised as “concern for team dynamics.”

Bob—the soft-spoken, nervous guy who usually preferred to keep his distance from anything involving tension or weapons—started showing up in the most random places. He was never actually doing anything, but somehow always managed to be around whenever Bucky was on the phone.

“Oh! Hey, didn’t know you were here, Bucky,” he’d say, straightening up as if he’d just remembered his posture, pretending to check the thermostat on the wall. “I just… thought it was getting kinda cold in here. Or hot. Either one. Doesn’t matter.”

The following week, he popped into the elevator right as Bucky ended a call—with a slight smile still hanging on his lips.

“Hi! I was just heading up to, uh… get a document. I think. Might be lost. But hey—what a coincidence, right?”

Bucky would just squint at him. Say nothing.

Yelena, on the other hand, went straight for it—in her own way.

“Barnes,” she started casually, walking beside him in the hallway. “You’ve been smiling at your phone. That’s new.”

He didn’t reply.

“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” she pressed, narrowing her eyes like she was trying to read him like a map.

“Don’t be paranoid.”

“Not paranoid. Observant,” she said, raising a brow. “I bet she likes books. You smell like the kind of man who’d fall for a reader.”

He ignored her. As usual.

But she didn’t stop.

“Does she live with you?”

“Does she snore?”

“Do you smile in your sleep because of her?”

“Has she seen your arm? The vibranium one, obviously.”

“Yelena.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, lifting her hands in mock surrender—smirking. “I’m just saying… anyone who makes the grumpy supersoldier smile over text has to be interesting.”

John Walker was… less subtle.

In the kitchen, on a random morning, while they were both grabbing coffee, he dropped:

“So, Barnes… ever cook for someone?”

The coffee hadn’t even started dripping and Bucky was already thinking about chucking the whole machine out the window.

“No.”

“Okay, okay. Just asking. You know. Love in the air and all.”

Even Ava, who never got involved in the team’s personal nonsense, made a surprisingly out-of-pocket comment during training.

“You seem… calmer lately.”

Bucky glanced over without missing a beat on the punching bag.

“That a problem?”

“No. Just weird.”

She paused, adjusting the wraps on her hands, then added in her usual deadpan tone:

“You look like you’re sleeping better.”

He froze for a second, jaw tight—then resumed punching, harder.

Nothing made sense.

And somehow, it all made perfect sense.

They were circling. Prodding. Trying to chip away at any piece of the life he kept hidden—

especially that part.

It was another late afternoon at the Thunderbolts base, and everyone was gathered in the main lounge.

The kind of unofficial meeting that only happens when no one has anything better to do and boredom spreads like invisible gas.

Yelena was on the couch, tossing popcorn in the air and trying to catch it with her mouth (failing miserably).

Ava was typing something on her phone with robotic focus, not lifting her eyes once.

Alexei was reading an old Captain America comic, glasses at the tip of his nose, wearing the most judgmental expression known to man.

Walker was scribbling in a notepad full of group training ideas—none of them good.

And Bob, as always, was pretending not to listen but very clearly was.

The door slid open with a soft sound. Combat boots echoed heavily on the floor.

Bucky walked in.

He stopped in the middle of the room.

Everyone turned to look at him, slowly, with that fake disinterest of people who were obviously expecting something but trying to act indifferent.

Bucky crossed his arms.

“I know everything.”

Silence.

Yelena was the first to react, placing a dramatic hand over her chest.

“Know what?”

Walker frowned, leaning forward.

“We don’t even know what you’re talking about, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” Bob mumbled, chewing a cookie slowly. “There are lots of… things someone could know. You know?”

Bucky stared at them. One by one. His expression judgmental enough to be almost comical.

No one said another word.

He sighed, uncrossed his arms, and started walking toward the center of the room.

“I know you’ve been trying to figure out who I’m talking to on the phone. I know you’ve been following me, eavesdropping on conversations, asking not-so-subtle questions. I know there’s even a name for the “operation.” And that you dragged Bob into it.”

Bob raised his hands in surrender. Said nothing.

“And?” Yelena asked, resting her chin in her hand. “You gonna hit us?”

“ Thought about it. Still considering it,” he replied dryly.

Ava gave a small smirk.

“So… are you gonna tell us?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. His gaze distant, like he was deciding whether opening that door was worth it. But when he spoke again, his voice was firm.

“Her name is Y/n. We’ve been together for three years.”

A pause.

A long one.

Not an awkward silence. But the kind that means something. The kind that happens when everyone finally stops pretending and actually listens.

Yelena blinked. Twice.

“Three years?”

Walker let out a low whistle, leaning back in the armchair.

“ And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Of course not.” Bucky looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “ Because I like peace. I like the life I have with her. And because you all,” he pointed slowly, finger turning in the air “can’t even keep a frozen sausage in the freezer without turning it into a civil war.”

“That was one time,” Alexei muttered.

“You’re chaos. And she’s everything that’s not that. I kept you out of her life on purpose.”

Ava simply nodded, like she understood. Bob let out a soft “hmm” of agreement. Yelena, though clearly surprised, didn’t seem offended.

It was the kind of truth that, coming from Bucky, made sense. He wasn’t the type to overshare. Every part of him was guarded, measured, protected.

But now… he was giving them a piece.

Walker was the first to speak again, voice curious, almost respectful:

“And why now?”

Bucky looked around. And exhaled.

“Because you’re not going to stop. You’re gonna keep snooping, asking dumb questions, turning this base into a bad reality show… so I’m ending it my way”

“And what way is that?” Yelena asked, already smiling.

He took a deep breath, defeated.

“I’m taking you to meet her.”

A spark lit up in everyone’s eyes.

“But listen up. You’re going to behave. No stupid comments. No invasive questions. No fake bonding attempts. Got it?”

“Barnes,” Yelena said, offended “ do we look like people who wouldn’t behave?”

He stared at her. Long. Direct.

“Yes.”

Yelena snorted.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

Bucky shook his head and turned to leave the room.

“Tonight. Get ready. No weird outfits. And Walker, for the love of God, don’t try to intimidate anyone.”

“I’m literally the friendliest person here!” Walker protested.

“That’s tragic.” Ava muttered.

Yelena was already grinning like she’d been waiting for this day for years.

And Bucky, even while groaning, even while rolling his eyes at every step…

deep down, he knew.

Maybe—just maybe—it was time to open that part of his life.

To show them that even the Winter Soldier was capable of love.

The group stood in front of Bucky’s apartment door like they were on a school field trip.

Yelena was chewing gum calmly. Walker adjusted the collar of his jacket. Bob looked way too nervous, hands shoved in his pockets, one foot tapping anxiously on the floor. Ava stayed impassive, but her eyes were sharp. Alexei held a potted plant he’d brought as a “gift” — no one asked for it, but he was determined.

Bucky, standing in front of the door, took a deep breath and turned to the group with that classic “if you mess this up, I will make you disappear” face.

“Okay. A few rules, and listen close because I’m not repeating myself,” he began, voice low and firm. “No yelling. No weird comments. No invasive questions. Keep your voices down. And for the love of God, don’t try to act too cool. You’re not.”

Bob raised his hand like they were in school.

“And if she, like… offers tea?”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Say thank you and accept. Like a normal adult.”

Yelena grinned slightly.

“Relax, Barnes. We’re gonna be nice. Zero chaos.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You are the chaos.”

“But adorable chaos.”

Without another word, Bucky unlocked the door.

He turned the handle. And called out, in a voice softer than the team had ever heard from him:

“Babe? I’m home.”

A few eyes widened. Babe? Did he just say babe?

From deeper inside the apartment, a sweet, calm voice responded:

“I’m in the kitchen!”

And then you appeared.

You walked over with relaxed steps, like you already knew they were there.

You wore dark jeans that fit snugly and a black long-sleeve turtleneck, the soft fabric looking even cozier with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows. Your hair was tied in a messy bun — the kind that looked thrown together, but somehow still perfect.

You were smiling — that kind of smile that warms up a whole room better than any heater.

When you saw Bucky, you went straight to him and kissed him on the lips — slow, unfazed, just that kind of soft, simple affection from someone who loves without needing to prove anything.

“I’m glad you’re home, honey,” you said, gently fixing the collar of his shirt.

Only then did you notice the group behind him.

Five faces. Staring. Some clearly surprised, others pretending not to be — and failing.

You looked at them all, still wearing that gentle smile, and spoke naturally:

“So… you’re the Thunderbolts?”

A short pause.

“Bucky told me about you.”

And, without hesitation, you stepped forward with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Yelena glanced at Walker. Walker glanced at Ava. Bob froze for a solid two seconds.

Bucky closed the door slowly, silently saying: Now that you’re here, choose your words carefully.

While he did that, you were already approaching the group with the same steady, warm energy of someone who knew how to break the ice — and maybe, secretly, already knew who each of them was.

You greeted each of them with a warm smile.

First, you offered your hand to Ava, who hesitated for a second, then returned the handshake with a slight nod. Then, you exchanged a knowing glance with Yelena, who immediately said,“You’re prettier than I expected.”

You just laughed, naturally.

Walker went in for the classic exaggerated handshake, and you matched it without flinching — smiling like you could already read him inside out.

Bob, nervous, nearly tripped over his own foot, and you instinctively caught his arm before anything happened, like you already knew it would.

Lastly, Alexei — the gentle giant — held out the plant, wrapped in what looked like improvised gift paper. His smile was awkward, like he wasn’t sure how to be cute but was trying anyway.

“Uh… this is for you. A gift. Bucky said you liked plants.”

Your eyes lit up as you took the pot, genuinely excited.

“I love it! My plants are going to be so happy to have a new friend,” you said, looking at the gift with pure joy.

Then you turned to Bucky with a bright look.

He returned it with a smile no one in the room had seen before — calm, loving… almost young again.

You turned back to the group, eyes shining:

“Please, make yourselves at home. Dinner’s ready… and the brownies are just a few more minutes.”

Yelena muttered, “She makes brownies?” already halfway convinced she’d just met the perfect woman.

As everyone started to explore the cozy apartment, Bucky stayed close to you — like he still didn’t completely trust the five of them not to break something… or ask you a hundred weird questions.

But you, with your calm voice and steady smile, didn’t seem fazed.

You chatted cheerfully, asking if the food was okay, if the seasoning was too strong, if they wanted water, wine, or both.

You had a way about you — that kind of grounding presence that made it feel like you could balance their collective chaos with just a look.

Bucky just watched.

A little tense, yes, but with that expression that said: You’ve got this.

Yelena, on the other hand, wandered around to take in the environment with genuine interest.

The place had soul.

A deep red vintage couch sat in the center of the room, with warm-toned cushions carefully arranged. In front of it, a rustic wooden coffee table held a vase of fresh flowers — daisies and lavender, probably picked by you yourself. A fluffy brown rug warmed the space underfoot.

But what caught Yelena’s attention was the pale marble bookshelf off to the side.

There were a few picture frames.

One showed you and Bucky on what looked like a trip — somewhere in Europe, maybe?

You smiled at the camera, arms around Bucky, who had his head turned to kiss your cheek. Sunlight framed the whole photo. There was peace in it.

Another frame, tucked in a corner, showed Bucky in black and white — clearly from the 1940s, probably during his military service. He looked… different. Softer. A boy trying to be a man.

But it was the last photo that made Yelena narrow her eyes. A group shot.

You were in it, but looked younger — hair down, laughing at something off-camera.

Around you were five very unusual people:

A red-haired girl with fierce eyes.

A guy with spiky white hair and a mischievous grin.

A Chinese girl with neon pink hoops and a yellow coat.

A serious-looking boy with glasses that looked way too high-tech to be normal.

And finally… a blue-skinned man with lizard-like features, yellow eyes, and a shy, gentle expression.

Yelena blinked twice.

They were definitely not normal.

She kept it to herself. For now.

She simply stepped away from the shelf and returned to the table.

Soon after, everyone was seated around a large dinner table — plates served, wine glasses clinking, the comforting smell of home-cooked food filling the apartment.

The warm lighting from the overhead lamp made everything feel softer.

Conversation flowed with rare ease for this group — like, just for a moment, they actually were home.

You served the last few side dishes and smiled:

“Hope you’re all hungry. Oh the brownies are almost done, too. Just a few more minutes.”

As you sat down, Yelena gave Bucky a long, amused look. He pulled your chair for you, brushed his hand down your back, and sat beside you with a small, content smile.

The meal was served, the food warm, the scent of spices and fresh bread floating in the air.

Everyone slowly started to relax.

You, ever the gentle host, went around asking if anyone wanted seconds, offering more salad, more rice, more of anything.

Bucky remained quiet beside you.

Always watching. Always present.

Bob, now two glasses of wine deep, took a generous bite of lentil rice.

It tasted like comfort. Like real food made with care. “God, this is amazing. I should ask for the recipe. Or just offer to live in the kitchen cabinet. Would she let me?”

And then, without even glancing at him, you replied, completely serene:

“No, Bob. I don’t allow people to live in my kitchen cabinets.”

Silence.

Instant silence.

Everyone froze.

Forks in mid-air. A wine glass halfway to someone’s lips.

Bob blinked. Twice.

“I… I said that out loud?”

You gave a soft smile, no explanation.

You just kept serving salad onto your own plate, like nothing had happened.

“What?” Yelena asked, brows knitting together.

Bucky didn’t even look up from his plate. He just muttered:

“She’s a telepath.”

The word lingered in the air like smoke.

Walker nearly choked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Ava just observed. She didn’t look shocked — but she was definitely focused now.

“Telepath? Like, you read minds?” Yelena asked, already way too intrigued. “Since when?”

You finally looked at them, that calm expression still your trademark.

“Since always. But I control it. I promise I don’t go around reading everyone’s minds… unless you think really loud”

You threw Bob a teasing look. He sank into his chair, utterly defeated.

“That’s not fair,” he mumbled, hiding behind his napkin. “My brain is noisy.”

“So that’s why Barnes kept you hidden all this time,” Walker muttered, still trying to process.

Bucky took a sip of wine like he was remembering exactly why.

“One of the reasons.”

“She’s officially cooler than all of us,” Yelena said, helping herself to more mashed potatoes. “Just saying.”

You smiled, accepting it like it was the simplest compliment in the world.

You continued chatting with them in that same soft, steady way — answering each question with patience and a little affection. Bucky stayed close, always watching, always alert, like he filtered every question before it reached you. Not out of suspicion… it was just his way. And you knew that.

The questions came from a softer place now. Not curiosity laced with judgment, but genuine interest. Almost excitement.

And you didn’t mind. You welcomed it.

As dinner went on, you started sharing a little about your life — your way.

You told them about the X-Mansion, where you grew up.

How your powers showed up early, and how Professor Xavier helped guide you with empathy.

You didn’t dramatize it. You just spoke like someone who had survived something hard and was now proud of it.

They listened. Really listened.

You mentioned your friends — the ones from the photo — and explained that it was taken during the Professor’s birthday party.

Jean had insisted on a photo with everyone before the celebration started.

It was one of those chaotic, happy days where everyone looked exhausted and laughing.

That photo captured it perfectly.

And then, without anyone needing to ask, you explained how you ended up in New York.

The accident that brought you into this universe.

No suspense, no melodrama. Just a story. A piece of your past.

Bucky, beside you, kept listening — jaw occasionally tight, his thumb rubbing gently across your leg under the table.

And they listened. With full plates and wide eyes, they listened to someone who held so much more than she showed.

By the end of it, the mood at the table had shifted.

Calmer. Closer.

Plates were empty.

The smell of brownies baking in the oven was already drifting through the air — warm, sweet, comforting. The kind of smell that makes you forget, for a second, that the world is harsh.

You stood up with a smile, brushing your hand over Bucky’s shoulder as you passed by.

“ The brownies are probably done,” you said, casually disappearing into the kitchen.

The second you were out of sight, Yelena turned in her chair, arm draped over the backrest, smirking.

“ Ohhh, now I get why you kept her from us, Barnes…”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, already bracing himself.

“ A woman like that? Honestly. I’d have kept her hidden too.”

Bucky muttered a low “Yelena…”

But he couldn’t quite hide the little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Seconds later, you returned holding a simple ceramic tray, lined with golden, steaming brownies — some with cracked edges, others with gooey melted chocolate still glistening.

You placed them at the center of the table and sat down, grabbing a dish towel to protect your fingers.

It didn’t take ten seconds for everyone to dive in.

The compliments rolled in fast. One after the other.

You laughed, adjusting your messy bun, a little shy with so much praise.

You explained the recipe was a gift from Jean — from a sleepover years ago. She insisted baking would be therapeutic. And it was. The recipe stuck.

Everyone kept eating, talking with their mouths full, fighting over the last piece.

As the night wound down, people began to rise one by one — grabbing jackets, offering thanks, the kind of cozy chaos that comes with the end of a good visit.

You helped collect jackets, walked each one to the door, thanking them.

“ And thank you again for the plant, Alexei,” you said sweetly, holding the pot carefully.

He turned a bit red and mumbled a quiet “It was nothing” before joining the others down the hall.

Walker gave a lazy “Good night.”

Bob complimented the brownies for the fourth time.

Ava nodded with a small smile.

Yelena? She just said, “See you soon, future best friend.”

You laughed.

After a few more waves and hurried goodbyes, the door finally shut.

And it was like flipping a switch.

Bucky’s large hands were on your waist the next second, pulling you close — not roughly, but with that kind of firm tenderness he only ever had with you. The grip was solid, warm, like he’d waited all night for this.

You turned in his arms, smiling, and your lips met in a slow, deep kiss — the kind that says I’m here, I’m yours, completely.

When the kiss broke, you stayed close, your hands resting on his chest beneath the soft black shirt.

“ You did great,” he murmured, voice low and husky in that way he only sounded when his heart was soft.

You giggled gently, barely a whisper, your eyes locked with his.

“ Think they liked me?”

Bucky gave a crooked little smile.

“ Yelena was flirting with you.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

“ Really? I thought she was sweet.”

“ Too sweet,” he muttered, already pulling you even closer.

The next kiss was different.

Hotter. Needier.

The kind you hold back all night, wishing you were alone sooner.

His hands slid down your back, gripping your ass firmly.

A soft breath escaped you mid-kiss, your whole body already melting into his.

When the kiss finally ended, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

His breath was warm, a little heavier — like the whole day was finally behind him, left right here in your arms.

“ I missed you…,” he whispered, voice rough and low.

“ We’re alone now,” you replied with a lazy, smiling tone.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes locked on yours.

He reached for the collar of your shirt — that soft black fabric of your turtleneck — and slowly pushed it down, exposing your neck.

Carefully. Like unwrapping something he already knew by heart.

Without saying a word, he leaned in and began placing slow kisses there. One by one.

Warm. Lingering.

His lips pressing just enough to leave your eyes fluttering shut and your skin flushed.

He knew exactly where to kiss.

Exactly how.

And you knew — the night was only just beginning.

[brookghaib-blog]

I Wish You Knew

Pairing: James 'Bucky' Barnes x reader

Summary: After losing her husband under mysterious circumstances, Y/N builds a quiet life in Brooklyn, finding unexpected comfort in two neighbors: Yori and his friend Bucky Barnes. As her bond with Bucky deepens, she begins to heal—unaware that he’s hiding a dark secret: he was the one who killed her husband.

Word count: 5,9k

Warning: Heartbreak, unrequited love, mentions of death/ murder

--

The sun had already started to slip beneath the Brooklyn skyline by the time Bucky made his way up the creaking staircase to your apartment, his boots falling heavily on the old wood. He took them slow—more out of habit than fatigue—because part of him still treated every shadow like it might move. Even in peace, his steps were quiet. Watchful.

His therapy session had run short.

Or rather—he’d cut it short. The doctor had mentioned the “amends list” again, and Bucky had sat there with his jaw clenched so tight it had ached. There were too many names. Too much weight in each one. And though he tried to be present—answer the questions, repeat the exercises—he found his mind drifting back to your voice, your laugh, the way your forehead crinkled when you got annoyed at the sink water pressure.

You’d told him to come by around six-thirty, after you got home from work. But now, it was just past six. He had forty-five minutes to kill. And instead of doing laps around the block like he usually did, he climbed your stairs.

Third floor. Apartment 3B.

Your door had become one of the only constants in his life lately. He’d memorized the little scratch beneath the peephole, the faint ring left behind from an old sticker, the scent of cinnamon that sometimes lingered in the hallway when you baked. The world outside felt jagged and too fast, but here… here, it slowed.

He knocked twice—soft, out of instinct—and waited.

Nothing.

He hesitated. Then tried the handle.

Unlocked.

He stepped inside gently, closing the door behind him. The air inside was warm, scented faintly with clean cotton and something else—something distinctly you. He always noticed it when he was here. Not perfume, but your skin maybe, your shampoo. Something sweet, steady.

The bags of groceries were already on the counter, neatly arranged but unopened, like you'd only just dropped them there.

He frowned. “Y/N?”

The apartment was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge and the rhythmic drip from the shower beyond the hallway. A smile tugged at his lips, uninvited. You were home early too.

Of course you were. You always rushed when you knew he was coming.

He moved silently into the kitchen, fingers brushing the top of a paper bag. Apples, rice, pasta, two cans of soup—everything was familiar. He could practically hear your voice from two days ago: “I’ll carry everything if I have to, but I’m not eating instant noodles three nights in a row, Bucky. I mean it.”

He didn’t answer out loud, but he chuckled—just a little.

This had become a ritual. After his therapy sessions, he’d help you unpack the groceries, stay for dinner, sometimes fix the creaking cabinet door you kept ignoring. You’d tell him about customers from work, the guy who ordered five iced lattes every Monday morning or the old lady who gave you hand-knit potholders. You’d talk. And he’d listen.

Sometimes, when you weren’t looking, he’d let himself watch you. Not in a creepy way—he hoped—but in that quiet, reverent way only someone who hadn’t known softness in a long time could.

He didn’t know what this was between you. Didn’t dare ask. But whatever it was, he didn’t want it to end.

He moved through the apartment like he belonged there, pausing at the small entry table by the front door where you always left your keys and sunglasses. A picture frame sat beside them—one he hadn’t seen before.

He leaned down slightly. It was a photo of you and an older man. Gray-haired, kind-eyed, with his arm slung around your shoulders. You were smiling, pressed close to his side. Whoever he was, he meant something to you. Maybe a father. Maybe more.

Bucky didn’t let himself linger on it. He knew that everyone had someone. A before. A grief. God knows he had his.

The bathroom door opened, startling him from his thoughts.

You stepped out, towel wrapped around your hair, wearing an old sweatshirt that hit mid-thigh, sleeves too long for your hands. You looked surprised, then relieved, then warm all in a single breath.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft with steam. “You’re early.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Therapist let me out early. Thought I’d start on the groceries.”

You nodded, tightening the towel on your head. “That’s code for ‘I was losing my mind and needed to hear someone talk about oat milk and office drama,’ isn’t it?”

He smirked. “Maybe.”

Your eyes crinkled at the edges as you laughed, padding past him into the kitchen, the heat from your shower still clinging to your skin. You reached for one of the bags, but his metal hand got there first.

“I got it,” he said, quieter now. “Sit down.”

You gave him a look, mock-offended. “I’m not an invalid, Barnes.”

“No,” he agreed, “but I’m stubborn.”

You leaned your elbows on the counter, watching him unpack. You loved the way his hands—especially the metal one—handled delicate things. Eggs. Fruit. A box of tea. Like he was afraid of breaking them. You wondered if he even realized he did it.

“So,” you said after a moment, “how was therapy?”

He hesitated, just slightly. “Same. She said I’m doing ‘fine.’ Whatever that means.”

You studied his profile. “You don’t feel fine? Or are you lying to not tell what she actually said Mr.Barnes?”

“Fine’s a placeholder. Not good. Not bad. Just…” He trailed off.

“Stuck?” you offered gently.

His eyes met yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Yeah.”

There was a silence then. But it wasn’t awkward. It never was with you.

“I can make soup tonight,” you said, standing up. “Or I can burn rice and pretend it was intentional. Dealer’s choice.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You know I’d eat whatever you made.”

You paused—briefly, carefully—because your chest ached a little at the way he said that.

--

You moved about the kitchen barefoot, humming a little under your breath as you pulled utensils from drawers and opened the fridge, searching for butter. The sleeves of your sweatshirt kept falling past your wrists. Bucky sat at the small table near the window, his vibranium hand resting under the wood, hidden like it always was.

You never asked him about it.

You’d never even seen it.

Not really.

He wore gloves most of the time. Long sleeves always. Sometimes even a jacket indoors when he felt the world getting too close. You’d offered once—months ago—to hang it for him. He’d stiffened, politely declined, and you never asked again.

You didn’t ask questions.

You didn’t pry.

And that—God, that was part of why it was so easy to stay. Too easy.

Because here you were, brushing your hair out of your face with a flour-dusted hand, talking to him like he was just a man. Just a neighbor. Just someone who liked his tea hot and his eggs scrambled and who sometimes stared at the floor when the world got too loud.

You didn’t know what his hands had done. What they still remembered. You didn’t know he wasn’t just some man with a past—he was the shadow that stole yours.

And Bucky—he had to live with that.

He watched you now, his gaze locked on your back as you stretched up on your toes to grab a spice jar. He should look away. He always should. But the ache inside him was like muscle memory now—dull, constant, something you got used to until it caught fire again.

You were supposed to be a name on a list.

Just a name.

Just someone he needed to say sorry to, to check off in pen with his therapist and never speak to again. But you smiled at him. Talked to him like he was worth the breath in your lungs. Called him Bucky.

And he—he couldn’t stay away.

He shouldn’t have come back after the first time.

But then you’d left a note on his door.

"If you want, I made extra pasta. Come by."

And now he was here nearly every week.

He could still hear the sound of the bullet. He’d been in and out like a phantom, another name scribbled on a red-stained report. Begged for mercy before he shot him in the chest. A mission, they called it. A ghost hit. Clean. Cold.

He hadn’t known your name then.

But he knew it now.

And it broke him.

Every time you laughed—he wondered if your husband used to be the one to make you laugh that way.

Every time your hand brushed his arm when passing a plate—he wondered if your husband used to sleep beside you in the very bed just down the hall.

Every time you talked about your day, about the stupid customers or the leaky faucet or the garbage that never went out on time—he wondered if your husband ever got to hear your voice so full of life.

He wondered how much he had taken from you.

And he waited.

Every single time he sat at this table, or carried groceries, or offered to screw in the lightbulb you couldn’t reach—he waited for the moment your smile would falter, your eyes would narrow, and you’d say his name.

Not Bucky, but his name. The Winter Soldier.

The man who killed your husband. The man you were supposed to hate.

But that moment never came.

You never mentioned your husband. Not once.

--

The wind had picked up in Brooklyn. Bitter and sharp, it scraped against Bucky’s jacket as he walked the familiar few blocks to Yori’s apartment. The chill didn’t bother him. He barely felt it these days. Most things barely registered lately—except the ache that bloomed in his chest every time he thought about you.

Which meant it was constant.

He didn’t even know why he’d come tonight. There was no game waiting. No plan. Just a need. A pull toward someone steady. Someone who didn’t flinch when Bucky went too quiet, too still.

Yori opened the door after one knock, scowling in that fond, tired way he always did.

“You’re late.”

“I wasn’t supposed to come,” Bucky replied.

“Then you’re early.”

The old man stepped aside, and Bucky entered without a word. The apartment was warm and dimly lit. The TV played a black-and-white rerun low in the background. There was no tea yet. No game board out. But it didn’t matter. Bucky wasn’t here for distraction tonight.

He was here because his chest was full of questions he couldn’t ask anyone else.

Because ever since you smiled at him across your dinner table and asked him, for the fourth time, to go out with you—something inside him had cracked wide open.

And it hadn’t stopped bleeding since.

He sat down stiffly on the couch while Yori shuffled into the kitchen. The clang of mugs. The hiss of a kettle. It all felt so normal—so real—and yet Bucky was detached from it, floating above his own life like he was watching someone else drown in it.

When Yori returned, tea in hand, Bucky took his mug and stared into it.

Silence stretched between them. Familiar. Easy.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

“She ever talk about her past?”

Yori didn’t pretend not to know who he meant.

“Y/N?”

Bucky nodded once.

Yori thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Not much. She talks about work. Customers. The weather. You.”

The last word twisted something in Bucky’s gut.

“She ever… mention someone?” he asked, voice careful. “A man? Someone she was with, maybe?”

There was a pause. Yori looked over his glasses at him. “You mean like a boyfriend?”

“Or a husband.”

Yori shook his head. “Never mentioned one.”

Bucky’s heart thudded once, slow and loud.

“She talks about her daughter,” Yori added, sipping his tea. “Aurora.”

That name stopped Bucky cold.

“What?” he asked.

“Her kid. You didn’t know?”

Bucky tried to keep his expression neutral, but something flickered across his face, because Yori added:

“She doesn’t bring her up often. Just little things.”

“I’ve… I’ve been in her apartment,” Bucky said slowly, trying to piece it together. “There’s no sign of a kid. No toys. No photos. Nothing.”

Yori gave a small shrug. “Maybe she’s not with her. Or maybe she keeps it private. Not everyone wants reminders sitting out. Especially if the wound’s still fresh.”

The words hit Bucky like a slap.

A wound. Fresh.

His hands trembled slightly around the mug, and he gripped it tighter, trying to ground himself. His brain was spinning—cycling through every memory he had of you. Every laugh. Every quiet sigh. Every time your voice went soft with something unsaid. Every night you cooked him dinner like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

And he’d been too blind, too caught in his own guilt and fear, to see the shape of your grief.

You never mentioned a husband.

Never brought up Aurora unless it was casual, small, like saying her name too loud might summon a ghost you couldn’t bear to face.

And somehow… that hurt worse.

Because it meant you were alone. It meant you were still bleeding.

And Bucky—he wasn’t just the reason your husband was dead.

He was the reason your daughter would grow up without a father.

He stood suddenly, too fast, nearly knocking the mug off the table. Yori looked up at him, frowning.

“Bucky?”

“I have to go,” Bucky muttered.

“You just got here.”

“I know.”

He grabbed his coat, breath shallow, throat tight.

“Is everything alright?”

No.

Nothing was alright.

Everything was ruined.

And it was his fault.

But Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was already halfway down the hall, boots heavy on old wood, his hands clenched in fists he couldn’t unclench. His ears rang. The name—Aurora—echoed in his skull like a warning bell.

He walked out into the cold, but it wasn’t cold enough to numb him.

That night, he walked for hours.

Past your apartment.

Past the bakery, dark and shuttered.

Past parks and alleyways and sidewalks haunted by a hundred versions of himself he couldn’t escape.

He pictured your little girl. Never seen, never mentioned. Just a whisper in your stories. Just a memory behind your eyes when you went quiet mid-sentence. What color were her eyes? Did she look like you? Did she ask why her dad never came home?

He couldn’t bear it.

He’d thought he’d known what he stole from you.

But now he understood.

It wasn’t just a man’s life.

It was a future. A family. A girl’s father. Your partner. Your peace. And despite every “no” he gave you when you invited him out, every boundary he built to keep things safe, he’d let himself feel like he was still allowed to be close to you.

Like there was still a version of the world where you might choose him.

But that world had died with the man Bucky killed.

And now, every time you looked at him, smiling like there was something soft growing between you, it felt like a lie.

Because if you ever found out who he really was—what he’d done—you wouldn’t just stop smiling at him.

You’d hate him.

And worse—you’d be right to.

--

He didn’t mean to stop texting her. Not at first.

It started small—missing a reply by a few hours, telling himself he’d answer later, once his head stopped spinning, once he could breathe without guilt crowding out his ribs. But later never came. The days started folding in on themselves, and Bucky found it easier to ignore his phone altogether than to face the message waiting at the top of the screen.

Y/N. That was all it said. Just her name.

But her name alone twisted something in him.

He’d read her last text a dozen times. A cupcake photo. Some kid’s sugar-crazed masterpiece that looked more like a threat than dessert. “Tell me this isn’t the most terrifying cupcake you’ve ever seen.” There was a laughing emoji. So her. So innocent. So unprepared for the storm unraveling inside him.

He smiled the first time he read it. The last time, he nearly cried.

He didn’t answer.

Because two days before that message, he’d sat across from Yori and heard her daughter’s name for the first time—Aurora—and it felt like the floor had been ripped out from under him. She had a daughter. A child. A whole human being depending on her, existing because of a man Bucky had killed.

The knowledge hadn’t stopped echoing since.

He thought he knew guilt. He thought he’d made peace with what he’d done in some distant, clinical way. But this was different. This was new. Crushing. Because it wasn’t just about Y/N anymore. It was about the little girl who’d never see her father’s face again. And the mother who had somehow survived that grief and still made space in her life for someone like him.

And he couldn’t take that space anymore. Not when it wasn’t his to hold.

He didn’t deserve to be near her.

So he backed away.

At first, it felt like the right thing. Like protection. Mercy. Every time he stayed quiet, it was a way of keeping her safe—from the truth, from him, from the thousand ways he could ruin her again. But the silence grew heavier by the day, until it wrapped around him like chains. It became easier to disappear completely than to face what he’d done. What he was.

She texted again a few days later.

“Hey, are you okay? You didn’t come by.” A pause. Then another message: “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll leave your favorite muffins in the freezer again just in case.”

He read both. Didn’t reply.

Instead, he tossed his phone on the couch, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and sat in the dark for over an hour.

The thing was, he missed her. He missed her so much it made his chest ache. He missed the way she said his name, soft and teasing. The way she always had flour on her cheek at the end of a workday. The way she looked at him—like he was someone worth knowing, someone worth waiting for. That look was the worst of all. He didn’t deserve it. He never had.

And the longer he stayed silent, the more he hated himself for it.

But the alternative—telling her—felt impossible. How could he sit across from her and say, I killed the father of your child? How could he look her in the eyes and admit that the life she could have had, the partner she lost, the future she buried, were all ripped away by his hand?

He knew the answer.

He couldn’t.

He tried to keep moving. Walked the streets for hours. Stopped going to the café, stopped seeing Yori. Even therapy started feeling like a lie, every session just another performance. He couldn’t say the truth out loud. That he had found something good. Something close to love. And then destroyed it—by staying. And by leaving.

And still, the texts came.

Not many. She was respectful like that. She didn’t want to be a burden. But she was worried. He could hear it in her choice of words, the gentle hesitations.

“I hope you’re alright.” “If I did something… just tell me.” “I’m not mad, I just… I miss you.”

That last one made him crumble. It came at two in the morning. He read it with trembling hands, sitting on the edge of his bed with his feet on the floor, staring at the wall like if he focused hard enough, he could somehow erase the past.

He didn’t answer. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. He typed out a dozen messages, none of them good enough. None of them honest.

“I’m sorry.” “It’s not you.” “You deserve better.”

But none of them said the thing he really needed to say: “I killed the man you loved.” “I am the reason your daughter won’t ever hear her father’s voice.” “And I still had the audacity to sit at your table, eat your food, and fall for you anyway.”

He deleted every draft. Let the screen go dark. And told himself he was doing the right thing.

But it didn’t feel right.

It felt like slowly dying.

He walked past her building once. Late at night, hood up, head down. He looked up out of instinct, just once—and her window was open. Warm light spilled out. He could hear her voice, faint but clear, talking to someone on the phone. She was laughing. It should have been a comfort. It wasn’t.

Because it meant she was still hoping.

And he was still breaking her heart.

But this was the only way he knew how to protect her.

To let her heal in peace.

To suffer alone.

The space between them grew wider with each day that passed. It stretched like a wound, never healing. A slow, suffocating kind of agony. But Bucky held onto it like penance. Like a shield. Because if she ever found out the truth, she wouldn’t just stop loving him.

She would never forgive him.

And he knew, deep down, that he didn’t deserve to be forgiven.

--

Y/N’s POV

It started with something small—an unanswered message, a missed visit. Nothing serious at first. He’d been late before. He’d missed texts too, though not often. You weren’t worried that evening when he didn’t show up. You made dinner anyway, like you always did on Thursdays. You lit the candles, set out two plates, put on the playlist he liked—the one you’d made after the third night he came over and told you your music taste reminded him of old radio stations in the ‘40s. You waited. Checked the door. Stirred the pasta again even though it didn’t need it. You sent a quick message: “Hey, you still coming?” and set your phone down with a smile.

That smile didn’t last long.

The minutes stretched into hours. The pasta dried up. You put his plate in the fridge and told yourself maybe therapy had run long, or maybe he needed some space. You understood that. He didn’t talk much about what happened in those sessions, but the look in his eyes after them said more than words ever could. He always seemed heavier afterward—tired in a way that no amount of food or kindness could really fix.

But then he didn’t show up the next day either. Or the one after that.

You sent another message after the second day. A little softer this time, with less expectation.

“I hope you’re okay. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll leave your favorite muffins in the freezer again, just in case.”

Still nothing. Not even a read receipt.

It wasn’t like him. Bucky had never been clingy or overly expressive, but he was consistent. Gentle. Present. And now, all you had was silence. It filled the apartment like smoke—clinging to the walls, curling under doors, seeping into every corner you’d once shared.

You tried not to take it personally at first. You told yourself he was probably going through something. That maybe he just needed time. Everyone has their shadows, you thought. And Bucky—he had more than most.

But even knowing that didn’t make the absence any easier to sit with.

Especially when you realized you missed him more than you should have. More than made sense for someone who never once called you his.

By the fifth day, it started hurting. Not just the silence, but the confusion. You’d been careful with him. You hadn’t pushed. You hadn’t crossed boundaries. You’d offered your company and your friendship, sometimes more—quietly, gently—but never demanded anything in return. Every time you invited him out somewhere, even just to grab a coffee or try that new Italian place you mentioned a hundred times, you knew it might be too much. And every time he gave you that small, tight smile and said, “Maybe next time,” you told yourself you understood.

But you still hoped for a yes.

And now, you weren’t even getting a no.

You kept your phone charged, carried it from room to room like it might buzz if you held it just right. You typed out three different texts one night and deleted all of them before you could hit send. You didn’t want to seem needy. You didn’t want to seem like you were begging for crumbs. But a part of you already knew—something had changed.

Maybe he had changed his mind about you. Maybe he never had intentions beyond what it already was. Maybe he had regrets, or ghosts, or worse—maybe you were just someone he leaned on until he could stand without you.

By the second week, the silence started to bleed into other parts of your life. You burned a batch of croissants at work. You forgot to order flour. You stayed late even when the shop was empty, cleaning surfaces that didn’t need it just to keep from going home to a quiet kitchen and an unopened message thread.

Maria noticed. She didn’t ask, just handed you coffee with an extra pump of vanilla and said, “Rough week?” You nodded and smiled like it was just the weather. But it wasn’t. It was the ache of waiting for someone who had clearly already left, just without saying goodbye.

The worst part was that he hadn’t even given you a reason. No fight, no cold shoulder. No awkward confession or apology. Just distance. One step back, then two, then gone.

You cried for the first time on the fifteenth night.

You’d stayed late at the bakery again. Came home to leftovers you didn’t want and wine you poured just for something to do. You opened the freezer for ice and saw the bag of muffins you’d labeled for him—your messy handwriting in sharpie, a skull doodle beside his name because he once told you your “biker pastry bags” made him laugh.

You sat down on the kitchen floor and let the freezer stay open. The cold bit at your legs, but you didn’t move. The tears came slow at first, and then all at once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady, quiet crying that left you feeling hollow afterward. It wasn’t just about him not showing up. It was about feeling foolish. About the way you had let your guard down, brick by careful brick, and built something soft in the space between you—only for it to vanish the moment it seemed real.

You didn’t text him again after that. What was the point?

He had made his choice, whether he meant to or not.

And you had to live with it.

You cleaned the muffins out of the freezer the next day and gave them to your neighbor. You stopped looking at your phone after 10 p.m. You tried not to flinch when someone walked past the café in a leather jacket that looked like his. You tried not to think about how long it would take before the smell of his cologne finally faded from your couch pillows.

But everything still reminded you of him.

The books he’d browsed on your shelves. The way he’d always lean against your kitchen doorway while you cooked. The way he once looked at you like he wanted to tell you something and never did.

You didn’t know if he was ever coming back. Which hurt more than it should. She may have a silly crush, but for a long time in years Bucky was the only consistent friend she had. The only consistent company.

And that loneliness was getting to her.

--

Y/N tried not to go. For days, she stood in front of her door with her hand on her keys and told herself it was pointless. That if he wanted to be found, he wouldn’t have disappeared. That if he wanted to talk to her, he would have answered any of her messages. But even with all those excuses lined up like armor, they didn’t stop the ache. And the ache—quiet, constant, crawling under her skin—kept pulling her toward him like gravity.

The worst part was she didn’t even want to fight. She just wanted to understand. She wanted to see his face, hear something—anything—that would explain why he had gone so cold so suddenly. Even a lie would’ve been better than the silence. Silence left too much room for her own imagination, and lately, her mind had become its own battlefield.

So she went.

After work, still in her flour-dusted jeans and a sweater that smelled like espresso and cinnamon, she found herself walking the now-familiar blocks to his apartment. She’d done this twice before in the last week, and both times, he hadn’t been home. Or maybe he was and just didn’t answer. That thought stung worse than it should’ve.

But this time felt different. Final, maybe.

She climbed the steps to his building slowly, dragging her hand along the rusted railing like it could steady her. She knocked twice. Then a third time. No answer.

She waited.

She even called out softly—“Bucky?”—but her voice sounded strange in the hallway, like it didn’t belong to her anymore. After a few minutes, her hands fell back to her sides. She stood there, not ready to leave, not ready to accept that maybe he was really, truly gone.

And then it hit her—Mr. Nakajima.

She knew they were close. Bucky always softened when he spoke about him, and she remembered how fondly the old man talked about their lunches, the routine they'd built together. If anyone had seen him—if anyone still mattered to him—it was Yori.

Maybe he’d know something.

She walked the extra block and a half before her body could convince her brain to back out. She wasn’t sure what she was even hoping for—maybe that he’d say Bucky was just busy. That he’d gone away for a few days. That he’d been asking about her too. That he missed her. That he regretted the silence.

The air was cold by the time she knocked on Mr. Nakajima’s door, hands tucked in her sleeves, heart thudding too loudly in her chest.

He opened it with his usual warm expression, eyebrows lifting when he saw her. “Y/N,” he greeted, stepping aside to let her in without question. “What a nice surprise. You haven’t come by in a while.”

She gave him a small, embarrassed smile and stepped inside. His apartment smelled like green tea and something simmering on the stove. Safe. Familiar. She didn’t realize how much she missed the warmth of human interaction until she felt it wrap around her.

“I was in the area,” she said quietly. “I just… I wanted to check on you. And I was wondering if, maybe… you’ve seen Bucky lately?”

Yori looked over his shoulder as he stirred something in a small pot. “He hasn’t mentioned you in a while,” he said, not unkindly. “Thought maybe the two of you had a falling out or something.”

She swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. “Not really a falling out,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “He just… disappeared.”

“Yeah, he does that sometimes,” Yori nodded. “Goes quiet when he’s overwhelmed. It’s not personal.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s just… I thought maybe he’d tell you where he’s been.”

There was a pause. Yori tapped the spoon against the edge of the pot and wiped his hands on a towel before turning toward her fully.

“He’s not avoiding people, you know,” he said, and she could tell by his tone that he was trying to comfort her. “He’s just… trying to move forward.”

She blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I encouraged it, actually. Told him it was about time,” Yori smiled a little. “He’s out on a date right now.”

She froze.

“What?”

Yori didn’t notice the way her posture shifted, didn’t see the breath she held in her chest like it might shield her from the words that were still coming.

“That cute waitress from the Japanese place we always go to. You know the one—short, big eyes, always sneaks us free dumplings. I told him he should ask her out. She likes him. I think he finally listened to me.”

Her ears were ringing.

“Oh,” she said softly, staring at a crack in the floorboards. “I didn’t know that.”

Yori tilted his head. “I thought you and him were just friends?”

She forced a smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. We were.”

He seemed to hesitate, maybe picking up on something in her expression, but she couldn’t stay there any longer. The air in the apartment felt thinner, sharper.

“I should go,” she said quickly, before he could respond. “Thanks for the tea smell—always makes me feel better.”

He followed her to the door, puzzled but still kind. “Tell the kid I said hi when you see him, will you?”

She nodded, lips trembling as she turned away. “Yeah. I will.”

She didn’t make it halfway down the block before the tears came. Not the loud kind, not the messy kind—but the slow, sickening kind that slipped past her cheeks and down her throat like acid. It wasn’t just sadness. It was humiliation. It was heartbreak. It was the sharp, suffocating realization that while she’d been mourning the loss of something she thought might grow into love, he’d already started moving on.

And not with her.

He hadn’t even told her goodbye.

She wasn’t the one he talked to when things got dark. She wasn’t the one he reached for when he decided to try again. He’d left her in the cold, let her feelings twist and stretch in the silence until they became something painful to hold—and all this time, she’d been waiting like a fool, baking muffins, checking her phone, replaying every smile and wondering what she’d done wrong.

But maybe the truth was simple.

She was never really in the running.

She got home and collapsed onto the floor beside her couch, still wearing her apron, fists clenched around the edges of her sweater. She didn’t cry loud. She just let the grief sit with her like a weight pressing into her chest. She didn’t want to be angry, but she was. She didn’t want to hate him, but a part of her did.

Because he could have told her. He could have given her the decency of honesty.

But he didn’t.

He just left her to rot in her own silence, while he laughed with someone else.

On one hand, maybe she was just delusional, he did turn her down multiple times. But all their time together and he never felt a spark?

She really dig herself a hole. Maybe having a man treating her right for the first time had given her hope of finally having love.

All those no's really were serious for me ah... I can't believe I'm being this naive again, always falling for someone who does not want you.

[carnalcrows]

LIKE WE MEAN IT

pairing: bucky barnes x male reader

synopsis: You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple at a luxury retreat crawling with secrets, soft lighting, and surveillance. The mission’s simple: blend in, get intel, get out. But somewhere between fake kisses, shared beds, and bathhouse steam, the line between pretending and wanting starts to blur—and when the op goes sideways, the only person you can trust is the man you were supposed to hate.

content warnings: 18+ bottom male reader, explicit sexual content (handjob, oral, p in a, overstimulation), enemies to lovers dynamic, violence and brief fight scenes, power imbalance (mission/cover-related), public intimacy (bathhouse, massage scene), handcuffs (implied kink and tactical use), emotional repression, mutual denial, mild voyeurism (surveillance themes).

word count: 5.1k (I've learnt how to write smut again yipeee)

The last time you were this close to Bucky Barnes, he’d slammed you into a concrete wall and called it “team-building.”

Now he was standing beside you in a knit sweater, holding a duffel bag and scowling at a bowl of complimentary potpourri, as if it personally offended him.

The Edelhaus Retreat did not suit him. Not the soft lighting. Not the muted jazz trickling through unseen speakers. Certainly not the host with the lavender scarf and fake accent who had just welcomed you to your week of rekindled intimacy.

“Couples therapy,” Bucky muttered under his breath, jaw tight. “Seriously?”

You didn’t look at him. You were too busy smiling at the receptionist like your fake marriage wasn’t already circling the drain.

“It was this or a fake honeymoon cruise,” you said. “Personally, I didn’t trust you near that many piña coladas.”

He shot you a sideways glare. You returned it with a grin that showed just enough teeth.

The mission file had been clear: embedded intel suggested that a major buyer was using Edelhaus as a meeting point to exchange encrypted biometric data on Thunderbolts agents. You’d been chosen because you could fake charm. Bucky had been selected because he didn’t do charm, and that apparently made him less suspicious.

The “undercover couple” thing? That was someone’s idea of a joke. Or a punishment.

Maybe both.

✧✧✧

Your suite was on the third floor. Private balcony. Heated floors. The fireplace was already lit when you walked in.

And, of course, one bed.

A massive one, with too many pillows and a note on the nightstand that read Welcome back, Mr. and Mr. Barnes. We hope the healing begins tonight.

You dropped your bag with a heavy thud. “Charming.”

Bucky stood in the doorway like the room offended him on a spiritual level. “You gonna make it weird, or can we get through this without the usual commentary?”

You turned. “This is me restraining myself.”

“You’re doing a bad job.”

You stepped toward him, slowly. Smiling, friendly, murderous. “Listen, Barnes. I’m not the one who broke a guy’s wrist last week because he said you had ‘resting murder face.’”

His metal fingers twitched where they rested at his side—silent, gleaming, and just slightly clenched.

“He was wrong?” he asked, tone low.

“No,” you admitted. “But some of us use words.”

“Some of us use results.”

You laughed sharply. “God, you must be fun at dinner parties.”

There was a silence after that. A beat too long.

Then, quietly:

“Which side of the bed do you want?” he asked, eyes still on the window.

You blinked.

“What, no threats? No passive-aggressive ‘you take the floor’ speech?”

“Just pick a side.”

You hesitated. Then moved toward the left, throwing your jacket onto the mattress.

Bucky said nothing, just walked to the opposite end of the room and started unpacking with clinical precision. Toothbrush. Socks. Knife.

The dull thunk of metal against wood as he set down a prosthetic care kit.

You watched him for a moment longer than you should’ve.

It wasn’t attraction. Not exactly.

Just—curiosity. Frustration. That permanent weight in his shoulders, the way he never quite let go of the tension in his jaw. He was made of control and violence barely leashed, as if you looked at him too long, something might break. Maybe in him. Maybe in you.

You turned away. Sat on the bed and muttered, “Think we’ll make it through the week without strangling each other?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “I give it three days.”

You grinned. “Optimist.”

✧✧✧

The room smelled like eucalyptus and vaguely overpriced essential oils.

A diffuser hissed from the corner like a tiny, passive-aggressive snake. There were knitted throws folded over armchairs, a “gratitude bowl” by the window, and a chalkboard on the wall with a looping message that read: "Welcome to Day One of Your New Forever."

You were already considering lighting it on fire.

Bucky sat beside you on the loveseat, legs planted, arms folded, expression blank. He was wearing that stupid oatmeal sweater again—the one that made him look irritatingly approachable—and staring so intently at a ceramic owl on the bookshelf that you wondered if he was trying to will it to explode.

You smiled thinly. “You look like you’re enjoying this.”

He didn’t even blink. “I’ve had dental surgery that was more relaxing.”

Across from you, Dr. Elise Monroe—licensed marriage therapist, facial expressions carved from granite—was jotting notes in an elegant leather notebook.

She looked up, eyes mild. “Let’s talk about communication.”

Here we go.

“What’s something your partner does that frustrates you?” she asked.

A beat of silence. You started to speak.

“He talks too much,” Bucky said, deadpan.

You turned your head slowly. “He grunts at furniture.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched.

Dr. Monroe didn’t react. “Interesting. Do either of you feel seen by the other?”

Bucky gave you a sideways glance. “I feel surveilled.”

You smiled brightly. “He stares like I owe him money.”

“Do you feel emotionally supported?”

You both said, at the same time: “No.”

✧✧✧

You were halfway through a passive-aggressive worksheet called ‘Touch-Based Reconnection’ when Bucky leaned over and whispered, “I can’t believe this is our job.”

You didn’t look up. Just muttered, “We’re here to sell it, remember?”

“To whom? Her?” His eyes flicked toward the therapist. “She already hates us.”

You smirked. “Then act like you love me a little harder.”

He went still. You could feel it through the cushion between you—the sudden shift in his posture. Not tense. Not angry. Just…off-balance.

You didn’t press.

Because the mission was real, even if no one else in this stupid spa knew it. Somewhere in this tangle of yoga classes, massages, and fake intimacy, there were answers. Intel. The Thunderbolts weren’t the most subtle team in the world, and you were the only two who could fake domestic without scaring off the rest of the retreat.

So for now?

You were married. You were in therapy. You were trying.

Kind of.

✧✧✧

Dr. Monroe closed her notebook and said, “We’re going to try a simple exercise. Stand facing each other.”

You both groaned at the same time.

“Hands up. Palm to palm,” she said.

You sighed. Bucky stood stiffly. Your hands met, awkward and dry, his vibranium fingers cool against your skin.

Dr. Monroe spoke softly. “Now, I want you to look each other in the eye and say: ‘I want to be understood.’”

You stared up at him.

He stared back down, unmoving.

You exhaled first. “I want to be understood.”

Bucky was quiet for a second too long.

Then, with a voice so low you barely heard it: “I want to be understood.”

Your fingers were still touching. And for a split second, neither of you was faking it.

✧✧✧

The Edelhaus bathhouse smelled like citrus, cedarwood, and secrets.

Steam curled from sunken stone pools fed by mineral springs, diffusing the light into a soft, opalescent blur. Everything was warm marble and flickering candlelight, the kind of rich, cultivated calm designed to make you forget you were being watched.

You hadn’t. Not for a second.

There were cameras. You could feel them behind the mirrors, tucked into corners, somewhere beneath the low hum of spa music. The mission files had confirmed what you already suspected: Level 4 wasn’t just for luxury. It was where the real data extraction happened. Therapists were trained to coax things out of people they didn’t even realise they were saying. Hidden mics. Heat-sensitive tracking. Eye movement analysis.

All of it buried under massages and vulnerability exercises and cucumber water.

“Take a deep breath,” said the staff member beside the pool, smiling like a cult leader on a cruise. “Let it all go.”

You glanced at Bucky. He looked like he’d rather be stabbed.

✧✧✧

There were four other couples in the Level 4 program, each as curated as a photo op: one older gay couple in tailored robes, a pair of influencers doing slow-breathing selfies, two corporate execs with matching jawlines, and a silent, intimidating duo who hadn’t spoken all day. One of them wore a ring with an embedded micro-gem scanner you’d flagged immediately.

This wasn't just therapy. It was surveillance.

The attendant offered you each a small, carved stone.

“A cleansing ritual,” she said sweetly. “To hold during your confession.”

“Confession?” Bucky muttered, low.

You elbowed him. “Go with it.”

“Each partner will share something they’ve never told the other,” she continued. “In the pool. Eye contact. No interruptions.”

You stared at her, then the hot spring, then Bucky. “So... spiritual waterboarding.”

Her smile didn’t waver.

✧✧✧

You stepped into the water first, careful not to slip on the marble because that would be a stupid way to die. The heat licked up your spine, steam curling around your throat like silk. It should’ve been relaxing.

Then Bucky took off his robe.

You didn’t look.

You really didn’t look.

You looked.

It was a flash. A mistake. A full-body snapshot your brain took without permission and immediately carved into the back of your skull like a Renaissance painting with way too much emotional damage.

Scarred thighs. Strong hands. That long, lean back lined with tension, he didn’t even know how to let go of. The shimmer of his metal arm, already beaded with condensation. The very naked, very rude reality of James Buchanan Barnes stepping into the bath like it wasn’t a war crime.

You stared straight ahead. Dead ahead. Into the steam. 

Into God’s indifferent eyes.

He sat across from you with all the casual grace of someone who had absolutely never cared what anyone thought of his body.

You wished you had goggles. Or blindness.

He shifted, water moving with him, heat rising like a threat.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yup,” you said. Voice an octave too high. “Totally fine. This is all extremely normal.”

He raised an eyebrow.

You refused to meet his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen better.”

“Sure.”

“Like. On statues. In museums.”

“Right.”

You coughed into your fist. “Anyway. Emotional vulnerability time.”

And he smirked—smirked, the bastard—like he knew. Like your brain had tripped over itself and left your soul face-down in the dirt.

You hated him. You really, really hated him.

And you were definitely not thinking about anything below the waterline.

He sat across from you in the spring, steam curling between you like breath. For a moment, the world felt muffled. Too close.

Someone coughed behind you. The air changed. Eyes were on you now.

It was time to perform.

✧✧✧

You adjusted in the water, faced him. “I’ll go first.”

Bucky blinked. “You sure?”

You nodded, looking him dead in the eye. And said:

“I think you judge people before you know them, and then punish them for not living up to who you decided they are.”

There was a long pause. The stone warmed in your hand. You weren’t smiling.

Bucky stared back, face unreadable. Then he said, slowly, “I think you hide behind sarcasm because if you ever said what you really meant, people might actually believe you.”

Silence. The steam thickened.

You almost looked away. Almost.

But you didn’t.

✧✧✧

Later, after the ritual ended and robes were handed out and the candles blown out one by one, you walked back to the suite in near silence. The sky outside had gone black, the snow glittering like sugar under the moon.

Inside, the bed was still unmade. The fire was still warm. The pillows had shifted from last night—his on the right, yours on the left, as if some invisible line had been drawn.

You changed in the bathroom, dried your hair with one of those stupid embroidered towels. When you came back out, Bucky was already in bed, facing away.

You hesitated at the doorframe.

“That thing you said,” you said quietly.

He didn’t move.

You exhaled. “Was it part of the cover?”

A pause.

Then: “No.”

You didn’t answer.

You just slid into bed next to him, one inch closer than the night before.

✧✧✧

You didn’t sleep well that night.

Maybe it was the heat of the spring still stuck to your skin, or the weird softness of the mattress, or the fact that Bucky Barnes was three feet away, breathing like he wasn’t ruining your entire night by existing.

You were hyper-aware of every shift of weight on the bed. Every exhale. Every stretch of silence where he might’ve fallen asleep, except you knew he hadn’t.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

At some point, you ended up on your back, staring at the ceiling, counting the slow press of your own heartbeat.

You weren’t thinking about the bath. Obviously not. That was the mission. Surveillance. Forced intimacy. Not real.

Not him sitting there bare in the steam like a carved accusation.

Not the water rolling down his collarbone. Not the—

Nope. No.

You rolled over and buried your face in a pillow like it owed you money.

✧✧✧

The next morning, you were both called into a “Partners Harmony Seminar.”

It turned out to be couples’ yoga.

The kind with guided touch, breathwork, and a horrifying lack of personal space. The instructor, a man named Rune who looked like a sentient crystal, greeted you both with folded hands and far too much eye contact.

“Trust begins with the body,” Rune intoned, handing you both rolled towels. “Today, we learn to surrender control.”

Bucky looked like he’d just swallowed a nail.

You muttered, “Bet you’re great at surrendering.”

“Keep talking,” he said under his breath, “and I’ll surrender you off this balcony.”

The first pose involved sitting back-to-back, legs crossed, hands resting on each other’s knees. His palms were warm. His thigh brushed yours.

You were definitely not aware of how solid his back felt against yours. Or the slow rhythm of his breathing. Or the fact that his thumb kept flexing like he didn’t know what to do with it.

It wasn’t intimate. It was tactical. You were blending in. Selling the role.

You leaned back just a little more. He didn’t move away.

✧✧✧

Later, after a very confusing partner pose that ended with your arm under his and both of you face-down on a mat, you were walking back toward the main building when someone called out—

“Mr. Barnes?”

You both turned.

A man was walking toward you. Sharp suit. Designer glasses. Hands behind his back like a polite serpent.

He smiled. “Still haven’t worked out who gets to keep the name, I see.”

You recognised him instantly: Carlo Veidt, tech consultant to several defence contractors. Civilian on paper. Ghost on the dark web. The man who shouldn’t have been here.

But he was smiling.

“I was hoping to see you again,” he said. “Both of you. You made quite an impression last time.”

Bucky’s voice was smooth and cold. “That so?”

Carlo’s eyes flicked between you. “It’s rare to see something real in a place like this. I’d love to talk more.”

You gave a rehearsed laugh. “We’re all about real.”

“Dinner, then,” he said, still watching Bucky. “Tonight.”

And with that, he left.

You didn’t speak until the elevator doors shut.

Then you said, “He made us.”

“No,” Bucky said quietly. “He made me.”

That night, there was only one change in your routine.

When you got into bed, Bucky didn’t turn away this time.

And neither did you.

✧✧✧

Dinner was held in the mountaintop lounge: dim lighting, panoramic views of the snow-drenched valley, and a jazz trio playing something low and slippery in the corner.

You hated it immediately.

Bucky looked unfairly composed in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to show a sliver of the metal arm. His hair was pushed back like he hadn’t tried, which meant he definitely had. You had no business noticing that.

Carlo Veidt was already seated, sipping something gold and ancient. He stood as you approached, hands outstretched like this was a reunion.

“Mr. and Mr. Barnes,” he said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You look well.”

Bucky didn’t speak. Just sat down slowly beside you, close enough that his thigh touched yours. Warm. Solid. Anchored.

You leaned in, playing the role. “We’ve been working on ourselves.”

Carlo’s smile sharpened. “Have you?”

✧✧✧

The conversation was a test.

Not a casual dinner, not a friendly chat—just layers of subtext and smiling knives. Carlo asked about trust. About power. About vulnerability. All while swirling his drink and watching you both like you were bugs under glass.

You matched his tone. Played flirty, a little bored, touched Bucky’s knee once just to see if Carlo flinched.

He didn’t.

But Bucky did.

Not much. Just a shift. A breath. Like he wasn’t expecting you to do it.

He didn’t pull away.

It happened near the end of the night, over dessert.

Carlo said something like, “And what do you think love is, Mr. Barnes?”

And Bucky didn’t answer with sarcasm.

Didn’t deflect.

He turned to you—looked at you like he was trying to remember the lines—and said, clear and low:

“It’s showing up when you don’t want to. Even when it’s easier to run.”

You blinked. Forgot your own breath. That wasn’t in the script.

Then his hand slipped into yours under the table.

And held.

✧✧✧

The walk back to the suite was silent. Tense. Something unspoken is thick in the air between you, like static.

You opened the door. He followed.

And then you said it. Too sharp. Too fast.

“You didn’t have to touch me like that.”

He stopped in the middle of the room. “It sold it, didn’t it?”

“That wasn’t selling it.”

His jaw flexed. “Then what was it?”

You stared at him. “You tell me.”

Silence.

Then, softer: “Was any of that real?”

A beat.

“Does it matter?”

✧✧✧

Later, you stood by the fireplace, trying to breathe past the knot in your chest.

He came up behind you.

You didn’t move.

His hand touched your waist, light, uncertain. Not demanding.

You turned. Not fast. Just enough to face him.

The look in his eyes wasn’t angry this time.

It wasn’t even guarded.

It was something else. Something hot and scared and wanting.

Your mouth was dry. “This is a bad idea.”

His voice was low. “I know.”

You said it again.

And then you kissed him.

Hard.

And he kissed you back like he’d been waiting all damn week.

His mouth crashed into yours again—hotter this time, hungrier.

You’d kissed before. For show. For optics. But this wasn’t for them.

This was personal.

His hands found your face like he didn’t trust it was real, thumbs rough against your jaw. You let yourself lean in, just enough to press your chest to his, and the contact lit a fuse up your spine.

The next kiss was uglier. Teeth. Breath. Frustration. Like you hated him just a little less now, and it made everything worse.

You walked him back without thinking, half-shoving him into the wall by the fireplace. He grunted, low and surprised, and then tugged you forward by the waist—his grip bruising, desperate. That metal hand was cold through the fabric of your shirt, and when it slid up your ribs, you choked on air.

“Still pretending?” you breathed.

“Shut up,” he said, voice wrecked.

You kissed him again, harder. One of you bit the other. Maybe both. His shirt came off. Yours too.

There was no grace in it—just hands and heat and need, like you were both trying to get rid of the distance you’d built between you.

The bed creaked. Your knees hit it. He dragged you down with him, all strength and tension and that impossible mouth on your neck like he wanted to mark something.

You made a sound you didn’t mean to.

He froze.

You opened your eyes—breathless, strung out, half-naked in his arms—and said, “Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

His mouth found yours again, slower this time. Like he needed to taste it properly, like the heat wasn’t enough unless he drowned in it.

He moved over you—one hand braced beside your head, the other dragging down your chest, calloused and hungry and not the least bit careful. His fingers dug into your skin like he wanted to leave marks. Like he didn’t care who saw.

You kissed him like you wanted to prove a point.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your neck, voice low and rasping. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

You laughed—short and wrecked and barely there. “Because I hated you.”

His hand slipped lower. You inhaled sharply. “Still do?” he asked.

Your hips arched up into him. “Ask me again when I can think.”

That earned a groan—a real one, deep in his throat, full of want. He kissed his way down your chest, teeth catching on skin, and you gripped the back of his neck like you’d fall apart if you didn’t.

The room tilted.

Clothes disappeared. Logic, too.

The last thing you remembered clearly was the sound he made when you pulled him in closer, like he hadn’t expected you to want him like that. Like something in him cracked wide open.

He buried his face against your shoulder, chest heaving.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, already half-gone. “Bucky. Yes.”

And then he moved—slow at first, like he wanted to feel every inch of it, like the moment would shatter if he wasn’t careful. Like he was still giving you time to say no.

But you didn’t. You couldn't. You just pulled him closer.

His breath hitched against your throat, low and guttural. One hand braced by your head, the other trailing down your side like he was memorising it, gripping your hip, grounding you.

And when he finally pushed in, all of him, deep and sure and devastating, your body answered before your brain could.

You gasped—sharp, helpless. Eyes slamming shut.

He stilled. Completely. Chest heaving. Forehead resting against yours.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

And you did.

With your voice. With your hands. With every sound you couldn’t swallow down.

It wasn’t careful anymore after that.

It was teeth and sweat and low, broken noises in the dark—fingers digging into muscle, skin against scarred metal, the sharp rhythm of two people who should’ve known better but never stood a chance.

You told him not to stop.

He never did.

His hand slid down your body, fingers tracing the curves of your muscles. He leaned in to capture your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to taste you fully. You could feel the heat of his body pressing against yours, his hardness evident even through the layers of clothing that separated you.

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and wicked. "Not yet, love. I'm going to take my time with you." 

He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the lube that had been left there for… couple activities. He coated his fingers generously, his eyes never leaving yours as he brought them back to your entrance.

You gasped as he pressed a single finger inside you, the sensation foreign but not unwelcome. He worked it in and out slowly, teasing you with shallow thrusts that left you aching for more.

"That's it," he purred, adding a second finger and scissoring them inside you to stretch you open. "You're so tight, baby. I can't wait to feel you around my cock."

You moaned, your head falling back against the pillow as you savoured the feeling of his fingers moving inside you. He curled them just right, hitting that sweet spot deep within you that had you seeing stars.

"Fuck, right there," you gasped, your hips rocking against his hand in search of more of that delicious sensation.

Bucky chuckled, continuing to work you open with his fingers. After a few moments, he pulled away, leaving you feeling empty and wanting.

But before you could protest, he was shifting down the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He leaned in, his breath hot against your aching cock.

"Let me taste you," he murmured, his tongue darting out to lick a long stripe up your length.

You let out a low moan, your head falling back against the pillow as you lost yourself in the sensation. He took you into his mouth, his lips wrapping around the head of your cock as he began to suck.

His hand came up to wrap around the base of your shaft, working in tandem with his mouth as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the pressure building in your lower belly, your release approaching rapidly.

Just as you were about to come undone, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and frustrated. You opened your eyes to see him smirking up at you, a wicked glint in his eye.

"Not yet, pretty," he purred, crawling back up your body. "I'm not done with you yet."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your. You let out a low moan, your hips bucking up in search of more of that delicious pressure.

He teased you for a moment, just the tip breaching your entrance before pulling away. You growled in frustration, your hands fisting in the sheets beneath you.

"Bucky, please," you begged, your voice strained with desire. "I need you inside me."

He grinned, finally pushing forward to sheath himself fully inside you with one smooth thrust. You let out a low moan, your back arching off the bed as you savoured the feeling of being so deliciously full.

He began to move, his hips rocking against yours in a steady rhythm. You met each of his thrusts with your own, the room filling with the sounds of skin against skin and low, guttural moans.

The pleasure built with each passing moment, your bodies moving together in perfect sync. You could feel the tension coiling tight in your lower belly, your orgasm approaching rapidly.

Bucky leaned down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, swallowing down your moans as he continued to pound into you. He reached between your bodies, his hand wrapping around your aching cock and stroking in time with his thrusts.

It was too much, the overstimulation sending you hurtling towards the edge. With a few more well-placed strokes, he sent you over, your body tensing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He followed shortly after, his body shuddering above you as he came deep inside you with a low, guttural moan.

✧✧✧

You lay there after, both of you silent. Breathing. Sweating.

You didn’t touch. Not yet. But the air between you had changed.

“You still think it doesn’t matter?” you asked, voice quiet.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly: “No. I think it matters too much.”

✧✧✧

The Ceremony took place on the top floor of the resort—an open-concept temple of white stone and glass, full of soft candlelight and couples in pale silk robes, like a damn cult that smelled like bergamot.

The final ritual was meant to be symbolic: partners “laying bare” their souls in front of one another. But underneath the woo-woo language and therapeutic ambience was a full-scale data extraction.

Hidden in the ritual was a tech system: low-frequency neuro-mapping, paired with heat-responsive skin sensors and proximity-based AI to pull “emotional vulnerabilities” from surface memory. It didn’t read minds. It read reactions. Facial tics. Pupillary response. Muscle tension.

Your files called it the Haruspex Protocol. The market called it a billion-dollar blackmail machine.

And now it was online.

✧✧✧

You and Bucky stood on the platform, robes cinched at the waist, fingers loosely twined in front of an audience pretending not to watch. A soft voice prompted you through the Ceremony:

“Speak your truth. Share your secret.”

Your heart pounded. Not from fear. From what you knew was coming.

You looked at Bucky.

He looked at you.

And then, under your breath: “They’re uploading it now.”

He didn’t blink. Just whispered back: “Where’s the receiver?”

You flicked your eyes to Carlo, standing near the back with a champagne flute in one hand and a tech ring on the other. The same one from the bathhouse.

“The ring,” you said. “We need it.”

✧✧✧

It happened fast.

Carlo caught your glance and smiled. A soft, knowing smile. Like he knew exactly what you were.

You broke first.

Leapt from the platform, crowd parting with gasps. Bucky followed a beat later, knocking down a decorative arch with one arm and sending flower petals everywhere like the world’s most violent wedding crash.

Security moved.

You hit Carlo hard—hard enough to dislodge the ring and drive him into the polished floor. He hissed, trying to reach for something hidden in his robe.

Bucky got there first.

You don’t remember the blow, just the sound of it. Crunch and wet.

The ring skidded across the floor, blinking red.

You grabbed it.

✧✧✧

Thirty minutes later, the uplink was dead.

The data was erased.

Carlo unconscious. The guests scattered. Edelhaus was officially shut down for “renovation” by an unnamed corporate entity with a suspiciously Thunderbolt-shaped logo in the footer.

You sat on the edge of the now-empty hot spring, still damp from the chaos, breathing hard.

Bucky dropped down beside you. Robe torn. Hair a mess. Lip split.

You were both quiet.

Then you looked at him. Really looked.

“Was any of it fake?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly: “No.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Guess we blew our cover.”

He glanced at you sideways. “I don’t think I want it back.”

You swallowed. “So now what?”

Bucky leaned in.

Not for a kiss. Just enough to rest his shoulder against yours.

“We figure it out,” he said. “Together.”

✧✧✧

Somewhere underground, in a windowless office that smelled like espresso and bureaucratic rot, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine snapped her gum and tapped a pen against a file folder labelled:

MISSION REPORT — PAPER VEIL Status: Terminated. Casualties: 1. Compromises: 2. Outcome: Acceptable.

She flipped the folder shut.

Across from her, you and Bucky sat side by side, both in civilian clothes, both looking like you hadn’t slept in a week and didn’t care.

Val raised a brow. “So. You’re still together.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “Is that a problem?”

She smiled. “No. It’s a liability.”

You shrugged. “So’s putting us on your next mission without telling us it’s at a fertility cult masquerading as a couples retreat.”

Val grinned wider. “Which reminds me—how do you feel about Tuscany?”

She slid a fresh file across the table.

It read:

OPERATION: HONEYMOON PHASE

You glanced at Bucky.

He looked at you.

And then, at the exact same time:

“We’re in.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[onlyforsebastianstan]

Lessons

Summary:

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

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

“What does sex feel like?”

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

Genre:

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

Rating: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stood near the bar, your drink forgotten in your hand, the sight of them together hitting like a punch to the gut. Lia laughed at something Bucky whispered, her hand resting lightly on his chest, and your heart twisted. You forced a smile when Bucky’s eyes met yours, giving a small nod as if everything was fine. But it wasn’t.

Later that week, you were at Bucky’s apartment, sprawled on his couch like always, expecting another lesson. The lessons had started months ago, a practical arrangement to help you navigate your inexperience with sex. Bucky had been patient, guiding you with a mix of gentle instruction and intense focus, teaching you not just about touch but about trust, about feeling safe in your own skin. Those moments had shifted something in you, blurring the line between friendship and something deeper, though you’d never dared name it.

He sat across from you now, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The air felt heavy, wrong. He cleared his throat, avoiding your gaze. “We need to stop the lessons,” he said, his voice low, steady, but laced with something you couldn’t place. “I’m with Lia now. It’s… not right to keep this up.”

The words landed like a blade, sharp and sudden. You froze, your breath catching, a dull ache blooming in your chest. “Oh,” you managed, forcing your voice to stay even. “Yeah, okay. That makes sense.”

He finally looked at you, his blue eyes unreadable, searching your face for something. “You’re still my friend. That doesn’t change.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, keeping the hurt from spilling over. “Right. Still us.”

But it wasn’t. The lessons stopped, and Bucky’s world filled with Lia—dinners, missions, quiet moments that used to be yours. You’d catch glimpses of them: Lia’s hand in his, the way he’d lean into her, his laugh softer than it ever was with you. The distance carved a quiet pain in you, one you couldn’t shake. The lessons had changed you, not just in how you understood your body, but in how you wanted to be loved—touched with care, trusted completely, the way Bucky had shown you. Now, seeing him with Lia, you felt the loss of that closeness like a missing limb, a longing you hadn’t expected.

Determined to move forward, you turned to Steve. He’d always been a steady presence, his warm smile and quiet strength a comfort. You started spending more time with him—training in the gym, grabbing coffee, talking late into the night about art, old movies, and the world before everything got so complicated.

Steve was a gentleman in every sense, his kindness unwavering, and you felt a spark of something more, a possibility of a partner. But every time you laughed with him, every time his hand brushed yours, your mind drifted to Bucky—the way his hands had felt, steady and sure, the way he’d guided you with patience, the way he’d made you feel safe.

You wanted that physical connection again, that raw intimacy, but Steve was too respectful, too proper. Asking him for something so vulnerable felt wrong, like it would fracture the gentle bond you were building. So you buried the desire, focusing on the friendship blossoming with Steve.

What you didn’t see was how it was affecting Bucky. He’d watch you and Steve in the training room, your laughter echoing as you dodged a punch, and something dark would flicker in his eyes. He’d clench his jaw when Steve’s hand lingered on your shoulder, a possessiveness he hadn’t expected simmering beneath the surface.

He told himself it was nothing, that he’d made the right choice. But the sight of you with Steve gnawed at him, a quiet storm building in his chest.

One night, after a long mission debrief, the compound’s common room was empty except for you and Bucky. The others had left, their voices fading down the hall, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.

You were gathering your things, ready to head out, when you noticed Bucky standing across the room, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. The air crackled with unspoken tension, weeks of distance piling up between you.

“You and Steve seem close,” he said, his voice low, an edge to it you didn’t recognize.

You paused, glancing at him, trying to keep it light. “He’s a good friend. Like you.”

His jaw tightened, and he took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Like me?”

The question hit like a spark, catching you off guard. You frowned, setting your bag down. “What’s that supposed to mean, Buck?”

He flinched, but didn’t back down, his voice sharper now. “The lessons you had with a friend like me, you do it with him too?”

The words stung, igniting a mix of anger and hurt in your chest. You stood, stepping toward him, your voice rising. “What the hell, Bucky?”

He closed the distance, his eyes dark, intense, his voice dropping to a growl. “You think Steve can make you feel the way I did? The way I made you shake, the way you clung to me when you let go?”

Your breath caught, his words slicing through you, stirring memories of his hands, his voice, the way he’d unraveled you. He was close now, too close, his presence overwhelming, his scent familiar and dizzying.

“You think you’re the only one who can fuck me?”

That was all it took. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him, his touch possessive, almost desperate. “You don’t get it,” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips brushing your ear. “I trained your body to respond to me. No one else can break you the way I do”

“Bucky,” you whispered, your hands gripping his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. “Lia—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your jaw. “Just… don’t.”

His lips crashed into yours, urgent, hungry, like he was trying to reclaim something he’d lost. You melted into him, the months of distance dissolving in the heat of his touch.

Clothes were shed in a rush, no thought, no plan, just need. Your shirt hit the floor, his followed, and soon you were pressed against the couch, his body over yours, his hands everywhere. He tugged your pants down, his fingers deft, and you gasped as his touch found your skin, sparking heat that made your head spin.

“Bucky,” you breathed, your hands roaming his back, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath his skin. “We shouldn’t—”

“Tell me to stop,” he growled, his lips grazing your neck, his hands gripping your hips. “Tell me, and I will.”

You couldn’t. You didn’t want to. Instead, you pulled him closer, your nails digging into his shoulders. He groaned, low and rough, and when he entered you, it was raw, unprotected, a reckless breaking of every boundary you’d set.

The sensation was overwhelming, sharper without the barrier, every movement sending shocks of pleasure through you. His pace was urgent, possessive, his hips driving against yours with a rhythm that left you breathless. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, angling deeper, and you gasped, your body arching against him.

“God,” he muttered, his voice rough against your ear, his breath hot. “You feel so good. So damn perfect.”

You clung to him, your body trembling as the pressure built, every thrust pulling you closer to the edge. His hands roamed, one sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over sensitive skin, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open for him. “Tell me,” he growled, his voice low, almost desperate. “Does Steve do this to you? Does he make you feel this?”

“No,” you gasped, your head thrown back, your body shaking as the pleasure coiled tighter. “Only you. Only you, Bucky.”

His name on your lips seemed to snap something in him. His pace quickened, his movements rougher, more intense, like he was claiming you, marking you. The couch creaked beneath you, the room filled with the sounds of your gasps, his low groans, the raw urgency of it all.

Your hands found his hair, tugging him closer, needing him, needing this. The pressure built, overwhelming, and when it hit, it was like a tidal wave, your body arching, a cry escaping as you let go, trembling beneath him. He followed moments later, a low groan rumbling through him as he stilled, his body tense, the weight of the moment crashing over you both.

For a heartbeat, you stayed there, tangled, breathless, your heart pounding against his. His forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, his hands still gripping you like he couldn’t let go. But then reality seeped in, cold and sharp. He pulled back, his expression closing off, his eyes shadowed.

“This was a mistake,” he said, his voice hollow, barely above a whisper. “I can’t… I can’t do this. Lia, you… it’s not fair.”

“Bucky, wait—” you started, reaching for him, your voice breaking, but he was already standing, pulling on his clothes with quick, jerky movements, his back to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at you, his voice tight.

You sat up, pulling a blanket over yourself, the ache in your chest sharper now, a mix of longing and regret. “Bucky, please, just talk to me.”

He paused at the door, his hand on the frame, his shoulders tense. “I can’t,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Not now.”

And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone on the couch, the weight of what just happened settling like a stone in your chest.

Read >>>Part 2<<<

[barnesnatts]

SEBAASTIAN STAN, 'Oh my god, Sebastian Stan, man you looking good!' 

[gn0czi]

My Shayla 😭

[buckybuck-barnes]

Open RP! Based the fourth(sorta)(And how I keep jumping out of my skin with all the fireworks!)

Bucky clenches his jaw as fireworks go off. He told himself this wouldn't bug him. Why would it? It's not like he doesn't use guns and other things now, but this... this he can't control. Bucky closes his eyes taking a shaky breath trying to calm himself down. A firework sets off and Bucky jumps.

"No-" He shakes his head grabbing at his hair. *This is a stupid thing to panic about he can't panic over this!*

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Honey and Steel Series Masterlist

CEO!Bucky x SingleMom!Reader

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀

Status: on going - Trope: slow burn / workplace - Content: fluff and angst-

Series Summary: "A chance encounter in a broken elevator ties together the lives of a hardened , emotionally closed off CEO James Barnes and a struggling single mother balancing her daughter , her new job , healing old wounds , and building something neither of them expected , a family."

read on ao3 °❀⋆

Chapter 1- The Elevator Meet

Chapter 2- Little Piggie

Chapter 3- White Wolf

chapter 4- coming soon

chapter 5- coming soon

chapter 6- coming soon

chapter 7- coming soon

chapter 8- coming soon

chapter 9- coming soon

chapter 10- coming soon

chapter 11- coming soon

chapter 12- coming soon

chapter 13- coming soon

chapter 14- coming soon

chapter 15- coming soon

chapter 16- coming soon

chapter 17- coming soon

chapter 18- coming soon

chapter 19- coming soon

chapter 20- coming soon

chapter 21- coming soon

chapter 22- coming soon

chapter 23- coming soon

Epilogue Coming Soon